Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.
Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.
This month’s copy of The Atlantic includes an interesting (and attention-grabbingly titled) article by Erika Christakis on “How the New Preschool Is Crushing Kids.” While I can’t vouch for the conclusions regarding early childhood education (though there are lots of outlets that have weighed in—Slate, a bazillion early childhood education blogs), I was struck by how many of the observations and conclusions rang true for me when thinking about library instruction, teaching, and higher education.
The crux of the article is this: Preschools have become more and more about “school readiness” and teaching kids academic skills before they get to primary school, and the curriculum has shifted away from exploration and play toward “accountability.” This all seems to be backfiring, as a recent study from Tennessee showed that students who attended preschool were performing worse than their non-preschool attending colleagues by the second grade, and had a worse attitude about school by the first grade. You can read the full study from Vanderbilt here.
Here’s the part of the article that really struck me:
…We forget how vital spontaneous, unstructured conversation is to young children’s understanding. By talking with adults, and one another, they pick up information. They learn how things work. They solve puzzles that trouble them. Sometimes, to be fair, what children take away from a conversation is wrong. They might conclude, as my young son did, that pigs produce ham, just as chickens produce eggs and cows produce milk. But these understandings are worked over, refined, and adapted….
Teachers play a crucial role in supporting this type of learning…Consider the difference between a teacher’s use of a closed statement versus an open-ended question. Imagine that a teacher approaches a child drawing a picture and exclaims, “Oh, what a pretty house!” If the child is not actually drawing a house, she might feel exposed, and even if she is drawing a house, the teacher’s remark shuts down further discussion: She has labeled the thing and said she likes it. What more is there to add? A much more helpful approach would be to say, “Tell me about your drawing,” inviting the child to be reflective. It’s never possible to anticipate everything a small person needs to learn, so open-ended inquiry can reveal what is known and unknown.
In fact, it’s never possible to anticipate what anyone, regardless of age, needs to learn, so this focus on inquiry-based learning and encouraging conversation and reflection on a topic is critical no matter what age we are working with.
For example, when I’m working with a student and they find a peer-reviewed article, I have basically two options in the way I talk with them. I could say, “Excellent work. You found a peer-reviewed article,” and basically end the conversation there. Or I could say, “Tell me about the article you found and how you know whether it’s relevant for the assignment,” which will get them to reflect on their process, consider whether the article is (in fact) appropriate for what they are doing, and potentially highlight any problem areas (e.g., “Because I found it in EBSCO” does not demonstrate deep understanding of evaluation).
So while academic librarians work with a different population and a different skill set, we can take many of these lessons from preschool and apply them to our own work: conversation-based sessions, a focus on inquiry, working with other students to solve problems. As we’ve discussed on this blog before, there’s a huge body of empirical data pointing to the efficacy of these methods, and this article was a great reminder of how this is key across the field of education.
I’ve always loved to bake. When I was in high school, I would make a dozen kinds of Christmas cookies every year, pack them up in colorful Tupperware and ribbons, and give them to friends, family, and teachers. In college, I’d bake drop cookies or cupcakes for the weekly newspaper copy editors meetings. I was always the friend who baked something for a party. At my first job in NYC, I’d bake sweets at home, tote them to Manhattan on the Q train, and set them out in the staff break room. I loved it so much, I started a blog. Baking was the way that I showed people that I appreciated them.
When I got to library school, I continued on my baking streak. Oatmeal raisin cookies to trivia night, chocolate chip cookie bars to my job, cupcakes for student ALA meetings. But then, one evening, I was attending a networking mixer (so: already terrible), and a classmate went around the group of library school students, introducing us to…someone I don’t even remember, but it seemed important at the time. But I *do* remember how the introductions went:
“This is X, she works in Special Collections and is going to be an archivist.”
“This is Y, he’s going to be an awesome instruction librarian.”
“This is Z, he’s a great storyteller and is going to be a children’s librarian.”
“This is Dani. She bakes cookies.”
…And that was the last time I baked cookies for anybody in a remotely work-related context.
Here’s the thing: I don’t think the person meant anything by it, and nobody seemed to notice the incongruity in the introductions. But I did, and what it told me that I was being read as less serious than the other people I stood in that circle with. It felt lousy, and distinctly gendered.
In the 2.5 years that I’ve been at my job now, I have never baked anything to take into work. When I want to show my appreciation for my co-workers through food, I stop and pick up donuts, cookies from Trader Joe’s, chocolates. But nothing that comes from my kitchen. And I don’t bring in food very often—more likely now, I’ll just tell someone that they’ve been awesome. I’ve been afraid that people will stop seeing me for my work, and start seeing me as…library mom?
One day, I picked up Nice Girls Don’t Get the Corner Office, and, flipping through, something caught my eye. “Don’t feed people,” Frankel said. And especially, don’t bake cookies yourself. It will “sabotage” you in the workplace, and people will see you as Betty Crocker.
