The Work of Women of Color Academic Librarians in Higher Education: Perspectives on Emotional and Invisible Labor
Introduction
In U.S. libraries, Black, Indigenous and Women of Color (BIWOC) [1] perform a disproportionate amount of emotional and invisible labor. Engaging in this extra labor affects our personal well-being and our retention in a profession that desperately needs our presence and expertise. The burden of this extra labor persists, even in the face of negative extenuating circumstances at home or globally, such as the COVID-19 global pandemic or pervasive social and racial unrest. This article centers the voices of the authors – women of color with varying social identities working in public university libraries – to share a glimpse of our own experiences navigating the demands of emotional labor and invisible labor on top of expressed professional responsibilities. Our narratives highlight similarities and differences in experiences based on those varying social identities, which can offer a foundation for further examination. The intention behind sharing these perspectives is to continue to build solidarity among BIWOC librarians, while informing, inspiring, and provoking actionable institutional change. We end this piece by exercising our agency to reimagine our present and design a future outside of the oppressive systems that perpetuate emotional and invisible labor for BIWOC librarians. While we believe that radical and systemic change and reconstruction is needed for true justice and inclusion in our profession, we hope our narratives, suggestions, and demands are a way forward for academic libraries.
To understand the context and our positionality within our organizations and society more broadly, the identities of each author follows: Alanna is a fourth generation, mixed-race Japanese American, queer parent, with cisgender, able-bodied, and middle-class privileges. She has been working in academic libraries for over 15 years. Naomi is Akimel O’odham and white, straight, cisgender, a mother, able-bodied, middle-class, and working in libraries for 12 years. Tamara is a Black woman raised predominantly in white spaces in the South (southeastern United States). She is straight, cisgender, able-bodied, middle-class, and has been a librarian for 9 years.
Emotional Labor and Invisible Labor for BIWOC Librarians
The number of BIWOC in librarianship is incredibly low. [2] The Bureau of Labor Statistics reports that the demographics of library professionals are 87.8% white and only 12.2% Black, Indigenous, and People of Color (BIPOC). The latter statistic breaks down as 9.8% Hispanic/Latino, 6% Black/African American, and 3.2% Asian. A necessary note about these statistics is that Native American and Alaska Native peoples are absent from the Bureau's statistical data, although they exist and work in our institutions. As BIWOC negotiate race, ethnicity, and gender as part of our unique intersectional [3] identity, when considering gender within the 12.2% figure for BIPOC librarians, the amount of emotional and invisible labor BIWOC perform compared to white colleagues is concerning. When examining both gender and race/ethnicity in experiences of emotional and invisible labor in reference and information work specifically, Assistant Professor of Library Science Kawanna Bright [4] found that for women librarians of color, not only were both emotional and invisible labor present, but there were also direct connections to gender and race/ethnicity or the intersection of the two. This led to her call for further investigation of the concept of emotional labor through an intersectional lens as “there have been few previous references to invisible labor within the LIS literature….”[5]
Sociologist Arlie Hochschild described emotional labor [6] as having to suppress or manage feelings, facial expressions, body language, voice and tone in accordance with organizational rules and requirements. Due to its ties to service occupations like restaurant workers, cashiers, and secretaries, and fields with high interpersonal contact, such as counselors, and government officials, emotional labor is inherently feminized. In academic libraries, women are the statistical majority, which has resulted in a workplace filled with gendered expectations, stereotypes, and structures. Library scholars Veronica Arellano Douglas and Joanna Gadsby state that “certain behaviors are expected from women at work,” and these relational tasks like helping, supporting, and mentoring are not deemed as valuable or seen as “real work.” [7] Thus, the burden is the expectation that library workers–mostly female–will be friendly, approachable, courteous, and respectful and refrain from expressing negative emotions such as anger, frustration and annoyance, is inescapable.
Expectations of emotional labor mean our jobs lay claim not only to the ways in which we perform our functional duties, but also to our emotions while performing them. Furthermore, the expectation is that emotional regulation is performed in interactions not only with patrons, but also with colleagues and managers. The way the service of librarianship is “laying claim” to our emotions echoes library scholar and activist Fobazi Ettarh’s [8] critical examination of librarianship and the expectation that for librarians, “fulfillment of job duties requires sacrifice.” Her concept of vocational awe, “the set of ideas, values, and assumptions librarians have about themselves and the profession that result in beliefs that libraries as institutions are inherently good and sacred, and therefore beyond critique,” impacts librarians in general, but disproportionately affects librarians of color.
