“Why Am I Even Here?”
The Strong Towns team is meeting up this week for our staff retreat, so while we’re out, we wanted to share the articles written by the five finalists who applied for our Lifestyle Columnist position. Stay tuned until the end of the week, when we’ll introduce the writer whom we’ve hired for the position!
“Heading out to the library,” I shouted to my family before closing the front door one Thursday evening. My husband is never surprised I’m going there—I practically live at the library.
Since my kids were little babies, we were regulars, day tripping to the children’s room at least three times a week for story time, Lego-building sessions, puppet plays or just quiet reading on the comfy couches. My teething son would suck on the tags of Mr. Frank’s blankets when he played his guitar at song fests. We all cried when our other favorite librarian, Mr. Bob, died of cancer. Ms. Teresa knew exactly the genre of books my kids liked and would present the books as soon as we walked into the room. As a library regular, I could write you a love song to the place, one of the only fully democratic spaces in our city where those who are unhoused can mingle inside with those who are over-housed in fancy, West Side mansions. Everyone, no matter their native language, or color of skin, or place of residence, is welcome in this space.
Works of art by local public school students, showcased at Worcester Public Library. (Source: Author.)
On this Thursday night, I was not going to the library for a book club, film viewing, or yoga class. I was responding to a call for input at a public meeting on the upcoming redesign of the building. I knew that place inside and out, and thought I should go to the meeting because I might have something useful to say.
I was hearing whispered tidbits about the vision for the library, primarily to open up an entrance on the façade that faces the city’s downtown. With no entrance, pedestrians on Main Street had no easy access into the library. It’s as if the library turned its back toward the main square. The redesign was intended to change this deep flaw. Designed in the 1950s when the urban renewal craze razed over 400 buildings in our downtown, the library was originally configured to make it easily accessible for patrons who drove cars. The main entrance on a side street faced the parking lot where patrons parked and then entered. Now that the city is finally open to promoting a walkable, people-filled downtown, one logical next step is to make sure buildings have actual entrances and windows opening up to Main Street.
The Thursday public meeting was packed, mostly with patrons I have seen at times among the stacks. We sat in chairs facing the architects and their renderings of the new redesign. For the first 15 minutes, one presenter wearing a business suit and red bow tie pointed to the beautiful drawings of the redesigned library and explained how the interior of the space was going to be reconfigured. When it was the audience’s turn to respond to the drawings and plans, patrons raised their hands one by one.
One woman was upset that the café on the first floor was going to be taken away. She liked to go there and meet a friend for a smoothie. She pointed to an area on the architect’s drawing near the used book store and suggested a corner where a snack stand could go. The presenter shook his head. There was no room there. Several attendees confirmed how excited they were that the entrance would be open to downtown: Parents could easily bring their kids to the library and then head out to the downtown common to go ice skating on the oval in the winter, or attend festivals in the spring.
I questioned moving our beloved children’s room to the third floor. As a parent, I felt my kids were safer on the main first floor thanks to all the activity and what Jane Jacobs called “eyes on the street” there. The quiet and more isolated upper floors were occasionally areas where patrons have had unwelcome encounters. Even though the current children’s room in the back of the building was now going to host the new front entrance, I pointed to the drawings and another area on the side of the building’s first floor. “That could be a good space,” I suggested. The designer shook his head. “No, the children will be better off on the third floor,” he responded.
The presenters dismissed every suggestion that attendees offered at the meeting that night. The drawings of the new building were aesthetically beautiful. The plan was already fixed. As we exited the meeting, I overheard a young man mumble to himself, “Wow! That was really pointless.” Sometimes, all someone wants is to be listened to and heard.
I often turn to Sherry Arnstein’s “Ladder of Citizen Participation,” a model she devised in 1969 that has helped me understand my experience at meetings I attend that invite democratic public participation. At the library meeting that night, we were simply informed of the plans that were already developed. There was no further room for shaping the outcome.
It called to mind the memory of a time I was visiting a mother of a tween boy, who gave him this choice for dinner: “Do you want meatloaf or salmon?” The boy was so excited to decide his dinner and blurted out, “Meatloaf!” The mother turned to him, “No, you will have salmon.” Under his breath, the boy muttered, “If you knew what I was going to have, why did you even ask me?”
That’s what I wanted to whisper, too, as I walked out the door of the library that night.
Worcester Public Library, prior to renovations. (Source: Wiki Commons.)
The groundbreaking for the new entrance and redesign occurred last August with little fanfare. Many, like me, spend as little time as possible in public spaces during the pandemic. My current habit is to get masked up, slather my hands with sanitizer and run in for five minutes to pick up a book on hold, no longer lingering among the stacks. But yesterday, I stayed to study the changes.
The new front entrance, largely windowed and spacious, opens up the downtown. Where once our children’s librarians sat, now the library welcome desk greets patrons walking through the door. Such an easy connection to downtown! It’s as if the library were sighing, “Now, I can breathe!”
I trekked to the third floor to check out the new children’s section. I have to admit: The space was breathtaking and twice as large as our former children’s space. A rotunda with large windows offered many toys and a view of the downtown common below. Large sculptures of a tower and a rocket ship provided spaces for more play. A section of computers sat on child-sized tables in one side corner. The book stacks were low enough so that an adult could survey the whole room to find a lost child.
The third floor is quiet and isolated. When I saw that the new children’s room was locked and only accessible if a librarian buzzes you in, I wondered if the designers had heard our safety concerns during that public meeting. I would take a child here, I mused, though I still assert I would have liked a design where children are front and center to the action on the first floor.
Joyce Mandell has worn many hats at different times of her life—mom, community organizer, sociologist, community development specialist, urban studies professor, and general feisty rabble-rouser. She was excited to add “channeling the spirit of Jane Jacobs” to the list in 2016 when she started a blog, "Jane Jacobs in the Woo," to honor the 100th birthday anniversary of the famous thinker and activist. As a resident of Worcester, Massachusetts, for over twenty-five years, she hoped that the blog would stimulate conversations and actions to build a healthier, stronger city. Her writings and organizing efforts of readers resulted in the formation of the Worcester Urban Planning Partnership, a coalition dedicated to education and policy formation to promote better design, walkability, and civic transparency in her city. She believes in the potential of Worcester, the power of praxis, and the truth to be found both in stories and stillness.