Eyes Wide Open

Early the other morning an old friend, I’ll call her Carol, telephoned from halfway across the country. It was Carol’s first day at a new job—a big and intimidating one—at a library. Sitting at an empty desk, knowing few colleagues, she was anxious. In fact, she was petrified. “Did I make the right decision?” she asked. “Can I really do this job?”

I put Carol on hold and called two of our mutual friends, then pulled all of us into a conference call. We reminded Carol of her accomplishments (many) and knowledge (vast). That she was the perfect woman for the position. In fact, her new library was lucky to have her. The only people who should be nervous, we agreed, are her staff. (Just kidding, sort of.) We recounted stories of lousy library managers. Debated what makes a good one. Planned what Carol should do that day, that week, and the next six months. We caught up on one another’s lives, and with Carol safely talked down from the ledge, we hung up, first promising to meet for dinner in two months.

These are my best professional friends, although we’ve never worked together or even lived in the same state. I’ve rarely been to their homes or met their partners or kids (although I’ve heard plenty and seen the photos). Instead, we gather together at conferences and other professional events every six months in mid-range hotels in large cities—usually when the local climate is at its worst.

We are, of course, members of the American Library Association (ALA).

Trust me, I know (and agree with some of) the gripes about ALA. It’s bloated and slow, expensive to join, run by old geezers, and preoccupied with national issues at the expense of local ones—and its council appears more concerned with developing foreign policy than addressing core library issues. But I also know that ALA joins our diverse professional tribes into one nation, giving us a powerful voice when we need it. It advocates for equal access to libraries and the availability of government information. And in defending intellectual freedom, it gives hope and support to readers whose First Amendment rights are being challenged.

But this isn’t just about the big issues. It’s also about the small and personal.

ALA has taught me. As I’ve attended its events, I’ve learned from some of the best librarians in our country—whether they were speaking from a podium or sitting next to me on a committee. After 20 years, I’m still learning, now more often from newer, younger librarians.

ALA has guided me. We talk a lot about mentors, but in my life they’ve been few and far between. Some of my most important role models—friends to this day—I’ve met while serving on ALA committees.

ALA has challenged me. After every annual conference, I’ve returned full of new ideas about improving my library’s service—sometimes in subtle ways, other times radically. What librarian wouldn’t feel the same?

ALA has given me a larger sense of purpose. It’s easy to get caught up in day-to-day library problems (bosses, budgets, and broken toilets, for starters). ALA has always reminded me of what this struggle to sustain and grow libraries (physical and virtual) is all about.

ALA has changed my professional life. Come to New Orleans this June, and let it change yours.

Brian Kenney, Editor-in-Chief

bkenney@reedbusines.com

P.S. Check out our ALA conference preview “Soul Survivor”, featuring a guide to the best programs and an insider’s look at New Orleans’ top attractions.