Within the context of the history of racism, segregation, and discrimination in our nation's educational institutions and libraries that continues today, BIWOC continue to carry out their job functions, while handling the emotional labor of library service work. We often manage our own feelings and reactions to being a target due to our social identities in order to appear “professional,” “friendly,” and “approachable,” to make white colleagues comfortable, and to avoid being negatively perceived and stereotyped. This requires sustained effort, and is exhausting, due to the emotional dissonance experienced when a person displays emotions that do not correspond to what is felt in the specific situation. [9] And there is a cost to enduring sustained emotional labor. BIWOC librarians who must constantly perform emotions that directly contradict our own feelings are more likely to experience emotional exhaustion, burnout, and mental health stressors. [10] Additionally, the constant expression of positive emotions shapes the behavior of white colleagues, [11] so when BIWOC deviate from expectations and point out inappropriate behavior or shine a spotlight on abuse and oppression, there are often repercussions. We are reprimanded for being “negative” or “unprofessional,” or dismissed as an angry woman of color. These stereotypes can lead to fewer opportunities for professional advancement, isolation, or fear of other reprisals due to being too “outspoken.”
The conception of work as something that we are paid to do makes invisible the “arduous, skilled, and recognized as useful–perhaps essential–work” we do that isn’t paid. [12] One example of this invisible labor is equity, diversity, and inclusion (EDI) work. Recent studies show that throughout higher education “...traditionally marginalized groups are bearing the primary responsibility for creating a more diverse and inclusive culture....” [13] At times, we actively engage in this work due to a commitment to try to move our organizations towards anti-racist practices and policies, at other times we are forcefully volunteered to service. Even if we choose not to, we often become involved due to our racialized identities. However, as library scholar, facilitator, and educator Sofia Leung points out, institutional EDI efforts can be “...particularly harmful because it creates the illusion that the institution desires transformative change or that the solutions lie within the institution. However, all it ends up doing is replicating structures of white supremacy.” [14] Organizational “preoccupation with demographic inclusion,” as library and information studies scholar David James Hudson puts it, simply signals that the organization is performing diverse work while neglecting to address the underlying white supremacist and racist structures and “meaningfully challenge contemporary regimes of racial subordination.” [15]This EDI labor, that we essentially cannot opt out of becoming involved in, is invisible, additional work that is not recognized, compensated, or acknowledged, and the lack of recognition implies that we are also “invisible” and do not matter. [16]
The following sections explore the emotional and invisible labor of microaggressions, the organizational work of EDI, barriers to professional success, and working while contending with global events. Each of these sections begins with an explanatory paragraph of terminology, data, or context that shapes how emotional and/or invisible labor shows up for that topic, followed by a first-person lived experience from one or more of the authors. These narratives are only a part of our lives as librarians and open the door for addressing more and varied experiences of women of color working in libraries during times of a global pandemic and political and civil unrest here in the United States.
The Emotional and Invisible Labor of Microaggressions
Microaggressions include the everyday slights, indignities, and insults that people of color, women, LGBTQ populations and those who are marginalized experience in everyday interactions. [17] For BIWOC librarians, “these subtle blows are delivered incessantly,” [18] are not so subtle to those experiencing them, can prey on intersecting identities, and can come from both library users and co-workers. There is emotional labor in having to hide the impact of these aggressions for the sake of the patron experience, but also to maintain professional interpersonal relationships that have a bearing on work quality or advancement. Due to the nature of these aggressions, there is invisible labor in explicitly identifying and “proving” the aggression has occurred. This is particularly challenging given the majority white makeup of the profession and the context of libraries promoting characteristics of white supremacy. [19] Many times, there is no explicit documentation of microaggressions, and addressing a microaggression requires intense labor on the part of BIWOC to navigate potential negative reactions. What follows is each of the authors’ experiences of the emotional and invisible labor of microaggressions.
(Alanna) I identify as a multi-racial Asian American. I also identify as bisexual and queer. My spouse identifies as non-binary and trans-masculine. My multiple intersecting identities mean I often deal with the overlapping oppressions of sexism, racism, and homophobia. My intersectional identity affects how people perceive me and interact with me. As a light-skinned mixed-race woman, I have been told by other library staff that I don’t look or act “Asian enough” or that I must get my looks from my (white) father. As a bisexual, I often face discrimination for not “choosing” whether I am a lesbian or straight. I struggle to find spaces and places where I feel like I can be my full authentic self.
Many folks assume that members of the LGBTQ community are inherently more comfortable talking about their sex lives and bodily functions. This is a common microaggression and invades our sexual and bodily privacy. When my spouse and I decided to have a family I was inundated at work by questions from coworkers, asking “how did you get pregnant?,” “why isn’t your spouse carrying the baby?,” “who is the Dad?,” and “how long were you trying to have a baby?” When I was pregnant with our second child, colleagues asked if my children were “related by blood.” These questions are not asked of straight people in similar situations and I often had to bite my tongue so I didn’t ask them equally invasive and inappropriate questions in retaliation.
