As many grad students approach the end of their academic programs, they realize they’ve forgotten how to talk about their strengths and skills to different types of employers. Joseph Barber provides advice.
There is no holy book in which God tells us what libraries should be. Over the centuries, the contours of library services and collections have instead been mediated by humans, including founders, funders, managers and -- surprise, surprise -- users. That’s the conclusion I came to after researching and writing Part of Our Lives: A People’s History of the American Public Library. In it, I trace the history of this ubiquitous institution, largely by listening to the voices of those who have used libraries since the mid-19th century, to identify reasons why it has been loved for generations.
As I analyzed the data, I was surprised at how quickly those reasons organized into three broad categories. People have loved their libraries for: (1) the useful information they made accessible, (2) the transformative potential of commonplace reading they circulated and (3) the public spaces they provided. Examples abound.
While sitting at a Cincinnati public library desk in 1867, Thomas Edison compiled a bibliography on electricity. “Many times Edison would get excused from duty under pretense of being too sick to work,” a colleague later recalled, “and invariably strike a beeline for the library, where he would spend the entire day and evening reading … such works on electricity as were to be had.”
In 1971, 10-year-old Barack Obama returned to Honolulu from Jakarta. “The first place I wanted to be was in a library,” he said years later. “One Saturday … with the help of a raspy-voiced old librarian who appreciated my seriousness, I found a book on East Africa.” Obama wanted information about Kenya, birthplace of his father, a Luo tribe member. “The Luo raised cattle and lived in mud huts and ate cornmeal and yams and something called millet,” the book noted. “Their traditional costume was a leather thong across the crotch.” Shocked by what he read, Obama “left the book open-faced on a table and walked out.”
The Transformative Potential of Reading
After her father died in 1963, 9-year-old Sonia Sotomayor buried herself in reading at her Bronx library and the apartment she shared with her mother and brother. “Nancy Drew had a powerful hold on my imagination,” she remembered. “Every night, when I’d finished reading and got into bed and closed my eyes, I would continue the story, with me in Nancy’s shoes, until I fell asleep.” Her mind, she noted, “worked in ways very similar” to Nancy’s. “I was a keen observer and listener. I picked up on clues. I figured things out logically, and I enjoyed puzzles. I loved the clear, focused feeling that came when I concentrated on solving a problem and everything else faded out.”
In 1984, President Ronald Reagan wrote the daughter-in-law of Harold Bell Wright, whose best-selling 1920s religious novel That Printer of Udell’s Reagan read as an adolescent in Dixon, Ill. Shortly after reading the book, he declared himself saved and was baptized. The novel’s protagonist, Reagan wrote Wright’s daughter-in-law 60 years later, served as a role model that shaped his life. It’s likely the copy of That Printer of Udell’s Reagan read came from the Dixon Public Library, which he visited twice weekly in the early 1920s, often reading on the library’s front steps.
Library as Place
In the 1930s at the Atlanta Public Library’s African-American branch, one of the few public places where blacks felt safe and welcome, 10-year-old Martin Luther King Jr. came to the library several times weekly. Director Annie Watters later recalled their interactions. “He would walk up to the desk and … look me straight in the eye.” “Hello, Martin Luther,” she would say, always calling him by his first and middle names. “What’s on your mind?” “Oh, nothing, particularly.” For Watters, that was the cue King had learned a new “big word,” and between them they had a conversation in which King used the word repeatedly. Another game involved poetry. Again, King would stand by the desk, waiting. “What’s on your mind, Martin Luther?” Watters asked. “For I dipped into the future, far as the human eye could see,” he responded. Watters recognized the Tennyson poem, and finished the verse: “Saw the vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be.”
In 2005, The Washington Post carried an article by Eric Wee on a District of Columbia branch library in one of Washington’s poorest neighborhoods. In it, Wee reported that every Tuesday night a homeless man named Conrad Cheek entered the library and set up his chessboard on a table in the children’s room. Wee immediately noticed a transformation. “No more ignored pleas” for this homeless man, “no averted glances. During the next hour, people will look him in the eye. They’ll listen to his words. In this down-at-the-heels library he’s the teacher.” Among his students was 9-year-old Ali Osman, whose mother explained that her son’s confidence had soared after playing with Conrad, that he was now bragging to friends about being a chess player. “We owe it all to Mr. Conrad,” she said.
