How I became a librarian: the bumpy road to MLSuccess

Information Outlook, Jan, 2005 by Donna M. Fisher

When I announced to my family I had decided to pursue a library science degree, my husband, imagining the impending upheaval in our lives, frowned and pleaded, "Can't you just join a reading club?" My father started calling me "Marian." My friends skeptically said, "You're going to work with a bunch of dusty old books?"

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Even my 10-year-old son was appalled. "You can't do that!" he gasped. "Librarians are old and crabby!"

But no one who knew me well should have been surprised. I was already working in a library part time. I was known for my frequent visits to bookstores, and had begun sneaking my new purchases into the house in the hopes that my husband wouldn't notice my burgeoning collection. Librarianship seemed a natural career change for a person who once asked for a dictionary as a birthday present, and who as a child would wake in the morning before anyone else and spend a happy pre-breakfast hour reading the family's set of junior encyclopedias.

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I became determined to show my family and friends how wrong their unfashionable and stereotypical images were. It was the year 2000. I would be one of the new breed of 21st century librarians--modern, technologically savvy, an expert user of both books and computers.

So with a little defiance and a lot of trepidation, one rainy evening I drove to the post office and resolutely dropped my course registration form in the mailbox. The hardest part was done. I had always been a good student and surely getting my MLS would be a piece of cake. Online courses and distance education classes near my home would make it possible for my job and family life to continue uninterrupted. Little did I realize how unprepared I was for the rigors of graduate school. My first surprise came when I discovered that one of the requirements for my first class was to read and write a report on 30 books of different genres. That averaged out to almost three books per week, and the course required three other extensive projects. With my other class, time would indeed be stretched thin. It was only through sheer will power that I managed somehow to plow through the semester.

Spurred on by this minor success, I eagerly seized the opportunity to take a summer class. That's when I discovered that the road to my MLS was not going to be as smooth as I thought. The primary course requirement was to design and execute a difficult library research project. The results were to be presented in a 20-page paper.

It was a challenging task for someone who had never taken a research course before, made more so because of the condensed length of the summer semester. I labored for hours at a time, seven days a week, lying awake in bed many nights as I mentally organized my thoughts.

I would compensate for my lack of experience by making sure my paper was not even a line shy of the required length. I wrote constantly. My printer produced draft after draft of completely covered 8 1/2 X 11 paper, each version slowly lengthening as I struggled to meet the page requirement. If I lacked substance, at least my paper would not be skimpy! As the end of the class neared, I congratulated myself that my weeks of intense labor were over and my 20 pages were complete.

It was only when a classmate asked the instructor whether we should follow MLA or Chicago rules of style that I realized that the 20 pages were to be double spaced! I was too mortified to ever tell anyone that I had sacrificed my entire summer doing twice as much work as necessary.

That colossal mistake reinforced a basic tenet of librarianship I would try never to forget--make sure to understand what is being asked. As each semester came and went and I methodically finished course after course, I kept that thought firmly in the back of my mind. I wouldn't be caught off guard again.

Eventually my only remaining degree requirement was to complete an internship. I pounced on a wonderful opportunity to spend my last semester working at a local university that was in the midst of a move to a beautiful new library.

On my first day at the reference desk I confidently manned the telephone waiting for my first inquiry. I knew I could easily answer any question a college student might throw at me. Unfortunately, that initial inquiry took a while to arrive because I somehow managed to immediately disconnect the first three callers before they could pose their questions.

Finally I got the hang of the phone system and began speaking with a real live patron. "Reference desk, can I help you?" I courteously asked, trying to control my excitement. All of the other librarians in the small reference area could hear me, and I was determined to maintain a professional tone.

"Can you tell me how many provinces are in Canada?"

Such a simple question! What good luck! I couldn't wait to dazzle any and all spectators with my amazing skill and quick response.

Then the unexpected happened. I opened my mouth to answer, but no words came out. I froze. My mind went blank. My body was flooded with waves of panic. Everything I had learned in graduate school, all of my preparation for this moment, became a long-forgotten memory.