"The Customer" Is Always Wrong: Managing Community Expectations

I tend to get a bit twisted about semantics, so I write about it frequently. Word choice matters. A recent piece written by one of my favorite anthropologists illustrates another reason why:

"Words matter WORDS MATTER this 'customer' stuff isn't just benign semantics and labelling it comes from an insidious framing of education."

That is something that Donna Lanclos tweeted and then quoted in a longer piece about the problems with managing college and university student expectations. That blog post also included the following paragraph, which made me want to give Lanclos a standing ovation:

"Student expectations are informed by their pre-university experiences. And those are not uniform. We have students with a variety of levels of experience and preparedness for what university education requires. And we do not, as educators, have to buy the argument that the purpose of our work is to prepare students for 'jobs.' Our work, collectively, in higher and further education, is to provide students with experiences and support within those experiences to learn, to grow, to find and shape their voice, to be prepared to exercise citizenship, to live engaged lives, to shape their world in constructive ways."

I loathe the word "customer" for people who walk into a library, but even more so for students of a college where I work. It really does set up the wrong dynamic. I can't tell you the number of times that I have heard "I pay your salary" or variations thereupon directed at me or at a coworker by a student who isn't being allowed to do one disruptive thing or another. That student who got angry with me and told me how much they paid to attend that institution because I wouldn't let them leave their possessions strewn around a busy area was a particularly fun example of that. Because there is already so much money involved, calling a student "the customer" makes it feel even more like we are supposed to bend over backwards. How far is it from adding a rock-climbing wall to eliminating prerequisites for a price?

But back to my original point: I would argue that those skills Lanclos lists are precisely the kinds of skills employers both big and small need in their work force. I'm not pulling this out of the air, either. I've read so many studies that talk about how employers want people who can think on their feet, who can write, who can investigate, who can think critically... Dr. Lanclos writes that managing educator expectations is just as important as managing student expectations, but I'm wondering if we need to take a step further and manage the expectations of our communities. If so much of this is predicated on the assumption that we are educating students to be employable, can we use the expectations of those employers to shape the conversation? It seems that educators and companies are all saying the same thing, and there's got to be a way to leverage that so that our students and, more importantly, our upper-level administrator and boards of trustees get back to trusting the faculty and staffs of their institutions.

Or am I just dreaming here?

The "Snake People" Are Coming to a Generalization Near You

I hate generational labels. I remember when I first encountered "generation x" as a label for my generation, That article talked about members of Generation X all being a bunch of slackers straight out of some Hollywood film, but that wasn't me. I was working two jobs at the time and still had some problems making ends meet. I was working hard and was trying to find a way to work harder. Further, I wasn't the only one among my friends who was like that. I didn't identify with the portrait the article presented, and it made the term feel odd and divisive.

I hated it when the press was calling me and my friends "generation x" and I hate it now that people are talking about "snake people." Wait, what's that? You've never heard of snake people as a generation? That's probably because I mean "millennial" but someone in that generation got so fed up with the pictures people were painting of her and other people born around the same time that she created a chrome extension that substitutes the words "snake people" whenever a website has the word "millennial." (It does more than that, such as substituting "Parseltongue" for "digital native." Download it and read the Wikipedia article about Millennials for a good laugh.)

Why all this hate? I recently saw a semi-major media outlet tweet something about "millennials" and had a bit of a hissy fit in response:

I'm feeling an angry ranty blog post about labels like "millenial" and "gen-x" coming on. pic.twitter.com/OOTzpzIngz

— Jessica Olin (@olinj) June 3, 2015

What I got in response made me both cringe and laugh, since it showed the kind of resentment most people feel about the generalization inherent such labels:

Screen cap of tweets instead of an embedded tweet because of one locked account, but Rachel gave me permission to share.