Information access, the transformative power of commonplace reading, library as place -- all three combine to explain why people have valued their public libraries for the past 160 years. By harnessing the literatures on information access, commonplace reading and public spaces to analyze the historical roles of American public libraries, Part of Our Lives shows that from their origins they have contributed to their host communities in multiple ways.
They have been places of performance where users displayed moral progress and achievement. They have functioned as centripetal forces to craft a sense of community among disparate populations and evolve community trust among its multicultural elements. They have acted as key players not only to increase literacy (tens of thousands of immigrants learned English by reading printed materials from their public libraries) but also to construct group identity through the stories and places they provided. And public libraries have also started neighborhood conversations, welcomed the recently arrived into their midst, and served as community anchors.
A Limited Focus
I could only come to those conclusions, however, by tapping deeply into non-library and information studies literature that addresses reading and place. For most of its history, LIS has focused instead on what in the 18th century was called “useful knowledge,” in the 19th and 20th was called “best reading,” and in the late 20th morphed into “information.” That focused term has given particular meaning to phrases like “information access,” “information literacy” and “information community” that not only tend to exaggerate the role of LIS in the larger world of “information” (see, for example, how much attention LIS gets in James W. Cortada’s All The Facts: A History of Information in the United States Since 1870), but also dominate -- and limit -- the profession’s thinking.
Take library education, for example. As professional education programs evolved from “library schools” into “schools of information” in the last 30 years, most have focused on “information” as defined by the professional discourse they inherited, and then incorporated into that discourse analysis of the storage and retrieval properties of developing communications technologies. In the process, however, they decentered the library as a subject for instruction and research. Thus, when the 17 “I-schools” (12 ALA-accredited) met for the first time in 2005, none had core courses analyzing reading and place from the “library in the life of the user” perspective that I took in Part of Our Lives.
That’s unfortunate, because my historical research suggests that not knowing more about the reading and places libraries of all types provide greatly limits our ability to understand more deeply what libraries actually mean to their host communities. My research has demonstrated that generations of users have valued the public library as a place by voluntarily visiting it again and again for multiple reasons, many of which had nothing to do with information access.
Although I-school curricula emphasize services leading to the kinds of information Thomas Edison and Barack Obama found useful, they undervalue the impacts of information products that guided the lives of Ronald Reagan and Sonia Sotomayor, and they overlook the importance of library as place so evident in the experiences of Martin Luther King Jr., Conrad Cheek and Ali Osman.
If Part of Our Lives proves that reading and place have been as important to the American public library (and other types of libraries) as information access, then not having a core course in either at ALA-accredited programs is the equivalent of an American Bar Association-accredited law school without a core course on the Constitution or civil procedure. Unless organizations like the Association for Library and Information Science Education and the American Library Association, as well as the ALA Committee on Accreditation, insist that reading and place are essential parts of librarianship’s “domain” that must be taught at the core level, LIS education programs will continue to manifest limitations.
Such limitations are also evident in prognostications. In BiblioTech: Why Libraries Matter More Than Ever in the Age of Google, John Palfrey rightfully contends that library digitization can equalize access to education, jobs and information, but he worries that “bad nostalgia” for services like commonplace reading and traditional library programs will interfere with future planning. In a January 2016 Wall Street Journal article, Steve Barker lamented that because of emerging technologies “the role for librarians and public libraries is shrinking.” “Don’t mourn the loss of libraries,” John McTernan argued in a March 2016 Telegraph article. “The internet has made them obsolete.”
Ironically, unlike LIS educators and researchers, library practitioners intuitively seem to recognize the value of reading and place. The American library press abounds in reports of popular programs. Kathleen de la Peña McCook devotes much attention to library as place in her two editions (2004 and 2011) of Introduction to Public Librarianship. ALA initiated a “Libraries Transform” campaign last year to increase awareness of the multiple roles America’s academic, school and public libraries play in their host communities. Then there’s the “Project Outcome” initiative ALA’s Public Library Association (PLA) recently crafted to measure public library impacts, the report Public Libraries: A Vital Space for Family Engagement released in August by the Harvard Family Research Project and the PLA that calls on libraries to increase efforts to engage families in children’s learning, and the three-year study entitled “Bringing Home Early Literacy: Determining the Impact of Library Programming on Parent Behavior” that the Institute of Museum and Library Services is funding.
