I could show you my favourite obsession.

I have always loved a good puzzle. Jigsaws, wordsearches, crosswords - particularly cryptics - and high school maths, which totally counts. There's something satisfying about trying to crack a code, or just working through a process of elimination, to gain a solution to a problem that's seemingly impossible.

In a previous workplace, we used to have jigsaw puzzles in the tearoom, which in theory is an excellent way to momentarily clear one's mind between workplace tasks. Our outgoing team leader, as a farewell gift, gave us a 1000-piece puzzle of the Magna Carta. It was ridiculously difficult - and whilst it was probably envisaged as a team exercise, it became more of a spectator sport to see how long it would take Andrew to persevere until it was completed. And I did complete it after several months, and many flex hours taken over long lunchtimes, and the occasional afternoon after clocking off.

But that was nothing, compared to a far greater puzzle - one that has taken up many years of my life, and had an impact on friendships, mental health and my personal finances....  yes, I'm referring to the puzzle that is career planning in the library sector.

I was one of the lucky ones. I got my foot in the sector as a library casual worker when I was a student. That led to a full-time job as a library officer - which was when the obsession started. The first two steps were relatively straightforward: (a) get relevant experience, and (b) get a qualification. My strategy: do whatever it takes to make sure I have an entry level professional role by the time I graduate - preferably sooner. In my case, 'Whatever it takes' meant moving to Darwin, and within two years I was managing a small public library branch.

But that wasn't enough for my obsession. Getting to this point in regional Australia was one thing, but making it in the library sector in a capital city was another, and that was my next goal. I thought it would be easy. It wasn't. Turns out, in the days before Zoom, it's hard to be competitive in a phone interview from the other side of the continent, and it's even harder to be competitive when you're fresh off a four-hour red eye flight. Every rejection felt like failure, and I would rerun the interviews through my head, checking that I'd done all the right things - worn a suit and tie, spouted prepared responses to questions anticipated around the selection criteria, shook hands (in pre-COVID times!), and followed up with enthusiastic emails reiterating my interest in the job.

I felt trapped - particularly by one of the big rules of career planning: 'Don't quit your job until you have something else lined up.' And then, somebody gave me contradicting advice: 'Why don't you just move back to Melbourne, and see what happens?' Against all my instincts, I decided to embrace the insecurity, and quit what really was a dream job at the time, and moved back to Melbourne. Within two weeks, I had a new job, developing new skills in the library sector.

It wasn't the last time that my obsession reared its ugly head. It happened when I would submit application after application for overseas volunteer assignments. It happened for years of applying for the APS - really, when your guide to job applications is entitled 'Cracking the code', you do have to wonder! Living in Canberra, I remember once sitting in a cafe, and overhearing a couple of fledgling public servants engaged in looping conversations about their plans to move up and make it to EL1 by the time they turn 35. I also saw it in my colleagues at the UN when I was a volunteer at the UN Mission in Kosovo. Their obsession with their career planning strategies was next level. It was horribly unhealthy, and overwhelmed their hopes and dreams for their future.

When I left my last job - and with it, an ongoing place with a coveted library employer - one of my colleagues was shocked, and told me that I was taking a huge risk. 27-year-old me would probably agree. But if there's one thing that I've learned, it's that some puzzles are far too complicated to crack, and that obsession with the long game is just not worth being thwarted by human randomness getting in the way. At at its heart, career planning is about trying to control the uncontrollable. At its worst, it feels like an impossible thought spiral that will never end. At its best, it's an addiction that I know that I shouldn't feed.

These days, I sympathise for those who are entering the sector - it's certainly no easier now than it was then (despite the repeated promises of retiring baby boomers!), and the rules are constantly changing. Recently, my eye caught a new series of articles from ABC Everyday, entitled 'Ready for a career glow up?' Apparently, career plans are becoming a thing of the past, so now I definitely feel a bit silly, right? (To be fair, the list of 5 tips at the end of the article sound suspiciously like career planning...)

Of course, I do feel privileged to be in a position where I no longer feel like I need to break into the sector, nor am I feeling like I'm getting close to obsolescence. I'm somewhere in the middle. You could perhaps call it 'career inertia' - and there's definitely something comforting about it. Rather than obsessing over regaining control, for the first time in fifteen years I'm really content to embrace the insecurity, and go with the opportunities that come my way.

The second hand unwinds...

Lying in my bed I hear the clock tick, and think of... libraries.

Damn it.

Flashback a day to Friday.

I break. Rendered pretty much useless. At the end of the day, I tell my partner that I just wanted to go to bed and sleep for two weeks. The signs were there. I'd been feeling them growing for days, weeks, months. Time accumulating - without space and without time out.

