I set off for the picket line this morning feeling very serious. I had two bottles of water, a sandwich, and some professional reading (Out Front with Stephen Abram: A Guide for Information Leaders), as well as a few pages of a manuscript I'm working on (for editing), and of course my guitar. I even brought a folding chair this time--not one of those high-tech nylon camping thingies that everyone else seems to have, but a wooden one I got on sale at Ikea for $10 back in the spring. One way or another, I was planning on getting something accomplished on my four-hour shift. Which goes to show how wrong I can be.
Now I don't want to give anyone the impression that I'm happy to be away from work. Every conversation with my fellow picketers today included some wistful discussion about how much we're looking forward to getting back to our jobs. (Not just for the money, but because we really care about what we do. This might surprise some of those radio talk-show callers, who think we're basically lazy and enjoying some kind of vacation.) But I think now we're adjusting to the idea that we're on strike, and that it might last for a while. Since we have no control of the situation, we may as well make the best of it.
So today most of us didn't get to the little individual projects we had brought. We talked, not so much about Harry Potter and local politics as we did on the first couple of days, but about other things. We got to know each other better. And one of the children's librarians brought a bag full of crafting materials, ranging from fabric pieces to pages of destroyed magazines and picture books and sheets of magnetic stuff. Two of us had tiny scissors on our Swiss Army knives, perfect for cutting out tiny fussy pictures. We sat around on our chairs or cross-legged on the pavement, making cards and magnets, sharing stories about public transit in other cities, pets, and where to find the cheapest and best sushi in the neighbourhood.
I wouldn't say that the shift flew by, but it was actually pretty enjoyable. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and it was pleasantly cool in the shade. One old Polish man called us Communists, but otherwise not much happened at all.
It could be worse.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Monday, July 30, 2007
"Listen to the stupid people." What can we learn from the ill-informed?
Okay, I'm probably misquoting, and I'm definitely taking it out of context, but I do remember hearing uber-librarian Joseph Janes say that we need to "listen to the stupid people" more. I took it to mean that we have to take ourselves out of our librarian heads and actually think about the questions that people ask that don't make any sense to us. (Why are the books about health on a different floor than the books about yoga, for instance? And why *can't* they borrow the bound serials, anyhow?)
This morning I was listening to CBC Radio One and heard an especially rage-filled caller ranting about the civic strike. This woman said that the striking employees were holding the city hostage, and that we should each be individually negotiating with our bosses about our wages and benefits, like they do in the private sector. My gut reaction was to want to swear and yell something along the lines of "and you think we *want* to be out of work, and worrying how we're going to pay our bills?", but my librarian self thought immediately of what Joe Janes said at that conference. Could this, perhaps, be what Janes would call a stupid person? Surely there was something I could learn from her ridiculously ill-informed opinion.
So far I don't have an answer to that one. But later, when I was on picket duty today close to my own neighbourhood, a woman came up to the library with her very young child in a stroller. Like my daughter on Friday, this mother couldn't seem to understand that we really weren't open. There weren't going to be any story times. She really couldn't return her books (there's no access to a book drop at this branch) or take new ones. She looked at us for a moment in disbelief and anger before she wheeled the stroller away, muttering bitterly.
I guess some people could say she should have known, if she only looked at the TV news or the front page of a newspaper. But I couldn't think of her as one of the stupid people. The library *should* be open, damn it.
This morning I was listening to CBC Radio One and heard an especially rage-filled caller ranting about the civic strike. This woman said that the striking employees were holding the city hostage, and that we should each be individually negotiating with our bosses about our wages and benefits, like they do in the private sector. My gut reaction was to want to swear and yell something along the lines of "and you think we *want* to be out of work, and worrying how we're going to pay our bills?", but my librarian self thought immediately of what Joe Janes said at that conference. Could this, perhaps, be what Janes would call a stupid person? Surely there was something I could learn from her ridiculously ill-informed opinion.
So far I don't have an answer to that one. But later, when I was on picket duty today close to my own neighbourhood, a woman came up to the library with her very young child in a stroller. Like my daughter on Friday, this mother couldn't seem to understand that we really weren't open. There weren't going to be any story times. She really couldn't return her books (there's no access to a book drop at this branch) or take new ones. She looked at us for a moment in disbelief and anger before she wheeled the stroller away, muttering bitterly.
I guess some people could say she should have known, if she only looked at the TV news or the front page of a newspaper. But I couldn't think of her as one of the stupid people. The library *should* be open, damn it.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Notes from day four of a strike
(Disclaimer: This is not about the issues--you can check the official union websites for that. This blog is just an opportunity to talk about what it’s like for this full-time-librarian-slash-part-time-writer-and-singer, on the picket line.)
