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Correct myself, most days, charlotte gertrude and i walked together from their large family home on university drive, where i have a room and share meals with charlotte gertrude and the rest of their family. Who live in the house as well from the first charlotte and gertrude, have welcomed me into their home and social circles with warmth and generosity and have provided me with abundant guidance at work? I cannot imagine what my time in princeton would have been like without them. Dell, why are you fussing about what to call aunt charlotte there’s nobody in here, but you and me gertrude mock scolds me. I don’t say what i’m thinking that gertrude doesn’t need to assess every single moment of every single day against societal standards to ensure her behavior passes muster.

She has no need to analyze her words, her walk her manner, but i do even with gertrude. I must act with care, particularly given the heightened scrutiny in this university town, which operates as if it lies in the segregated south, rather than in the supposedly more progressive north. The distinctive clip of miss adams’s shoes sounds in the hallway outside my office door and gertrude’s skirt rustles. As she moves to leave. She has as much fondness for my office mate as i do, and she’ll skedaddle before she can get locked into a conversation before she exits the office altogether.

She turns back to me, whispering. Are you still free for the philosophy lecture tonight since woodrow wilson assumed the presidency of princeton university three years ago and instituted all sorts of scholastic reform? The number of lectures open to staff and members of the community has increased while gertrude and i revel in being included in the academic life of the campus. I loathe certain of wilson’s other decisions, such as maintaining princeton as a whites only university when all the other ivy league schools have admitted colored folks, but i would never voice aloud these views instead, i say: wouldn’t miss it for the world. The quiet of the stacks wraps around me, like a soft, blanket, i relax into the subdued hush of patrons turning pages in the scent of leather bindings.

My long days spent in the company of medieval manuscripts and early printed books, calm and delight me imagining the labors of the first printing press users as they memorialized the english language and broadly disseminated its literature through the meticulous work of placing the type letter by letter. Transforming empty pages into beautiful text to inspire worshipers and readers transports me beyond the limitations of this time and place just as papa always believed to him. The written word could act as an invitation to free thought and the broader world, and nowhere was that more true than in the dawn of the printed word, where, for the first time that invitation could be made to the masses instead of a select few miss green. I hear a soft voice from beyond the stacks two simple words, but my visitors, modulated tone and distinctive accent, give him away, and anyway, i’ve been waiting for him good day. Mr morgan, i reply turning in his direction, even though i’m talking softly miss scott glances.

Up from the circulation desk with a disapproving skull, it isn’t so much the volume of my speech as the pleasantness of my relationship with the fellow librarian and collection benefactor that vexes her. While mr junius morgan is ostensibly a banker, he has generously donated dozens of ancient and medieval manuscripts to the university, which is why he also holds the titular position of associate head librarian. I’M convinced that ms scott thinks any sort of relationship between us, even the cordial professional one we share is beneath him a slight man with wispy brown hair and a kindly expression behind his circular glasses materializes. How are you today miss green? Well, sir, and yourself, my tone is…

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