Flashback more than ten months to October, 2019. I am in Hobart for a conference. Which, incidentally, is the last thing I blogged about. Mum calls from Melbourne. It's Dad. Cancer. She's optimistic - they're doing amazing things with immunotherapy these days.

Flashforward ten weeks. He's gone. We clean out his study. I take a bound copy of his PhD, because god knows we all paid for it through those years. We cancel the overseas holiday, and Christmas is quiet, caring family time instead.

By the time my partner and I return to Canberra, everything is on fire. We watch the news, as houses not far from my partner's house in the country are reduced to nothing, and flames come over the hills.

Flashforward two months. I've quit my ongoing public service job. In hindsight, it seemed like a rash decision, but all I knew was that I needed a change, and there was an opportunity to do something different. Be creative. Learn new skills. It was the right decision.

Flashforward one month. COVID-19. Working from home is a hell of a way to learn a new job. No getting to know your colleagues, so that you can figure out how everybody works. Cursing the remote access to the work server that keeps crashing. Completely failing to separate work time from home time. Social media time slowly becomes more of an extension of work time. When it's my turn to run Zoom meetings, I keep them short and sweet. April and May seem to go on forever.

Flashforward to June. Restrictions are relaxing. Everybody is being defiantly nonchalant, since we've flattened the curve, and there's hardly any active cases in Canberra, so what's the big fucking deal, just give me my coffee in my KeepCup and not a non-recyclable paper cup. We're still trying to save the planet, right? I have a weekend of abdominal pain, and for a few hours I have an unshakable paranoia that it's cancer. I wonder when we'll be able to visit Melbourne again, to help my mum finish cleaning out the house. I try not to take any vague criticism sent my way personally, but usually fail. I decide to delete my Twitter app - I need to find time to disconnect, so I announce that "I am taking a hiatus for the winter." Wanker.

It's the uncomfortable calm in the eye of the storm.

July. Return to work full-time in the office. New outbreaks in Melbourne. I check daily for the inevitable spread of cases to Canberra which never come. August. Lockdown. Borders close. Canberra is declared a 'hotspot' by Queensland, and everybody laughs.. I get into a shitfight on the internet, because I think it's ridiculous that partnered swing dancing classes have started again when it's only a matter of time before we have our second wave. I feel awful because, actually, all I really want to do is dance with somebody.

I find myself logging back into Twitter. I engage, regret... engage, regret. The communities that I care so much about, but also microcosms of intensity that suck out all my emotional energy. Especially libraries. I go to the shops, and there's Father's Day shit everywhere. Time after time.

Deadlines loom. Frustrations grow. Setbacks occur.

Friday. I break. Despite wanting to sleep, not a lot happens. My mind races. I think about how I would be in Dublin right now, in an alternate university, rather than preparing for a midnight Zoom meeting, which is hardly a substitute. I can't sleep I think about my work, and libraries, and Library People, and Twitter. Repeat. Repeat. I decide that this is not healthy, and proceed to unfollow all of the Library People on Twitter. I realise that it's more than half the people I was following.

I wonder how all this is what my life has become.

--

It's a new week now. I know that I need to make some changes.

I need to find more time, take more time, and manage it all better. My pre-COVID life meant regularly getting out and about, engaging in activities that took my mind away from work and libraries. Now that those activities are off the table for now, I need to be better disciplined with my time, so I don't end up in just one bubble that acts as a feedback loop that amplifies all my anxieties and desperation to try to fix all of the things.

I need to learn to switch all of that stuff off. Seriously.

I've applied for some leave. I was putting it off, because I've always only saved my my leave to go away travelling. But perhaps a staycation is exactly what I need. I have a lot of good books to read.

I don't regret socially distancing from what was a major source of angst, particularly on Twitter, but I do regret the way I did it. It shouldn't have come to that point, and people got hurt. Sometimes it is better just to fade away, at least on social media, I guess.

I want to visit Melbourne again. I spoke to my mum this evening, and she told me that two of her colleagues in the hospital were recently tested positive for COVID-19. She laughed about it. I didn't.

The world is not okay right now.

It will be again. And then it won't, again. Time after time.

Questions

It was a question that Joey Chung recalled during their presentation at the New Librarians' Symposium in Adelaide, when observing that they were often one of only a few Asian librarians at libraries conference events... where, at one such event, Joey's colleague asked:

Joey, do you think that it is a bit funny that you're the only Asian in here?

Joey's response: Ah yeah, so what? I'm so used to it by now.