So far: Okay, I’ve only been on the picketlines for two days so far (Thursday and Saturday--yesterday), so I realise my perceptions are going to change as this strike goes on. Right now I’m still hanging onto little issues from work, thinking things like, “Hey, there’s that librarian from project X--I need to talk with her about Y!”, which all of a sudden is the very last thing we’re going to talk about. I also find myself a little annoyed to remember the time I spent over the last couple of days in the office, setting up meetings which are obviously cancelled now, making plans for days we are now going to be closed, talking about things that are now unlikely to happen.
Then there are the small day-to-day adjustments to make. Obviously the routines are different. (There was a little flurry of discussion on the library staff Facebook pages when the strike was announced--we were wondering what we should wear on the picket lines.) I’m accustomed to putting on my work clothes--trying to look professional-slash-creative--and getting in before eight in the morning. I used to turn on my computer, check the library’s bulletin board for news, listen to voice mails, check for emails, and set priorities for the day. No matter how often I walked around the floors where I worked, and up and down the stairways and escalators, most of my work day was spent at my desk or at a meeting table.
Now of course we’re outside. So far the weather’s been good, but the pavement is hard, and the scenery is entirely different. At the end of the day we exchange emails or Facebook messages about our sore backs and hip joints. There’s a lot of standing and slow, slow walking. On Thursday morning as I set down my bag with my water bottles and reading materials (for the bus), I found myself remembering the little comfort objects on my desk and in my desk drawers up there in the building. Like a lot of my colleagues, I have a bit of a stationery fetish. That’s my own cheap blue and green battery-operated stapler up there; those are my own pens. There are also four pairs of shoes under my desk. (None of them are comfortable enough for the picketline anyhow.) From outside, I remember my little office as strangely homelike and cozy, decorated with my daughter’s artwork and a framed ‘50s movie poster. I know I’m conveniently forgetting the stacks of work I was hoping to get done and all the unfinished documents on my computer.
On Thursday one of my librarian colleagues, an accomplished musician, brought his guitar. Another library worker brought a books of protest songs, and a few of us sang. (Can I just mention how much I love children’s librarians?) The time went by much faster that way, but a four-hour picket shift is still pretty long. Someone told me later that we were on the CBC TV news that night. I’m sorry I missed it.
My four-year-old daughter, B, has been asking about the picketline and the strike. Friday was our day off together, but I brought her by, with the excuse of lending the new Harry Potter book to one of my friends. It was sunny and there were lots of picketers walking around in mostly good-natured clumps. Whenever someone drove by and honked in support, all the library workers cheered and waved. At moments it felt like an extended coffee break, with a lot more time than usual for socialising. Quite a few of my friends and colleagues were happy to see my daughter; we exchanged knock-knock jokes, and there was a lot of smiling. B must have picked up the sense of common purpose and positive energy, because she sat--quite fascinated--through the information update meeting from one of our union leaders. But she kept trying to lead me into the library itself. Friday is preschool storytime day, and even though she knew we were out on strike, she couldn’t quite understand that the library was closed. She kept looking in the windows to the children’s department, looking at the weirdly empty, tidy aisles.
***
Yesterday morning I put my own guitar in the back of my car and headed down to the library while my husband and daughter were still in their pyjamas. I can play just about well enough to accompany myself when I sing, and I had a few songs in mind: Protest songs: “Which side are you on?” (quite atmospheric in A minor); “If I had a hammer”; “This land is your land” (with the Canadian placenames). Cowboy songs: “Streets of Loredo” (because it’s long and dark); “Cool water” (because it’s beautiful); “San Antonio Rose” (because I love the Patsy Cline version). Others: “San Diego Zoo” (by Stephin Merritt); “Rickety tickety tin/Irish ballad” (the Tom Lehrer song, channelled through one of my favourite singers, Barbara Manning); “Casper the friendly ghost” (by Daniel Johnston, partly because there’s a librarian in it); “River blue” (by a one-time library assistant colleague and amazing singer/songwriter Oh Susanna). Plus some of my own songs, here and there.
It was a little strange at first setting up my guitar outside without really knowing what I would do. I weighted down the lyrics--and my picket sign--on the ground so they didn’t blow away. At times other library staff joined me to sing, and at times I just played and sang by myself. It was fluid; sometimes performance, sometimes practice, and sometimes just goofing around. But by the end of the picket shift my body was sore and the guitar had pressed a few weird bruises into me. Even with all the breaks, chatting and walking around, I don’t think I’ve ever stood up with a guitar around my neck for that long.
Over the years most of us have found ways to bring our outside (creative) lives to work with us. Now we’re trying to bring these same elements to our new responsibilities on the picket lines. Today there’s going to be a “read-in,” some workers are knitting on the line, and there’s talk about doing some “painting in solidarity.” I’m going to try to bring my guitar again when I’m back on Monday. There are a lot of musicians at the library--I wonder how many of us will have our instruments there?
Whew! That was long. I promise that future posts will be more succinct.
