a lament to borders

The place was profoundly changed: cluttered with noisy signs, dumped and dismantled, disheveled and ravaged by the bargain-mongering crowd. My brother filled his arms with works of Middle East analysis and wandered sadly and aimlessly, trying to decide which few to take home. I sat by the quickly-emptying shelves and considered the place, its former peace destroyed.

A Borders is just a Borders. It is a corporation--a bland, commercial, semi-highbrow national bookstore. I know that now. But to me growing up, struggling with wintry homogeneity and redneck local politics, the place was more than that. It was a sanctuary of liberal culture, a veritable haven for a teenager tired of the cold.

What a treat it was to escape here--to leave the smog and slush and same behind in a temple of friendly modernity. To enter that place mid Logan's long winter lifted a great weight off my shoulders. Here, perusing coffee table art books, listening to jazz samples, or devouring novels whole, I was at peace. An evening at Borders was my favorite treat--to forget my own life for a few blessed hours and linger in the best that the world had to offer, warming my hands and soothing my soul in its worldly glow. For me, Borders was a bright reminder of the richness of the first world: a cathedral to the intelligence and diversity of humankind. It gave me hope for a life deep with art and with wit.

Now, I realized from my spot on the floor, 200 such hospitable havens are closing. I can no longer escape my own culture with this one. Seeing my bookstore gutted and trashed and considering Cache life without syndicated warmth made me sad. Babylon needs a temple, I thought to myself. Perhaps Zion needs a Borders.