You don't need to have prepared a workforce diversity trend report to be aware that the Australian library and information sector has a diversity issue when it comes to people of colour and, unfortunately, this is seemingly even more the case when it comes to delegates that are sent to professional conferences.

However, in a strange twist of fate, I was fortunate enough to be sent as a delegate to attend the biennial conference of the Federation of Ethnic Communities' Councils of Australia (FECCA), held in Hobart last week.

Hello Hobart!

For me, this was a unique conference event, for two reasons:

1. Other than my colleague, there were no other delegates (to my knowledge) from the library / cultural sector; and

2. The overwhelming majority of delegates were people of colour.

And I have to say, it was a breath of fresh air - and that's not just the Tasmanian climate!

There were a number of recurring themes - things that we really should be talking about in libraries - and yes, some of us do, but they are usually far from the top of the priority list:

Working with First Nations people. The vast majority of us are migrants in somebody else's country. We need to acknowledge traditional owners, and seek welcome to country. We need to work toward reconciliation for the past deeds of Australia's colonisers - deeds that we all benefit from, to the detriment of First Nations people. But also, importantly, we need to support new migrants to Australia to connect with First Nations people, exchange knowledge, find common understanding, and collaborate to build community together.

The opening night reception began with a welcome to country, and the official launch of FECCA's Reconciliation Action Plan. The next morning, one of the keynote speakers was a Palawa Elder, and over the two days, there were quite a number of presentations of case studies where multicultural communities were actively engaging with Indigenous Elders to deliver intercultural exchanges - particularly in facilitating resettlement programs for refugees and asylum seekers. The underlying message here was that we need to stop looking at immigration through a colonialist perspective, and connect better with First Nations values when living in somebody else's land. And when we think about multiculturalism and inclusion of minorities, we must remember that our First Nations people are minorities in their own country.

Lobbying and advocacy. As keynote speaker Hana Assafiri began her presentation - we live in a polarised world. We need to be vigilant against discrimination. We need to understand that bigotry is hate speech and not free speech. We need to be honest about what is happening, and be truth-tellers.

Shen Narayanasamy from Colour Code talked about the moment of realising that 24% of Australian residents were from non-European backgrounds - twice that of the black American population. Furthermore, in 49 seats across Australian, 1 in 5 residents are from non-English speaking backgrounds, and despite common perceptions, many migrants, multicultural and First Nations people in Australia are swinging voters. That's a huge source of political power. And so, people of colour in Australia need to stop begging for acceptance, and instead mobilise and work together.

There are so many important often-unheard voices in Australia that need to be heard, and their messages brought to the forefront of our cultural institutions.

Defining and measuring multiculturalism. Australia does a good job of collecting data on first generation migrants, but for subsequent generations - not so much. Official data only looks at country of birth and/or language spoken at home, so if you're Australian-born and speak English, you don't count as being from culturally and linguistically diverse (CALD) background. This is a set of criteria and definition which came out of a context of exclusion from the White Australia policy. It leads to misleading statistical base data - where the population diversity statistics are out by approximately 1.4 million people - and there is no right for people to self-identify as being from a culturally diverse background.

This, of course, needs to also be considered by libraries (and *cough* library associations *cough*) when considering the statistics on diversity, and using them as the basis for the services that they provide to their communities.

Cultural competency in the workplace. I learnt of a number of initiatives in this area - the Bureau of Meteorology have a Multicultural Access and Equity Action Plan, which outlines their actions for engaging with culturally and linguistically diverse communities. The Department of Human Services have, over the past three years, rolled out a multicultural awareness program to a total of over 22,000 staff, and are collaborating with staff who deliver their Indigenous cultural competency training to provide further anti-discrimination training. HealthWest in Melbourne have gone further, and developed Standard for Workforce Mutuality - the idea that the diversity of the workforce should represent the diversity of their client base. Furthermore, this is an intersectional measurement of diversity, assessing cultural identity along with gender, sexuality, disability, and so on.

Communicating with multicultural populations. Non English-speaking people in Australia need information too - perhaps moreso than anybody else - if we want to be facilitators of social cohesion in our community. We saw a number of presentations showcasing multilingual services - particularly online communication. One such example, ASIC, highlighted the importance of this, as one in three small businesses in Australia are run by migrants - and in most cases, it's their first business. So, it's important that they have access to clear guidance for managing a business well - and legally!

Again, for cultural institutions, we can no longer get away with being monolingual in our communications, especially if we want to engage with multicultural communities and include them in our cultural collections.

So, after spending two days exploring these topics with a bunch of (mostly) non-white non-librarians, I wonder: how hard would it be to have a library conference that was dominated by these kinds of themes? Is that too much to ask?

