Confessions of a Bibliophile

I am a confessed bibliophile. I read during commercials…and sometimes during the show (looking at you, The Walking Dead). I used to listen to books on my commute until I realized I could no longer hear them clearly. I read on both my half hour and my fifteen-minute breaks at work. I carry my Kindle in my purse in case there’s a time-on-my-hands emergency. For vacations, the first thing I pack is a book. Usually several. I’ve even stood in front of the stove with a book in one hand and a spoon in the other. Sometimes that works better than others. Spaghetti sauce is terribly hard to wipe off pages.

And we’re not just talking one book at a time. I usually have multiples going—one on my Kindle, one for emergencies in my car, one on my bedside table, and one downstairs by the television. Of course, sometimes what I’ve already started reading takes a temporary backseat to whatever fresh books I bring home after work.

My love affair with the written word is nothing new. My earliest memories are of my parents reading to me. In elementary school, we were allowed to read after we finished our daily assignments. One day I picked up my book to kill time until our spelling test started…and almost ended up reading right through it. Fortunately my teacher was understanding. I decided to become an English major at a very young age because in my warped little kid view of the world I thought it would mean getting paid to read books. Talk about a dream job.

Once I got my college undergrad classes out of the way, I was free to take as many Lit classes as I pleased—Medieval Literature, Victorian Literature, 20th Century British Literature, American Literature, Ancient Mythology, and an entire class devoted to William Shakespeare, to name just a few. This had the double attraction of feeding my book obsession and fulfilling requirements for my major. Then there was the eight-week long intensive War and Peace summer class. That averaged out to reading about 80-90 pages per night, every night. One of my favorite classes.

Being such a book junkie I’ve naturally developed the skill to read at a relatively fast pace. I have read (or listened to) thousands of books over the course of my lifetime. And I’ve found there are two categories of books out there. Those that you read once and enjoy, and those you come back to time and time again. Characters that seem more like a part of the family and places you’ve visited in your dreams. Plots that haunt you until you have to re-enter the story. Authors you go out and purchase their newest book without knowing anything about it but absolutely certain you will love it.

When I’m in the throes of a good book everything else fades away. Don’t knock on my door; chances are I won’t hear you. Don’t call me, I won’t answer. You can text me, but don’t expect a speedy reply. I’ve wandered off inside my book.

Equality, Diversity, and Inclusion in Real Life

When the world shut down in 2020, my colleagues--like so many others--were suddenly faced with the prospect of working from home. All day, every day. Since there are only so many times we could check our email, and so many tasks we could accomplish when half of our files were still in the library building, the head of our department instituted a massive training initiative. Each week we did peer-to-peer training on different databases, customer service concepts, personal health and safety, etc.

The training that had the biggest impact on my professional and personal life, hands down, was EDI--Equity, Diversity, and Inclusion. By promoting cultural awareness and sensitivity, the goal was to help ensure everyone who came into the library would be met with understanding and treated compassionately. It meant staff going beyond just recognizing the different groups our patrons represent to knowing at least something of their cultural history and challenges.

Oh, just so we’re clear, when I say “represented” I am not referring to legal representation, the justice system, or the actions of law enforcement agents. I’m talking about simple visibility.  I’ve noticed it seems advertisers have recently realized not everyone fits into the cookie-cutter image of blond/young/attractive/skinny/heterosexual/etc. I now see mixed families, same-sex couples, mobility aids in ads where that’s not what’s being sold, and models with real bodies.

Before that particular training, of course I realized there were people from other cultures living in my community. But I didn’t stop and really think about how difficult some aspects of their lives are. This is a very simple example, but I was aghast when a radio announcer--upon reading the name of a Middle Eastern man who featured in a news story--didn’t even try to pronounce it. He said “last name of…uh…well, who cares? It’s not relevant to the story.” Not relevant to the story. 

And every time I see a colleague who has a beautiful Indian name, I cringe. Because my first words to her were “I’m going to have a really hard time with your name.” I called her by her nickname (that she gave me) for years. Then I realized I was an asshat if I didn’t even try to give her the full name she was born with.

I learned a lot that week, and it opened my eyes wide to many little things that would have gone unnoticed by me before. More than anything, though, the EDI training reminded me that "human" = "human."  Just because you and I don’t share the same ethnicity, sexual orientation, cultural background, physical ability, socioeconomic group, or gender identity doesn’t mean one of us is more deserving of fair play and equal representation than the other. You have the same right to see yourself reflected in the world as I do.

Years ago in grad school, one of my instructors told the class to “check your white privilege at the door” and gave us a worksheet called “Unpacking the Invisible Knapsack” to fill out. I highly recommend you work through it yourself. You might be shocked by some of the things you’ve never even noticed.

F.A.I.L.

Today’s entry is a lesson in failure. All too often, people who fail tend to think they didn’t work hard enough. Or that they aren’t smart enough. Or capable enough. We live in a success-driven culture and--consciously or not--there is a certain amount of shame attached when we don’t succeed. It doesn’t matter what the circumstances are. If we tried and we failed, then there must be something wrong with us.

And until recently, I bought into this idea. I’d berate myself every time I tried something new and it didn’t turn out perfectly the very first time. I couldn’t do <fill in the blank> because obviously I wasn’t smart enough. I’d become frustrated and get disappointed in my lack of ability.

When I was in grad school, I took a class titled Introduction to Bibliographic Metadata (aka “Cataloging”). Most of my librarian colleagues and fellow grad school folks warned me, “You’ll either understand it immediately, or you never will. There is no in between.” 

Wouldn’t you know it? I was in the “I don’t get it” crowd. I worked my tail off for that class and received mostly Ds and Cs, a rude awakening for someone whose current GPA was 3.94. And it didn’t help that I happened to be in a section where most of the other students “got it.” After a disastrous midterm I began to question my general intelligence and capabilities. 

I tend toward the melodramatic when I’m feeling down, and by the time I’d finished castigating myself I was pretty sure the only job I would ever be able to excel at was that of a ditch digger (no disrespect to ditch diggers). Maybe.

I took to Facebook in search of something to distract me from my impending “flunking out of grad school and taking up a shovel” future. And then, I saw it. The image that would change everything.

Leapin’ library books, Batman! All this time. I wasn’t failing. I was learning. No words can convey how radically this concept has changed my thinking. It was instantaneous. I realized first tries at something always go poorly and my second attempt would be better. My third attempt would be even better than that. Heck, by my fourth and fifth attempts I could very well be almost totally competent!

So next time you try something new, keep your mind open to F.A.I.L.ure. It’s not a stigma. It’s a badge of honor.

PS. That cataloging class? Squeaked out a low B by the skin of my teeth.