The doors of the Barnes and Noble in Walnut Creek squeak loudly every time they close. Last week when I was with my sister on the second floor, I was distracted by that sound as I was trying to edit a CHI paper. It sounded like whispers, like a soft scream muffled by a hand. I like the sound.

It\’s very odd how American culture regards those who love to read and write. In popular culture, they are the smart, but awkward types. The mousey intellect with glasses. They\’re not \”cool\” in a popular culture sense.

A few years ago, at the beginning of my social phase, I was at a friend\’s party. One of the first parties I went to. I was still in a period of my life where I couldn\’t comfortably socialize with random people. A girl approached me, taking a break from chatting and gossiping. I was staring at a magazine on the coffee table, a glossy one smattered with celebrity photos, wondering whether my stay at the party was long enough to warrant coming up with an excuse to leave.

She gestured toward the social scene and asked with a smile, \”So this isn\’t what you like to do? What do you like to do?\”

I paused, thrown off by the question. More so the first part, than the second part. Finally, I said, \”I don\’t know if I can really say…\”

\”Oh.\” She had a confused look on her face. Perhaps, she thought that I was embarrassed or ashamed of my interests. Or perhaps she determined from my wallflower-like demeanor that I was interested in non-social things. Then suddenly as if a light went off in her head, she said with a big smile, \”So you like sitting and reading?\”

I was apalled, but I simply nodded. It seemed like she was treating me like a child–interests that she would not associate with. Back then, I was in denial of what I really enjoyed, always trying to adopt others\’ interests.

Interesting how nowadays, when stranded at a mall, I feel more comfortable in a bookstore than any other store. Although I spend most of my time reading cookbooks and just the first five pages of any book that appeals to me.