It's not who we are but where we are: skating the periphery versus pushing the envelope - the space of libraries need not be physical

He that travelleth into a country before he hath some entrance into

the language, goeth to school, and not to travel. (Bacon, 1625, p.

109)

THERE IS MORE THAN ONE WAY to survey a field. The seven articles in this issue of Library Trends reflect the views of ten individuals, each of whom was asked to comment on the nature of library work from an educator's perspective. It was decided that this issue could be concluded with this author's own take on the subject but decided instead that it might be better to take a different direction (and the word "direction" is not being used lightly here). Since becoming a full-time library educator six and a half years ago, I have pondered both the need and the nonsense implicit in the field's determination to reposition itself. Of course, it is nigh impossible to be involved in library education and not feel obliged to occasionally think about such matters; ever since the "L-word" acquired its scarlet letter status--worn so proudly by some, with such shame by others--no curriculum has emerged unscathed. But it has been suspected for quite some time that there is more to this matter than a desire to slip (or cling to) institutional bonds.

Today, the decision is to commit these suspicions to print. The conclusion? That we can never hope to understand the field, be it librarianship or library (and information) science, until we have come to terms with two self-realities: (1) the need to command space of some sort, whether or not we call it a library; and (2) the inability to escape it regardless of who we think we are and what we wish to be called.

Consider, for example, our general obsession with the word "access": it pops up quite regularly at conferences, in job titles, and throughout the literature. Here are a few uncited examples:

Gateways have been developed to provide universal access to selected

[identifier deleted] ocean data holdings.

All you have to do is ... set the permission record for the restricted

directory to allow [identifier deleted] access for that group and to

disallow [identifier deleted] access for the world.

Students, faculty, and staff may now access the online version of

[identifier deleted] via the library's Web page.

Issues and problems [emerge] when offering Internet access through

public-access workstations.

Ironically, positivism also supports the belief of neutrality and access

within the library world.

Now ask yourself, when we use the word "access," whether we aren't beginning to talk less about providing access to something than access to somewhere.

Downs and Stea (1977) make much the same point but do so with considerably more eloquence:

In searching for whereness information, we know what we are looking

for, but need to know both where it is and how to get there. Whatness

information tells what is at a particular location and why anybody

would want to go there. Included in whatness information is a subclass

of information, whenness. We need to know not only where a

place is and what is at that place, but also when certain things will

happen there or how likely it is that things might happen there. (p.

39)

Implicit in both "whereness" and "whatness" then, is an almost Maslovian sense of "belongingness." Knowing what belongs to one (not to mention that to which one belongs) establishes a sense of relationship; knowing where one belongs establishes presence. Consequently, belongingness is what holds these concepts together and circumscribes the orbit within which they hold sway over the course of human action. They continue: "We know whatness, when we can identify and recognize a place when we arrive there, and can decide in advance whether we should go there or avoid the place .... The key to understanding whereness [however] is location" (p. 54). Admittedly, Downs and Stea (1977) are speaking of mental cartography and not librarianship. Still, substitute "library" for "place" and the aptness of their insights soon becomes apparent. Can we "identify and recognize [the library] when we arrive [and] decide in advance whether we should go there or avoid [the library]?" (p. 54). I think we can safely answer, yes. Despite our efforts to change its image, not to mention its name, no one so far has suggested that we do away with the skills that have faithfully guided the nature of library work. Rather, we should be asking where this new place is to be located. Or, in our haste to acquire a new identity, have we forgotten that we will need an address as well?

The distinction between identity (whatness) and location (whereness) can be further explained as follows. When this author lived in Berkeley, San Francisco was always referred to as "the City." To say "I'm taking the BART over to San Francisco" was to brand yourself an outsider; in the Bay Area, there is only one city. On the other hand, now that she is back in Toronto, there is little point in describing Berkeley as being "across the Bay from the City." Identity, as the example shows, is often place-specific: in San Francisco, BART means Bay Area Rapid Transit, on TV, it refers to a young Simpson. In contrast, location can only be explained in terms of a well-known and commonly understood system of coordinates and a set of instructions explaining how to get there. We can look in an atlas and establish that San Francisco is in California--i.e., whereness. We can also recognize the Golden Gate Bridge--whether outside a plane window, in a Tony Bennett song, or on Star Trek--and know we have been transported to a place called San Francisco--i.e., whatness. In other words, whereas there is only one representation of whereness, whatness can command any number of guises.