The fall semester is winning right now, and I feel sort of like I’m always 2-3 days behind where I should be. That said, I haven’t had much time for writing, but did manage to get a post up on ACRLog recently. It’s a bit too personal, perhaps overly vulnerable, and I recognize that not everyone will identify with the feelings I express in it, but it’s honest.
I’m submitting my file for tenure and promotion to associate librarian this January, so the level of stress, anxiety, and general ARGH is up to Code Red this semester. I’m trying to stay calm, prep for classes, and work on some writing and general library projects, but one task has all of my attention at the moment: My sabbatical proposal. Applications for sabbatical leave for the 2017-2018 academic year are due to department chairs on September 15, so I have approximately 9 more days to read-revise-reread-rerevise my proposal. I’ve been through a number of edits already, and think it might just be in the right condition to submit, but my nerves and fear are stopping me.
Despite the faculty status librarians at my college have enjoyed for the past decade, and our recent Board-of-Trustees-approved move to fold us into the review process by the College Evaluation Committee, this is the first time someone in my library has applied for sabbatical leave. It’s scary being the first to do something, particularly for someone like me who was always the cautious kid on the playground. Adding to the stress is the fact that my husband is also applying for year-long sabbatical leave (we’re at the same college), in hopes that we’ll be able to spend the time reading, writing, and researching in Texas.
Over the summer I received some wonderfully thoughtful advice about sabbatical proposals, leave, and projects from Maria Accardi; read Donna Witek’s amazing sabbatical proposal; and stared in awe at Barbara Fister’s sabbatical proposal and project. I’m a mess of jumbled feelings and thoughts right now:
- I realize that the project I propose might not be the project I end up accomplishing at the end of this leave.
- I fear not being granted this time to read, write, learn and hopefully offer my own thoughts and scholarly contribution.
- I hope that the stress of spending a year away from home with my 5 year-old son in tow will be worth the time spent away from work.
- I worry that a year of leave time will just make me resent my 12 month, 40 hour-a-week (on paper anyway) administrative-style faculty position, which leaves me with very little time to work on my own scholarship.
- I’m excited for the possibility of a break from what has felt like a rocky and overwhelming two years of work.
I’ll end by doing something that scares me: Sharing my work-in-progress (but more or less complete) sabbatical proposal. It’s far from perfect and draws a lot on the work I’ll be doing this year, but writing it has me feeling hopeful for the possibility of a year of leave. I’m doing this in large part because it was extremely difficult to find existing examples of librarian sabbatical applications, and I’m hoping that I can encourage more people to share. As Tracy Clayton, one of my favorite podcasters says, “You can’t be what you can’t see.” I want more librarians to see other librarians apply for and be granted sabbatical leave.
I’ll write with an update in the spring about whether or not my sabbatical application was approved. You’ll either get a joyous announcement or a supremely disappointed post, but you’ll hear from me regardless.
I just finished rereading David James Hudson’s recent article — On Dark Continents and Digital Divides — and I think I finally *get it* (insomuch as anyone can really *get* a text once it’s released into the academic wild). I do my best sense-making while writing, so consider this post my attempt at understanding what I think is a really important piece of critical discourse analysis in LIS. There’s so much to unpack, and I know I’ll miss something–or misinterpret something–so I just ask that anyone reading this call me out when I’m wrong (trust me, I need it).
Hudson argues (convincingly, I think) that the narrative of “global information inequality,” otherwise known as the digital divide or information privilege/poverty dichotomy, “operates as racialized discourse in the field” and perpetuates colonial belief systems within LIS (p. 64). Essentially, when we talk about information inequality, we’re talking about race without the guilt? pressure? burden? of having to say the words. Despite our best intentions, we (the royal, librarian “we”) have adopted information inequality as our social cause without acknowledging the racist, colonialist historical and political context that set the stage for and continues to shape this disparity. There’s also an inherent privileging of Western ways of knowing and creating, accessing, and sharing information that needs a deeper critique.
So yeah, I’m a fan of this article.
I will admit to jumping on the end-the-digital-divide bandwagon without much critical thought early in my career, in large part because I am a librarian and this seemed to be an easy, non-controversial cause that librarians could easily get behind. Who doesn’t want people to do or be better? Why shouldn’t everyone have access to the current knowledge and technology economy? What Hudson really hammers home (to me) is this idea that the framing of information inequality (and its connection to poverty and “lack of progress”) places the deficiency squarely on the shoulders of individuals in the developing/majority world, rather than on developed/minority governments and cultures which are active participants in the shaping of economic and educational disparities. The current Western information-communication-technology model is presented as what all individuals and governments should aspire to attain, but we, as a profession and a discipline (LIS) do not take the time to really unpack and analyze why exactly this is “fact.” In doing so we “reproduce…racialized difference…implicitly” (pg. 74).
