I really wanted to give a library member a hug last week. It wasn’t because they had done something awesome for the library, but they were in pain. It was a deep personal pain, far detached from anything at the library. I wanted to put my arm around them, tell them that things were going to be alright, and give offer them comfort in their time of sadness.

I wouldn’t have simply walked over and hugged them (I know how people can be about being touched), but I really wished I had offered them a hug. Even if they had turned it down, at least I could say that I offered it and it was declined. I wouldn’t take it personally but it’s better than feeling regret at not offering them a hug. The impulse comes out of the larger sense of empathy that I feel when it comes to helping people who come to the library. Sometimes a helping hand is the most literal one that offers comfort in a time of emotional stress in a way that no book, database, or service can offer.

I think librarians have a common connection with law enforcement at times; we do not see people at their best. Librarians can see people at their most stressed, most frazzled, and most in need of help. I’ve seen it people typing up resumes desperately looking for work, frustrated by online job applications, and looking for solutions that will get them to the next payday, the next grocery trip, and the next heating bill. I’ve seen people toiling with taxes, fighting with banks and insurance companies, and trying to fit five hours of errands into a three hour window. (I would imagine my academic and school peers see their share as students of all ages struggle with their grades and assignments.) I empathize with each and every one of them and try my best to ease their day. But, that day last week, there was nothing I could do to help someone who is going through such a rough personal issue. A hug was all I could think of, but I couldn’t even bring myself to articulate the simple question (“Would you like a hug?”).

The thoughts of policy went through my head with a customer conduct manual that repeats the line, “Do not touch the patron” through the different scenarios. This line is found in the negative interactions outlined in which the patrons are drunk, being unruly, or otherwise abusive. It’s a pretty good guideline for those kinds of incidents, but it infects other thoughts as well. Would this be crossing a line even if the other person was consenting? Is there some county attorney who would give me trouble for this, even with permission?

To me, this should be easy issue: offer, then act accordingly. Hug or no hug, either way works, and life moves on. But as a white male, over six feet in height and the weight to match, and has been called “intimidating” in the past, it presents its own quagmires. These factors do not work in my favor. The horror stories of sexual harassment accusations have been played time over time through friends and the news. A long time ago, I adopted a “no touching anybody ever” professional policy to safeguard against even the most remote chance of an accusation. I wasn’t exactly a touchy feely person before (save for loved ones and close friends), but this made the personal space barrier even more rigid and inflexible. Even then, it sometimes makes me feel lonely and aloof.

As I was putting this post together in my head, I thought about my friends and librarian friends online who deal with the other end of this question: the unwanted contact. Creeps, jerks, and other obnoxious asshats who find an excuse to initiate touching, whether it is a seemingly casual brush-by or full-on grope. It saddens me that some of my amazing colleagues have to be cautious and aware of their surroundings anytime they are in the public. (I know this goes into deeper societal and cultural issues, but I’m not heading into that territory for this post. I just want to take a moment to acknowledge that they exist and I’m aware of them.) This bothers me to the point where I lose the words to describe my burning, blinding rage. It invokes dark fantasies of vigilante justice involving hammering fingers and crushing larynxes. It angers me that anyone (librarian or not) has to put up this kind of bullshit behavior. If there was an occasion for God to use lightning bolts to smite people right where they stand, this would be one of my top choices.

Over the weekend, I’ve thought about that encounter. I believe it is one in which that I’m not a librarian and they aren’t a library member, but two human beings in the same place where one is going through a tough, emotional crisis. The empathetic side of me told me that the ‘right’ thing to do was to offer comfort by way of a hug. The logic and reasoning side only saw the potential dangers in that situation. In this round, fear won over compassion. And I wish it hadn’t. I really wanted to reach out because I know how even the gesture can make the difference in someone’s life. We are in a business of small acts that lead to bigger and life-changing results. I felt that this was one of those moments and I let it slip away. I just hope I don’t fail to act upon what I think is right the next time.

If Libraries Operated like Health Insurance…

As the title of the post implies, I got to thinking the other night about that. With all the talk about health insurance reform, I think libraries are poised to consider long term changes to how we approach the patron interaction. Some of these are silly, some are relevant, others are perhaps thoughtful, but I think one or two are real questions for libraries looking ahead. (I’ll let you guess which ones I think are the real deal.)

Would people have to pick borrowing plans? Would these borrowing plans be based on tax/levy contribution? Or the ability of neighbors to band together and negotiate services? Would libraries provide service to only those who pay taxes?

Would dyslexics be denied a library card because they had a pre-existing condition? Or people who are illiterate? Or any learning disability? Or people who don’t know how to use the computer?

Would patrons need a referral to read different types of non-fiction? Or would a patron have to choose from a pre-approved list of subjects based on their library plan? Or would we refer them to a subject specialist?

Would there be a limit on the number of items a patron could take out over a year? Would they have to pay for the ability to borrow beyond their limit?

Image by a.diran/FlickrWould use of a computer be restricted by the library to a certain number of times per week/month? Would databases be restricted in the same way?

If a patron wanted to read a banned/challenged book, would they need to get a second opinion of another librarian? Would they need to sign a “informed consent” waiver before we let them take the book?

Would librarians need to get malpractice insurance in case a reading recommendation ends up offending the patron? Would there be a cap on the amount of awards for people who suffered emotional distress, eye strain, or the dreaded “reader’s thumb”?

Would patrons be restricted to only the materials that are deemed ‘necessary’ by the library?

Perhaps this is more waxing philosophic than hard questions about current practices, but I cannot help but think that some of these types of questions start us down the path to more meaningful policy changes.