My most painful experience took place at a conference for librarians of color that I helped organize, a female colleague of color noticed my third trimester belly and yelled across a crowded room “But I thought you were gay!” and then stage whispered to her companion “I don’t understand, did she have sex with a man to get pregnant? Is she still married to her wife?” Everyone in the small room heard what she said and stopped what they were doing. There was a long, awkward silence. No one spoke up or intervened. I was horrified and caught off guard, immediately left the conference center and fled back to my hotel where I sobbed for an hour. Being surrounded by colleagues of color was supposed to be the respite to the daily microaggressions experienced in my primarily white institution (PWI). Yet, even here, I didn’t fully belong or have a place. The betrayal that I felt cut bone deep–that I could be in a position of influence and power as a conference organizer but so easily stereotyped by another woman of color as a promiscuous bisexual who cheated on her trans spouse to get pregnant. I called my spouse and we talked about the anger and sadness we felt because queer spaces often felt very white, and spaces for people of color were often homophobic and transphobic. I rejoined the conference a few hours later, but I had been robbed of the pride and accomplishment I had previously felt. I never called the offender out (or in) about her behavior. I felt too depleted and frankly, crushed. I went through the motions over the next few days but I just wanted to fly home and be surrounded by the safety and love of my queer, brown family and community of choice.
All of the microaggressions built up and took away some of the joy I felt about being pregnant and creating a family as a queer woman. Due to the scrutiny, I was self-conscious when I walked around my library or attended conferences with my belly jutting out. Navigating this curiosity about my sex life, insemination methods, and whether my children shared DNA was invasive and jarring. I was constantly put in a position of trying to determine whether I wanted to educate someone and if I did, how much. The comments “othered” me and my family as “not normal” (i.e. non-heteronormative) and undermined the legitimacy of our family structure. [20] My children are older now, and my body is less of a spectacle to gawk at. However, because my gender expression is feminine, I still have to ‘come out’ at work every time I meet someone new, have to explain that my spouse is ‘Dad’ but that we are queer and that they are transgender. The nature of my intersectional identity means that I am forced to negotiate LGBTQ microaggressions while also experiencing racial microaggressions (and there are a lot), and constantly feeling like I don’t belong. It is exhausting.
Working from home for most of 2020 and 2021 was a welcome respite from the daily microaggressions and bias I encounter in the physical workplace. [21] Women of color and queer folks have “...historically worked in environments that have not been physically safe for them, much less psychologically or emotionally safe.” [22] When I have to go into the office I brace myself each morning, and put on virtual armor in preparation for spending the day in a space primarily filled with white, heterosexual colleagues. Working in person, I often feel disconnected from my work environment and spend inordinate amounts of time navigating microaggressions and white fragility. While working remotely did have challenges, overall, it was beneficial to my well-being. My stress levels and anxiety decreased since I did not have to navigate white spaces, values, bureaucracy, policies, and unspoken rules that reinforce oppressive environments and hierarchies. [23]
(Naomi) The lack of representations of women of color in healthcare and library science creates disproportionate workloads on those in academic positions. [24] As an Indigenous woman in academia, I am asked to create land acknowledgements, participate in outreach, teach classes for minority pipeline programs, and educate students, staff, and faculty on Native Americans today. While I enjoy the teaching and outreach, it’s emotionally taxing to be asked to do things that my colleagues are not required to do and that are not part of my formal job description. In an academic library it is difficult to express my opinions, ideas, and participate in meetings. I often sit and listen to conversations and only comment when supported by others. As a new librarian, I was told that things will never change and that my job was to keep the status quo. I often suppress my emotions when topics are discussed in large groups. The emotional labor of being expected to speak for all Native Americans is something that impacts me every semester. There are no Native faculty on my campus and I am constantly being asked to deliver instruction to medical students about Native Americans in Arizona. I am part of the erasure and invisibility of Native Americans on my university campus. It’s unfortunate when emotional labor is expended because I am not included or asked to be a part of library discussions. The visibility of Native Americans on campus should be seen and reflect the authentic presence of living Peoples today, not some outdated subject headings, or settler collections in the archives. Librarians plan events or talk about implementing Protocols for Native American Archives, MeSH, and LC subject heading changes, but all this is done without acknowledging Native colleagues or local Tribal communities.
(Tamara) As a Black woman existing, microaggressions surrounding my hair are salient. I couldn’t have said it better than Professor of Librarianship Teresa Y. Neely, [25] “as the most prominent, visible representation of our African-ness, with the exception of our skin, our hair is often the target of colonized macro- and micro-aggression and oppressive behavior.” In my experience, microaggressions have ranged from the espousal of the idea that certain styles of Black hair are “unprofessional” to the most common aggressions in the form of comments or questions that arise from non-Black folks’ unfamiliarity with Black hair.