Earlier this week I led a small group discussion for a subset of our college’s orientation leaders on the novel Americanah. We quickly began talking about the American tendency to not want to talk about race, as though by not acknowledging a person’s racial identity, which doubtless has shaped every aspect of their interaction with the world, we are somehow rising above racism. Yet in doing so we just find other, coded ways of giving voice (and action) to our own biases. The racism isn’t eliminated, it’s just given a new suit. This narrative of information inequality that Hudson so compellingly dissects is steeped in racial politics and racist history we do not acknowledge. (I’d also venture to guess there’s some sexism / patriarchal bullshit in there too). It deserves critical attention from all of us and I so appreciate the space this article opens up for these conversations.
I wrote an email to a friend/former colleague this morning, and along with the obligatory “I’m so sorry it’s taken me so long to respond” statement, I included, what I thought at the time was a funny, albeit melodramatic line:
Summer is slipping through my desperate grasp!
After I wrote it I sat and stared at it for far too long. I realized it was not so much funny as just sort of true.
At the end of the spring semester my interim library director and I agreed that I would work from home on Fridays. It would be a chance for me to work on writing projects, do some much needed reading and research, think about teaching and pedagogy in a deeper way, and begin work on my tenure file. It worked exceedingly well in June. Coffee in hand every day, I managed to submit a chapter proposal, write some blog posts, devour Feminist Pedagogy for Library Instruction (which is amazing, btw), and finally take the time to actually read all the critlib writings I’ve been wanting to read.
Then July happened.
I took a vacation. I fell behind on my writing. New projects started to pile up, and suddenly the things I wanted to do–the things that helped me recharge–were no longer the most pressing. I started letting others add Friday meetings to my schedule. In short, I stopped protecting my time.
Now it’s August 2 and I am living in a mild state of paralyzing panic. I know what needs to get done and I know I will get it done, but I also know that what I love–the research, the writing, the reading and connecting with others–is taking a backseat at the moment.
How do I bring it to the forefront again? How do you do it?
My new library director is certainly an ally in my efforts to make time for meaningful work, but I struggle to find that time for myself. I know I will not wake up at 4am to exercise or write. I know I will not work on research or interesting library projects after I do dishes and put my son to sleep and take a shower in the evening. How then, can I find space for personally meaningful work in my existing day? How can I recharge and bring the same excitement I had at the beginning of the summer to the start of the fall semester?
Answers are welcome, as always!
I’m so excited to announce that I’ve joined the ACRLog blogging team! My first post was just published this morning, so please check it out and let me know what you think! I will absolutely continue to write here on my personal blog and already have a few new posts in the works. More to come…
Fair warning: This post is way personal, but it comes back to librarianship eventually.
When you grow up along the U.S.-Mexico border, Mexican surnames, like mine, are the norm. The teachers, classmates, doctors, customer service workers, or really anyone I interacted with there never had a problem pronouncing my name: Veronica Inez Arellano. I took that name with me on a slight move within Texas (Houston) and later, on a big move to the Mid-Atlantic (Southern Maryland). The further I got from the border, the harder it was to say. Every sound in the name is a sound you find in the English language, and yet the variations on pronunciation were vast.
- Aye-rel-ah-no (forgivable)
- A-rrrrrrrrr-el-a-no (because I had to have a rolling ‘r’ in there somewhere)
- Ariel-anoh (thanks, but, no)
- Aye-ray…”I’m just horrible with names!”
- *a look* followed by, “I’m not even going to try”
That last variation was always the worst. As women are often socialized to do, I’d respond with a shy, polite smile, say “that’s ok,” and hope I hadn’t inconvenienced anyone. When their unwillingness to pronounce my name was followed by a “Where are you from?” I’d respond in the usual way–Texas. Houston. South Texas?–eventually share what the asker really wanted to know, and watch their faces fall as they learned my “beautiful/exotic/unusual” last name was Mexican, not Portuguese or Italian or some other ethnicity that didn’t evoke images of border crossings.
I kept my name well into 5 years of marriage, never bothering to change it, never feeling pressured by my husband, family, or friends to change it. Then I got pregnant. Then I lost my full-term baby during his delivery. Then I got pregnant again. I felt a strong need to connect with husband, with my lost son, and with my son-to-be, all of whom shared the last name “Douglas.” So, in the emotional hellhole that is grief and the hormonal turmoil that is pregnancy, I changed my name.