Here’s Ask a Manager on the issue. tl;dr: she presents other “masculine” traits in the office, so baking isn’t going to undermine that. UM WHAT. So if I’m “blunt, assertive, kind of a hard-ass, and not a sugar-coater,” then I can make all the brownies I want; if not, not? And if I’m not a manager, can I bake without potentially sacrificing my climb up the library ladder?
All of which is to say: I’ve bought into this for a long time now. But I’ve been thinking a lot about librarianship and management and gender recently, and I think I’m about ready to call BS.
Baking is just one example, but what other parts of ourselves do we have to deny in order to be taken seriously in the workplace? Is it worth it? What does it mean to elide parts of yourself so that you aren’t just described as “the girl who bakes”? At what point does my work speak for itself and I don’t have to worry about this anymore?
It seems like it probably never ends, and giving into this way of thinking is letting traditional gender perceptions control us, even while we are explicitly trying to buck them.
So: can you be a kickass instruction librarian and respected by your colleagues and bring in the occasional pecan bar? Or whatever other traditionally gendered personality trait (some other fun ones from Frankel: needing to be liked, not needing to be liked, holding your tongue, decorating your office, HELPING) makes you feel like you, a human being? It’s not about the cookies, yo. And I’m over it, and it seems like the way to change this is not by giving into it.
Have you experienced this? How do you deal with it? I hope you’ll share in the comments!
EDIT: Many thanks to Keri Cascio, who let me know about the #libleadgender conversation going on–started by an excellent article by Jessica Olin and Michelle Millet at In the Library with the Lead Pipe. Looking forward to joining in future conversations!
Well, it’s been a while since I wrote on this blog, and rather than just come back and start posting without addressing that fact, I want to spend my first post back talking it.
Earlier this year, Maria Accardi launched a new blog called Librarian Burnout. The blog provides a space for librarians (beginning with academic librarians, but now encompassing more than that) to build a community and support around this shared experience, and to feel less alone in their individual institutional context. I recently encountered the Librarian Burnout blog, and it really got me thinking about this post, this blog, this job, this year–I’d highly recommend it to anyone who reads Rule Number One.
So, was burnout my problem? Yes and no, but it certainly gave me a framework to think within.
Let me start by saying that creating Rule Number One has been one of the things I’m proudest of so far in my librarianship career. Kevin and I set out to just make a space where we could talk about library instruction and being new librarians in an honest and personal way, and I think we’ve done that. We’ve been blown away by the response, and that feeling of community that’s grown up around Rule Number One–other librarians interested in talking about the same issues in a similarly open way–has been so rewarding to find. Even if it was totally by accident, this blog has opened some doors for the two of us, and I wouldn’t trade the experience for anything–there’s been so much good, but then there’s also been some less good.
Two things happened a little over a year ago: First, some librarians who I very much respect but hadn’t talked to in a while let me know that they didn’t think what Kevin and I were doing on this blog was a good idea–that it was unprofessional in some way and that we should be careful not to burn bridges (and implied that I had already done so). This scared the crap out of me, frankly, especially since I didn’t (and still don’t) understand how what I’ve written here could be construed in that way. And since I couldn’t figure it out, it made me nervous to write anything, because what if that next post is the career-ender, and I just couldn’t see it? So I would start writing, and then panic, and then nothing would happen. Other, equally respected colleagues and friends told me that it was nothing to worry about, but it was just so hard to believe them–why would someone give that kind of warning unless they knew something I didn’t? It took a long time, but I’ve made my peace with this, which is why I’m telling this story now: That comment may have come from a place of good intentions, but it scared me and it seemed like there was no way to fix whatever it was I’d done. I let that comment shut me up, and I’m sorry I did that–it was antithetical to what we had set out to do here, which was to be real about librarianship and share what we’d learned or are learning and hope maybe it resonated with someone, somewhere.
Here’s what I think now: As a community, I agree that we have a responsibility to say something when we think someone is doing something damaging to themselves or the profession, but I think we have a further responsibility, especially to new practitioners, to tell them how they might change what they are doing and not resort to scare-inducing rhetoric like, “Librarianship is a small world.” I’ve found that librarianship both is and isn’t small, but if it is indeed that much of a village, then isn’t that a reason for us to help build each other up? We’re all we’ve got, and silencing doesn’t help us move forward. So I’m done with that.
Second, also about a year ago, my department got reorganized and I stepped into a position with more responsibility. I was (and am) super jazzed about this development: I have significant agency in helping to determine the direction of instruction in my library (and recently, research services as well), I’m able to work on a variety of cross-departmental teams with sharp co-workers, and my role has shifted to be more externally facing. I love the gig, but like many other librarians’ experience, these new duties are on top of things I was already doing. The learning curve has been steep, and figuring out how to negotiate how to get everything done (and done well) has been a challenge. I come home tired every day and ready to think about anything BUT librarian-ing. A lot of good personal things happened in the past year, and I still did professional things I’m proud of with various colleagues (shout-outs to Char Booth, Natalie Tagge, Alex Chappell, Kate Crocker, and of course Kevin Michael Klipfel), but I do feel creatively drained. Blogging felt like the proverbial camel’s straw both in terms of brain power and some kind of disastrous professional consequence. But I’ve realized that this blog is important to me, because of that community I’ve found through it.
