Editor’s note: We welcome a guest blog post from Michael C. Weisenburg, Director of the Irvin Department of Rare Books and Special Collections at the University of South Carolina Libraries.
The first time I hosted our early music class in special collections in the fall semester of 2015, I approached the session the way many of us do: with a carefully chosen set of materials, a plan for introducing students to the history and significance of medieval manuscripts, and a hope that the students would leave with a sense of what special collections can offer. In this case, the materials were medieval plainchant manuscripts from our holdings. Many of them were fragments, a few were large codices, and one had even been cut up and turned into a lampshade at some point in the early twentieth century. They are visually striking objects, of course, but they are also something more than that. They were made to be used. More specifically, they were made to be sung.
That basic fact sat at the center of the session, even if I did not yet fully know what to do with it.
Like many instruction sessions in special collections, the visit began as an opportunity for hands-on engagement with the past. We talked about the manuscripts as artifacts, their material histories, how they were made and used, and how they are now used as historic evidence. We talked about what students could learn from seeing these items in person rather than through a surrogate. We also talked about the music itself. How plainchant written on vellum carried forward a traditional performative repertoire across centuries in forms that still invite interpretation. Eventually, a question emerged that shifted the project from a one-off class visit into something much larger: if these manuscripts were made to be sung, why not have students sing from them?
Photo courtesy of Sarah Williams, University of South Carolina School of Music
It was a question that kept coming up with every class visit, and eventually that question became Singing the Archives, a digital exhibit hosted by the University of South Carolina Libraries and developed through a collaboration among Rare Books and Special Collections, Digital Collections, and the School of Music. What began as recurring instruction sessions grew into a project that asked students not just to view manuscripts, but to work with them through transcription, research, performance, recording, and digital interpretation. The resulting exhibit makes those manuscripts more accessible, but it also does something else that feels especially important: it makes them audible.
One reason this project matters beyond our local context is that it challenged a familiar tendency in academic libraries to keep special collections in a silo. Even when we are committed to teaching with rare materials, it is easy for that work to remain bound by the reading room. A class comes in, students have a memorable experience, the session ends, and sometimes a few of them will come back to the reading room on their own to work with rare materials as primary source examples for a final project. There is nothing wrong with that model; it’s the bread and butter of special collections instruction; it is valuable and sufficient. But this project suggested another possibility. What if special collections instruction is not only an encounter, but the beginning of a collaborative process? What if the session becomes a point of departure for student research, creative practice, digital scholarship, and public-facing work?
That was the real shift. The project moved beyond a one-time instructional session and became a shared enterprise across departments and academic units and has been sustained over time. Students engaged with the manuscripts in different ways depending on their roles and expertise. Some worked on transcription and the challenge of rendering medieval notation into forms that modern performers could use. Others contributed contextual research, editorial work, and performance-practice inquiry. Many of them blogged about their experiences and the challenges the project presented. Library colleagues in digital collections developed the infrastructure through which that work could become legible and accessible to a broader audience. Faculty in music brought disciplinary depth, pedagogical continuity, and the willingness to let students learn by doing. The exhibit became not just a final product, but an on-going record of shared labor.
One of the most exciting things about the project is that it reframed access. In libraries, we often talk about access in terms of discovery, digitization, and online availability. Those are crucial forms of access, and this project certainly benefited from them. But Singing the Archives reminded me that access can also be interpretive and sensory. A digitized manuscript image may allow a user to see a page, but a performance and recording can help users understand what that page was for. In that sense, the exhibit does more than reproduce objects online. It mediates between artifact and experience. It helps bridge the distance between modern audiences and historical materials by showing that these manuscripts are not static relics but living components of musical and devotional practice.
