An Open Letter to the Overzealous Voice Box

Dear Boy Who Has No Concept Of Whispering In The Designated Quiet Areas Of The Library,

Here I am, sitting in my favorite room of the library. I have neatly and carefully laid out my books, binders, notecards, pens, Fiber One bar, coffee and water bottle in very specific locations around the perimeter of my seat according to both my to-do list and anticipated metabolic needs. Highlighter poised, I have begun my first assignment, ready to enjoy the peaceful, quiet environment conducive to memory retention and concentrated diligence.

And then you walk in.

You enter quietly, seemingly harmless, yet beguilingly dangerous. Sauntering around the room, you sneak peeks down at the students already sitting, trying to catch someone’s curious—and usually irresistible—glance upward to see who is walking by. You choose a spot a few tables down from where I have set up camp, nonchalantly clunking your backpack onto the table with an echoing thud, and sit down.

I notice that it takes you a small fraction of the time to pull out a book, wide-ruled notebook, and pencil (I notice that you don’t even bother with the triviality of a highlighter) that it took for me to prepare for my studyfest daylong, but shrug off this first sign of trouble. Maybe you’re just a light packer, but nonetheless just as studious as the rest of us. For the next three and a half minutes, all is well. You start reading your textbook, and I blithely go back to mine.

And then your buddy walks in.

First comes the obnoxious high five-turned-handshake that, upon impact, smacks the palms of your hands together just a little too loudly for comfort. I, in turn, snap up my head, bracing myself for what’s next.

“Yo man, what’s up?” I hear you say, loud and clear. Your friend, surprisingly, mutters an inaudible response, and I hope that maybe his “learn by example” method works for you. However, you thrust out the adjacent chair, bang the table with the palm of your hand, and utter the dreaded phrase I had been praying not to hear:

“Aight, let’s do this effing assignment.”

Can you please explain to me why the loudest person in the library is also the one who always, always does homework with a friend? You proceed to rant for 15 minutes about how you just can’t get this one differential equations problem because the foreign TA with his unintelligibly thick accent can’t teach for his life, and on top of that, you didn’t get to hook up with the hot chick from your Bio class last night because her boyfriend was watching you like a hawk the whole time, but it’s okay because you almost landed the cute girl from the gym, but she left too early and you were too wasted to follow her—oh yes, Mr. Obnoxious, I can hear everything.

Do you see people casting subliminal glances your way, politely saying, “Excuse me, we can hear you and it’s annoying?” Or do you simply think we’re all just checking you out, because you look especially good today?

Either way, I don’t understand why you want the entire library to know about your love life—or, as it seems, lack thereof. I keep hoping that you’ll suddenly become aware of your surroundings, alertly embarrassed for having caused such a ruckus (not to steal Richard Vernon’s favorite word). Or maybe your friend will subtly hint that you two should move somewhere else. But as I keep listening, I hear no prelude to a halt in your noisy oblivion.

The worst part is, I want so badly for you to be quiet so I can go back to my work undisturbed, and yet I find myself raptly listening to the unfolding adventures of your drunken, loveless Thursday night. You have me trapped under your loud, disturbing, disgustingly inconsiderate spell—after all, what could be more fun than silently eavesdropping on a stranger’s pitiful evening? Certainly not the neuronal pathways of a frog’s sciatic nerve.

But now, I suddenly realized that my studying has come to a complete standstill for the last 20 minutes, and something must be done about you. You have distracted me long enough, Oh Loud One, and it’s time for me to put on my big girl pants and ask you for some volume control. I apologize in advance for so brazenly calling you out on your overzealous larynx, but a nerd’s gotta do what a nerd’s gotta do. Hopefully in the future, you will remember the little library frequenters who actually use the building as a place to silently concentrate, and gossip while lifting weights—the clanking and whirring machinery might better muffle your venting sessions than do the flipping of pages and furious scribbling of pens. Thanks in advance.

Sincerely,
A Silent Studier Who's Losing Patience