Uncomfortable

Growing and those aching limbs

As a child I remember experiencing acutely aching limbs as I grew. I could feel sinew and muscle straining and lengthening in my arms and legs. It was unpleasant, and at times made it hard to sleep.

Becoming part of the Library Sector has been like that for me. I have been stretched, and at times it has felt relentless and grueling. I have had some sleepless nights.

An uncomfortable and clumsy process

I have grown in many predictable ways; having come from the Museum Sector I had to learn new operational skills. But the real growth area has been the confrontation of different world views, values and behaviour. In libraries, I have had to grow taller and stronger in my people management skills. The growth was fast and painful and sometimes it felt like unrelenting endurance, illness, shock, or injury. Growing doesn't necessarily feel positive or natural when it's happening. I reflect that maybe this is why so many people choose to stop growing. They decide morphosis is too painful.

The process of growing can also be a clumsy one. My nine-year-old son went through a phase of regularly tripping over himself as his legs and feet went from chubby to long and lean. He has scarred his knees and still sports a regular collection of bruises.

Sometimes growth is not graceful. Sometimes it involves a humiliating and inelegant tumble. Growing comes at the price of scars, stretch marks, and sometimes embarrassment.

Dismantling privilege

This brings me to Whiria te Tāngata. The opportunity came to join this group at a time when I needed some professional-library-wahine-toa in my life. I arrived at the group feeling exhausted and tender. I needed a group of people who operated in the library space with a growth mindset; a group who believed change was worth the likelihood of growing pains.

During the Whiria te Tāngata course work over the last several months, my te ao pākeha has come into focus for me. As we considered what mātauranga Māori practically looks like in a library context; why Māori data sovereignty is the future; how a learning and development framework can thrive rooted in te ao Māori; how data is the elixir of change... I see my pākeha-self and my pākeha-centric workplace more clearly. I see privilege. I see the dismantling of that privilege as a duty of contemporary library practice.

Hoody, or hoodie?

In addition to the formal Whiria te Tāngata course work, I have also enjoyed being confronted by the following personal questions:

• Can I misfire on a hongi and laugh it off rather than melt with mortification at my awkwardness?

• Can I be brave enough to say my pepeha without notes? Can I survive stage fright, screw up, and try again?

• Can an atheist participate sincerely in karakia?

• Can I confront how data collection has privileged my whiteness, and how can I support Māori Data Sovereignty as a Pākeha?

• Can I sing waiata before breakfast? (Can I even be coherent before breakfast)?

• Can I awhi before my morning coffee?

• Can I pull off the Whiria te Tāngata branded hoody? I’ve never had a hoody before. Is ‘hoody’ spelt hoody or hoodie?

And lastly, a question I’ve been wrestling with for several nights in a row now: As a pākeha can I write a blog about change management, privilege, and libraries, which doesn't sound ignorant or self indulgent? Is it worth trying, and risking another painful growing experience?

Obviously, I concluded yes.