Institutions everywhere are consistently discriminating against Black folks’ hair [26] and when it happens anywhere, I expend emotional labor. Even if it isn’t happening directly to me, these attacks are a targeted reminder of the racist structural discrimination that runs rampant in our educational institutions with the express purpose of further disenfranchising Black people and denying access to knowledge. Because these beliefs and practices were intentionally promoted and built into our society, even with the passage of the CROWN Act [27] in California, which prohibits race-based hair discrimination, it continues to occur and impact us [Black people]. [28] With each reminder, I start to anticipate and wonder whether it will happen to me. Will one of my hairstyles cross some imaginary line created by non-Black folks and be deemed “unprofessional”? Will there be repercussions I’m not aware of because they’ll happen behind the scenes, in spaces where I am not? I silently navigate and hold my anger and frustration while continuing my usual job responsibilities because I know there are few around me who will truly understand. To get folks to understand would require the invisible labor of educating them. I am already depleted, and this education takes even more from me - time, physical and emotional energy - when those who don’t have this experience, and have a hand in upholding these harmful beliefs and practices, have resources available and should be educating themselves.
Working in a predominantly white institution, I experience many microaggressions from non-Black colleagues regarding my hair that make me feel like an anomaly —people staring at my hair while talking to me; briefly reaching out into the space between us as if they want to touch my hair, but know they shouldn’t; essentially asking for a tutorial for how I do my hair; or comments like “oh, you changed your hair again (which is a statement usually laden with subtext).” One of the major benefits of working from home has been the dramatic decrease in the number of these microaggressions I experience. If our libraries were more diverse, and if folks spent more time with or around a diverse group of Black women (because not all Black women have the same hair practices and beliefs), or took the time to learn about Black women and the issues we deal with, I wouldn’t experience this as frequently. I feel taxed by the emotional labor of fielding questions and comments, and spend time researching and strategizing how to respond in a way that is “professional” and maintain my working relationships and aspirations for future leadership. These interactions sometimes make me hesitate before changing my hair. When I do, I mentally and emotionally prepare. I have spoken up when I experienced microaggressions in two instances and they both ended with the people involved avoiding contact with me. I’m assuming it was simply because they felt uncomfortable, but the impact actually signaled to me that speaking up for myself results in negative consequences.
The Emotional and Invisible Labor of Organizational EDI Efforts
In a qualitative study with ethnic and racial minority academic librarians, conducted by library scholars Kaetrena Davis Kendrick and Ione T. Damasco, [29] invisible and emotional labor are noted as factors in the development of low morale, particularly regarding equity, diversity, and inclusion initiatives. This is especially problematic considering the demands for justice made during the summer of 2020 ushered in an era of exponential increases in library organizational EDI efforts, which purportedly were designed to address issues of racial injustice, among other things.
In On Being Included: Racism and Diversity in Institutional Life, feminist writer and independent scholar Sara Ahmed shares interviews with diversity workers in higher education revealing that diversity is a happier word to use than racism [30] as it causes less discomfort with white people. Racism is explicit and implicit within institutions, yet library workers – and especially management and administrators – avoid saying the word and addressing the systemic harm it causes. “Diversity” however, is a safe and couched way to (not) talk about issues in libraries, and avoid addressing racism, white supremacy culture, and low morale within academic libraries. Furthermore, the toll EDI work takes on BIWOC is exacerbated by “checklist EDI.” In her examination of the mirroring treatment the profession gives to one-shot instruction and one-shot EDI work, Leung stresses how this practice is an intentional and performative tool to signal institutional change, but actually upholds underlying systems of exclusion that work for those in power and therefore don’t want to change. [31] This work fails to address power dynamics inherent in PWIs, since being “...included in a space is not necessarily to have agency within that space, whether such inclusion takes the form of humans from “diverse” (read: nonwhite) communities, “diverse” materials, or “diverse” knowledges and perspectives.” [32]
(Alanna) While libraries have professed to care about diversity for years, the rise of the Black Lives Matter movement in the summer of 2020 spurred many organizations to more openly profess support for the Black community, frantically create new initiatives and training, expand programming and hire positions that focus on equity, diversity, and inclusion. So many of us were looking at these actions, thinking ‘okay this is a step in the right direction, but why are you listening and caring now, when these injustices are not new? Talk is cheap, where is the sustained action?’ We were suspicious of the motivations behind the actions, wondering how long the commitment and enthusiasm would last, interrogating whether these efforts were real or performative and knowing we would be called upon to ‘donate’ our labor to make our organizations less oppressive.
During this time, I thought about Sharon Chuter, founder and CEO of UOMA Beauty, who saw beauty brands posting support on social media but not taking responsibility for the roles that they played in creating the lack of opportunity, oppression and problems. Chuter’s campaign “Pull Up or Shut Up” pressured companies to release the numbers of Black employees (and people of color) at their companies and to identify what levels and positions these employees held. [33] What resonates for me about Chuter’s campaign is that the focus was not just on representation or increasing the numbers but also about who holds senior leadership and positional power. It ties directly to the lack of accountability in academic libraries, how our institutions claim Black Lives Matter but have no or few Black employees, and claim to value people of color but only for our labor at lower levels of an organization. What would “Pull Up or Shut Up” look like if our organizations widely and publicly released their employee numbers and positionalities?
