Just Thinking

Celebrating our interconnectedness in the season of annual reviews

This time of year, at my university, and perhaps at yours as well, we are preparing to submit documentation for our annual performance reviews. As I get my activity reports ready for my first cycle in this process, I can’t shake an idea surrounding the nature of academic evaluation. From report cards in elementary school to doctoral dissertation defenses to tenure and promotion procedures, the academy structures itself around the individual. There is one name at the top of the CV, the exam, the LibInsights report, this blog post. Yet, on both theoretical and practical levels, the work we do is inherently collaborative. Our efforts connect to many names, not one.

As a first-year academic librarian, I lean on my colleague’s expertise in big and small ways. In my first few weeks here, I was constantly shuffling over to my neighbor’s offices when a question I couldn’t answer arrived in my inbox. When I’m brainstorming ideas for instruction sessions my first instinct is to reach out to my colleagues who I know excel at lesson and activity planning. In November I helped with two major outreach initiatives, a conference and a multi-day medical humanities event series, neither of which would have had any hope of success if they had fallen on the shoulders of one individual as opposed to a team.

Apart from initiatives that I’m directly connected to, I see my colleagues co-authoring posters, papers, and book chapters. I see them working together on interdisciplinary initiatives and serving on joint committees inside and outside of our institution. And though I don’t have the stats to back this statement up, I think anyone would be hard-pressed to find an academic department that doesn’t lean on words like “teamwork,” “relational,” or “collaborative” in their guiding documents.

Culture of Personality

So, what’s with this dissidence? Some might argue that it’s necessary to evaluate the individual in relation to the group. That there’s no logical workaround and that this individual-centric procedure ensures accountability and ambition. Some might say that even though we go up for reappointment on our own, the work we do together is still highlighted, shining brightly on our computer-generated activity reports. Some might say that this emphasis on the individual is just life. That it’s an unavoidable symptom of existential solitude and to stop worrying about it and get back to work.

In the first chapter of her book, Quiet, Susan Cain succinctly traces the rise of the “Culture of Personality” in America in conjunction with the industrialization and urbanization of the turn of the century. As much of the population moved into cities where they no longer knew their neighbors, the art of selling yourself became a crucial means of survival. It was no longer enough to be proficient at your job—you had to demonstrate extroversion, charm, and an unwavering commitment to self-development. At the same time, social anxiety and compare-despair style competition ratcheted higher with each passing decade (go figure!)

Some possible antidotes

So, what is the point of voicing this qualm? Although completely restructuring the way we think and talk about evaluation, promotion, and tenure into a more relationally oriented system might be impractical for now, I still think there are steps we can take to highlight and celebrate our interconnectedness. Considering the nature of this post, I’d love to hear from others about what this idea brings forth. However, some starting points are:

Giving flowers: Recognizing the accomplishments of your colleagues and letting them know that you see and appreciate them. While my university has official channels for doing this publicly, I’ve had some of my most meaningful exchanges in informal interactions. It’s important to note that this requires us to be inquisitive and curious about the projects and activities of one another—I speak to myself here. I get so wrapped up in my own work, that I forget to come up for air and pay attention to what my colleagues are doing, too.
Reflecting on how our individual work connects to the whole: Okay, now is the point in the post where I confess that I love working alone. While I don’t completely shut off at the thought of group work, I’ll admit that the term “team building” does turn my stomach, and I revel in an afternoon without meetings. I’m an introvert and I love alone time. However, even in my most solitary moments, I still know that I am connected to the world around me. I connect to the librarians that had my role before I did as I build on the blueprints and scaffolding that they left behind. I connect to the ecosystem of my library, as I hear my liaison colleagues in meetings with students, or the Letterpress Lab down the hall boisterous with cheers from students. I connect to health sciences librarians across institutional boundaries, and I look up to the librarians that I encounter through conferences, workshops, and online courses.
Celebrating your peer’s accomplishments as your own: No, I don’t mean taking credit for other people’s work. In line with the above bullet point, I am pointing out the connection between your colleagues’ work and the work that you do. Serving our students, faculty, and staff is a group effort. I could not effectively hold a reference interview if it wasn’t for the work my colleagues in cataloging, electronic services, or ILL do. Nor could I facilitate the same level of hands-on, contextualized learning without our librarians in special collections and archives. Our Help Desk and Public Services teams are integral, and none of the events any of us have been a part of would be possible without our Marketing and Communications Team. I cannot imagine my job without our Data and Digital Scholarship librarians. The list goes on.