I also think the project offers a useful model for academic librarianship more broadly because it shows what can happen when rare books instruction sessions are treated as a springboard rather than an endpoint. Special collections are sometimes described as treasures, and while that language is understandable, it can also be limiting. Treasure implies rarity, value, and protection. It does not always imply use or engagement. What’s compelling in this collaboration was the way rare materials became a meeting point for teaching, research, technical expertise, and public engagement. The manuscripts became prompts for interdisciplinary learning and relationship-building across campus. Additionally, the manuscripts became even more fun. There was something exciting about hearing students sing from the manuscripts and sharing in their utter glee at being allowed to do so.
Photo courtesy of Kristine Hontz, University of South Carolina Libraries
That’s the larger lesson. Special collections can be one of the places where academic libraries demonstrate their fullest value not because we hold unique things, but because we can convene unique forms of collaboration around them. We can help translate specialized materials into formats and experiences that invite broader participation. And we can do all of that without flattening the complexity of the objects themselves. In fact, we can do so better by helping the objects to live again and fulfill their original purposes.
Of course, projects like this do not happen easily. They require time, trust, and a willingness to share ownership. They also require us to think differently about instruction. A successful class session is not always the end of the story. Sometimes it is the research and development stage for something larger. That “a-ha” moment of realizing that students should not only study the manuscripts but sing from them depended on recurring contact, on faculty partnership, and on being open to the idea that a special collections session might evolve into a collaborative project neither side fully anticipated at the start.
One takeaway I would offer other academic librarians is that when we teach with special collections, we should pay attention to what students and faculty want to do next. Their off-the-cuff questions and spontaneous ideas may point toward a deeper form of engagement than we originally planned. In our case, that next question led from the reading room to the recording room, and then into a digital exhibit that made the project public. That path will look different at other institutions, but the principle holds. Special collections do not have to function as niche destinations within the academic library. They can be active partners in teaching, discovery, and interdisciplinary collaboration. Sometimes that begins with a simple question in the classroom. And sometimes, if we are willing to follow it, that question can help us hear the collections differently.
What happens when you inherit a world-renowned collection that needs fundamental reimagining? My time as Performing Arts Librarian at Arizona State University has taught me that transformational collection work requires both patience and urgency—and that the process itself is as important as the outcome.
From Child Drama to Theatre for Youth and Community
When I stepped into my role stewarding what was then called the Child Drama Collection—the world’s largest repository of materials documenting theatre for youth—I quickly realized that both the collection’s scope and its name needed evolution. The archive, established in 1980, had grown to over 3,600 linear feet of materials spanning centuries of performance history. But as I assessed the collection’s strengths and gaps, a troubling pattern emerged: in an estimated 5,000 linear feet of materials, only three people of color were significantly represented.
This discovery aligned with concerns that scholar-practitioners Shavonne Coleman and Meriah Sage have raised about the broader field of theatre. In their recent article, “The Opposite of Absence is to Occupy”1, the authors discuss their early research for the project, “Hidden and Erased Stories in Drama and Theatre for the Young: Exploring Untold Narratives“. Their work, alongside Kristala Smart and Josh Streeter, seeks to document how BIPOC/TYA artists, educators, facilitators, practitioners and audiences in theatre for youth have been systematically excluded from institutional memory. The goal of this national research project is to document unwritten and illuminate hidden history facts and experiences that have been pushed to the margins in order to maintain the status quo.
This work asks a crucial question: “What happens if we don’t uncover hidden histories?”
My collection assessment revealed exactly what happens—entire communities disappear from the historical record, not because they weren’t contributing to the field, but because collecting practices privileged certain voices while marginalizing others.
This discovery became a catalyst for change, but not the kind that happens overnight. Institutional transformation, I learned, operates on a different timeline than individual urgency—but Coleman and Sage’s work demonstrates that this effort extends far beyond any single collection or institution.
Nashville Children’s Theatre Records, Arizona State University.
Alt image description: A group of children and one adults sit in chairs and on the floor, facing the camera in what appears to be an indoor gathering or event, reimagining a storytelling.
Learning to Process—Collections and Change
I got my archival training through volunteer work and graduate school. But the real learning happened on the job. Thanks to mentorship from colleagues like Associate Archivist Elizabeth Dunham, I discovered that processing archival materials takes about eight hours for each linear foot. At that rate, and with current staffing, the processing of our physical collection would take decades.
