Breaking down Butler’s hierarchy

A friend of mine recommended Sloane Crosley’s “I Was Told There’d Be Cake” for its hilarious yet accurate description of Butler Library. Crosley spent one semester abroad at Columbia, but in that short time, she was able to gain a full understanding of Butler’s perverse social scene.

Her insights are quite apt. She likens the ground floor of Butler to a “meat market” and points out the inverse relationship between level of socialization and floor number. Indeed, clusters of undergrads congregate in the lobby, giggling and gossiping instead of reading Herodotus. Moreover, on busier nights, 209 is essentially 1020 without the alcohol. Rampant Facebook or YouTube usage, however, is frowned upon in the third floor reading room, affectionately known as “Reference.”

I’ve always avoided the fourth floor due to its silent despair and perpetual smell of stale food. On top of that, it is the only floor where people camp out in cubbies when it’s not even finals week.
The fifth and sixth floors are, from my experience, quite serious but otherwise nondescript. Any sense of camaraderie completely disappears once you reach the eighth floor, which looks frighteningly like a set from “The Shining,” with its graduate students hunched over in their individual carrels. Though the windows are now plastered with newspaper, behind each lies a room the size of one of those claustrophobic Claremont singles that is scantily furnished with a bed and a desk.

Despite (or, perhaps, because of) this vertical segregation, Butler is unique in its diversity and ability to bring together people of all ages and academic backgrounds. It is the only place where I have willingly remained in the same room with frat boys for more than 15 minutes. In fact, some of my best friendships resulted from late night procrastination on the benches outside Butler.
As with any social hub, Butler is also a hotbed of awkward social encounters. Whenever I am introduced to someone new, more often than not, I hear a variation of the inevitable line, “Oh, I always see you at Butler!” Granted, it’s an innocuous statement, but it carries the implicit assumption that I also recognize the other person from the library. Essentially, my blank stare in return is a less offensive variation on not responding, “I love you, too.”

People who go to Butler frequently will understand the phrase “familiar strangers.” These are the people you have seen often enough to know their faces. Once we got past the initial “I see you in Butler” awkwardness, a few of my familiar strangers have become acquaintances and even friends. The majority, however, remain strangers, because it’s probably not mentally healthy to be friends with people who are always in Butler.

The social stickiness of familiar strangers arises in two situations. First, when you and a familiar stranger encounter each other in a social setting. Second, when the two of you are alone in a confined space, most likely the Butler elevators or the Hamilton stairs not during rush hour. In both, you face the dilemma of reciprocal recognition, as seen in Hegel’s “Phenomenology of Spirit.” Word to the wise—people generally go to the library to study and not to make friends, so hold off on spontaneous introductions.

My friends and I categorize some of the regular and more distinctive faces as “Butler characters.” There is, of course, the infamous Butler Marxist and his girlfriend—the royal couple of Butler lounge—reigning over loud debates about philosophy and politics. Recently, however, the lounge has been eerily quiet due to their absence. At first I relished its serenity at 9 a.m. without the Marxist’s soapboxing, but a few days later, I was uncomfortable with his conspicuous absence. I was so accustomed to seeing him that I never once entertained the idea that he had to leave the safety of Butler eventually. Along the lines of memento mori, the Butler Marxist’s disappearance was akin to memento... library? With the end of college looming in the near horizon, I anticipate some separation anxiety. For now, I’ll nestle in the sun-drenched rooms on the fifth floor.