Not Your Grandmother's Library

In the work that I actually get paid for – as in a regular paycheck – I work in two different libraries, one fairly large and one fairly small. If you’re of a certain age, maybe your idea of a library is like mine used to be: a quiet, comfortable place filled with wonderful books and periodicals that lead to knowledge, enjoyment, entertainment, enlightenment; a few tables and chairs, some upholstered, placed here and there so that one can sit and read; perhaps a lively book discussion group. And maybe your idea of a librarian was a genteel, or at least gentle, older (usually) woman (typically) ready to assist you in finding a particular book, or magazine, or to retrieve some bit of information at your request. Maybe you knew it wasn’t a hush-up sort of place any more, but still, a place of modulated voices and intellectual curiosity, of abundant information and good literature (including children’s books, of course).

Ah, the good old days. Not that this has all gone by the wayside, but changes are underway, and like everything else in modern life, those changes are coming faster all the time. And the major agent of change is, of course, technology. Patron computers, wi-fi, DVDs, Playaways, e-book readers, downloadable audiobooks; interactive websites where patrons can reserve, renew, and make requests; video game rooms, networked library systems and interlibrary loans; computerized circulation systems and information databases; it seems that every few weeks there’s something new to learn. Expanded offerings expand the patron base, bringing in folks who have no interest in books but take out tall stacks of movies, or just come in to use the computers, or want someone to teach them how to use their new Kindle. And then there are the patrons who rarely enter the building at all, but avidly borrow the ebooks and downloadables through their home computers.

For a number of years, I had toyed with the idea of returning to school to get my masters degree and become a librarian. This was, of course, based on that old idea of what the job was like. Now that I’ve actually been working as a library assistant for several years, my eyes have been opened to some new realities, and frankly, I don’t think I’m really cut out for the job of a “real” librarian. This has, at least, relieved me of the occasional pangs of guilt I used to feel whenever I berated myself for not getting that degree.

“Real” librarians, nowadays, might be more properly called something like Information Technology Specialists. In order to be a proper one these days, you have to embrace your Inner Geek … and I don’t have much of one. Marilyn Johnson, in her book This Book is Overdue: How Librarians and Cybrarians Can Save Us All, divides librarians thusly: if you were to describe people in terms of technology, only those born after 1980 could be called Technology Natives; the rest of us, born before that date, would be Technology Immigrants. We may have learned to speak the language to varying degrees, but we’re talking with thick accents, and we’re walking around wearing babushkas.

I don’t mean to disparage the many real pre-1980 librarians I work with, many of whom are brilliant and technologically savvy and keep the library as current as possible. But I belong to that other group of Immigrants who are always one (or more) steps behind, who can search the database for a title, teach a patron how to sign up for an email account or download an audiobook, but who haven’t been particularly thrilled at the idea of e-readers replacing real books, need detailed written instructions to reboot the server, and marvel at the people who've been using computers since they were babies and are able to use new technologies intuitively. My group is not the future; that is quite clear. We are struggling to keep up and are still often towards the back of the pack, sometimes marveling at the new gadgets but often muttering under our breath and wondering why the buttons are so damned tiny and everything changes so often.

So I’m okay with being a library assistant, not a “real” librarian. I still get to enjoy getting to know the patrons I serve, chatting with some of them about books, doing the occasional Story Time and setting up displays; I marvel at the advanced knowledge and skills of my better-educated colleagues. And I’m proud to be part of an institution devoted to information, egalitarianism, non-censorship, and privacy.

But my heart is still in the garden, where it’s always been. I like the tangible, hands-on, physical work, the very primal connection to the earth and what it provides us. It’s always miraculous to me, the way that nature wants to grow, how we just help to facilitate that manifestation by planting seeds, clearing weeds, providing water, and standing back to watch. It feels like sharing in a legacy, a continuation of what endless generations before us have done. There’s a high-tech struggle going on, sure, with organics and heirlooms on one side, and industrial ag and Monsanto’s GMO Frankenfoods on the other (no, I’m not biased ;-). And it’s great to have access to the latest ag studies, extension reports, seed companies, to networks of gardeners and farmers online; there’s always so much more to learn. But really, a gardenfarmer lives in the very real world of soil, air, sun, seasons, weather. As a species, we are wired to be attuned to these elements, and our very lives depend on them. It’s a strange experience, having one foot firmly planted in the soil and the other stumbling along, trying to keep up with the swiftly-evolving outside world; a disjointed experience, often. Maybe the geeks have inherited the libraries (and lots of other things), but the survival of the species depends on our stewardship of the earth. And maybe it's not your grandmother's farm any more, but she'd feel right at home here.