Laurie Drabble
Everyday Oracles
One of my favorite books as a child was “Mythology” by Edith Hamilton. I loved the strong female characters, who were rarely evident in other stories that grabbed my 10-year-old’s attention. Although Aphrodite, goddess of love and beauty, seemed to get the most popular press, I secretly admired Athena for her strength, independence, and intelligence.
When my friend William muses, “You might like the Atheneum,” while listing options for my solo exploration of Providence during a visit to Rhode Island, I immediately organize my trek around the intriguing destination. As he and his husband leave for work, he sends me off with a hug, the scent of his coffee braiding with the brisk Rhode Island spring air, anointing my quest.
Passing stodgy historical buildings in brick waistcoats flanked by flirtatious Victorians, I make my way to the 200-year-old circulating library, with two-story-high alcoves surrounding a sunlit atrium and framed by Romanesque columns. A life-size marble statue of Athena, the namesake Goddess of wisdom, weaving, and strategy, personally summons me in.
Walking into Athena’s library feels like stepping into a temple, pulling me irresistibly into the worship of books under the watchful eyes of cheerful acolyte librarians. I am drawn through the passageways surrounded by the incense of warm, frequently read pages, and humbled by the titan floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. I wander among the inked pages, hoping to discover something new to bring me joy, or unsettle me in all the best ways.
In ancient Greece, people might visit temples to seek answers to life's questions, beg forgiveness, or call on goddesses for guidance. This Athenaeum is rich in messages, whispering from centuries of books, and with a hidden cache of missives waiting patiently on the second level. There, tiny antique desks are tucked into nooks by windows at the end of long book corridors.
I find an unassuming rectangular desk and quietly slip into the well-worn seat, carefully minimizing the sound of scraping chair legs across a wooden floor faded by the long history of arrivals and departures. I gently open the center drawer to discover a treasure trove of Post-it notes, torn scraps of envelopes, and full sheets of lined notebook paper. Dozens of anonymous dispatches contain reflections and advice left by patrons for those who come after them.
Some remarks are pithy and poignant, like the small yellow note stating simply, “I’ve never felt lonelier than when I moved to the USA.”
Several messages appear to be from students attending the nearby college, commenting on hopes for the future, uncertainty about what comes after graduation, or, in one case, an idiosyncratic observation that, “something else I’ve been thinking is how much I hate Aristotle; I’m sorry, he just seems like a prick.”
Sifting through the modern-day artifacts, I read one offering after another, feeling a tranquil enchantment in the rustling of each piece of paper I touch. The fragile filaments of kind wishes, confessions, and secret stories connect me to writers I will never know in real time. My heart cracks open as I read a letter addressed to “Dear Young Queer Person,” dated February 2025, the beginning of a new wave of anti-queer policies and polemics in the United States.
As we navigate the coming years and you continue to navigate your queerness, you will cry. You will experience loss. Friends once close will grow distant. People and places will change, but you will find your family. They may not be blood, but they will support and defend you with all the love and kindness and wisdom they possess. It is an extraordinary thing to find your chosen family. So, as you leave here today, believe it may not happen now, but you will find your place. And when you do, you will be happier than you could possibly know. Be well. Love yourself.
This message resonates through my body, echoing memories of my own 50-year queer history, and summoning the remnants of a long-ago tender young self. My current elder self is fiercely protective of today’s youth, understanding the vulnerability and promise of their futures. As I gently replace the letter for the next generation of queer readers and the people who care for them, I reflect on progress over the last 200 years, from decriminalizing homosexuality to the legalization of same-sex marriage. I also contemplate recent backlashes, including the proliferation of anti-trans “bathroom bills” and laws allowing discrimination against LGBTQ+ people in health care, housing, and services under the guise of religious freedom.
I concur with the anonymous letter writer – creating ties with found family is “an extraordinary thing” when it comes to surviving and thriving. Over the decades, it is with chosen family that I have found solace, joy, and courage. Ties with lovers, friends, supportive family, and communities fueled my participation in collective action to fight for anti-discrimination legislation, call for the rights of lesbian mothers to retain custody of their children, and demand research, compassionate care, and human rights in the early years of the AIDS epidemic. The bonds, carefully woven between us – hard-won, strong, and luminous – will enable queer folks to survive and defy the recent tumultuous attacks aimed at people across our vast and varied identities and communities in the United States.
Athena teaches us that survival requires strategy and camaraderie is a form of armor. Descending the worn wrought iron staircase, I grip the cool metal as if this place will imbue me with the hope, strength, and wisdom I need for the months and years ahead. I emerge from the heavy wooden doors into the waning sunlight, heading “home” to the safety and love of my extended chosen queer family.
Laurie Drabble is a seasoned academic scholar with many research-based publications on LGBTQ+ and women’s health. Her creative nonfiction essays have been published in Redrosethornes and Sinister Wisdom. She was a winner of the Carnegie Center for Literacy & Learning Harriett A. Rose Legacies Contest for the essay "Dispositions". Laurie’s pockets are worn with age and have a few holes, but she has a mighty sewing machine and knows how to keep patching.