But the mathematical reality became complicated by a more immediate challenge: my predecessor accepted the task of building the collection over nearly 40 years and agreed to fulfill every request. Her focus was on acquisition and supporting what was then a robust PhD program in Theatre for Youth (which has since changed to one faculty member and no longer offers doctoral degrees). As an MFA graduate rather than a trained librarian or archivist with an MLIS, she lacked formalized training in archival processing and librarianship. This situation unfortunately occurs too often in the field, particularly with specialized collections.
The result?
I’ve been working on decades of technical processing issues that I’m now resolving. Incorrect barcodes. Incomplete records. Materials that need rehousing. Collections that need fundamental reorganization. I love community-centered collecting and reaching more people. But a lot of my daily work is less exciting. I spend time fixing past mistakes: updating catalog records, standardizing folder labels, creating finding aids, and making materials accessible to researchers.
This mundane technical work doesn’t generate headlines or conference presentations, but it’s essential infrastructure for everything else. You can’t build authentic community partnerships when your collections lack organization. You can’t serve researchers well when your catalog records are incomplete. And you can’t advocate for resources when you can’t prove basic professional competency in collection management.
Collection management roles should require MLIS training or similar archival credentials. Making these qualifications optional isn’t enough. Technical skills go beyond just following procedures. They’re about grasping how information architecture impacts access. We must ensure that communities can find and use the materials they trust us with.
Navigating Legacy and Change
One of the most delicate aspects of reimagining an established collection involves stakeholders with deep emotional investments managing their relationships regarding past practices. My predecessor dedicated nearly 40 years to building this collection, and her relationships with donors, faculty, and students fostered a strong sense of institutional loyalty. When I arrived with plans to shift collecting priorities and rename the collection, some community members felt that the changes represented a rejection of that legacy.
I frequently heard the phrase “When Kathy was here…” Descriptions followed about the different ways people managed things. Some well-meaning colleagues called me “the new Kathy.” This left some donors confused or worried about the changes to established practices. Some faculty emeriti, who shaped the collection’s original direction, saw community-centered collecting as a departure from its “true purpose.”
These conversations required careful navigation. I have profound respect for the foundation established by previous stewards; without their decades of work, no collection would exist to reimagine. But I also had to establish that while I honor that legacy, I am not my predecessor.
#Loyalty
The challenge grew as performing arts communities built strong loyalties. They often protect their beloved mentors. Graduate students and alumni may feel that changes to the curriculum or collection focus criticize their education. Some long-time donors worry that others may not value their contributions anymore. This concern arises when collecting priorities change.
I needed to state clearly that when faculty or librarians retire, they no longer make decisions for the institution. Emeritus status brings honor and respect, but not ongoing operational control. Current staff should address current needs and priorities, not cling to past methods.
This doesn’t mean dismissing valuable input or ignoring institutional history. Instead, it means that we distinguish between honoring legacy and allowing it to constrain us. The collection’s strength comes from its evolution, not its stasis.
Learning from Hidden Histories
My work intersects with broader efforts to document marginalized voices in theatre for youth. Hidden and Erased BIPOC Stories in Drama and Theatre for the Young: Exploring Untold Narratives exemplifies the kind of collaborative research needed to address historical gaps. The team wants to uncover and record overlooked historical facts and experiences. Many of these have been pushed aside to keep things the same. This effort mirrors the challenges faced by academic collections.
A cross-sectional approach offers essential lessons for academic libraries. Rather than waiting for traditional donation processes, this project actively seeks out stories through community connections and alternative documentation methods. It acknowledges that significant contributors may not identify with conventional academic labels—they might be storytellers, social workers, or community organizers whose work doesn’t fit neat categorical boundaries.
This perspective has shaped how I approach collection development. Instead of only seeking materials from established theatre organizations, I’m learning to recognize that vital historical documentation might exist in community centers, family collections, or oral traditions that formal archives have overlooked.