Inez was erased. Arellano was minimized to a middle name. Douglas was the new family name.
I’ve kept my name this way for 5 years, never thinking too much about the change. It’s sort of a minor thing to focus on when you’re living on minimal sleep, nursing, potty training a toddler, trying to carve out time with your partner, and attempting to jump through tenure hoops at work. But over the past year it’s become a sore spot. It feels like a self-inflicted dis. I know it’s a stretch, but it makes me feel a bit like those people who didn’t even pretend to pronounce my original last name. I think of them every time I’m forced to type “Veronica A. Douglas” on a conference registration because “Arellano” doesn’t fit on the name tag. I think of them every time I say “Veronica Douglas” when I call my son’s preschool, or when I’m speaking to a customer service rep who I know won’t be able to understand Arellano. I think of them whenever I anglicize the pronunciation of “Veronica” so that people aren’t thrown off when the “Douglas” follows.
I’m changing my name again this summer, to Veronica Inez Arellano-Douglas. Doing so is a guarantee that I will never again have a reference desk name plate that anyone can read from a distance of greater than a few inches, that my conference name tags will be a jumble of initials, and that any speaker intros I receive will leave the facilitator tongue-tied. But it feels right. I never thought that a name, my name, would make such a difference in my identity, in my sense of myself, of my sense of self in relation to others.
It does. It makes a big difference.
I think about names a lot now, especially when I teach and meet with students, faculty, and staff in the library. I’ll usually ask a person’s preferred name. If their name is not one I can readily pronounce, I’ll ask the person if they feel comfortable stating it for me so that I can repeat it back. I acknowledge their name, because it’s an extension of who they are, of their general personhood. I don’t assume that someone will be ok with me “not even trying to say that” because it’s not ok to deny that basic part of a person. Libraries and classrooms should be a place of belonging and rightness for people. That starts with a simple effort to say a person’s name correctly, or as best as you can. It’s a simple act, but it matters to people. It’s an expression of respect, an acknowledgement of their inherent human dignity, and a demonstration that you are ready to engage in communication with empathy and decency. It’s something we should all do at our libraries, on our campuses, and in life.
In a not-so-rare event of not-quite-epic but highly relevant proportions, two of my Twitter communities crossed streams today. I try not to hide my love for popular romance novels and the amazingly smart, talented women who write them. Many of them are brilliant academics, so I shouldn’t be surprised when they write about or link to others writing about higher ed and academic culture. Yet it’s always a nice surprise when it happens, as it did today.
Sandra Schwab, a wonderful romance author and literature professor, shared a post by Katrine Smiet, PhD candidate in philosophy and gender studies at Radboud University and blogger at Feminist Nuances. Take a few minutes today and read her post, How to Become a Prolific Academic Writer, Or: How to Become a Model Neoliberal Academic Subject. It’s an insightful critique of productivity/efficiency advice models for academic writing and the structural inadequacies of the neoliberal university in supporting writing/scholarly activity. What resonated most with me was her dissection of the classification of academic work as “vocation” rather than a “job,” and its implications for the academic worker.
The conflation of work with personal fulfillment, of labor with purpose, of meaning with productivity, is (I think) a dangerous one. I want my work to be meaningful because I think there are genuine opportunities for academic libraries to make a significant impact on the educational experiences of students. I also try to do my best work at all times because secretly I’m still the kid that wants all the gold stars. That said, I don’t derive my meaning from my work. I once had a colleague tell me that even if she wasn’t working as a librarian, she would still be a librarian. At the time I found that statement admirable. Being a librarian was who she was; what she was, was a librarian. I’ve since heard variations on the same theme from academics of all stripes: I am always mathematician. I am a neuroscientist. I am first and foremost a scholar.
Now, those declarations make me tired.
I can understand them within a professional context. We all try to make sense of the world around us through categorization. At work that often means we define ourselves by our job titles–archivist, instruction librarian, dean–but in life we are whole people. Being a librarian is not who I am; it’s my job. And just because I enjoy the work that I do as a librarian does not mean that it does not feel like work. I worry sometimes, as I dig into critical librarianship and pedagogy, that there is this expectation that the work that I do must be a part of some higher calling/purpose, that it should be done at all times, or that I should be “on” at all times. I don’t want to do that. Sometimes I just want to sit on my couch and watch Thorgy Thor lipsync for her life. Sometimes I want to have a dance party with my son. Sometimes I just want to obsessively online shop for a new pair of clogs.