The thing that is infuriating is the performance of diversity and justice, the outward emphasis on our users, toward the wider campus, without attention inwards to ensure that the equity and commitment that is being preached is actually present and salient within our own libraries. Where is the acknowledgment of the existence of structural oppression, the barriers faced by women of color, and the concrete actions to dismantle it? [34]
The number of women of color in our profession is low and we do not hold many positions of power or leadership. Our voices are not given the same weight as white colleagues. Yet we are constantly called upon for our passion and expertise to serve on equity and inclusion committees, mentor other people of color, and manage conversations about racism. Jennifer Brown and Sofia Leung describe how this push for more diverse spaces, programs, and collections adversely affects “the very marginalized professionals that institutions struggle to recruit and retain.” [35] It brings up conflicting feelings for me, as I am passionate about anti-racism and social justice and creating real, sustainable change. However, without additional compensation, doing this heavy lifting, while juggling my usual job responsibilities, is inequitable and ultimately unsustainable. I have also been at my current position for over 15 years, and have been engaging in organizational “equity, diversity, and inclusion” work without seeing real change and am discouraged, exhausted and, at times, bitter. Despite over a decade of this work, it has not lessened my experiences of tokenism, microaggressions, or invisibility. My invisible labor is valued only when it benefits the institution. My glossy color photo, list of diversity accomplishments within and outside the institution are lauded when I can be used as a prop to bolster the image of the organization. Within the organization I have been told I am too abrasive, talk about racism too much and too loudly, am unprofessional, and that I alienate my colleagues. Engaging in this work carries a high emotional cost, which causes trauma through the revisiting of oppressive experiences, educating white colleagues, and listening to microaggressions as folks “learn” about oppression and social identities. In addition, although I engage in disproportionate amounts of invisible labor by supporting social justice efforts, this work is often not recognized or counted as “professional enough.” It does not carry the same shine as expertise in digital scholarship or instruction, for example.
(Naomi) Diversity committees and commissions on college campuses are disguised as service opportunities for faculty, but when white colleagues don’t participate, these commissions and committees often have no power or autonomy to change policies and challenge structural racism. I participated in these systems early in my career. I went to meetings and filled my calendar with events, but none of these events and meetings contributed to changes at the university. This service work was encouraged, but not paid or recognized by my institution. I am still asked to participate in Native American recruitment initiatives on my campus, but none of this is compensated and I am rarely invited to the planning conversations.
(Tamara) With the uptick of EDI “initiatives” since the summer of 2020, I constantly feel hyper-exposed and talked about, and that I have very little agency. White library colleagues can intellectually discuss hiring BIPOC to improve organizational diversity and crafting equity and inclusion initiatives, and they do so without acknowledging that there are BIPOC already here and that this is personal for us. We are the ones for whom EDI is trying to create an equitable and inclusive workplace, and so it is especially harmful when we are ignored or have our ideas dismissed when we do the emotional labor of speaking up to help accomplish those goals and objectives. What kind of initiatives are these when they actively ignore or are a “different version” from what BIPOC already in the organization say they want and need? There is also a need to acknowledge that our current systems were designed to assimilate my authentic Black self for a work culture based on whiteness, but I’m being asked to comment on my Blackness to improve that system without actually making necessary fundamental changes to it. And there are so many different experiences among Black folks within library organizations.
There is a constant mental and subsequent emotional rollercoaster – wanting to speak up to help create change; the expectation that I should speak up because I’m Black and this is about me; the thought that my silence means that there is no problem; the knowledge that I might be seen as speaking for all Black women. I can feel a tension, in the room and within myself, when folks ask for committee members or discuss ideas for how to address EDI. It feels as though I’m being looked to, but white colleagues know not to ask me to do the work directly, so it’s a standoff to see how or if I will be involved. These specific fears and worries also accompany the fear most folks have of putting themselves out there to be judged. Then there are the intersections of power and privilege and the anxiety that comes with making myself even more vulnerable and exposed than I already am visually. As an associate librarian, I fear its effect on my current job and future career. Are you tired yet? I am.
On being visually vulnerable and exposed, I experience repercussions of this with colleagues and library patrons. When coworkers engage in anti-Black racism efforts, I become the proverbial guinea pig to try things out. I become a box to check. Any positive reaction from me seemingly validates that they are not perpetuating anti-Black racism and should keep doing that practice. If I react negatively, I’m ungrateful that they’re trying. This requires the emotional labor of knowing what to say and how to say it. With patrons, while I appreciate how much it means that I and my likeness show up in our spaces, especially with so few of us on campus, there is a negative side to that. My face is on the website, online research guides, and electronic boards in physical spaces, and because of the color of my skin, my exposure is amplified and leaves me open to additional stressors that my white colleagues do not have.
An example is a Facebook Messenger request I received where the person remarked that they enjoyed watching me around the library and made a racially-specific sexual comment. As a result, I spent multiple weeks being hypervigilant at work, changed my Facebook name, and spent hours trying to track down the message's sender. Of course, this could have happened to anyone, but it didn’t. It happened to the only Black librarian, and the content of the message preyed on me based on my gender and race in a space where I am physically vulnerable and exposed.