Image: MSS-273, Rosa Lee Scott Papers, Arizona State University. Alt image description: Black and white photo of a Black woman standing in profile, thoughtfully resting her hand on her chin—a quiet moment of reflection—wearing a light jacket over a dark top against a plain background.
The “And” That Changes Everything
The collection’s new name—Theatre for Youth and Community—reflects more than a semantic preference. The addition of “and Community” acknowledges that methods and practices previously labeled “for youth” now serve a broader range of audiences. But it also recognizes that youth are often overlooked even in discussions of “community.” This collection intentionally works toward strengthening their sense of belonging and advocacy.
This seemingly small change necessitated extensive conversations with library leadership, faculty stakeholders, and community partners. It demanded research into the field’s evolution and careful consideration of how language shapes collecting priorities. The renaming process taught me that institutional change requires building consensus while maintaining focus on equity and inclusion.
Balancing vision with infrastructure
Academic libraries face constant tension between managing existing resources and adapting to evolving needs. With our collection, this meant simultaneously:
Addressing technical debt: Correcting years of processing inconsistencies, updating incomplete records, and rehousing materials according to current standards.
Processing decades of unprocessed materials using proper archival methods while working within realistic timelines.
Developing new community partnerships to address historical gaps in representation.
Training graduate assistants in both technical skills and community-centered approaches.
Learning from ASU’s Community-Driven Archives Initiative on hosting workshops and oral history events.
The key insight? These aren’t competing priorities—they’re interdependent aspects of responsible stewardship. You can’t build real community relationships without showing basic skills in collection management. You can’t help researchers well if your passion for inclusive collecting lacks strong technical support.
The unsexy work of fixing barcodes and standardizing folder labels might not align with the transformational vision I brought to the role, but it’s what makes that vision possible. Community members need to trust that their materials will receive proper care and remain accessible to future researchers. That trust starts with demonstrating that you can manage what you already have.
Community-Centered Collecting in Practice
Shifting toward community-centered collection development means more than updating mission statements. It requires:
Transparency and shared stewardship. Community members need to understand how they will use and preserve their materials, and they should provide ongoing input into those decisions.
Long-term relationship building. There’s no rush or pressure for donations. Trust develops through consistent engagement and demonstrated commitment to community priorities.
Resource allocation. Meaningful community engagement requires dedicated time and personnel—not good intentions.
Regional networking. Partnering with other institutions helps collection development focus on broader access goals. This way, they can work together instead of competing.
Acknowledging alternative forms of documentation is important. Not all critical work fits traditional archival formats. Community storytelling, oral histories, and unique documentation can capture experiences that formal records often overlook.
Lessons for Academic Libraries
My experience suggests several implications for academic librarians navigating similar collection challenges:
Embrace collaborative learning. Early-career librarians should not hesitate to seek mentorship, and institutions should create environments where questions and mistakes are part of professional development.
Invest in professional development and proper training. Specialized collections require specialized skills. Enthusiasm and subject expertise aren’t substitutes for professional competency in information management.
Address technical debt with transparency. Inherited collection problems don’t disappear—they compound. Building new partnerships while ignoring existing organizational issues creates unsustainable workloads and undermines trust.
Plan for the long term. Real change in collections, especially for diversity and inclusion, needs ongoing dedication. This must go beyond individual roles or funding periods.
Document the process. How we transform collections is as important as what we transform them into. Other institutions can learn from both successes and challenges.
Collaborate with existing projects. Rather than starting from scratch, look for community-led initiatives already doing this work. Projects like Coleman’s “Hidden and Erased” prove how academic institutions can support grassroots documentation efforts without trying to control them.
The Ongoing Work
Over two years into this role, I’m struck by how much I’ve learned and how much work remains. Processing continues alongside community outreach. Relationships develop over time while immediate access needs remain. At the same time, technical corrections occur alongside visionary planning. The collection grows in new directions while I’m still organizing what came before.