As an aside, the headline speaker at the Thursday night dinner was Australian comedian Nazeem Hussain - and at one point, he posed the question:

How awesome is it to be at an event in Australia where white people are the minority?

Obviously, a rhetorical question.

Secret Asian Man: the privileges and pitfalls of "passing".

One of my best friends in high school was quite open about the fact that he hated all Asians.

Not that I thought he was necessarily going to go out and commit hate-crimes. The early 90s were a simpler time: casual racism was still socially acceptable, Con the Fruiterer was hilarious, and One Nation was but a twinkle in Pauline Hanson's eye. To be honest, I think he mostly just had a problem with the rich international students from Hong Kong and Singapore who seemed to be too cool for everybody else.

It's only really in hindsight that I think it was odd that he'd express his hatred of Asians if one of his good mates was one. I can only assume that (a) he didn't know I was Asian, (b) he thought of me as more "Aussie" than "Asian", or (c) he was trying to drop a hint, and I just wasn't catching on.

I was initially raised in a bilingual household, until my parents were worried that my English was getting too muddled-up. Even still, through much of my primary school years, I went to Chinese language schools on Saturday morning - which I absolutely hated. I was skilled with using chopsticks from a young age, and my mum would do most of the cooking in the family, which meant that more often than not, meals would consist of some variant of rice or noodles with veggies and some meat. Still, we kids loved it when it was dad's turn to cook, as it mostly involved pies or sausages.

It's only been in recent years where I've really come to accept my identity as an Asian-Australian. Before then, it was always something that was used against me, whether it was hilarious teenage jokes about being the product of the sex trade, or random drunken strangers who'd shout "Ohhh kon-ni-chi-wa!" or the highly-original "Ching-chong! Ching-chong!". That is, they weren't telling me to go back to my own country, or threatening to bash me.

When recalling these experiences, my white friends were always outraged and indignant on my behalf - but also a little surprised. After all, I "didn't even look that Asian" (so they'd tell me). Like being a "halfie" wasn't even worth it.

And in spite of my experiences, I also accept that, for much of my life, I've had the privilege of "passing" as, well, ambiguous. Certainly, on paper, I have a Western name, excellent English language skills, a nice predominantly-white middle-class profession as a librarian, and was born and bred in Australia. And without any reason to indicate otherwise, people assume that I'm white - and I don't give them any reason to think otherwise. I figure that they can work it out later on, once they've had a chance to get to know me as a person first.

Of course, that ambiguity can also lead to its fair share of awkwardness. Even when people have the best intentions and, purely out of curiosity, find themselves asking me that classic, "So, where are your parents from?" Like I need to provide my detailed family lineage, so that they can understand my, skin tone, facial bone structure, curly hair and ability to actively reverse the effects of ageing. They're often surprised (as am I) when they reveal that they thought that I was either Greek, Polynesian, or Jewish.

In recent years, I've noticed a trend at presentations given by professionals from First Nations backgrounds. They introduce themselves, not only by their name, but also their cultural group - and sometimes they even do this in their language. Whilst this may be an important statement of authority or sovereignty over the topic that they are going to speak on, another thing always intrigues me: the speaker is often from a mixed-race background, and if they hadn't explicitly stated their cultural identity, I would have no idea whether they were from a First Nations background or not.

I've spoken to other professionals from mixed backgrounds about their experiences, and whilst they are privileges to not being "obviously" Black, Brown or Asian, there are pitfalls too. We share experiences of discrimination, and a passion for promoting diverse voices in our professional fields. However, at times when we put ourselves out there, we can find ourselves challenged from "both sides". My white colleagues have often felt awkward or uncomfortable when I bring up topics such as (for example) white colonial narratives dominating cultural institutions, but at the same time, I experience a reluctance amongst my colleagues who are people of colour to engage in such discussions, and I can't help but feel like it's partially because I'm "not Asian enough" to be part of such a movement, especially when I've had all the privileges of "passing". Indeed, when I was elected into the IFLA Standing Committee for the Library Services to Multicultural Populations Section, one response from a colleague was, "Oh, that's interesting. What's your connection with multicultural populations, then?" It definitely felt like a challenge - for me to justify putting myself forward for such a role when there might be more suitable candidates. And maybe I should - even now, I experience my share of imposter syndrome, and suspect that I'm just being a dramatic leftie playing the race card when others have it so much worse.

I'm not saying that I'm entitled to be the spokesperson for Australian-Chinese communities - nor would I necessarily want to. But I do feel that librarians of colour should stand together, to ensure that we are all represented as a part of our society when it comes to our cultural institutions, and that we provide services and collections that connect with all communities in our society. We should all be proud of who we are, and be counted.