The Emotional and Invisible Labor of Systems and Barriers to Professional Success
There are many barriers to the professional success of BIWOC librarians. Previous published works have highlighted the intersection of identity, authenticity, and professionalism within libraries for women of color, [36] types of explicit barriers like hostile work environments, unsustainable expectations, and research output, and implicit barriers such as internal pressure and time management/commitments. [37] Additionally, even the institutionally recognized measurement of “success” in our profession, the tenure and promotion process, acts as a barrier. [38]BIWOC librarians are required to engage in added emotional and invisible labor along with our main job responsibilities, but are directly compared with white colleagues, who do not engage in this work, which creates additional barriers to overcome. Academic libraries, like many other institutions, have a cultural history of excluding people of color from positions of power and decision making. With positions of power often filled by white men and women, “...those who have made decisions about library spaces in the past and those who continue to make them in the present tend to have a shared cultural understanding of what the work of faculty and students is and should be,” [39] but these decisions exclude the experiences of BIWOC librarians. Thus, if the standards are those of whiteness, the obstacles to upward mobility for BIWOC librarians are invisible and therefore unrecognized.
(Naomi) As a Native woman, service to one’s community and family is how I measure success. I count service to others as more important than publications, research, teaching, or librarianship. Librarian and scholar Sarah Kostelecky (Zuni Pueblo) expands on the power of being a librarian and in a position to help communities and students. [40] I can relate to Kostelecky and agree that being a librarian gives you power to make a difference in communities and on campus. I see myself as being successful by helping others in my community. Emotional labor for me is the extra work of explaining sovereignty and the unique political status of Tribal Nations to others at the university. Despite the added emotional labor, I often take on the responsibility to educate others in order to make spaces where students can gain the critical thinking skills to strategically address and confront the oppressive power structures that hinder Indigenous liberation. The emotional labor of thinking about history, termination, genocide, historical trauma, removal, assimilation, sovereignty, self-determination, cultural appropriation, stereotypes, and survival is difficult for me to address in academic libraries. I wrestle with systems of oppression and structural racism within libraries, higher education, medicine, and science and engineering. Ethics and responsible research are important to disrupt the system, but often libraries are full of other priorities. The failure of academic libraries to address the systems built to erase and assimilate Native people is something I think about often at work. Expressing my opinions or discomforts with the system are not taken seriously by others at my institution. It’s challenging to address this with supervisors and colleagues. I have a different worldview and perspective. I am not in a position of power or leadership in the institution, yet I try to bring change by asking questions and pointing out the systematic racism and structural inequalities in academic medicine and librarianship. Education scholar Dawn Quigley (Turtle Mountain Band of Ojibwe) writes, “service must be expanded to include Native communities and institutions must recognize and prevent overtaxing emotional and cognitive labor.” [41]
(Tamara) It definitely depends on what success means to you, but I’ve found that if you want to stay current in the work and be included in the larger profession (reading the newer literature, publishing, research, and committee work), you have to grind to fit all of that in. You also have to grind to get to a position where you can have space for self-care. Even if you get there, there is always the fear and the reality that once you take a step back to care for yourself or anyone else, you won’t be on anyone’s radar or list to be acknowledged for your work, or you won’t have folks reaching out to you for opportunities. Library scholars Alyse Minter and Genevia M. Chamblee-Smith offer a lot of context to this in their discussion of WOC and leadership in their research on the experiences of women of color in the library and information science profession. [42] Their research identifies creating social capital as an important piece for leadership development. But if you’re relegated to the social position of “outsider,” it makes it harder to access the information and establish the networks needed to create that social capital. This also relates to tenure and promotion within our organizations. There is a pressure to keep the same pace as your supervisor or others around you because, as the system is built to function, you are compared to them. That can result in either doing more work at your expense to keep pace or pulling back on work so others don’t feel that pressure. And trying to keep pace during a global pandemic and racial protests? It’s too much! While this can be a wider concern in the profession, with the stressors of the incessant “subtle blows” [43] of microaggressions, and the daily invisible and emotional labor I experience, it’s suffocating. The lack of BIWOC in leadership roles perfectly illustrates the reality that these factors are unrecognized, and therefore unaddressed, as barriers for upward mobility and/or success in librarianship.
The Emotional Labor of Working While Contending with Global Events
The COVID-19 global pandemic began in late 2019-early 2020. As it made its way across the globe, the health of many historically marginalized communities were disproportionately impacted by the virus. As a result of misinformation and racist rhetoric regarding the virus, racist hate crimes and violence targeted East Asians and Asian Americans around the world. In the summer of 2020, following the murder of George Floyd by Minneapolis police, Black people and people of color raised their voices in protest and anger at not only his death, but the historical trauma of centuries of violence and injustice. Across the United States, protests took place on a national scale, in tandem with this global public health crisis, to stand up to police violence and the killing of Black people.