We are points on an interconnected web, supporting one another in visible and often invisible ways every day. In this season of my first annual review, how grateful I am to not have to go it alone.

The Trap of Knowing

I knew this moment would come, but I didn’t expect it to come as soon as it did. Until that moment, I had begun to settle into my first semester as an instruction librarian, my ease growing as the content I taught introducing our library’s resources, databases, and basic research and information literacy strategies to first-year undergraduates became increasingly familiar in each one-shot instruction session. You could also say this expanding ease carried with it some overconfidence as the (very few) classes I taught became increasingly predictable and required only minor tweaks before each one. This caused me to prematurely discard what more experienced team members and other colleagues who did instruction advised me: your first several times doing instruction will be bumpy with mistakes that smooth out with time and practice. When things are going well, it’s hard to see where the bumps lie and it’s very easy to trip on them, as I did.

In my second week of classes, a student asked me if I knew how to get to a resource our library had that they thought could be useful for their upcoming assignment. Though the resource sounded familiar and the path to find it likely was mentioned at some point during my busy, information-loaded first few weeks in the role, the answer was more hazy than clear at that moment. I voiced an answer to the student even as my brain was frantically catching up hoping I was right and wouldn’t be embarrassed to discover I was not. The rest of the class went smoothly, but at the end, when I debriefed with a colleague on my team who was observing me teach, they brought up my interaction with the student and noted that my answer was, in fact, incorrect and that my facial expressions exposed my uncertainty. They also reminded me that it was okay to say, “I don’t know, let me find an answer and get back to you,” and that such an answer helps maintain connections with students, whereas answering when I was unsure undermines the chance of a student’s connection with me and their confidence in my teaching. It was a humbling piece of advice that I have remembered and tried to follow in the weeks since. Even so, when situations similar to the one I had arise, so does the pressure to answer, even when I am not sure it is correct or not.

The Myth of the All-knowing Librarian

Situated close to the worn-out (and recently politically charged) stereotype of the cat-lady in a cardigan in the line of library bad takes is the myth that library workers can answer their patrons’ every need. This myth connects to another belief in our profession that library workers should be ready to sacrifice everything (including their physical and mental health) to serve our patrons. While I am not sure where these beliefs come from, I do know that they seem to creep into most of my role and are possibly influenced by my work background. Before I became an academic librarian, I worked as an underpaid office coordinator and administrative assistant at a different university. In this role, I was the knowledge hub for all matters related to office supplies, maintenance issues, office policies, and the schedules of the senior staff I supported. It was a job that required me to have an answer to any questions or issues within these areas at all times; moments when I could say, “I don’t know; let me find out,” were rare and always greeted with frustration and, depending on who I interacted with, the threat of escalation to my supervisor.

It is likely, then, that I carried this pressure to know everything into my first full-time academic librarian role. The irony is that I quickly found that the myth of the all-knowing librarian is nonexistent in my library, where there is a work atmosphere of collegiality, collaboration, and seeking information rather than assuming to know. I also soon discovered that our work culture is replicated in how we instruct our students. We teach them that the goal of research is not to know everything about a topic, but enough to enter into conversation with others who have studied it and form individual ideas and conclusions based on what they uncover.

It’s Okay Not to Know

One of the main things I’ve had to work through this semester is the discomfort of uncertainty. I have learned that confessing what I do not know is not a sign that I am unprepared or incapable of teaching but conveys honesty and allows students to contribute their knowledge. As one of my colleagues reminded me recently, “We learn from our students as much as we teach them.” Whether it be an instruction session or a reference interview, academic library workers are responsible for cultivating an environment where knowledge and learning can flourish. While this responsibility might not be met 100% of the time, we can always work toward it. Working toward this environment requires the humility and willingness to recognize our boundaries of understanding and admit what we do not know.

On building the capacity to find rest.

Faster pace, faster burnout

Before I decided to become a librarian, I spent a few years living in a remote area of Northern California. The tiny economy in this coastal redwood town necessitated that I employ myself through a combination of part-time jobs, one of which was working in the restaurant of a small, family-owned inn. Like any tourist destination, there were rhythms to the work there—slow seasons and busy seasons.

During the heightened summertime season, I bonded with one of my co-workers over the feeling we got when the restaurant was at peak capacity—I thrive at the moment right before I’m totally overwhelmed, we’d say to one another. We knew it wasn’t the healthiest attitude, but there was sharpness to the fast-paced rhythm that, on good nights, could feel almost like a flow state. The steady clip of orders and food running and calling through the kitchen pass, all while maintaining a cool headed image to patrons, created a chaotic kind of euphoria.

