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Category: Libraries and Librarians

Learning to Look, Embracing Complexity

Today’s LTC Lunch (weekly lunch-time presentations sponsored by our Learning and Teaching Center) featured a panel of professors from five different departments talking about how they use our vast arboretum in their teaching. These lunches are often interesting, sometimes inspiring, and always worth the time (and provide free lunch!), and today’s was definitely inspiring. I now want to take all five of those professors’ classes! The English prof talked about having his Nature Writing class do creative reports on local species in the arb. The stats prof talked about sampling ecological spaces rather than just people. The art prof talked about the work his Observational Drawing class does. The biology prof talked about how the arb functions as his class’ laboratory. And the geology prof talked about how it straddles some geologically interesting land that her students can study in a variety of ways, and how one year her class saved the college a million dollars by studying flood sediment and deciding that the college did not have to stabilize the banks of the river that runs through it.

Not only were these narratives fascinating in themselves, but they each reinforced what one professor said, which was that a huge part of a liberal arts education is “learning to look.” Each of these classes dealt with some aspect of taking in the vastness of the arb and then observing some piece of it closely, learning that piece, and applying it to the broader questions that their classes were tackling.

One professor also pointed out that when you take students into the arb, it’s impossible to escape complexity. They’re no longer dealing with lab samples. They’re no longer isolating geological study, for example, from biology or art. So in addition to the skills they build in their fields, they’re also learning to balance the particular and the general, the details and the gestalt. They’re learning to mentally zoom into and out of their environment, learning to look while immersed in complexity.

I love these ideas. I think this is exactly what I’m trying to teach my students about research. The landscape of possible evidence is vast and complex, and students have to learn to look at pieces of that landscape in ways that they’ve never had to look at them before. How is it that this one article fits into the landscape, or this one reference, or this one paragraph, or this one term? How does that mound of raw, uninterpreted primary source material complement the carefully plotted path of the literature review? What terms are sprinkled here and there in the prairie-like non-homogeneous homogeneity of your potential body of evidence? If you really look, even at something as factual as a report about an experiment, you can learn more than the facts that report aimed to convey; you can gain clues that will lead you to unexplored territories of scholarship.

Too often, I think, I shield my students from the complexity of this new landscape. I focus too much on helping them learn to look at the specific, the clean, the sterilized, the lab example. Too often the lessons I draw out from their active learning experiments are too safe. They are fundamental lessons, to be sure, but sterilized nonetheless.

My next instructional challenge, then, will be to build in healthy chances to encounter complexity, and to use those encounters to help my students learn to look carefully at what they find. A rock can be more interesting because of its placement in a landscape, and there’s more to learn about that rock than its shape and size and even its composition. So also, a single article never stands alone in the body of potential evidence, and if you really look, you can learn more than the facts and figures that article contains.

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Unavoidable Words that Wound

For the last year, my campus has been having in-depth conversations about situations that make members of our community feel excluded or harassed, with the goal of making ours a more healthy and diverse community. Through it all, I’ve been struck by the amount of inadvertent hurt that well-meaning people can inflict on others through inattention, unfamiliarity, ignorance, misguided efforts to help, and even embarrassment.

I remember with shame, for example, that the default search term that I used to get a feel for new databases used to be “frogs.” Almost no database would come back with zero hits on that term, so I’d get to see what fields were available for searching and how the interface worked without trying to come up with a discipline-specific term. And I liked the mental image of cute little green frogs gallivanting through all of these stogy research tools. Unfortunately, I’m also the liaison to the French department. Ever since one French professor pointed out the connection, I’ve started using the current season as my default search term instead.

In the grand scheme of things, this is a minor example. But as I hear stories of students who have been crushed by similarly inadvertent insults, I wonder how best to approach those times when typing incredibly offensive terms is unavoidable. One prime example is historical newspaper searching. What do you do when you’re searching for newspaper articles in a full-text archive, and in order to find articles about racial or ethnic groups you have to type the names of those groups as they would have been reported at that point in history? There’s no normative indexing in most of these historical newspaper archives to ease the way. And if I, with my relatively benign heritage and general lack of heritage-induced baggage, cringe just a little bit when I search for World War II coverage of “Japs,” I can’t imagine what the experience must be like for many of my students.

It’s one small piece of a much larger issue, I know, but my current mini-goal is to figure out how to stand in front of a class, as I did just last week, and acknowledge that historical newspaper searching is hard for this reason, and explain why it must be so, and do it all in a way that doesn’t inadvertently wound one of the students whose trust I’m hoping to gain.

