Give Me Some of that Real-time Inspiration

May 22, 2011

I’m no naysayer. True, there was a time when I was known amongst friends as “the prophetess of doom”, but that was many years and countless hours of self-work over the bridge. I believe in inspiring people. I was drawn to the pulpit, literally, and even lately, after enjoying several months filled with opportunities to write and speak about the future of librarians, toyed with the idea of becoming a consultant; a professional cheerleader for our profession. Two things I really take pleasure in are (1) making people laugh and (2) making people feel good about themselves, feel as if they are and/or can be who they want to be. That said, I find myself now, a few days removed from the pep rally that was the annual meeting of the Medical Library Association, in a bit of a quandary.

It seems that I missed the message of hope and encouragement supposedly shared by the plenary speakers. Others all around me – people I like and admire and who’s professional opinion I respect – stated and blogged and tweeted with palpable enthusiasm for what they heard. “Best Janet Doe lecture EVER!” “Wasn’t Clay Shirky awesome?” “Ready for the golden age of librarians!” I had to return to work on Wednesday and missed the final day of the meeting. I missed Geoffrey Bilder’s talk and I missed Dr. Hotez give the Leiter Lecture, so I can’t make any comment about these contributions, but from the tweets I read, Bilder, at least, was as exciting as the speakers from the previous days. The mantra “we have great value” evidently continued to ring loudly.

Now before I type another thought, let me type this one… I believe with every part of me that we DO have great value. Every single one of us. I believe everyone has value, or at least great potential for it. I believe being a librarian is both an admirable and essential role to play in our society. I think those who call for the closure of libraries, who think they can find any and every bit of knowledge on the Internet are… well, they are misguided at best, though more likely simple buffoons. I am proud of the work I do and so grateful to be part of what must surely be one of the most interesting, intelligent, useful and helpful, and downright fun professions going.

So why, you might ask, do I come away from this event feeling a bit … cynical is not the right word … maybe disappointed is closer to it. Maybe it’s the cumulative effect; living in a society that swings from the hopeful rallying cry of “Yes We Can!” to the negative, anger-fueled Tea Party Movement in a matter of minutes. I can’t help but notice that there is a shallowness to the cries of both sides. I wonder if we’re just being delusional, fooling ourselves as a means of getting by in a world with too many seemingly insurmountable problems.

People asked me, “Didn’t you think that was great?” after Shirky’s lecture, and I could only reply, “Yes, but…” But. But where is the reality? I’m all for inspiration and even for small doses of the acceptable coping strategy of delusion, but I need it tempered with reality. The mantra at my library is not, “The great age of libraries is over. Now is the great age of librarians.” No, the mantra at my library is “more with less”. We will continue to do more with less. This is the reality. This is the “new normal”. This is what I hear. And stating only my opinion (because I have absolutely no facts or experience to base it on), I bet that’s what the librarians at the Lister Hill Library at UAB hear from T. Scott Plutchak when he’s in his role of Library Director instead of Janet Doe Lecturer.

And not to negatively criticize the great bandleader, because his message is a WONDERFUL message. It is a most hopeful thought. It really is inspiring, but sadly, for me, only in the confines of the convention hall in Minneapolis. Similarly, I enjoyed Shirky’s observations on all of the data out there and all that it can tell us about the world we live in. I delighted in his challenge against establishment (even our own professional assertions), of the validity of the collective wisdom of Internet support groups against randomized control trials and systematic reviews. I thought this was something to give us all pause and make us think, or in the theme of the meeting, rethink.

But I was dumbfounded – not to mention offended – at his assertion that we’re simply lazy people, that if we only quit watching television on the weekends we could build Wikipedia ten times over. Yes! Yes! Yes! Crowdsourcing, community engagement and collectives hold tremendous hope for the world. I am devoted to them. I was a VISTA Volunteer for crying out loud. I listen to folk music. I am about the people. Power to the people! And most of all, I am a librarian. I am a member of the profession that is the archetype of community building, shared assets and collaboration.

And THIS is the reality I felt missing from the messages meant to inspire me – I am part of a profession that already builds and shares and collaborates, yet finds itself devalued more and more every day.

As I returned to my cubicle office in my library on Wednesday, I walked past the construction of a multi-million dollar research building that will feature everything from state-of-the-art labs to a fitness center, study areas, and a new cafeteria. There will be no new library, but that’s okay isn’t it? It’s not the age of libraries, it’s the age of librarians. So what’s my problem with this message? It’s the message being sent that the reality is there are millions being poured into buildings while budgets are frozen, positions remain unfilled, and any necessary resources that do not involve steel and concrete are nowhere to be found.