Now, in my first proper fall semester as a liaison librarian at a mid-sized R1 University, I find the same statement—I thrive at the moment right before I’m totally overwhelmed, running through my mind, but with less self-assuredness. Since the fall semester started, I taught or assisted with 14 library instruction sessions, held over 40 research consultations with students and faculty members, attended two conferences, agreed to co-author two scoping reviews, and assisted with the planning and running of two major events that occurred over the last two weeks on campus.

I know that this sort of variety and high capacity for service to our patrons is par for the course as a liaison librarian. I know that my schedule likely looks similar (if not less intense in comparison) to some of my colleagues. I also know finding my footing in this job means building the capacity to find calm, stillness, and rest amidst the torrent of emails, meetings, events, webinars, spontaneous reference calls, and professional development opportunities.

Slowing down as vital

Perhaps prophetically, two weeks into my current and first position as an academic librarian, ACRL’s “Keeping up with…” series published a feature on Slow Librarianship. Reading through the constellation of librarians publishing on the subject, I learned about the Slow Food Movement’s adaptation towards slowness in the library, both in our interactions with our patrons, and in our approaches to education. I also learned about the difficulty many librarians face in separating work from the rest of their lived experience outside of work, and most saliently, how slowness can radically challenge the Capitalist, technocratic, productivity culture we find ourselves in, in favor of a relational and critically reflexive approach to being and doing at work.

As a student in higher ed, I remember bemoaning the fast-paced rhythm of this time of year. November and the first few weeks of December are the final push before winter break. The deadlines for presentations, exams, and term papers start to loom heavily. At the same time, our environment is slowing down. The days grow shorter as we drift towards the winter solstice, our trees grow bare, our animals prepare to hibernate. The rhythmic signs are pointing towards slowness…and yet, the semester churns on, the papers are due, the exam dates are set, the stress in ourselves and in our students grow.

No, the rhythms of stress and rest don’t move with the seasons. More often, the peaks and troughs of stress seem to move on a day-to-day, or even hour-to-hour, cycle. For me, banking the moments of rest amidst these cycles, in the same way I see squirrels outside my window banking acorns for the winter right now, feels like a vital strategy.

Taking breaks to avoid breakdowns

What my friends at the restaurant and I talked about less were the days when being right on the precipice of being overwhelmed spilled into full-fledged, panicked submersion. We didn’t talk about the days when an order was missed, or a dish had to be refired, or a glass was dropped, or a customer snapped at us. We didn’t talk about the days when all you could do was keep your head up, run into the walk-in refrigerator to cry for a quick five, and wait for the night to be over.

Working in a restaurant is much more dissimilar than it is comparable to working as a liaison librarian in an academic library. However, both are service positions (which unfortunately, in the obsessively hierarchical structure of academia can leave you vulnerable to being taken for granted), and both involve juggling multiple tasks at once, collaborating with team members, and maintaining a certain air of ease even if you aren’t feeling your best.

I love most aspects of my job, and most of all, I love interacting with people and helping them with their research. I have a sticky note on my computer monitor that reads, “Build the capacity to be a place where others find rest.” But, to build that capacity, I have to be a place where I can find rest, first. Sometimes that looks like a full night’s sleep (when I’m lucky), sometimes that means noticing the little things that fill me up throughout the day, and sometimes that means taking a break even when I don’t feel like I have the time to. Now more than ever, I know that if I want to avoid any breakdown in the walk-in refrigerator moment, building that capacity to find rest is a must.

Do not obey in advance

As I sit here in the deep dread and horror of the U.S. results we woke up to, literally fighting the urge to throw up, I am thinking about the National Archives. Why? U.S. Archivist, Colleen Shogan, appointed by President Biden, is a textbook example of obeying in advance. She has “sought to de-emphasize negative parts of U.S. history” (Wall Street Journal article by Ballhaus and Restuccia). References to America’s history of displacing indigenous people and the incarceration of Japanese Americans are just two examples of what has been removed from National Archive exhibits.

We as a profession, especially those of us who are white, need to resist that urge with every fiber of our being, particularly with the pressure that will be applied to all libraries. If you’re white and straight passing, it would be easy to just take the books off the shelf, to leave out histories in exhibits, to fall in line, to no longer buy books with any inkling of a “woke” agenda. Do not give up something that hasn’t been taken from you.