The thread continued, including a brief related discussion about the uselessness of the term "Digital Native." And then Rachel Fleming (who writes a blog with Erin Leach that you should all be reading) made a point that gets at the the beauty of the snake people/millennials extension:

Terms like "Greatest Generation" are used lazily at best, and at worst lead to stereotyping (and are therefore dangerous). Let me give you a fairly innocuous example of what I mean: One of the most common preconceived notions that most people have about the GI Generation or the Greatest Generation is that they were/are tech averse. Meanwhile, my grandfather built his own computer when he was 90. If you believe those generational generalizations, you do things like forget to teach college students how to do basic things like attach a document to an email because "they're digital natives and grew up doing this stuff!" Trust me, as someone who has taught freshmen writing multiple times: they don't know how until they're taught.

When people tout the virtues of some think piece about how to manage millennials or the retirement habits of boomers, I cringe and so should you. We need to get to know our communities. We should have stuff about book clubs for senior citizens on our websites as well as on our bulletin boards. We need to remember that many of our students will have already worked intensively with research databases in high school but others will have barely used computers at all.

Don't get me wrong. I see that people of certain ages who lived the same country will have shared experiences that inform how they relate to the world. Things like the creation MTV (either you had it or were jealous of someone who did), the attack on the World Trade Center, and the televised presidential debates are embedded in our psyches, but they don't determine every aspect of who we are. So please, don't be that think piece writing futurist who pens yet another slapdash piece about "kids these days." Take a moment to analyze aggregate data and glean useful information to be shared, and put it in that kind of context. Always remember:

source

p.s. I unfollowed the semi-major media outlet. If they can't be bothered to write nuanced pieces about generations, I can't be bothered to read their shlock.

Pedantic Semantics: Why Word Choice Matters

I'll be the first to admit I can get a bit pedantic at times. I've even gotten in the habit of calling myself The Pedantic Panther when I get particularly picky in my writing group. But the thing is, words matter. Word choice matters. Here's one of my favorite examples of how that works in the broader world:

Here are a few words and phrases that are used a lot within library circles that bother me:

Free. Don't call the library's services "free." These things are not free. Not for us and not for the communities we serve. I don't have the biggest budget around, but even for my library the amount I pay for database subscriptions is not even close to free. Instead I say things like "included with the price of tuition," and when I talk about our consortium and the benefits it brings to my community, I say "our tax dollars at work." This might seem like splitting hairs, but then again there's that old saying "you get what you pay for" and I'd rather people think about their tuition and tax dollars with regards to the library than $0.00.

Scavenger Hunt. First of all, this particular kind of assignment is hard to pull off, pedagogically speaking. Learning doesn't stick if it's not contextualized. But that's besides the point. There's a pertinent quote from an old film that I saw when I was a teenager and on a classic movie kick. The movie is My Man Godfrey and the quote: 

"A scavenger hunt is exactly like a treasure hunt, except in a treasure hunt you try to find something you want, and in a scavenger hunt you try to find something that nobody wants."

So, if you must engage in that teaching approach, please call it a treasure hunt.

Customers. I know this is going to tick off some people, but thinking of the people who walk into our buildings as customers puts us on opposite sides of a transaction. Never mind the problematic aspects of "the customer is always right," (which they aren't... customers are frequently wrong). Let's focus on what it does to our thinking about those people: it turns the relationship into an Us vs Them kind of thing. And that's not what we want - not at all. Instead, think of them as members of your community. You're also a member of your community, right? In a lot of cases you live or work in the same municipality as your library, and at the very least you are a staff member of the institution. Also, if you think of the people who walk into your building as members of your community suddenly it's a partnership and you're on the same side. Working with instead of for, see what I mean?

Okay, so yes - I know I sometimes split hairs about words and word usage. Sometimes overly so. But other times word choice is important. Words frame our thinking about ourselves and our communities, so please do so carefully as you choose words both in what you say and what you write. The mindset you change just might be your own

So how about you? Do you have any pet peeves about library jargon? 

I'm Not Your Sweetheart

Before I get started, I know some of you are going to say I'm overreacting. Maybe I am, but I only have so much tolerance in these cases, and I've reached and exceeded my limit.