And regarding “library as place,” academic librarians especially have shown leadership in recent years by renovating spaces rescued from print collections now digitized and accessible online into group study areas that students use for a variety of class-related purposes. The sociability that reading has fostered for generations among students is much in evidence in these places. Many college and university libraries also installed coffee bars. The collective effect of these actions (sometimes referred to as the “information commons” movement) is obvious at my home institution, Florida State University, where students now call the main Robert M. Strozier Library “Club Stroz.” In recent years, turnstile counts have spiked.
For all of those efforts, however, researchers outside the profession and already overworked library practitioners have taken the initiative. Where is the LIS research community? Why aren’t members of that community conducting longitudinal studies evaluating library activities like the impact of summer reading programs on student reading levels as they move from one grade to another? Where’s the LIS research that identifies the community effects of programs like film festivals, book clubs, children’s story hours, English as a second language classes, literacy tutoring, art exhibits and musical presentations that thousands of public libraries have routinely been hosting for generations? Where are the LIS researchers to perform similar evaluation studies on the multiple community effects of library reading and library as place in all types of libraries across the country and over time that take into account demographic variables like race, age, gender, sexual orientation, class, etc.?
Data generated by such research would not only benefit librarians struggling to define mission statements and justify budgets to city managers, council members and school and college administrators (many of whom are convinced the internet has made libraries “obsolete”), it would also help librarians identify which programs and services are providing greatest benefit to their communities and thus deserve additional resources.
Part of Our Lives shows that, over the generations, library users learned many things in multiple ways through the useful information libraries made accessible, the commonplace reading materials they circulated and the public spaces they provided. But until LIS educators teach library reading and library as place in their professional programs at the core level, and until LIS researchers ask questions about what users learn from their interaction with libraries and determine how that learning fits into their everyday lives, both are addressing only a fraction of what libraries actually do for their patrons. And both are falling short of their profession’s needs.
Wayne A. Wiegand is F. William Summers Professor Emeritus of Library and Information Studies at Florida State University and author of Part of Our Lives: A People’s History of the American Public Library (Oxford University Press, 2015). Between January and May 2017, he will be Distinguished Visiting Scholar at the Library of Congress’s John W. Kluge Center.
Adjuncts at Saint Xavier University voted 29 to 25 to form a union affiliated with the National Education Association, they recently announced. Their ballots had been impounded since 2011, when the Roman Catholic university challenged the right of adjuncts to form a union, saying its religious identity put it outside the jurisdiction of the National Labor Relations Board. In an August decision, the NLRB agreed with a regional board office director’s decision that the petitioned-for unit of part-time faculty generally do not play a “role in creating or maintaining the university’s religious educational environment.” Notably, the national board did make a distinction between religious studies faculty members and most other faculty members and excluded the former from the bargaining unit. The college did not immediately respond to a request for comment.
Douglas Muir, a lecturer at the University of Virginia's engineering and business schools, has apologized for a statement he made about the Black Lives Matter movement. Muir has been on leave since the comment attracted attention last week, but is expected to return to teaching soon. In a Facebook post, he said (all spellings sic): “Black lives matter is the biggest rasist organisation since the clan. Are you kidding me. Disgusting!!!”
In a new statement he said, in part: "I was wrong in my comparison and want to offer my profound apologies for my words. To my students, the University of Virginia, the citizens of Charlottesville and the thousands of responders, I am truly sorry. I have been saddened by the pain it has caused this wonderful community. This careless post was called out by many for ridicule. I accept those criticisms and promise to take these hard lessons learned to heart as I go forward. Whatever my initial intention was from the post has been overshadowed by those who are rightly offended by it and others who want to use my words to further divide this community. It was never my intent for my words to cause so much turmoil."
This month will mark the one-year anniversary of the death of Thomas Leland Berger. Some readers of Inside Higher Ed might have known Berger while he lived -- he was a fairly well-known scholar and teacher of English Renaissance literature, active in both the Shakespeare Association of America and the Malone Society. He was renowned for his brilliance (one of his former students, the novelist and short-story writer Lorrie Moore, celebrated his intellect and enthusiasm for literature in a New York Times essay a decade ago) as well as his wit. (He remains one of the funniest people I have ever met.)
Certainly, his intelligence and his cleverness were quite memorable. But I don’t think that’s why I continue to think about Berger today, one year after his death and 17 years after my own graduation from St. Lawrence University, where he taught for decades.
