I’m Breaking Up With Barnes And Noble

It’s hard to pinpoint the first time I visited Barnes and Noble, but it might have been when I was in college years ago. I was impressed by the shelves overflowing with books, the coffee bar, and the comfortable chairs and tables scattered throughout the store.

I grew up in Eugene, Oregon, a very liberal city with bookstores that showcased crystals, metaphysical sections, astrological readings, and literature on witchcraft, all punctuated by the pungent fragrance of patchouli incense. Barnes and Noble was a refreshing respite from that crunchy Oregon feeling.

When I started graduate school, Barnes and Noble became my oasis. The inviting aroma of coffee and cinnamon buns drew me in from the 38-mile commute between the store and my rural college. I spent entire days there writing papers, purchasing and reading books, and even sought confession from a fellow shopper and priest. Later on, when I became a parent, I’d visit Barnes and Noble before my weekly doctor’s appointments to indulge in one of their famous scones. While writing, I would sit at the café and pour over research for my doctoral degree and eventually for my book. Seeing my name on the spine of my manuscript among the bookshelves was a special moment.

As my kids grew up, we’d go to Barnes and Noble and pick out our favorite books or select gifts for our friends. When I began to home-school, I’d get a discount on books and other children’s items using their educator card.

And then it happened: they stopped selling the cinnamon scones. I was saddened by it, but after the store ran for 25 years, I couldn’t be too upset when they decided to alter their menu. However, it felt like a premonition. The menu wasn’t the only thing changing. Their merchandise also seemed to be souring. I started noticing an increase in crystals, tarot cards, and astrology books.

The proliferation of the occult and “woke” content wasn’t restricted to one section; it appeared to be intermingling in almost every department. As I dragged my children through the store, I pointedly steered them clear of tables containing LGBT children’s books, the game section displaying psychic pagan games like the “Tree Magick Oracle Deck,” and the exhibit of recently released hardcover books that initially appeared to be classics, but carried fanciful titles such as “Chakra Healing,” “Sacred Geometry,” “Palmistry,” “Wicca,” “Reiki,” “Auras,” and various other types of primitive nonsense.

In the young adult segment, there were LGBT books wedged in there, but the cookbook aisle and the kids’ toy section appeared to provide a breather. Upon exiting, I felt as though we all needed a solid drenching of holy water.

Perhaps I was too trusting, but I held on, hoping against hope that they might still provide an educational discount (most firms restrict them solely to institutional teachers rather than homeschooling moms like me). After some time, they finally did away with the educator card, which held the nail in the casket for me. No more discount. I should have left Barnes and Noble earlier, I suppose, but old habits and friendships die hard. But the end of the discount, coupled with the store’s products now tainted with pagan, “woke,” and occult themes made my action clear: we needed to end our relationship. It wasn’t me. It was them.

As I thought about the transformation of Barnes and Noble, I felt a sense of nostalgia for the bookstores I grew up with in liberal Eugene. The old crunchy Oregon vibe has prevailed upon this megastore, only now with more funds and improved advertisements. The only thing left for Barnes and Noble to add is patchouli incense. But maybe they will in due course.