The point is that I don’t think deriving personal worth from my job, or viewing librarianship as a vocation rather than a job is helpful to me. I think it sets me, and likely many others, up for exploitation (Yes! I will be on yet another committee), disappointment (because work doesn’t always go well), and an unhealthy attachment to this thing that I do, not this thing that I am. I also wonder if it’s not just a neoliberal Trojan horse sent in to make me feel guilty about all the late evenings I’m not spending working on scholarship.
I’m about to start reading Maria Accardi’s Feminist Pedagogy for Library Instruction, which a colleague informs me centers around an ethic of care. I’m excited to learn more about it and how I can extend the notion of students as whole people (important!!!) to librarians as whole people, and to myself as a whole person.
St. Mary’s College of Maryland’s commencement ceremony was on Saturday, and although I was home sick instead of at the college, I did spend some time this weekend reflecting on the spring semester. Of course my thoughts immediately focused on the recent acts of bigotry on our campus, including Confederate flags at basketball games, the pick-an-“ism” Natty Boh hunt, and the almost brushed aside Trump-campaign-slogan graffiti on academic buildings–“Build a wall,” being the most prominent statement. I’ve been thinking a lot about our college’s responses to these incidents, as well as the conversations we do and don’t have about race, racism, ethnicity, and bigotry on this campus.
After the racist/sexist/homophobic Boh incidents (which you can conveniently read about on the Washington Post), there was a flurry of campus conversation. People were talking at faculty meetings, student groups were hosting discussions, and all students, faculty, and staff attended a college-wide open forum. At each of these points of interaction one thing was clear:
There was never just one conversation going on.
This is best illustrated by example.
The scene: Post-Boh faculty meeting. A rough summary of the conversation follows:
White faculty members: “Confederate flags are racist. Racist jokes are racist. Racism is bad.”
All white heads nod heads approvingly.
Senior black faculty member: “I don’t actually want to talk about confederate flags or symbols. I want to talk about the deeper implicit biases I’ve encountered my entire career that are still happening now. The symbols are a distraction from the deeper issues of racism, bigotry, and bias on this campus that we don’t discuss.”
Junior white faculty member: “I think we should all just respect one another. It’s really just about civility.”
This, of course, only repeated itself on a grander scale at the all-campus forum, which really just turned into an Airing of Grievances by people who didn’t want to talk about racism. That conversation was even more troubling. To summarize:
All students of color: We aren’t surprised that these incidents happened on this campus. We feel smaller versions of this everyday. The St. Mary’s you experience isn’t the St. Mary’s I experience. We aren’t responsible for educating you about racism. We are on a college campus. Read a book.
Most (but not all) white students: We should just love one another and say hi to everyone. I think that there needs to be more school pride and camaraderie. We should respect our college.
White faculty member interjects: Can all the white male students just sit down and can we focus on issues of race/ism?
As you can guess, that last comment became THE TAKEAWAY from that campus-wide forum. Not the pain expressed by students of color, not the need to acknowledge our own biases, not a questioning of the structures of our institution that create an environment in which racist actions continue to occur. Suddenly voice was taken away from a group that always has a voice, and that group didn’t like it very much. It happens time and time again–most recently as documented in April Hathcock’s excellent post about the ALA ScholComm listserv “blowup“–and suddenly it becomes THE CONVERSATION.
It’s switchtracking in action.
I first learned about switchtracking from NPR’s Hidden Brain podcast. It’s a super-common occurrence in which person/group A gives person/group B feedback, and person/group B’s reaction to the feedback is to change the subject. It happened at our faculty meeting–a gathering of lots of liberal-minded, well-meaning, mostly white folks. Conversations about race get transformed into conversations about civility. A faculty member is stating the harm she has experienced because of bias and bigotry and the response is not to address and acknowledge the harm, but to shift the topic completely towards a discussion of respect in the classroom.
I get that it’s uncomfortable. Conversations about race and racism usually aren’t soothing and heart-warming. No one likes to get called out on their behavior and beliefs. But if a group of faculty, who facilitate classroom discussion on a day-to-day basis, can’t have a meaningful conversation without switchtracking, what hope is there that we’ll be able to engage students in productive, critical dialogue? There is power in discomfort, in sitting with awkwardness and questioning why a statement just made you uncomfortable. What use is all the lip service we pay to diversity and inclusion if we can’t pose difficult questions and expect to have even one conversation specifically about those questions?