And I am not half a person.

Where are the radical librarians of colour in Australia?

This month's glamblogclub theme is "radical" - and I'm not going to dwell too much on defining this term, other than to say that, depending on the context, it can be positive or negative, but is almost always focused on an extreme form of change and disruption - whether it be technological change, a shift in paradigm, or overhaul of power structures.
So, what does it mean to be "radical" in the context of libraries? For me, as a person of colour floating in a sea of whiteness - colleagues, collections and clients - I have many strong opinions on the topic of libraries and cultural diversity.

When I look to forums such as Twitter, and conference events, particularly in the USA and Canada, I see a strong contingent of radical librarians of colour, sharing their experiences, challenging whiteness in their collections, services and teams, and generally banding together to support one another.

And I wonder - why doesn't this happen in Australia? I see a growing trend in pursuing critical librarianship as a form of radical action amongst librarians, but amongst those who are particularly active, there is most notably a lack of cultural diversity. Of course, there are a couple of exceptions, but they are exactly that - exceptions.

Of course, this is Australia - a country where the White Australia policy is still in living memory for most of the older generations of this nation. As a child, I grew up in a culture where to be a real "Aussie" was to be white, and the best that the rest of us could do is try to fit in, and live in "harmony". To challenge that would just be to draw attention to one's own difference, and fuel the opinion that perhaps, if I don't like it, I should go back to "my own country".

Part of me wants to think that times have changed since then, but then I just have to look to any Australian person of colour who has voiced a radical opinion in the media, and then watch the torrent of abuse unfold.

So, there's often, at best, an uncomfortable reluctance to speak out on matters of cultural diversity, even when surrounded by well-meaning white folks. At worst? Well, ask me some time when we've both had a couple of drinks.

In a professional context, there's still so much risk involved in challenging the status quo from a cultural perspective. It's an uncomfortable conversation for everybody to have, particularly if you're in the vast minority. If you don't see that changing any time soon, there's nothing to be gained, and plenty to lose. I feel uncomfortable even writing this blog, as I fear reprisals of one form or another.

Of course, that discomfort isn't necessarily a bad thing - it's important to acknowledge. I don't feel comfortable talking about the lack of cultural diversity in libraries, when I'm surrounded by white folks - even when they're being supportive allies. It just makes me feel even more isolated and different. Alone, I'm just not ready to be radical.

So, instead, here's my modestly-radical proposal - and a call-out to all other Australian librarians of colour out there who have been silent for too long. Find each other. Make the time to meet in a safe environment and have these important conversations, critiquing and interrogating the systemic whiteness in your libraries. Mobilise, collaborate and be active. Find your collective voice. Write to professional publications - or create your own. Put together conference panels. Whatever it takes to build our own professional community to ensure that, in these conversations, there is nothing about us without us.

(And if you don't know anybody else that you can connect with, you can email me - I'm happy to get things in motion.)

Our endgame as librarians.

It's the end of the year, and this month's GLAMblogclub theme is "End".

As an annual milestone, the end of a year is often a time of reflection on the past year of our ongoing journey; where we were this time last year, then things that we've achieved, the challenges and setbacks, and the direction in which we're headed. And it got me thinking: where does this road lead, what is our endgame as librarians, and most importantly, how do we make it happen?

Firstly, as many of us know, the cultural sector is a very difficult nut to crack, and for many, the endgame is simply getting a coveted ongoing job as a librarian. It doesn't even have to pay that well, so long as there's a modicum of job security. The process of getting to that point as a new graduate can be so frustrating and fraught with setbacks that, once we finally get there, there's a feeling of, "Yes! I've made it! I'm a librarian!"

But then what? I was reminded of this question recently when I spotted the following tweet:

When the vocational awe wears off, it’s hard to figure out what to do next.

— LIS Grievances (@lis_grievances) December 28, 2018

It seems that vocational awe is a concept that only librarians appear to be obsessed with - an online search will bring back many references to it, almost entirely in the context of libraries. For a good rundown on the topic, see this article by Fobazi Ettarh, who explains it far better than I can.

So, what do you do when you realise that all that glitters isn't actually gold? I'm often surprised when I ask librarians about their aspirations for effecting change, and they say words to the effect of, "Oh, I'm not really career-minded. I'm just happy to do this job as long as the work is interesting."

And I feel conflicted, because on one hand, we work in a sector where change is necessary on so many levels, and we need to be the ones doing that. At the same time, I feel like that's my vocational awe taking over, and that, at the end of the day, it's just work. For many, we're only paid to do the job that's in front of us. We're certainly not there to dismantle systems of oppression that are inherent in the institutions that we serve.