This tension isn’t a problem to solve—it’s the nature of the work. Academic libraries support various groups over time. Therefore, to create real change, they must balance short-term maintenance with long-term goals. For example, updating catalog records may seem dull, but it ultimately helps make collections more accessible. Rehousing materials shows the careful care communities need to see before they trust us with their histories.
Unsolicited advice
For ACRL colleagues facing similar challenges, my advice is this: embrace the long game while establishing your professional authority. Institutional change occurs at a gradual pace, yet it does occur. Furthermore, document your process and build authentic relationships. Most importantly, remember, the key question isn’t if you can change everything at once. It’s about whether you’re heading in the right direction. Remember that the key question isn’t whether you can avoid disappointing people who preferred how things used to be—instead, it’s about whether you’re stewarding collections responsibly for current and future communities.
The Theatre for Youth and Community Collection will continue evolving long after my tenure ends. That’s exactly as it should be. Our role as librarians isn’t to perfect collections, but to steward them responsively and responsibly for the communities we serve—including communities we haven’t served well in the past.
What stories are missing from your collections? How can community partnerships change what you collect and how you collect it? We all share the power to document history. But we must create conditions that allow everyone to join in. As Coleman’s project reminds us, the opposite of absence is to occupy—and academic libraries have a responsibility to make space for those who have been systematically excluded from institutional memory.
Questions for Reflection
When you consider collection development and your ties to the institution, ask yourself these questions:
When you assess your collections for gaps, whose voices are missing? How might those absences reflect historical power structures rather than simply acquisition opportunities?
What community-led documentation projects exist in your region? How might your institution support rather than compete with grassroots preservation efforts?
About institutional change:
How do you balance honoring institutional legacy with responding to current community needs? When does the preservation of tradition become resistance to necessary evolution?
What technical debt are you carrying from previous collection management practices? How does that infrastructure work to support or hinder your ability to serve diverse communities?
About professional identity:
How have you built your professional authority after a long-serving predecessor while also honoring their legacy? What strategies help you navigate stakeholder expectations?
How do you share changes in collection priorities with donors and community members?
When implementing equity-focused changes, how do you distinguish between legitimate concerns about process or resources versus resistance rooted in preserving existing power structures? What role might your identity markers (race, gender, age, career stage) play in how stakeholders receive your initiatives?
About the long-term work:
What would success look like for your collection transformation efforts in five years? In twenty years? Moreover, how do you measure progress on work that spans many career cycles?
How are you keeping track of your processes and decisions? Future librarians will need this information to continue the work.
Sources:
Coleman, S., & Sage, M. (2025). The Opposite of Absence is to Occupy. ArtsPraxis, 11(2). ↩︎
ACRLog welcomes a guest post from Paul Doty, Librarian for Special Collections & University Archives, St. Lawrence University.
With the Coronavirus Spring of 2020 behind colleges and universities, the time to reflect on a semester compelled online has immediately rebooted to planning for an uncertain fall. Attention turns from helping students cope with the dashed expectations of a sudden physical disconnect from campus to a tangle of financial and health and safety concerns. Assessing the situation has prompted some in higher education, notably the California State University System, to announce (or argue) for a continuation of remote learning. Some campuses, notably Wells College in New York State, have suggested their continuance depends on having students back on campus. As the practical matters of dorm life and classrooms play out amidst the ongoing pandemic, there is also going to be a need to articulate why a community should be on campus. Within this, special collections and archives can be restorative as academic life returns to its quality of sanctuary by providing tangible hands-on materials that demonstrate re-acclimatizing to the life of the mind anew.
A very useful summary of questions that librarians will need to address is “Now and Next: What a Post-COVID World May Bring for Libraries” on the IFLA Library Policy and Advocacy Blog. Two questions that are specially apropos for special collections are, ”Many of our activities have ‘pivoted’ to online – will they stay there?” and “Education has been disrupted and delayed – can we limit the scarring effects?”