Academic libraries are not immune to the extremist hate that we are seeing in public and school library settings, though I do feel that some of my fellow academic librarians think that way. Books of any sort can be justified as “intellectual freedom,” right? In states like Texas and Florida, where the New College of Florida Gender and Diversity Center was shuttered and its collection of books, plus more from their Main Library, were thrown away, we see that is decidedly not the case. Academic libraries need to update their collection development policies and create ones that address challenges, because they’re going to come. With this coming administration, it is better to be prepared. Do not obey in advance, and do not leave things up to chance.

Another item I keep thinking about is the literacy rates of America’s citizens. Not information literacy – though, as an instruction librarian, that will become crucial and is perhaps a post to be made in the coming months – no, I’m talking about reading levels. Half of all adult Americans are reading below a 6^th-grade level. And what’s the first sentence of Project 2025’s section on the Department of Education? “… ultimately, the Department of Education should be eliminated.” So how are we to know our history, America’s real, gruesome, traumatic history, if it is written in books not only beyond someone’s literacy level but also a book that’s been removed from the library all together? We must know what happened in order to create a better future.

Back in August, Amanda Jones wrote an essay for Time on the fact that this election will determine the fate of libraries – and unfortunately, we will be seeing that come to fruition in the coming years. I’m not writing this post to be all doom; I simply believe that time to grieve and feel the emotions that come is key to moving towards next steps. To be frank, this felt like something I could do rather than sit in my office, feeling the dread pile higher and higher in my stomach. I want to caution us as librarians to not seat ourselves as some last bastion of democracy – please be mindful of vocational awe. That’s also not just librarians; that is everyone doing the work and who will continue to fight.

On being open to being open

I’ve been thinking a lot recently about mindset and attitude. For starters, I’ve taken on an interim position at another campus within my institution this year while continuing to manage my ongoing position. So I’ve had one foot in that “new job” space, more or less, working in a new context and getting to know a range of new colleagues. This means I’ve been trying to ask a lot of questions, offer fresh eyes on continuing challenges, and consider new opportunities. It’s been a chance to practice an open mind and cultivate an inquiry attitude anew. I’d like to think that it’s easy to maintain such perspective at all times, but let’s be honest — it’s actually quite easy to lose that kind of openness, especially once you’re several years into a job. It takes effort and intention, practice and repetition to stay curious, to be open.

This makes me think, too, about the podcast that my colleague and I co-host. “From Concept to Creation: Uncovering the Making of Scholarly and Creative Accomplishments” is about making research accessible by pulling back the curtain on the research paths and processes that are so often opaque and confusing. Our guests are students, faculty, staff, and alumni from across subjects and experience levels. They share stories that give insight into process, not just product — the inner workings and rough edges of their research and inquiry experiences. We get to learn not just about the what of our guests’ work, but also about the hows and the whys of their work as well as their challenges and accomplishments along the way. In so doing, we aim to address the questions people have about research… and the questions they didn’t know they had because they couldn’t think to ask about what’s invisible. At the same time, we try to challenge stereotypes and assumptions related to research. Our guests show how much fun it is to be curious, and how normal it is to encounter roadblocks in this kind of work. (Shameless plug: the podcast is available on Spotify and Apple Podcasts! The season 1 and season 2 archive is available, and season 3 episodes are dropping monthly through April.)

In these conversations, I find myself again and again asking our guests questions about their mindsets and attitudes. And it strikes me again and again how their paths and processes are shaped by their curiosity, their perseverance and their ability to navigate uncertainty, their capacity for reflection, and the way they conceptualize their processes. While some of our guests seem to suggest they have an inherent inclination for at least some of these habits of mind, they by and large reflect on the milestones and developmental trajectories that led them to practice, cultivate, and achieve (and continue to practice) these dispositions. These are muscles that they are continually training.

I guess I’m partly reflecting on this all because we’re about halfway through the semester — and it hasn’t been an easy one. The truth is that adding interim responsibilities to an already full plate means it sometimes feels like there’s too much to do and not enough time to do it. Which can mean that it can feel hard to stay open, to stay curious. So I guess I’m giving myself a bit of a pep talk here — maybe you need one, too? — to just remember that the mindsets that we practice, the attitudes that we cultivate shape the paths that we navigate or create. If I were a person inclined toward mantras or slogans, I’d offer us both one here. But an image, at least, does come to mind for me: Shel Silverstein’s “The Thinker of Tender Thoughts.” Do you know it? I’ll spare you my paltry description of its essential truths and offer it to you straight.

How do you stay open to being open? I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments.