“Nowthat’sa thesis. Here’s your first source.” I handed him a biography of J. Robert Oppenheimer. The weight of the book in my hands reminded me of the first-edition Wilde Jeremiah had pointed out, the reverence in his voice when he’d talked about his mother reading to him. The book in my hand felt about the same weight, and the worn binding of the hardback was worn in a couple of the same spots, as though a single reader had thumbed the pages of both books a hundred years apart.
I found myself smiling at the memory.
“Read the introduction and then come back and tell me what questions it raises.”
The day continued like that—one student after another, each needing guidance, encouragement, and the occasional reality check about their research timeline. I loved senior paper season.It made me feel useful, an integral part of a teaching team who basically ignored me and my stacks most of the year.
Next came Emma, who wanted to write about “all of Shakespeare” until I helped her focus on the evolution of his tragic heroes.
“Mr. J, you okay?” Emma asked as I pulled down a particularly large anthology from one of the higher shelves. “You look . . . happy.”
“I’m just pleased you found a good topic,” I said quickly, though I could feel heat creeping up my neck. “You’re asking the right questions, Emma. That’s how good literary scholars think—they don’t just accept surface meanings; they dig deeper.”
Emma beamed at the praise, and I watched her confidence grow as she made the connection between Hamlet’s and Macbeth’s character arcs.
Goth, punk rocker, loner, and all-around misfit Marc thought he could knock out a paper on the Civil War in a weekend until I showed him the eighteen volumes we had just on battlefield strategy. As I watched him realize the scope of his task, I was reminded of Jeremiah’s expression when he’d first showed me all those rare books—that mixture of awe and slight overwhelm that made my chest warm.
My lips curled again.
“I know it feels overwhelming,” I told Marc, noticing his discouraged expression. “But remember, you don’t need to read eighteen volumes. You need to find the three or four that will give you different perspectives on your specific question. Unless you’re planning to become the world’s leading expert on Civil War artillery by Thursday—in which case, carry on.”
Marc laughed. “Maybe I’ll stick with the three-book plan.”
“Wise choice. Your brain will thank you, and so will your eyes.”
God, I’m such a nerd,I thought as Marc walked away grinning.Who makes jokes about Civil War artillery? No wonder these kids think I’m ancient.
I noticed Sophia, the orchestra’s piccolo player, sitting quietly at a corner table, staring at her notes with frustration. She was one of our shyer students, the kind who rarely spoke up but always had thoughtful insights when she did.
“How’s it going, Sophia?” I asked, settling into the chair next to her.
“I can’t figure out how to organize all this information about the women’s suffrage movement,” she said quietly. “There’s just so much, and I don’t know what’s important.”
“That’s a great observation,” I said, and watched her look up in surprise. “You’ve identified one of the key challenges most historians face—how do you determine significance? What criteria are you using to decide what matters most? Is your method sound?”
Twenty minutes later, she had a clear outline and a much better understanding of how to evaluate historical sources.
“Dude, what’s with the goofy grin?” Julian asked from the next table over, where he was supposed to be researching the Industrial Revolution. “Did you get laid or something?”
I nearly choked on my own tongue. “I—what—that’s completely inappropriate—”
“Whoa, Mr. J, chill. I was just saying that you look really happy today. Like,abnormallyhappy, especially for a librarian.” Julian was grinning now, clearly enjoying my flustered reaction.
For a librarian? What’s that supposed to mean? We’re happy, damn it.
“I’m always happy to help with research. It’s kind of my jam,” I managed, my face burning. “Though I notice you’re asking about my personal life instead of working on your paper about steam engines. Procrastination much?”
Did I just say, “That’s my jam”? What am I, twelve? These kids probably think I’m trying too hard to sound cool.I cringed internally.
“Hey, I’ve been working,” Julian protested. “I found like three whole sources.”
“Three sources for a twenty-five-page paper? What are you planning to do, write in really large font?”
The nearby students snickered, and Julian had the grace to look sheepish.
“Right,” Julian said with the knowing smirk of a teenager who’d definitely hit a nerve. “Research. Sure.”
By now, half the students in the library had looked up from their work, sensing drama the way sharks sense blood in the water.