I actually tweeted about the moment that pushed me to my breaking point:

Guy who walked into the library just now: Sweetheart, do you mind if I... Me: I'm not your sweetheart. #grrr
— Jessica Olin (@olinj) August 7, 2013

The guy who'd called me "sweetheart" was visibly flustered by my rebuff and tried to explain himself a bit. "I don't mean anything by it. I've got a fiance and she's beautiful. I don't mean anything by it." My response was to go back to the initial question he'd asked (I think it was about reading our newspapers or some such), and then I went back to the work I'd been doing prior to the incident. I had a hard time getting my concentration back, though, since I was feeling very...

Source

This interaction also brought to mind all the times I've been called "Miss Jessica" recently. No, I don't have a ring around my wedding finger, but I'm 40 years old and a midlevel administrator at this institution and "Ms." has been in common parlance for a long time, so "Miss" just isn't appropriate anymore. I'm actually okay with "ma'am" when it comes from someone younger than I am, but all of the "Miss Jessica" has come from people who are older than me. When it comes from someone who is clearly old enough to be my parent, especially when that person is male, "Miss" feels dismissive and vaguely disrespectful.

In most of the cases I've experienced, I know these men didn't mean anything by it. Although a male friend to whom I vented about this was right when he said, "sometimes disrespect is meant." I also know that it's a bit of a Southernism (don't let the fact that Delaware was on the northern side of the Mason-Dixon line fool you, we have a lot of southern culture - both good bits and bad - in this state). But I also know "sweetheart," and "sweetie," and "Miss Jessica" and so on, make me incredibly uncomfortable. I shouldn't have to put up with it.

For the record, if this was a child addressing me that way, I wouldn't be so upset. It's when it comes from another adult, especially an older male (and this is almost exclusively an older male phenomenon), that it raises my ire. I waited until I was in a calm moment and just this week told one of the "Miss Jessica" people to please stop calling me that and to just call me "Jessica." He looked vaguely apologetic and has since honored my wishes.

Above and beyond everything else, "Miss Jessica" makes me sound like an olden times school marm. That is not me at all.

Source

This is more like me:

Source

You know Barbara Gordon wouldn't put up with "sweetheart" or "sweetie" or "Miss," so why should I?



(Caveat: I don't expect everyone to be bothered by these addresses. I'm just telling you to advocate for yourself when something makes you uncomfortable.)

Acronyms, Jargon, and Other Obfuscation

"Frustration"

There isn't much about my beloved profession that bothers me more than the way so many librarians unknowingly hide meaning (and I hope I'm right in assuming the "unknowingly" part). You may have gathered this if you've been reading my blog for a while, since I've written about it time and time and time again. So what has me up in arms enough to write a fourth post? This time my dudgeon is being caused by our love of acronyms. (Also, I know we're not the only ones with acronymaholism, but this is a blog about librarianship, after all.)

Okay, I get it. It's a heck of a lot easier to say, "ACRL," than it is to say, "Association of College and Research Libraries," but come on people. Using acronyms is one thing, but the presumption that everyone knows what your acronyms mean is quite another. The rule is, and has been as long as I can remember, that you spell out the thing, whatever that thing is, the first time you name it, and then you use the acronym or abbreviation. Why do so many people disregard this convention? And yes, I mean you, person who sent that solicitation out to a listserv looking for new people for that thing your roundtable does. I also mean you, person who tweeted something similar. And I most certainly mean you, webmaster for that regional organization where I had to dig and dig to figure out where the heck you all are located. Before you complain that you don't know what to do when you only have a limited amount of space, I've got the answer: link to something with an explanation of the acronym.

Please, my beloved librarian brothers and sisters, take this to heart. Following my advice will certainly endear you to me, but ignoring me will do more than make me dislike you. It might make me avoid anything sponsored by your organizations, but at the very least, I won't join you because I'll have no idea what you do.

And, on that note, ttfn.

Cults of Librarian Personalities

I went to ACRL 2013 last week, and I'm still thinking thinks about the conference in general. I plan to write a general review/overview of my experience, but I want to take my time with it and get it right. In the meanwhile, there is something from the conference that keeps coming to mind, and that I want to address right away: the Rock Star Librarian / Cults of Librarian Personalities phenomenon.