I suppose I should start with my first memory of Berger, who made quite an impression on me when I was a surly 17-year-old high school senior touring colleges throughout New York and New England. My parents and I had come to St. Lawrence University one fall Saturday for a prospective student day -- campus tours, food in the dining hall and meetings with students and faculty members. I didn’t know his name at the time, but Berger was representing the English department alongside representatives from, as I recall, the theater and sociology departments in a discussion of those fields. The idea was that they would tell those of us who had indicated potential interest in those majors just what course work was entailed and what we could expect should we enroll at St. Lawrence. It’s not the most exciting way for an academic to spend his Saturday, but if Berger was annoyed or inconvenienced, he didn’t let on.
Toward the end of the discussion, the person from the admissions office who was coordinating things asked the three faculty members to tell us and -- importantly, I think -- our parents just what sort of valuable, real-world (which probably most of us would take to mean “marketable” or “job-related”) things we would learn in their classes. I don’t recall what the other two professors said. Something about critical thinking and learning how to learn and stuff like that, I’m sure. But when it was his turn to speak, Berger seemed thoughtful, and he answered rather slowly and deliberately.
“All sorts of things,” he said. “For instance, my Shakespeare students are currently reading Antony and Cleopatra, and I think the most important life lesson you can get from that is, if you are in charge of a massive army, and all of your generals tell you to do one thing but your girlfriend thinks you should do something else ….” Here he paused, then leaned forward conspiratorially, and said, “Listen to your generals.”
That wasn’t the only reason I wound up attending St. Lawrence, but his comment did distinguish that prospective student day from others, which are often rather scripted and not particularly distinctive. Here was a college, I knew, where at least one professor knew how to capture your attention.
So that lesson in military strategy was the first lesson Berger taught me -- the first of many. I would go on to take several classes with him, and I learned a great deal about literature, early modern London and, of course, comic timing. Those were all valuable lessons. He was a challenging professor, to be sure -- his quiz questions were unbelievably specific, demanding that we pay careful attention to the minutia in every BBC production of Shakespeare’s plays. In fact, when one classmate complained after one such quiz, “Dr. Berger, your quizzes are too hard,” he put his hands in his pockets, cocked his head thoughtfully and replied, “Or, perhaps you’re just too …. Nah. It must be the quiz.”
As demanding as he was, though, students overwhelmingly seemed to love him. His classes were always full, and among the English majors, at least, there was a general agreement that Berger was probably the smartest man in the world. He didn’t work from notes -- he simply came in, opened the textbook to the play under discussion and then typically sat down in front of the class, crossed his legs and began to hold court. I’d never known anyone with so much knowledge in his head, ready to be shared so informally, without pretension or even apparent effort. It made us all want to work even harder -- a good grade from such an obviously intelligent man might mean that we were intelligent, too.
But as I said, he was funny, too. There was the time, toward the end of one semester, when he came into class with the manila envelope and fistful of pencils that indicated we would be filling out course evaluations. He put the evaluation materials on the table at the front of the class, then turned to the chalkboard, where he wrote out the word “dickhead.”
“I figure most of you probably need to know how it’s spelled,” he explained.
The educator in me knows that there probably were students in the class who thought Berger was a dickhead -- no one professor can be loved by all students, surely -- but I couldn’t imagine how someone could think such a thing. Still, I appreciated his suggestion that the student who might think such a thing probably wasn’t very good at spelling, as well as his posture of not caring a whit one way or another. He seemed cooler than cool.
Speak What We Feel
I benefited tremendously from Berger’s instruction as a student, and I doubt I would have gone on to graduate school had he not made being smart look so damn cool. Still, I think he saved his wisest words for our conversations when I wasn’t enrolled in higher education. When I was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s disease shortly after Christmas my senior year, I wound up withdrawing from the university. Even if I wasn’t taking classes with him, however, I found that I still wasn’t finished learning from Berger.
I had been in touch with a few friends after the diagnosis, but I hadn’t contacted too many faculty members because, honestly, I didn’t think they would care. I was just one of the hundreds of students they taught over the course of their careers, after all.
So when my mother called down the stairs one morning to tell me I had a phone call, I did not expect to hear Tom Berger’s voice on the other end. But there it was. At a time in my life when I was more scared and lonely than I had ever been, Berger called to see if I was OK. That’s when I realized he was more than a clever person -- more than a wise person, even. He was a very, very good person who had the compassion to reach out to me when I didn’t even realize that I needed to hear from him.