But if not us, then who? This is the stuff that keeps me awake late at night.

More importantly, how? In his latest post, Nathan Sentance highlights various ways that cultural institutions have contributed to colonial destruction of First Nations cultures. "As history institutions, they have helped in supplanting First Nations history with a newly created colonial memory, working almost as propaganda distributors for the settler state." He proposes that these institutions need to share their power with grassroots organisations that actively seek to repair colonial damage and prevent further harm.

And it's certainly not the first time I've heard the suggestion that librarians need to relinquish the power that they hold in their roles. Whether it be through enforcing oppressive vocabularies in their subject headings and classifications, or supporting cultural biases in the collections that they build or even in the application of library fines, we are supporting inequality in our society.

evening

if you're a librarian talking about access to library resources, then ending library fines is in your best interests. monetary fines hurt the economically vulnerable (homeless, working poor, children) and create a barrier to access thus not continue#endlibraryfines

— andy (@wawoodworth) December 28, 2018

Of course, librarians are the best when it comes to making excuses for themselves - which are often justified. Whether it be a lack of support from peers / supervisors, limited resources, or it simply "out of our hands", too often we find ourselves in a situation we we have to stand by and watch on, frustrated that we can't do better. Especially when we should do better.

So, back to the original question: What is our endgame?

Do we keep our head down and work hard for years for that promotions so that, 5-10 years down the track, we're in a position where we might finally be able to effect the change we want to see - knowing the risk that, having reached that point, we might still be impotent to actually effect this kind of change?

Do we accept our fate as being implicit in supporting systems of oppression, since it's not just librarians but most professionals that are in this situation, and just try to make change where it's possible? After all, we all need to work, firstly, to put a roof over our heads and food in our mouths. Our jobs are not our lives.

Do we take up academic pursuits? If we can't effect change from within, then we critique our practices through academic research and published papers - though there's no guarantee than any critique - no matter how well it's based on evidence - will lead to changes in practice. If anything, it's just further supporting a system of observation and interpretation from a place of privilege, without motivating real social change.

Do we leave librarianship? After all, if we're so passionate about social justice, wouldn't it be better to work in an organisation that directly deals with these issues, and it's from those platforms that we can critique cultural institutions and externally lobby them for change. (Or better still, move into politics where we can legislate the change that's needed - much easier said than done, I know!)

At a dinner party last night, I raised this question and, other than a general consensus that I shouldn't be preoccupying myself with all this during the Christmas / New Year break, one of my friends stated, "I'm completely aware that I'm part of the problem. We all are. But I'm also selfish, and I can live with that."

It's not really a satisfactory conclusion for me to reach in this post, but it's an important reminder that, whilst it is a kind of selfishness, I also need to be kind to myself.

Happy new year.

New beginnings...

So, last month I waited for the last day of the month to write my GLAM Blog Club post, but since this month's theme is "beginning", I am attempting to get this out in the beginning of the month.

A little over two weeks ago, I started a process which resulted in me receiving this item of apparel in the mail.

Every enrolment comes with a free hoodie!

Yes, I applied to go back to university, and as of next month, I will be commencing a Graduate Certificate of Education (Educational Research), which consists of a couple of units of coursework and a minor research thesis. If that goes well, then I'll be on track to move on to a PhD.

So, the obvious question is... why?

Every other time I've gone to university, it's been about doing coursework to get a piece of paper that will improve my career prospects. But this time, it's different.

There have been a number of moments in the past year that have prompted me in this direction:

• Running into my old LIS course coordinator from university, chatting about libraries for a while until I hear the inevitable question: "So... when are you going to finally do a PhD?"
• Reading about opportunities for a PhD scholarship, researching the ways that collections represent multicultural Australia in National and State Libraries, and thinking, "That is exactly the kind of topic that I'd want to be researching, if I were doing a PhD!" and realising that whilst I'm completely unready to take on a PhD right now, I'd like to make sure that in the future, if such an opportunity were to arise, I'd be in a good position to apply.
• Going to IFLA, and seeing presentations by librarians on topics such as the lived experiences of immigrant staff in German libraries, and thinking, "Wow, I wish were having these kinds of discussions in Australia."
• Coming back to Australia, and then seeing discussions on Twitter from librarians attending the Joint Conference for Librarians of Color in Albuquerque, New Mexico, and thinking, "That sounds amazing! Why aren't we having events like this here in Australia?"

And of course, I know the reason why. I've known it all my life living in Australia, and yet I'm still often reluctant to call it out for what it is. The few times that I have, I've at best made people feel noticeably uncomfortable, and at worst been verbally abused.