In addition to nabbing many free pens... I mean, talking to lots of vendors on the exhibit floor... I attended sessions, as one does at conferences. These ranged from very small, such as the roundtable I co-lead, to very VERY big, such as the keynote given by Henry Rollins (I have a huge intellectual crush on him now). At least one of the sessions was something lead/given by someone I consider a Big Name in Libraries, a Rock Star Librarian, an inspiration for a Cult of Librarian Personality. Normally I avoid these people, preferring to spend my time listening to and talking with people who are doers instead of thinkers (thanks, Andrew Whitis, for giving me the perfect phrasing for this).

So why did I go? How did I end up experiencing a Cult of Librarian Personality first hand? Because, despite thinking that particular Big Name is an utter tool (judging from a few brief personal interactions we've had), I also think that Big Name is utterly brilliant. I have read articles and books and blog posts written by Big Name. Heck, I bought a copy of a book by Big Name for myself because I liked it so much I wanted to be able to write in it, guilt-free. The thing is, even though Big Name might be a Big Tool, Big Name also makes me think. I know I can take the ideas I get from Big Name, smoosh them around until they fit my circumstances, and make them my own.

So, no, I'm not a fan of the Rock Star Librarian mentality, but I know those individuals can serve a purpose in this field - at least in my life, they do. They all influence my professional practice, whether it is to avoid making what I see as their mistakes or to moosh their ideas to fit my context. I say, let the Rock Star Librarians rock on. I'll be over here, continuing on in my indie pop star sensation/minor success way, and be happy doing so.

But what about you? What do you all think of this phenomenon? Do you avoid Big Name Librarians at all cost? Seek them out because you love to hate them? Have a true fondness for one or more of them?

Innovators, Game Changers, and The Bleeding Edge, Or, Buzz Words Gotta Buzz

Let me be up front about this: I loathe buzz words. I hate them even more than I dislike jargon (and I'm not the only one who hates jargon) - which is saying a lot. Whenever I hear someone rattling off a long string of buzz words - something that happens almost daily in librarianship and in academia - this is all I see:

"a bee at work"

This dislike is especially pronounced when people start talking about "innovation." The thing that it describes - trying new stuff - is a passion for me. If you've ever read this blog before, you already know that about me. I've got all these "crazy" ideas, and making them a reality is one of my favorite things about being an academic librarian.

The point is that I see a gap or a problem or an opportunity and I try to address it. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't. Want to get students, faculty, & staff to care about the library's image? Try a tagline contest. Want to get students in the library who wouldn't normally set foot in there? How about Humans vs. Zombies? I've also tried plenty of things that didn't work. I tried to get a book review blog going, the point of which was for it to be a blog by my community for my community. It ended up being way more work than it was worth. Then there was that board game event that sort of flopped. Perhaps I was being obtuse, but I didn't even realize I was engaging in that fabled activity - innovating - until someone shoved that fact in my face.

The thing that's bothering me lately, though, is that with all the buzz words people use to describe this particular activity - innovation, game changing, bleeding edge, entrepreneurial mindset, etc. - it has made it so that the activity is becoming an end in and of itself. Even worse, the focus isn't on the reason for innovation and experimentation. Instead it's on the label.

In my own practice, it's the opposite. I try to fill the needs of my community, even the ones of which they are unaware, with whatever means seem most apt. I love finding new and exciting things to try, but there are also times when the "old fashioned" approach works best. There's no getting away from buzz words, but I've started ignoring them as best I can. I suggest you do the same.

Po-tay-to, Po-tah-to: Labeling the People Who Come to the Library

If you're new/newer to this profession, you may not yet be able to recognize when this happens, but there are a few libr* topics that never seem to go away. One conversation that never ends is about what the heck we should call the people who walk in the front door of the library. I don't mean the people who work in the building; I mean the ones who come in to partake of our services. In fact, it was the focus of a post just yesterday on Designing Better Libraries.