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What is an Unconference Anyway?

Yesterday an enlightening thing happened in the comments on a blog post by Steve Lawson (a post which is positively ancient in blog years, by the way). Up until yesterday, I’d rather naively thought that even though the terms “unconference” and “library camp” are still in their toddlerhood, people generally had a common understanding of what those terms mean. In my head, this common definition went something like this: An informal, free or low cost, loosely structured gathering at which people share knowledge with each other. I would hear “unconference” and have an image of people gathering at the beginning of the day to figure out what they wanted to learn that day and which of them could lead sessions on those agreed-on topics.

Now I see that people may not, in fact, have a common understanding of the term “unconference.” The comments on Steve’s post point to at least three different interpretations: Unconferences are loosely structured conferences, Unconferences are grassroots gatherings, and Unconferences are a genre rather than a format. Here’s what I mean…

  • Unconferences as loosely structured conferences
    If you think of a conference, you know that there are all kinds of logistics that go into pulling one of those things off, most of which depend to a large degree on how many people you want to attend. Everything from spaces to staffing to the number of speakers to the relative rock-start status of your speakers to the rigidity of the schedule has to be geared toward attracting and handling your target audience. If you plan for 100 people and only 40 show up, that’s a huge waste of capital. Bring this mindset to an unconference and you end up with less worry about rock-star speakers (though a few recent unconferences have had Big Names give keynote addresses), but most of the same issues remain your primary concern. The major thing that changes, then, is that the unconference organizers spend little to no time planning out sessions topics, leaving that up to the attendees.
  • Unconferences as grassroots gatherings
    Other people, while still having to deal with logistics, consciously force those logistics into the background of the event. They still need space and people, obviously, but if they plan for 100 and 40 show up, those 40 might not even notice that you had enough room for more than twice their number. Those 40 would gather, decide what they want to learn and which of them can facilitate that learning, and then learn it, usually for free (with the space and other necessities paid for by donors or sponsors).
  • Unconferences as a genre rather than a format
    Still others (myself included) think of unconferences as a genre of gathering which may or may not include a keynote address, may or may not charge a small fee, and may or may not have an over-arching theme. This genre places the emphasis on attendee-driven content, but other than that, it no more dictates the size or cost or logistical complexity than does the parent term “conference.” As Steve says, an unconference “can be whatever the attendees decide it is” (citation).

Luckily, the solution to all the muddled assumptions is transparency. So if I see an unconference coming up, and I see that it will charge me a small fee and what that fee will go towards, I can make my own decisions about the value of that unconference in my life. If I see that it will be of the loosely-structured-conference variety, and I’m ok with that, that’s great. If I see that it’ll be a completely unstructured day of serendipitous learning with other librarians, and I’m ok with that, that’s great too. After all, not all conferences are like ALA Annual, so why must all unconferences be as diametrically opposed to Annual as possible?

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Referrals: a Pledge

I do a lot of referring. People stop into my office and I tell them to stop into another librarian’s office for better help. People come up to the reference desk and I do what I can to get them started and then refer them off to the liaison that’ll be able to go deeper. People ask me about renewing books, or getting a job in the library, or ordering books, or fixing computers, or registering for classes, or getting access to materials that we don’t have here, or any number of other questions that I can’t answer well by myself.

Sometimes these referrals are specific: “You need to talk to so-and-so, and here’s her contact information and what you can expect from her.” Sometimes they’re more vague: “You need to go talk to somebody in this special collection at the University of Minnesota.” And up until recently, I didn’t stop to think about the differences between those two types of referrals. Both get the people with a questions to somebody who can hopefully answer their questions, right?

Maybe.

I was recently on the receiving end of a non-library-related referral that left me with a bad taste in my mouth. It left me wishing that there had been somebody I could have turned to for a more personal, specific referral, a referral to somebody that they knew would take me seriously and work through my questions carefully. But I was out of my element and didn’t have a nice network of people who know people who know people, so I just went where I was told and hoped for the best. What a waste of time.

I think I’ll work at making my own referrals as specific as possible from now on. If I don’t know the name of the librarian at another institution that can answer this question, I’ll find that out. I’ll call ahead. I’ll pave the way. I won’t just send lost but optimistic students into unknown territory without any assurance that the person on the other end will at least take their questions seriously.

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