So, I want to build my confidence to be able to investigate and critique the ways that cultural biases and whiteness exist in our cultural institutions, in a way that is accessible and intelligent - and I feel that pursuing academic research and publication is an effective way of doing this. I want to find ways to foster these kinds of discussions in Australia, and build a professional community that supports Australian librarians of colour in being able to share their lived experiences in a safe environment.

Yes, I'm a bit scared. I've always felt more like a creative than an academic, which seems like a ridiculous dichotomy, given that they involve very similar skills. Most of what I write comes from a place of emotion, motivated by hope, fear, inspiration and curiosity. I worry that I don't have what it takes to research and write academically. It's been quite a few years since I've had to write an essay, let alone take on even a minor thesis.

But seeing these research opportunities arise, and academic communities growing overseas, I want to be a part of that world, and so, this is a new beginning to take me on that path.

Wish me luck!

Returning to face the strange...

I love conferences, and I love travelling and working overseas. They are both opportunities to push yourself outside of your comfort zone, explore new ideas and cultures, get a sense of what's happening in other places, and really expand your outlook on everything from professional to socio-political, cultural and personal issues.

Returning, on the other hand, is strange. Everything's familiar, but you're looking at it all through a different lens.

This is something that I've encountered at multiple times in my life:

- Returning to live and work in Melbourne after 2.5 years in Darwin
- Returning to live and work in libraries in Melbourne, after living for most of year in Japan.
- Returning to live and work in libraries in Melbourne, after having spent most of a year working on various projects in the development sector in PNG and Vietnam. (Are you starting to see a trend?)
- Returning to Australia, after spending over two years working in the development sector in Vietnam and Kosovo, and swearing that you'll never go back to libraries, and then returning to libraries anyway - though not in Melbourne.

It also happens when I go off to a conference, whether for a few days or a couple of weeks, such as my recent IFLA adventure, fill my head with all of the big picture issues, and then return back to my everyday job.

So, what makes it strange?

Well, firstly, comparatively speaking, Australians are obscenely privileged. Even those who are marginalised. That's not to say that their lived experiences aren't legitimately challenging, but when you see the levels of poverty and social inequality that people experience in other parts of the world, and worked with people who have lived through war and genocide, it's hard to empathise with those in the library who might be, say, very upset about delays in their collection delivery, or the quality of the wifi in the reading room. It takes a while to get back into the headspace of the average Australian, which also means shutting out that voice in your head that says, "These are such First World problems" but instead accept that now I have to reprioritise my values in order to do my job well. And it's strange.

Secondly, we don't necessarily do things much better in Australia. Going overseas and working in places that are challenging in terms of technical competence, bureaucracy and inefficiency, it's tempting to think at the time, "Oh, we don't have these problems in Australia." Except we do, and don't have the excuse of living in an under-resourced developing country. Occasionally, we're much worse. Which feels strange, all things considered.

Finally - and this is more in relation to my recent return - going off to IFLA and engaging with presentations and speakers from libraries all around the world, I'm reminded of all the big topics that we need to engage with when we work in libraries. We're inspired by technological innovation, and go deep in discussing problematic issues that are common across the world. I return to work, determined to be mindful of these things in practice, but everything feels incongruous with this mindset, and/or completely out of scope with my current duties. And it feels strange, because suddenly I don't know what I'm doing here, if I can't apply these principles into my work.

These thoughts remind me of a conversation I had with a colleague over a year ago, who was quite vocally "not a librarian", and challenged the idea that they - or anybody in the team, really - needed to study librarianship in order to do their job well. I didn't deny that this was true, but at the same time, I feel that what defines us as librarians isn't necessarily what we do in our operational day-to-day jobs, but how we engage with the professional issues within the sector, and push for change, whether it be institutional or on a wider scale. And I feel that sometimes, the only way we can really do that is to engage with the issues outside our bubbles - whether through travelling to conferences, working abroad or pursuing research - and when we return we should "face the strange". That is, really interrogate those things that just don't feel right in our work, and grate against our professional principles. Because these are the areas that need ch-ch-ch-changes...

And she gave away the secrets of her past...

So, when last month's theme was announced, I was less than thrilled at the prospect of writing at length on it. I find the idea of professional work being tied to one's happiness hugely problematic - as do I find the idea of my work being tied to somebody else's happiness. But at least I had books.

Then this month's theme, Control, was announced - now there's a topic that I can get my teeth into. Cue the Joy Division soundtrack (i.e. press play below) and continue reading.