Working in primarily white spaces during these serious and significant events compounded the trauma for BIPOC in academia. Academic libraries and professional organizations published statements but did not create plans for sustained action against anti-racism. [44] The amount of invisible labor plaguing BIWOC increased as “sixty-eight percent of female respondents reported an increase in their responsibilities compared to only fifty-five percent of males” and “BIPOC faculty also face additional demands in educating their peers about issues around oppression and race, helping make committees more diverse by joining, and there is additional external service especially considering the recent uprisings against racial injustice.” [45] While BIPOC library workers were traumatized, emotionally depleted, and anxious, we were also tasked to speak out and get involved in “institutional efforts around diversity, equity, and inclusion— often referred to as ‘diversity work.’ [46] This work included developing EDI statements for our organizations [47] and/or being asked to “chair diversity and inclusion committees, informally teach privileged peers about ‘cultural competence,’ navigate white fragility, and more.” [48]This work done by people of color is undervalued and not given the same weight in review, promotion or tenure, if it is included at all. This “cultural taxation,” or increased expectations placed on BIPOC for service around issues of diversity and climate, [49] constitutes emotional and invisible labor.
(Alanna) Since the start of the pandemic in March 2020, xenophobia and bigotry towards members of the Asian American and Pacific Islander (AAPI) communities has been on the rise in the U.S., with over 4000 hate incidents reported. [50] This is a rise of over 149% from the previous years. Incidents range from verbal harassment to violent physical attacks. Our communities have been blamed for the coronavirus, been told to “go home” and the trope of the perpetual foreigner has been strong.
I, like many AAPI, have worried about being assaulted in public spaces and am especially concerned about our elders, since many attacks are against older AAPI. Having the multiple intersectional identities of also being queer and having a family that includes my trans Filipinx spouse and two young children makes the fear and related hypervigilance even more salient, since hatred toward LGBTQ folks–especially trans–is also on the rise.
Within my campus and my library the false narrative of the model minority is strong. We have high numbers of Asian and Asian American students. Within the library, we are a minority but have a few more employees than Black and Native American colleagues. The trope seems to be that since the numbers are “higher” that issues affecting our communities are low or non-existent. This belief erases the diversity of our communities, the fact that different ethnicities encounter distinct barriers, the long history of racism against Asian Americans in the United States, and strengthens the belief that representation equals the absence of oppression.
After the Atlanta spa shootings that killed eight people, including six Asian women, the university and library administration released statements condemning both the attacks and the rise in anti-Asian violence. Honestly, while something was better than nothing, it did not feel like enough, especially as our community continues to experience violence, misogyny, and racism, aimed in large part at Asian and Asian American women, femmes, and the elderly. The week after the statements were released, the Library Community Collective, a grassroots BIWOC-led librarian and staff group, held a space for all staff to grieve, discuss, and be together. I co-led the event with an Asian American colleague. While I did volunteer, it was painful to facilitate the conversation and simultaneously make space to feel my own pain. This was due in large part because the discussion event took place at work, on work time, and despite feeling deep grief, I refuse to cry at work or show vulnerability. There are just too many consequences when women of color show raw emotion in the workplace. Secondly, because the event was filled with work colleagues at a PWI, I was unable to let my guard down or be my full authentic self the way I can in queer spaces and spaces of color. Why did I volunteer then? In large part, I think it was because I wanted someone with deep knowledge, history, and lived experience to help shape the conversation. I didn’t want to leave it in the hands of someone with less lived experience. I wish there were more conversations about how these events affect our AAPI staff and students’ safety. Not having a deeper dialogue about safety concerns contributes to feelings of invisibility in the workplace.
(Naomi) COVID-19 hit the Navajo Nation in June of 2020. As a health science librarian it was part of my job to research and follow the scientific literature while living through the pandemic’s impact on Native communities, including my own Tribe, the Gila River Indian Community. [51] The pandemic was more severe on Tribal reservations that lacked access to critical care units, water, and personal protective equipment. Systematic oppression from the U.S. Government and local states’ lack of public health protocols, poverty, and multigenerational housing led to more cases and deaths on Tribal reservations. [52] In 2020, when the pandemic hit and everyone was asking for information, it was difficult for Tribal Nations in Arizona to get the latest research and articles. This was a devastating moment in my career of wanting to help, but the gap in infrastructure and access for physicians to receive information made it very difficult. Working, teaching, and keeping people informed was a tremendous emotional burden. Non-Native colleagues could not understand the pain of working in a global pandemic while so many Native people lost loved ones. In the past three years, librarians did not check in on me and ask how the pandemic impacted Native people in Arizona. There was no action or statements about how to help Native families and Native communities.
