The Bookless Librarian
Liz Vezina
Word Count 669
The moment the headmaster sat down in my glassed-in office, pointed out toward the stacks, declared the books “toast,” and ordered me to get rid of all 20,000 of them, I knew I had to leave. Over the course of my career as a librarian, I’d changed jobs several times but had never been desperate to escape a work situation before.
In May 2009, Cushing Academy, a tranquil Massachusetts boarding school, burst onto the scholastic scene, thanks to a front-page Boston Globe story about our “bookless library.” In a flash, I found myself cast in the role of “bookless librarian” and, as library director, de facto spokesperson for an initiative and process I’d had no say in whatsoever. My staff and I spent the summer dismantling the collection we’d spent the previous 13 years developing. Print books and magazines, henceforth taboo, made way for their replacements: large format Kindles and an assortment of online databases. The space formerly used to process and catalog books now featured a barista, stationed at an outsized latte machine.
No Luddite, I cheered the proliferation of reliable databases available to our students and appreciated the instant gratification that downloading Kindle books from Amazon provided. My issue lay not with technology but with the absurdity of prohibiting a particular format: print. My objections arose from the heedless implementation of the initiative and its lack of balance. Since taking over the position three years prior, our headmaster had undermined our previously congenial work environment with his autocratic management style, using intimidation against anyone he perceived to be “not on board” and in this instance, that was me. Despite my hard work and enthusiasm for the aspects of the project I genuinely liked, my initial look of shock and skeptical questions in response to his “books are toast” pronouncement had already tanked my future prospects at the school. At conferences, colleagues greeted me with sympathetic hugs, and well-known authors expressed their outrage.
My desperation increased as events unfolded, and I no longer assumed I would retire from Cushing. I began scouring professional job listings. The administration moved a second desk into my office to accommodate the library tech savant, assigned to be my boss. TV reporters, library press, and newspaper journalists bombarded me with questions. When asked for my opinions, I gave evasive answers, wanting to be truthful but hoping to keep my job until I found another. A nervous wreck, unable to sleep, I seethed with the injustice and absurdity of it all. My 15 minutes of fame had arrived.
Initially, my job search led to quite a few interviews, but no acceptable offers. The library world seemed eager to hear my story but hesitant to hire me. I detected curiosity rather than genuine interest on their part. They were ambivalent, unsure of what to think. Our “bookless library” had made quite a splash, while I strove to distance myself from the gimmicky “bookless” slogan that would not go over well in other library settings. Approaching 60, too young to retire, I kept up my search while making the best of an uncomfortable but admittedly interesting situation. We welcomed educators from all over the world who came to tour our futuristic library. I honed my technology skills and created book trailers we streamed on the trio of flat-screen TVs mounted overhead. We renounced our quiet atmosphere, held poetry slams, and invited kids to perform music during breaks. Most importantly, I collaborated with teachers and taught information literacy classes using the ubiquitous Smartboards in the library’s open classrooms.
After nearly 20 years on the faculty, I left Cushing Academy at the end of 2011, not long before the headmaster himself moved on. I had landed the position of director at the beautiful Billerica Public Library, often referred to as the town’s crown jewel. During my interview, the search committee, with grave expressions on their faces, posed one final question: “You’re not planning to get rid of the books, are you?”
Liz is a retired librarian who writes personal essays focused on self-discovery, relationships, childhood memories, and life’s absurdities. She divides her time between rural Maine and coastal Florida. Her essay, “An Eye on Style,” appears in the anthology Paul Bunyan Wears a Face Mask (Imperative Press, 2020). An avid book club devotee, Liz enjoys reading books whether on Kindle or in print format.