So, a little while ago, somebody came into work bemoaning the restrictive limitations that a certain State Library (which shall remain nameless for the sake of my future career prospects) had in its Special Collections Reading Room. Apparently, whilst certain manuscript collections were available for viewing in the reading room - albeit under controlled supervision - they were in no way allowed to take digital photographs of the material for future reference. They could, of course, transcribe and sketch (using a pencil, of course), and read the contents. But without express permission from the donor of the material - or, as is often the case, their descendants. Of course, the kicker is that (until January 1, 2019), all unpublished materials remain in copyright in perpetuity. The other unfortunate possibility is that once the material is no longer protected by copyright, it still might have restrictive access and copying conditions placed on it by a rights agreement between the donor and the library.

Now, I know what you're thinking - this is 2018. Who even cares about boxes of dead trees that were carved out half a century ago? The answer is - a lot of people. Especially when that knowledge is locked away in the physical world, whilst we're living in a digital world. It is literally buried treasure. The moment it is uncovered, captured and set free into the digital world, it no longer has value in its scarcity. Furthermore, once a manuscript collection / archive is fragmented into its parts, it no longer has value in its recordness as a formed set of documents, and it loses context, evidence - effectively, its story.

But I'm a librarian, not an archivist. I'm primarily focused on the needs of the reader, not the wishes of the creator - especially when that creator has been dead for thirty years. Here's why: The world has changed. Back in the 20th century, when old-fashioned rights agreements were being put together with donors, we didn't have digital cameras. We didn't have the internet. We had photocopiers - which were likely to cause irreparable damage to any delicate materials placed in them. Libraries didn't have the same mission to digitise and take collections to the world. The world had to come to the library, get their reader's ticket, get out the white gloves, and preferably have some kind of academic credentials to justify casting their naked eyes on a piece of history.

And people would donate a lifetime's worth of personal papers to the library, trusting that the library would do everything in their power to maintain a controlling eye over these collections, lest a careless reader corrupt the sanctity of their hand-written memories in their wake.

So, this is the legacy that we must contend with, when somebody wants to make digital copies of materials that have come from a time when the idea of digital copying was unfathomable. Furthermore, when archives come in endless boxes of mixed media, from unpublished written work to photos, newspaper clippings, letters from third parties and printed ephemera, the very thought of trying to dictate where copyright starts and ends for each item is enough to make any librarian say, "No!" (When what they're really saying is "I don't want to be responsible for sorting out this mess!")

So that's what (some) libraries do. They say, "No. Not without express permission from whoever it is that can authorise whatever it is that you want to copy. Even if it's just for research purposes and you're not going to actually reproduce the contents."

I say some libraries, because I was pleasantly surprised when attending a session at VALA last month, which addressed the question of how to ethically, morally and legally make digitised archives available through the web. Gavan McCarthy from the University of Melbourne described the archive space as a "Sartrean" space - that is to say that it's full of human variability, in the way that they do not behave in the way that machines do. So, imposing binary yes/no rules for accessing and using collections is always going to be a fraught process, especially when we often don't really know what's in them, and what kind of variables they have.

In the end, their solution was somewhat simple. They just put it out there, with a content notice, access conditions, and conditions of use. By providing your email address, you agreed to the terms, and then you would be sent a download link for the digital collection:

Effectively, they relinquished control, and placed the onus on the reader to be aware of the content, and to do the right thing in terms of accessing and using the materials.

A colleague of mine described this as "ballsy", and I won't lie - there's still a part of me that, as a librarian, is incredibly uncomfortable with this idea. That part of me that feels like this is a naive approach which will lead to mass replication that devalues the work, risks the public disclosure of personal information, and will eventually lead to lawsuits, takedown requests, and the loss of professional reputation (which is important for libraries that are trying to attract quality manuscript collections).

But at the same way, there's something quite liberating about taking a leap of faith, and letting go of that control.

Happiness is...

So, this month's GLAM Blog Club theme is "happiness", and today is the International Day of Happiness, so it seems like the right day to be writing this post.

So, this may seem like a blasphemous thing for a 21st century librarian to say (up there with "Librarians don't necessarily need to learn how to code"), but I'm going to say it anyway.

You know what I love most about being a librarian? More than helping people? More than working in a creative and cultural sector? More than connecting people with online content? More than working with passionate, intelligent and general colleagues? More than taking on a really interesting reference enquiry that takes you on a journey of research and discovery?

The books.

I mean, I love all those other things. But mostly books.

Books make me happy. Always have. Always will.

I like competitions when the prize is free books.

A post shared by Andrew F (@lib_idol) on Mar 20, 2018 at 3:29am PDT

(Especially when I win free books on social media, and they arrive on the same day.)

And no, it's not about the smell. Get your nose out of it, you pervert.

That is all.