So far: Okay, I’ve only been on the picketlines for two days so far (Thursday and Saturday--yesterday), so I realise my perceptions are going to change as this strike goes on. Right now I’m still hanging onto little issues from work, thinking things like, “Hey, there’s that librarian from project X--I need to talk with her about Y!”, which all of a sudden is the very last thing we’re going to talk about. I also find myself a little annoyed to remember the time I spent over the last couple of days in the office, setting up meetings which are obviously cancelled now, making plans for days we are now going to be closed, talking about things that are now unlikely to happen.
Then there are the small day-to-day adjustments to make. Obviously the routines are different. (There was a little flurry of discussion on the library staff Facebook pages when the strike was announced--we were wondering what we should wear on the picket lines.) I’m accustomed to putting on my work clothes--trying to look professional-slash-creative--and getting in before eight in the morning. I used to turn on my computer, check the library’s bulletin board for news, listen to voice mails, check for emails, and set priorities for the day. No matter how often I walked around the floors where I worked, and up and down the stairways and escalators, most of my work day was spent at my desk or at a meeting table.
Now of course we’re outside. So far the weather’s been good, but the pavement is hard, and the scenery is entirely different. At the end of the day we exchange emails or Facebook messages about our sore backs and hip joints. There’s a lot of standing and slow, slow walking. On Thursday morning as I set down my bag with my water bottles and reading materials (for the bus), I found myself remembering the little comfort objects on my desk and in my desk drawers up there in the building. Like a lot of my colleagues, I have a bit of a stationery fetish. That’s my own cheap blue and green battery-operated stapler up there; those are my own pens. There are also four pairs of shoes under my desk. (None of them are comfortable enough for the picketline anyhow.) From outside, I remember my little office as strangely homelike and cozy, decorated with my daughter’s artwork and a framed ‘50s movie poster. I know I’m conveniently forgetting the stacks of work I was hoping to get done and all the unfinished documents on my computer.
On Thursday one of my librarian colleagues, an accomplished musician, brought his guitar. Another library worker brought a books of protest songs, and a few of us sang. (Can I just mention how much I love children’s librarians?) The time went by much faster that way, but a four-hour picket shift is still pretty long. Someone told me later that we were on the CBC TV news that night. I’m sorry I missed it.
My four-year-old daughter, B, has been asking about the picketline and the strike. Friday was our day off together, but I brought her by, with the excuse of lending the new Harry Potter book to one of my friends. It was sunny and there were lots of picketers walking around in mostly good-natured clumps. Whenever someone drove by and honked in support, all the library workers cheered and waved. At moments it felt like an extended coffee break, with a lot more time than usual for socialising. Quite a few of my friends and colleagues were happy to see my daughter; we exchanged knock-knock jokes, and there was a lot of smiling. B must have picked up the sense of common purpose and positive energy, because she sat--quite fascinated--through the information update meeting from one of our union leaders. But she kept trying to lead me into the library itself. Friday is preschool storytime day, and even though she knew we were out on strike, she couldn’t quite understand that the library was closed. She kept looking in the windows to the children’s department, looking at the weirdly empty, tidy aisles.
***
Yesterday morning I put my own guitar in the back of my car and headed down to the library while my husband and daughter were still in their pyjamas. I can play just about well enough to accompany myself when I sing, and I had a few songs in mind: Protest songs: “Which side are you on?” (quite atmospheric in A minor); “If I had a hammer”; “This land is your land” (with the Canadian placenames). Cowboy songs: “Streets of Loredo” (because it’s long and dark); “Cool water” (because it’s beautiful); “San Antonio Rose” (because I love the Patsy Cline version). Others: “San Diego Zoo” (by Stephin Merritt); “Rickety tickety tin/Irish ballad” (the Tom Lehrer song, channelled through one of my favourite singers, Barbara Manning); “Casper the friendly ghost” (by Daniel Johnston, partly because there’s a librarian in it); “River blue” (by a one-time library assistant colleague and amazing singer/songwriter Oh Susanna). Plus some of my own songs, here and there.
It was a little strange at first setting up my guitar outside without really knowing what I would do. I weighted down the lyrics--and my picket sign--on the ground so they didn’t blow away. At times other library staff joined me to sing, and at times I just played and sang by myself. It was fluid; sometimes performance, sometimes practice, and sometimes just goofing around. But by the end of the picket shift my body was sore and the guitar had pressed a few weird bruises into me. Even with all the breaks, chatting and walking around, I don’t think I’ve ever stood up with a guitar around my neck for that long.
Over the years most of us have found ways to bring our outside (creative) lives to work with us. Now we’re trying to bring these same elements to our new responsibilities on the picket lines. Today there’s going to be a “read-in,” some workers are knitting on the line, and there’s talk about doing some “painting in solidarity.” I’m going to try to bring my guitar again when I’m back on Monday. There are a lot of musicians at the library--I wonder how many of us will have our instruments there?
Whew! That was long. I promise that future posts will be more succinct.
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