Addressing the first point, the post asserts, “Nonetheless, the possibilities of digital – for learning, researching and accessing all forms of culture – will be clearer for all, and convenience may well replace necessity as a reason for using online tools” (Library Policy). This is doubtless true, and certainly how libraries have provided online services in a climate of necessity is an opportunity to assess future services, but life online does not life make. Much of the discourse in the media suggests a high level of student dissatisfaction with the unexpected online curriculum; one PBS study pegged this near fifty percent (Krupnick).
A university archives can reconnect students with the tangible manifestations of the institution wrought over its history. Of our relationship to information technology Neal Postman wrote, “Unlike television or the computer, language appears to be not an extension of our powers but simply a natural expression of who and what we are” ( 124). The relationship of language to the identity of the institution can be made clear in archival collections. Particularly, if students can see the papers of university professors or presidents, or correspondence related to the important work of the university—if they can hold those materials in their hands—then students have an ability to see the genesis of where they are in a very real way. This is a way to reorient from being online only—a lot of blood, sweat, and tears have gone into making online courses, but universities have to reckon with reestablishing community identity. Certainly, institutional identity will be revived within many social circles, but here is also an avenue for people to connect with the college through its archives. In so doing, it is also an opportunity to encourage faculty and administrators to reconsider the archives as a critical teaching tool for a university curriculum working to make academics bespeak the post-COVID-19 future students will need to consider.
The concern about educational delays and disruptions is addressed in another post on the Library Policy and Advocacy Blog titled “Storytelling in Difficult Times: Accessing the Past During a Pandemic.” The post tackles a number of questions related to technology and archived materials, and suggests that “In our modern, hyper-visual era, we are inundated with media…[though] stories don’t seem entirely real until we see visual evidence of them” (Library Policy, Storytelling). As academic communities regather there is a clear-cut need to again argue the case for the intimacy of our relationship with primary source material. Bombarded as they have been by news from medical and elected officials filtered through endless online spin, a post-COVID-19 student body will be hungry for the challenges in seemingly simple materials they can see for themselves and hold in their hands. How to identify handmade paper and to what aim watermarks work are investigations well recast as exercises interacting with the real. Having materials in hand to examine reasserts agency over events—obviously examining a book by Kelmscott Press is not going to mitigate the lasting effects of the events of March and April 2020, but it demonstrates creativity within the detail, that you can regain a sense of proportion and inspiration. Clues to whether paper is handmade or what watermarks on a flyleaf signify demonstrate that there is a story in the details which anyone, if they are willing to try, can decipher. These are discrete projects and discrete questions to reinstill a sense of agency in young people who have likely felt at the mercy of events.
Finally, as academic communities regather, archives are uniquely positioned to make the case for the essence of what a library is within the academic setting. Of course, how they will gather when they return according to yet to be articulated social distancing guidelines is still an open question, a prickly question when you would like to see classes forming as communities of readers to consider books. Alberto Manguel explained it this way when thinking back on the most legendary of all libraries, “as a public space the Library of Alexandria was a paradox, a building set aside for an essentially private craft (reading) now to take place communally” (31). Being a visible (visual if you will) argument for the primacy of reading within everything else a library does is a great role for an archives, a special collections department. This primacy will be asserted through the necessity of training critical skeptical readers, and this training can be greatly aided by studying original texts. Attempts by interested parties at major media platforms to try to create controversy over COVID-19 mortality data brought to the fore the need to know how to read data. One can find great explanations—a beautiful example here by John Burn-Murdoch, Valentina Romei and Chris Giles writing for the Financial Times—that underscore the need for experience with primary source material if one wishes to read to debunk (Murdoch). Special collections can emphasize the process through which students reinvent themselves in reading’s mental demands. According to a quotation widely attributed to American President Harry S. Truman, “Not all readers are leaders, but all leaders are readers.” The physicality of reading demonstrated via studying old books and manuscripts can get the consideration of reading where it needs to be; it can inspire our post-COVID-19 student leaders.