I wish I remembered more of that conversation than I do. I can tell you that later, when I went back to campus to visit while going through chemotherapy, I sat in his office and told him I didn’t think I’d ever want to write about the experience of being ill, as several of my friends and former professors had encouraged me to do. I didn’t want to write something trite or clichéd, I told him -- which was true but wasn’t the biggest issue. The biggest issue, which I think he understood, was that I didn’t want to live with cancer-- even thoughts of cancer-- any longer than I had to. So, I insisted, I would never write about having cancer.
He neither encouraged nor discouraged me in this idea, as I sat across from him in his book-stuffed university office, but he did give me one piece of advice that I still take to heart every day. He said, simply, “You don’t want to be defined by your worst experience.”
So smart. So obviously true. But also, kind of hard to do, sometimes.
If you’re anything like me, maybe you tend to dwell on your pain, or on worst-case scenarios, or on the suffering that is inflicted on all of us over the course of our lives. But if you’re like me, and had a wise mentor caution you not to let such things define you, then maybe you’re also able to remind yourself of your blessings, too. The pets who seem to intuit when you are sad and come over to offer comfort. A cold beer on a hot afternoon. The friends who laugh with you. The spouse who supports you. The family that loves you. The teachers who inspired you.
I was invited to speak at a celebration of Tom Berger’s life earlier this year at the Blackfriars Playhouse, home of the American Shakespeare Center, where I shared an earlier, truncated version of this essay. And a couple weeks ago, his widow and kids (who are all older than I am) sent me a gift -- a coffee mug with a Tom Berger quote -- “I wouldn’t say no to a cup of joe” -- and a very nice card thanking me for sharing my memories at the celebration.
To be honest, the gift made me feel a little guilty. I don’t think I was a particularly memorable student in Tom Berger’s career. While I ran into him at conferences in the years after I graduated, and he vaguely knew my wife, who is also an early modern scholar, we did not stay in particularly close touch. I was always glad to see him, and I think he was always glad to see me. But in the end, I was just one of the thousands of students he interacted with over the course of his amazing career. I happened to have come to the family’s attention because I published something about him after he died, and they invited me to join them in sharing memories, but really, I think just about anyone who studied with the man probably had stories to share.
As Hamlet said, “He was a man, take him for all in all, I shall not look upon his like again.” And if I can have even a fraction of the impact on the students that I work with as Tom Berger had on his students, I feel like I will have lived a remarkable life.
William Bradley is an essayist and writing center coordinator at Heidelberg University in Tiffin, Ohio. His book Fractals was recently released by Lavender Ink.
Can a syllabus be a form of sexual harassment? And should a professor know when he's being investigated for his extra-credit policy, use of triangles and declaring that his class is not a "safe space"?
Bob Dylan was this morning named winner of the 2016 Nobel Prize in Literature. The announcement said he was honored for "having created new poetic expressions within the great American song tradition." (The photo at left is of a performance in 1963.)
The notes on Dylan released by the Nobel committee state, "Besides his large production of albums, Dylan has published experimental work like Tarantula (1971) and the collection Writings and Drawings (1973). He has written the autobiography Chronicles (2004), which depicts memories from the early years in New York and which provides glimpses of his life at the center of popular culture. Since the late 1980s, Bob Dylan has toured persistently, an undertaking called the 'Never-Ending Tour.' Dylan has the status of an icon. His influence on contemporary music is profound, and he is the object of a steady stream of secondary literature."
Among the university press books on Dylan, recommended by the Nobel committee, are:
Many other scholars have written about Dylan. A new center for Dylan Scholarship is likely to be the University of Tulsa, home of the Bob Dylan Archives. The university, along with the George Kaiser Family Foundation, purchased the materials that make up the archives, which include 6,000 items from 60 years in which Dylan has been writing.
Academics may also be interested in this interview with Eric Lott of the City University of New York Graduate Center about the relationship between one of his books and a Dylan album.
For years, Dylan's fans (some of them scholars) have pushed for him to win the Nobel. But as they have pushed the nominations, many have speculated that an American was unlikely to win or that Dylan shouldn't win. An article in The Atlantic in 2013 said, "What would awarding Dylan the Nobel Prize even accomplish, anyway? Draw some deserved attention to a woefully underrecognized artist? Feed his sorely battered ego? It's unclear what the end goal is here."
And The New Republic has the misfortune of having published this headline for an article last week: