Khan 1Omar Khan

Ms. Gardner

English 10 Period 4

19 January 2015

A Library of Thoughts

In third grade, I discovered my library. I sat in Mrs. Beckman’s class, cramped in the

book corner, protecting myself from all of the girls so I wouldn’t get cooties. I distracted myself

with a book about a cat that could talk and juggle and sing. It had been written by a doctor, so it

must have been non-fiction. The room buzzed with voices of enthusiastic kids shouting out math

answers and slackers next to me talking about the latest Call of Duty. I pulled a new book out of

a shelf when someone asked a question from the math worksheet I had finished in half a second.

“What is ten minus three and a tenth?” he asked. I thought about that math lesson our

teacher gave us about fractions as I pulled out a book from the shelf. It seemed as if I pulled out

my math knowledge out of a shelf at the same time. My brain is a library! I told him the answer

in exchange for twenty Beckman Bucks, and began storing. I soon began putting in ideas,

thoughts, memories: everything. This is the way I think. Alone in my cavernous library.

My library has books about everything I’ve learned since that moment in third grade, that

math book that I first pulled out. It has plenty of empty pages begging to be filled in, and plenty

of pages written with past experiences. When I feel sad, I read a happy book. When I take an

algebra test, I check out a math book. These books are not written in words, but rather in senses:

smells, sights, textures, tastes, sounds. This is how I remember things, by temporarily re-living

the moment. All of the math equations, the seemingly random science facts, patterns that nobody

bothers to notice. I shelf them all.

Khan 2I never became interested in the science behind the brain until I reached high school. One

night, as I heard crickets chirping quietly outside my window, silver poured onto my desk,

illuminating the diagram of the brain I gawked at. I had been fascinated by the mechanical

intricacy, the meticulous organization of it all. I asked the teacher, Ms. Holly, during class the

next day about the method of sending impulses to stimulate other motor neurons.

“Well, yes, the differently charged sodium and potassium ions are what cause the

electrical signal. But that isn’t until next semester. Why are you reading this now?” she asked,

and in a rare display of emotion, I could have sworn she looked. . . curious.

“I flipped to the wrong page in my textbook and saw this diagram,” I replied quickly,

pointing to the picture. “It interested me,” she shrugged and resumed staring at her monitor with

a blank face until the end of the period. I continued to read about the brain, continued to think,

continued to wonder. What would it be like to be in another person’s brain, in another person’s

library? What kinds of books would they have? What language would they be in? Would they be

written in words, or would they be written in smells, or pictures, or sounds, or feelings? Maybe

windows that others could peek into? Would they even have a library at all?

Sophomore year required many trips to my library. All of the elements I memorized, all

of the vocabulary words I knew for a day or two, all of the Spanish grammar lessons. Although I

had more difficult classes, one class stood out from all the others: second period Algebra II. I had

always plunged headfirst into mathematics, but had never really gone beyond. I never asked why

something worked. I never thought about the actual meaning of numbers. One day we had a test,

which consisted of two portions: a calculator and non-calculator portion. I had always challenged

myself to not use a calculator during math, so I didn’t take mine out, smiling as I saw everyone

else pull out their electronic brains, while I decided to use the one God gave me. However, when

Khan 3presented with a problem that asked for the maximum and minimum value of a cubic, I had no

idea how to start. I swallowed my pride and slowly took out my calculator. But I knew as soon as

I went home I would figure out how to find those numbers, to think like the calculator. As soon

as I got home I went to work. Relentlessly slaying paper after paper and idea after idea, desperate

to find a formula I trudged on through the transition from one day to the next. There were times

where I had been tempted; my eyes darted to the computer for answers, I wanted to give up. But

as I found myself hiding the computer in my closet under a pile of clothes, I knew I had to do

this. I took a sip of my water and a bite of my bagel, both stale from hours of work. Glancing at

the clock through sleep-deprived eyes, it read 4:19 am. I knew I had to sleep. I layed down and

slept to the symphony of numbers. I woke up, and showered myself in more math. With a fresh

mind I got what I wanted: my formula. Ecstatic, I tried to show my dad my victory, but he

couldn’t understand my reasoning. Only my answer. Not my mind. Not the book. My books

were foreign to him. However, I realized that books can be understood by all, but notes were

legible only for those who wrote them. My library had been false. A library is filled with books,

but mine had been filled with notes that I had copied from other people’s work. I felt proud as I

put my first book in. That first math book I put in. But as my library became more full with

books, it felt more empty. I thought about life without my library. Without my brain.

What would we do without our brains? The ancient Egyptians removed the brain during

the embalming process but, unlike most of the important organs, did not preserve it in a jar for

use in their next life. Why would they not think the brain is important? Did they did not know of

its actual purpose because they didn’t have the necessary tools? But others didn’t either and still

inferred it’s importance. The ancient Greeks were polytheistic, one of their Gods being Minerva,

the Goddess of wisdom. It’s said that Zeus’s head ached, so he asked another God to crack his

Khan 4skull with an axe. With one mighty swing, Minerva emerged from Zeus’s head; the Goddess of

Wisdom and rationality, born out of the head of the King of Gods. But why did the Greeks

associate the brain with rationality? What is rational about the random strings of thought, the half

written ideas, the odd scenarios that our brain conjures?

I personally believe in one God as I am Muslim, though this does not make the existence

of the brain any less strange. How does all of that gray mush contain all our knowledge? All our

memories? All our passions? For intuitiveness, emotions, and creativity are what make humans

unique: almost divine. What have we done to deserve such a sacred reward? Why has God given

me a library? I have no idea. But I do know one thing: I won’t waste it. I won’t reject my gift

from God Himself. I will use it until its books are tattered from overuse and withered from age.

My library is a gift. It allows me to remember so much, to organize the randomness of my mind.

I don’t know why I’ve been given this head start on life, but I’m grateful. As I laid in my bed on

sleepless nights, thinking of my gift I once felt isolated, but soon I realized I had not been alone.

Far from it. About seven billion people off. God hasn’t just given me a gift, He has given all

humans a distinct ability. For some He gave a natural talent for music, or a divine hand for art, or

a beautiful mind for mathematics, or a witty mind for English, or fast reflexes for sports.

For others, a library of thoughts.