Of course I have an opinion on the topic: I tend towards "members of my community" and occasionally throw "library patrons" or even "students, faculty, and staff" into the mix. I also understand why the label can be important: what we call something can frame/influence how we think about it. But I can't help thinking that I'd rather concentrate on improving the services I'm providing to my [fill in the label of your choice]. What to call them is the least of my worries. In fact, the whole, endless discussion reminds me of the song, "Let's Call the Whole Thing Off."

To drive the point home, here's my favorite version of that song:

Thoughts? Do you think the label matters?

Would a Database By Any Other Name Smell as Sweet?

Lately, I've been thinking and talking about library jargon a lot. You see, I'm part of the group that is getting ready to redesign the library's website. We had a meeting last week where we spent a lot of time talking about structure, but towards the end we touched on what kinds of language we want to use to label the structures. This isn't as easy as you might think. We want to make our website more accessible, more usable, more intuitive, but I keep asking myself one thing: who are we doing this for?

This thought was plaguing me well before I published Michael Steeleworthy's guest post, but his piece definitely intensified things for me. If I'm supposed to keep the students at my college in mind, we'll label things one way. If I'm designing for the faculty, it will happen another way. However, between Michael's piece and a couple of meetings I attended last week, my thinking on this subject is starting to clear up.

If members of the faculty at my college are indeed my main audience, I can keep a lot of the existing structure in place. These people have been part of academia for a long time and so have been inculcated to our ways of thinking and talking. These people call a database, "database," call a quarto, "quarto," and so on. If I follow this line of thought to its conclusion, it means I don't have to do much to the website other than prettying it up. What could be easier, right? Except we know that the status quo isn't working. Students don't come to library resources to start projects the way they used to do. Heck, sometimes they don't ever use our resources. 

Changing the current state of affairs means we have to start designing with the students in mind, and that's much harder. I'm not even 100% sure how students at my college talk about the resources we have at the library. I've heard them say things like "books" and "articles," but I'm not sure how many are distinguishing between electronic and print versions in those categories. I know some of them are making those distinctions, since their professors are, but I know some of our students don't differentiate. Also, how do differences like popular press vs. scholarly and primary/secondary/tertiary enter into how our students talk about information sources? Finally, how am I going to ask students to teach me their vocabulary without prejudicing their answers?

A colleague of mine said, in one of the meetings, something along the lines of: "It will be easier to get our faculty to come down a level in their language than to get the students to take a step up." I think he's right. Regardless, we've got a lot of work to do, but if we can build on what the students are already doing and show the faculty why this makes sense, it will be worth it.

What about you? How do you talk about library resources with your community members?

You Say Paraprofessional, I Say Professional

At times, when I think back to what I was like as a brand new librarian, I cringe. Oh my, I knew everything about everything. All you had to do was ask me and I’d pontificate about any library related subject. Of course, relatively speaking, I knew nothing. Thinking back to those first couple of years, though, makes me feel so grateful to the people with whom I worked. If not for them, I can’t imagine what kind of librarian I’d be now.

Of course, I’m indebted to the MLS/MLIS holders who I encountered in those early years, but in some ways I’m even more grateful to the other members of the staff.  Each of them had been working in libraries since before I’d figured out I wanted to be a librarian, in some cases decades before. I really dislike when I hear people like them described as “paraprofessional.” When I think of how hard they worked, and the kind of ethic each of them had, it seems ludicrous to call them anything other than professionals. Don’t get me wrong: I understand the meaning of the prefix “para.” It’s just that I can’t help thinking of parapsychology and the negative connotation “para” has in that context. Attaching “para” to any of those people feels like I’m insulting them.

I guess part of it is that I now know how much I still had to learn when I finished my degree program. Sure, I had my MLIS – from Simmons College no less – but I had almost no practical experience. I’d worked in a bookstore and volunteered in a children’s room at the local public library. Not that I needed much; it was an entry level position after all. But it still boggles my mind that I, the know nothing punk kid fresh from school, was the professional while those people who taught me so much, those people with decades of experience, weren’t called professionals. Truthfully, I’ve never met a “paraprofessional” who wasn’t a true professional.

What about you? What do you call non-MLS holders? Why?