We settle for outsourcing work rather than fighting for the positions to remain and/or become part of our departments (our libraries). We find some kind of hope in study results demonstrating our patrons find great value in information, fooling ourselves into believing they thus also find great value in us, the information providers. We believe we can continue to parse out .25 FTE here, there and everywhere to cover our bases. We believe if we only change and/or grow our skill set we can tackle some really cool and interesting new fields like eScience, data management and publishing. We believe it’s just a matter of cutting out extraneous services, rearranging departments, rewriting job descriptions and getting out of the library. If we only do these things we will find our relevance, we will re-establish our value in this ever-changing world.

But my reality tells me that I work in an environment that has done every one of these things, yet we still struggle to prove our worth. The Chancellor still gets a raise on his three-quarter of a million dollar salary before I can fill the vacant position in my department. The year-end budgets always roll around with money for things, but never money for people. And this is hardly about only libraries and the library profession, but it really is the reality of the society in which we all find ourselves.

Maybe it’s just really, really hard to put an inspiring message into this context. Maybe that’s not what those lectures are supposed to be about. Maybe they’re supposed to put our reality on hold for awhile, to give us a break, to help us think of a world where no difficulties exist, but only possibilities. Kind of like all the talk of the rapture – it’s so much easier to just believe we can one day, in an instant, leave all of the hard stuff behind.

But alas, I don’t believe in the rapture and though I flew Southwest Airlines to all of my many destinations the past couple of months, I find I didn’t really get away. I left MLA with a mixed bag of feelings. I left the library publishing workshop I attended right before MLA much the same, with so many ideas and so much excitement for new and interesting possibilities, yet so frustrated by my inability to see how we will ever be able to do any of them in our current reality. And the week before that, I attended the annual meeting of the Massachusetts Health Sciences Library Network, my state professional organization. It was a meeting I’d planned, a meeting I put together with the goal of having members encourage one another by sharing their stories of their “outside the box” thinking – the innovative projects and services they’ve established in their libraries. We had a keynote address focusing on creativity and exercises to help us redefine ourselves. It was a great day of professional development solely devoted to inspiration… yet only about 50 people attended. What is the reality this points to? (I really don’t know. Could be something, could be nothing at all.)

And so I’m left wondering about the reality of our work, our profession, our goals, our direction. I do love my job. I love the work that I do, the colleagues that I have, the ideals of my profession. There is a great desire amongst us to serve people, to help people, to really make a difference for our communities – our institutions and our patrons – that you see less and less in professions today. We do have so much value. But we are going up against some way bigger and way different values. There are bigger priorities and a lot more power resting in people and places far beyond our control. Maybe just a nod to that fact during these messages would have helped me feel less conflicted. Probably a big rally inspiring us to overthrow those powers and get our library/education/healthcare-centric values back where they belong, i.e. on top, would have left me the most satisfied, but short of such anarchy, I’ll settle next time for a dose of evidence-based inspiration.

(It really has been a fantastic few months. I’ve got little belief for the guarantees of a simple life and these kind of struggles make it interesting and worth being a part of.)


Penny Project 2.0

April 3, 2011

Lounging around on a Sunday afternoon, I saw a Facebook update from friend, a picture of the Crayola Crayon factory. I quickly commented and asked him to please squish a penny for me if he came across a squisher machine. Of course, I knew full well that they would. I’ve never been to the Crayola Crayon factory, but can you imagine them NOT having a penny squisher? Sure enough, awhile later I was tagged in the photo of another friend, this one showing Joey beside the machine, fulfilling my wish.

Isn’t this an amazing world? More colleagues become friends, more memories get shared, more pennies get squished. Thanks to Joey and Linda for the nice thought today.

(My Squished Penny map needs some attention. I’ve not worked on it in some time. I have hundreds of pennies to add to it!)


speaking of coincidence

April 2, 2011

It’s a Saturday for wandering without leaving my chair, headphones on, marveling at the pure magic some have in putting words together. I love lots of different kinds of music, but by far my favorite is the music of those who can put poetry to song, stripped to its most basic, simply words and chords together to move my thoughts and emotions as nothing else can.

I was watching some videos on YouTube earlier today and came across a 20-year old clip of Mary Chapin Carpenter, Rosanne Cash and Nanci Griffith together at the Bottom Line. Carpenter was singing her song, “The Moon and St. Christopher” with Griffith offering some backup, and I noticed in one shot that as she sang, tears were falling from the eyes of Nanci Griffith. This is the music I like best, the music that makes even one of the very best singer-songwriters cry, such is the beauty of it. Some days all I can do is sit and listen to it for hours on end.