This past weekend, I went to Minnesota to attend my first LITA Forum. It’s a different crowd than I normally see, but I found so many commonalities in experience with the people I talked to. I must have talked to 9 metadata librarians: none of them do the same thing. Everybody feels overwhelmed in some way. Everybody hits that budgetary or bureaucratic wall. And that was a helpful reminder and perspective that, as librarians, there is a commonality of experience, and sharing that makes it a more welcoming profession for all. We’re spread out in libraries around the country and the world, and sometimes it feels like nobody else could possibly be going through the same things…but they are. So thank you, LITA Forum, for helping me to remember that, and to remind me that informal spaces like blogs (like Accardi’s), chats in the hallway at conferences, and Twitter are so critical for community building.
All of which is to say, that I’m ready to write on this blog again–to finish some of those neglected, half-started posts and to engage in a dialogue with other librarians who do similar work or think about similar things and to be supportive of one another. So you keep doing you, and I’ll keep doing me. Hopefully we’ll find something to talk about, here on Rule Number One.
Your Rule Number One writers are off to conferences galore this week, and we hope you’ll look us up! Conference details follow–if you’d like to meet up and chat about instruction, libraries, or…whatever, send us a line!
@ ACRL from Wednesday, March 25 – Saturday, March 28
I’ll presenting twice on Friday:
11:00-11:20, google glasses for the masses with Char Booth in Portland Ballroom 255
1:30-2:30, High/Low/No Tech: A Snapshot of Instructional Techniques from Four Academic Libraries with Kyle Denlinger, Jennifer Garrett, and Sabrina Wong in C123-124
I’ll also be attending the Newcomers Orientation (psyched for my first ACRL!) and the all-conference reception on Friday night, as well as many TBD sessions (so much good stuff to choose from). Hope to see you around!
@8th Annual Conference for Humanistic Psychology from Thursday, March 26 – Sunday, March 29
Presenting on Sunday from 8-9, Authentic Engagement: A Humanistic-Existential Approach to Learner-Centered Pedagogy in Room 515
Mad props to my co-blogger for presenting outside of the usual library circuit! I think this will be a really interesting presentations for those who might be able to attend.
My chapter “Thinking about Meaning: How to be a Philosophical Librarian” was just published in a volume called Skills to Make a Librarian: Transferable Skills Inside and Outside the Library.
What does philosophy – the most abstract of all academic disciplines – have to do with the practice of librarianship? That, in the most general sense, is the question of this chapter. My answer is what is fundamental to a philosophical approach to inquiry is thinking about meaning, and a philosophical approach to librarianship involving thinking about the core meanings of our practices can improve our ability to do our jobs as librarians. The reader of this chapter will learn that a librarian who thinks like a philosopher is one that gets students to think about the core meanings of the material they are presenting, because this allows the student to transfer the skills and concepts they are learning to other life contexts. This, as we will see, is simply what good educators do; in this sense, successful teacher-librarians are philosophical librarians as well. Or so I shall argue.
You can preview it through Google Books; if reading the whole thing interests you, drop me a line at kevin dot michael dot klipfel at gmail dot com and I’ll send it to you as a WordDoc till someone tells me to stop.
Great people do things before they’re ready. They do things before they know they can do it. Doing what you’re afraid of, getting out of your comfort zone, taking risks like that- that’s what life is. You might be really good. You might find out something about yourself that’s really special and if you’re not good, who cares? You tried something. Now you know something about yourself.
-Amy Poehler, Yes Please
Some news from your SoCal contributor to this blog: I got married last weekend to my library school sweetheart, so I’ve changed my name to Dani Brecher Cook—you’ll see this reflected on this blog, social media (@danibcook), and at upcoming conferences. The name change process is long and tedious, but I’m excited to embark on this new adventure with a shiny new name!
Here’s some pictorial evidence from the event, featuring your two blog contributors and two other fabulous librarians:
A man once asked me … how I managed in my books to write such natural conversation between men when they were by themselves. Was I, by any chance, a member of a large, mixed family with a lot of male friends? I replied that, on the contrary, I was an only child and had practically never seen or spoken to any men of my own age till I was about twenty-five. “Well,” said the man, “I shouldn’t have expected a woman (meaning me) to have been able to make it so convincing.” I replied that I had coped with this difficult problem by making my men talk, as far as possible, like ordinary human beings. This aspect of the matter seemed to surprise the other speaker; he said no more, but took it away to chew it over. One of these days it may quite likely occur to him that women, as well as men, when left to themselves, talk very much like human beings also.
-Dorothy L. Sayers, Are Women Human?