Director of technology for the Shenendehowa Public Library in Clifton Park, New York.
kgs@bluehighways.com
Column for December 1999
Imagine, for a minute, that the worst Year 2000 predictions materialize, and on January 1 we arrive at our libraries to discover that our computers don’t work. Is that really so bad?
Many librarians think so. When I raised this question on an Internet discussion group, several lectured me rather sternly that Computers Are Our Friends (and Mr. Internet is our Real Good Friend), and that it would be difficult, if not impossible, to provide library services of any kind—public, catalog services, technical processing, administration—without online connectivity. And every librarian who contributed to this column informed me that they would prefer to have computer access come the millennium.
Okay, point taken. Still, work with me, people. If you had a month without the Internet, and you knew that it would come back eventually—what kind of librarianship would you practice? What do you miss about the Olden Days?
We automated to make life easier, but sometimes it seems that the machines have elbowed us aside. There are many days when I wonder who’s really in charge—me, or these computers? Jill Patterson of the Glendora (Calif.) Public Library sounded wistful when she wrote, “I guess I miss the old-fashioned wracking my brain to figure out where something would be that would answer a patron’s question. I felt a real rush when I could answer a question based on my knowledge and experience and not just how well I could perform a keyword search.”
A month without computers would also challenge the pecking order in libraries; the library staff who shelve and shelf-read—two greatly underappreciated skills—would rise to new heights. Wayne Owen, a library assistant in Sacramento, California, looks forward to a time when “all those call numbers I have memorized by shelf-reading will come into play as I cheerfully guide patrons to material that I still know how to find despite the computer.” He went out on a limb by adding, “we might even see librarians trying to do shelf-reading.”
If nothing else, loss of the Internet for a month would force patrons and librarians to communicate. These days patrons may conduct their entire library transactions with computers: Come in, check the Internet and the catalog, find a document, locate a book, and use self-check on the way out. Some patrons may never even come into libraries; their entire interactions might be into your databases, through your Web site. It’s true that many patrons prefer this type of interaction—for the same reason I prefer using an online travel agency rather than spending an afternoon waiting to see a travel agent. Nevertheless, all of these machines and Web sites and remote databases tend to dehumanize the library experience for both librarians and patrons alike. That’s too bad, because people still need one another.
Part of the joy of the reference interview is its tangible, tactile nature and the slow buildup as you gather enough information to begin the search process. You listen, question, and listen again; you pick up cues from gestures and facial expressions. But it’s tempting to let computers—our magic electronic timesaving appliances—short-circuit the reference interview. Ann Case of the Health Science Center Library in Gainesville, Florida, speculated, “Maybe in a non-computer world we’d spend more time listening in depth and doing a thorough reference interview before the two of us—librarian and patron—leaped for the computer and began surfing.”
We wanted to connect with the world so we could quickly and easily find information located outside our libraries. How many of us put our faith in the value of virtual libraries and shelled out big bucks to make this happen? Once we did, we found that we stopped talking to people outside our system (at least by voice phone). I have a lot of colleagues and friends I only see at conferences—even if we live and work in the same zip code!
Wayne Owen sees a month without the Internet as a chance to humanize library work. “Some of my time will be spent . . . calling to try to find material to help our patrons. Interacting with other libraries’ staff members will increase collegiality. We might even have face-to-face meetings!”
Finally, let me share my secret desire with several hundred thousand of my closest friends: I would really love a month where no one talked about filtering—an issue that can be a huge black hole that sucks all available time and energy from libraries, particularly if they are under attack. Imagine: no mind-numbing e-mail monologues, no fielding nervous phone calls from government officials, no weekends spent compiling Freedom of Information Act requests for patron records. What would we do with all this free time? Hold book talks? Teach English to new Americans? Provide more story hours?
Most of us don’t need to be convinced that we need automation. But the common thread among these Y2K fantasies is the restoration of the human touch—the face, the voice, the human presence. We could humanize our electronic services in many ways—through the name of a real person to talk to, an e-mail link to a librarian, or even a smiling face that pops up on the screen. We can hold online book talks, use live cameras, upload messages recorded in Real Audio. All of these efforts would help us put into practice what we believe: that people are central to our services, and every individual matters.