As I listen and let my mind wander, it goes back a few years to an evening when I sat in the balcony of the Calvin Theater in Northampton, MA waiting to atone for one of my greatest sins in life. In 12 step programs, one is told of the importance of making amends for past transgressions. Usually it’s preached that we make amends to others, say we are sorry, correct the wrongs we can correct and ask forgiveness for those that we cannot. Sometimes though, the biggest transgressions we make are against ourselves and the amends most needed to the same. Sometimes we need to say to ourselves that we’re sorry, that what we did or didn’t do can be forgiven, that we can move on from here, a different, better person.

In the summer of 1992, the threads that held my inner life together were frayed to the point of breaking. Years of sadness and hurt, self-loathing and self-medication, fits and starts,  had added up in essence to a decade lost to a single tragedy and its seemingly endless fallout. I’m not one to use profanity often, but in this case there isn’t much of a better descriptor of myself at this time than “fucking mess”.

I was living in Arlington, Virginia, sharing a townhouse with one less-than-stable fellow, about to be enticed into moving in with another even less so. It was the latter that I was to spend a Saturday night with that summer, sitting on the lawn at Wolf Trap, seeing one of those singer-songwriters I so worship. My soon-to-be housemate, Lonnie, was both a gifted and cursed musician. He was a musical genius, literally, but totally inept at functioning in the world. Still, hundreds of extended happy hours and a bunch of shared interests brought us together, and we became friends. It was the love of music that we shared most. His talents had led him to play in several well-known bands in the DC area in the 80s, but for me, his greatest feat had been to back-up a talented but relatively unknown singer-songwriter in some session work. He told me that he had played guitar for and with Mary Chapin Carpenter.

By the time we met, her gifts had been well-recognized and she had several well-deserved Grammys and a number of hit records to her name. I adored her. She wrote and sang the most poignant, heartbreaking songs; songs of the kind of lonliness I knew, the kind of sadness I felt, the kind of longing that I had. I listened to her CDs over and over and over again. She was playing in her backyard of Northern Virginia that summer and we got tickets. It was a dream to see her perform live. I couldn’t wait for the day to arrive.

It was an evening concert and Lonnie was going to pick me up late afternoon so we’d get there in time to get good seats, meaning a good spot on the lawn for our blanket. Before any of this though, I had an invitation to the birthday party of a co-worker. She was leaving work soon, too, so it was a combination happy-sad event. I looked forward to it, not only because we were friends, but also because I had an utterly ridiculous crush on another co-worker and the thought of getting to see her there was, though misguided, exciting. Looking back, the math is pretty easy to do:  Happy-sad event + utterly ridiculous crush +  a couple dozen beers = Fucking Mess.

I left the party after several hours, somehow got home, and promptly passed out. The next thing I remember was Lonnie pounding on my bedroom door, telling me to get up and get ready or we were going to miss the concert. Drunk, sick, fairly incoherent, I laid on the blanket on the lawn at Wolf Trap and missed the show I had so longed to see. Every song, every word, every connection I imagined that I shared with my favorite artist – I missed it all.

I got home that evening and cried. I lay in bed the entire next day, way more sick at myself than sick with a hangover. I had never been so disappointed and angry with myself, had never let myself down so much before. It was the beginning of a rapid, downward spiral that would end the following spring when I finally began the long, slow process of healing.

I continued to listen to Mary Chapin over the years. I bought all of her music and remained moved by the words she sang. I still felt the deep connection to the feelings she shared. There are many, many other singer-songwriters that I treasure, but she always rose a little higher on the list. But I could never listen without a sense of regret. There was always a piece of myself unforgiven for the behavior of that Saturday.

Until the evening when I sat in that balcony at the Calvin, years and miles removed from that earlier time. This time I was awake, I was present. This time I was ready to listen.

Then the stage went completely dark, the strings of a single guitar were struck, and an unmistakable voice sang:

I’ve waited longer for lesser things
But here I am
Who really knows what tomorrow brings
But here I am
Just in case you were wondering
Just in case you lost again
Just in case you run out of friends, here I am

It’s so easy to rip and to tear, so here I am
What you need the most
Disappears into thin air, so here I am
Maps and compasses may stay true
It doesn’t really matter what you do
I have never forgotten you
Here I am

Some days our reach
Is bound to far exceed our grasp
I gave up hoping long ago
I could fix the past,

Here I am

I know full well that Mary Chapin Carpenter was not singing to me directly. I know that she does not know me at all. But it doesn’t really matter, does it? I wrote yesterday of the strange coincidences we sometimes notice in life, those circumstances and moments that make us stop and pay attention. They make us think that maybe something bigger can be taken from them.

This was perhaps the most profound example of such I’ve ever experienced. Under my breath that night, as she sang words that could not possibly have been more to the point, I apologized to Mary Chapin for turning away the gift she gave years earlier. And I forgave myself, too.

(“Here I Am”, Mary Chapin Carpenter, 2006)