My hope is that discussions about the deeper issues surrounding diversity and inclusion at St. Mary’s continue throughout the summer and lead into the fall semester, but I’ll admit to a healthy dose of skepticism. Out of sight out of mind is the mantra for most people, but perhaps things have gotten just uncomfortable enough that they can no longer be ignored.
I have a small steno notepad that use I take notes on at work. The usual to-do lists are always present, but so are notes from research consultations with students. I always want to make sure I understand their needs and research areas, so I scribble away as I listen. Recently I went back and looked at my notes from these conversations, and am so happy that there is no cell-phone tapping equivalent for said notebook. If not, I’d be, like so many librarians, on some kind of federal watch list.
- race representation and legit*
- what makes a government legitimate? trustworthy?
- restorative justice
- acknowledge harm!!! who gets to speak?!?!?!
- terrorism and torture
- anti-choice legislation and TRAP laws
- who has a voice?
- police shootings (murder or brutality or excessive force) in the U.S.
- gun control and gun access
- sex work* and legal*
What’s the most intriguing research request you’ve received today?
On Sunday, March 27, 2016, non-college-sponsored tradition became a vehicle to demean and belittle students of color, women, and LGBTQ students. Every year around Easter our students hold what’s affectionally known as the “Natty Boh Hunt.” Students paint cans of National Bohemian beer in Easter egg motifs and hide them around campus for others to find (I know, Natty Boh is AWFUL, but, well, college). This year’s fun was ruined by several cans found painted with the confederate flag and extremely racist, sexist, and homophobic “jokes.” This comes on the heels of an incident earlier in the semester where a student wore a confederate flag to a home basketball game. The student claimed it was in answer to an assignment on violating social norms.
There of course have been other incidents, much like those at colleges and universities across the country–swastikas on vehicle dust, highly offensive anonymous comments on yik yak, “are you a student here?” questions, microaggressions both in and out of the classroom, etc. It’s constant, oppressive, and completely antithetical to our public, liberal arts college’s code of conduct. This latest hateful incident has proven to be one too many for our students, faculty, and staff, who, in wave of conversations, emails, and classroom discussions have decided to stop, critically examine our role at this college, and figure out how we can make our community safer, more inclusive, and better able to support those who have been targeted by recent events.
So what is the library’s place in all of these events? What is our role?
You’ve no doubt seen the recent emails from ARL’s Director of Diversity and Leadership Programs, Mark Puente, sharing short articles on what ARL member libraries are doing to advance diversity, inclusion, and equality at their home institutions. Libraries are doing everything from archiving and sharing activist tweets to creating videos, to hosting workshops on social justice (if you explore nothing else, please visit the Washington University at St. Louis’ Documenting Ferguson project). Recently, the ZSR Library at Wakeforest University issued a statement of their commitment to diversity and inclusion in response to the North Carolina House Bill 2.
Our own library’s response was directly inspired by the Amherst Library’s Amherst Uprising Information and Source Guide, which was a wonderful resource not only about the event at hand, but about the larger issues underlying the Amherst protests. I’ve tried to do the same with our Support & Solidarity website, because this latest event at St. Mary’s is just a symptom of larger issues of implicit bias, prejudice, and unacknowledged privilege in our college community. As one of our student leaders so eloquently put it: Events like the Natty Boh hunt make us focus on the smoke instead of the fire. I don’t want our library’s response and reaction to begin and end with this one event. I’d like create a library that is inclusive; I’d like to have difficult and awkward conversations with my colleagues about our unacknowledged biases and prejudices and how they impact the community we serve.
Not surprisingly, when I shared our library’s response on Twitter, I got one troll of a response, stating that “I guess all libraries have gone PC.”
- I don’t feed trolls.
- If “going PC” means responding to my community’s needs then I fully embrace that. It’s what libraries at their best can and should do.
To ignore what’s going on on our college campuses isn’t an option. As a librarian, a Latina (specifically a light-skinned Latina who often benefits from white privilege because of other people’s assumptions based on my appearance) I feel obligated to renounce any semblance of neutrality. I think that asking librarians and libraries to embrace the path of detached neutrality means that we’re being asked to negate important facets of our own identities (shout out to Fobazi Ettarh’s excellent article on intersectionality) as well as those of our communities. Our students of color are our students and they deserve our attention, respect, and focus.
I’m not sure how to end this post, as I’m still processing recent events, statements made at yesterday’s faculty meeting, and disappointing comments shared at an all-campus meeting earlier today. I think I’d like to learn more about other libraries’ responses to similar issues, particularly those from non-ARL libraries, since we often don’t hear about efforts at smaller schools.
Share what you can.