(Tamara) One of the hardest experiences is being in your work sphere when something in the world or on campus happens and you know that no one around you knows what you’re feeling. For example, when the verdict was announced for the officers who murdered Breonna Taylor, I felt overwhelmed with despair about this display of disregard for the lives of Black women – for my life. Expressing this to someone who isn’t a Black woman would require educating them about why it hit so hard, while pushing aside being drowned by feelings of hopelessness and the deep realization that no matter what I do I will always be a target because of the color of my skin. I couldn’t work. I couldn’t function. The colloquialism that BIPOC have to work twice as hard to get half as far exists for a reason. When I feel like I can’t work due to the weight of news like this, I feel like I’m taking multiple steps back in my professional progress. But as far as the university was concerned, it was business as usual.
When the Derek Chauvin trial verdict was announced, a decision that would determine whether there would be justice for George Floyd, a university statement was released. It acknowledged how tired and retraumatized Black folks were, and it felt amazing to be seen and understood. But they then asked the “entire campus community” to get actively involved in making change. It felt like a dismissal of our fatigue by asking more from us. It felt performative as opposed to being informed and meaningful support. There are many case studies as evidence that public statements do not equal acceptance and action. Acknowledgement of the impact is necessary and appreciated, but getting time and permission from administration to forgo work to grieve and care for ourselves is better. Due in large part to the oppression of Black folks, taking care of our mental health has not been at the forefront. Encouraging and providing free therapy for BIPOC from BIPOC therapists is better. Until universities do the work to make structural changes, this will always be my reality. And frankly, I want a better quality of life for myself, so if that change doesn’t happen, I will go somewhere else. BIWOC will go somewhere else. No amount of EDI “initiatives” at the programmatic level can change that.
Conclusion: Designing Our Present and Future
There are many demands for radical change made by BIWOC in academic librarianship. In fact, many of us are leading those efforts. While white colleagues have intentions of participating in or even leading those efforts, the path to creating true change should decenter whiteness and requires reimagining academic libraries as a whole. [53] This change can lead to a more equitable, diverse, and inclusive future for both library workers and patrons. Imagination can be a tool for this liberation. As science, technology, and medicine scholar Ruha Benjamin states, “imagination is a contested field of action, not an ephemeral afterthought that we have the luxury to dismiss or romanticize, but a resource, a battleground . . . We should acknowledge that most people are forced to live inside someone else's imagination.” [54]
To that aim, to conclude this piece, we share meaningful personal experiences and antidotes of emotional and invisible labor as BIWOC librarians as solutions for our present to DISRUPT oppressive institutional structures, systems, patterns, and behaviors. Each author created these separately, but there are important commonalities that emerged, highlighting their importance across racial and ethnic identities. This led to our desire for community and solidarity as paths toward a more just future.
(Alanna) Libraries need more librarians, staff, and administrators with a demonstrated commitment to anti-racist practices, and dismantling white supremacy in our organizations.When white library workers – especially those in power – cause harm through oppressive actions, they need to be held accountable. The person of color who has been harmed should not be held responsible for repairing the relationship or be told that it is a “communication” issue. Qualifications for candidates for open positions should include criteria ranking them on their involvement in anti-racist and social justice work. This should be weighted equally to other qualifications. We need more women of color in positions of leadership, with seats at the table. In addition, all librarians, staff, and administrators should have anti-racism and social justice infused throughout all parts of their job, have awareness of positional power and privilege, have accountability partners, and be evaluated on their commitment and action to this work.
(Naomi) Support from my direct supervisor and library administration in recognizing the emotional and invisible labor of employees is one thing that has made a positive impact in my career. Leadership from administrators to educate themselves, trust employees, and encourage autonomy make workplaces healthy and thriving for all employees. Supervisors that are willing to take over when situations don’t go well or when I am overwhelmed provide me the opportunity to breathe and rest. There have been times when I am angry or upset and I have still had to attend meetings and teach. I endured racist comments by colleagues and then continued to work reference shifts. It’s difficult to participate in groups that don’t recognize the emotional labor of teaching, programs, and statements that center EDI. In Native cultures, matriarchs are the leaders and they are respected. The field of librarianship is a female majority, therefore, more women should be in positions of power and leadership. The fact of the matter is that white males make up the majority of department heads, directors, and deans in academic libraries. In the future, I welcome opportunities for women of color as directors/deans and supervisors in academic libraries. I would like to see more equitable representation in leadership positions and the examination and re-evaluation of hierarchies of tenure and promotion. Tenure and promotion are important for academic libraries, but far too often the evaluation process is not fair and equitable.
(Tamara) At my current level of frustration regarding the small amount of meaningful change that has happened in librarianship even though more BIWOC librarians are speaking up and out more than ever, my demands for institutions, white folks, and those with positional power aren’t narrative. They are active; they are bullet points. I want our institutions to systematically follow, read, and cite BIWOC, and treat that content as a to-do list. My suggested to-do list, based on my personal experiences, is as follows and, where applicable, includes further description and/or an example of it in action:
Encourage and, where appropriate, actively hold space. Support time off. What makes a huge difference for me is acknowledgement from my former supervisor, a fellow BIWOC with whom I already have a friendly relationship. As my supervisor, when a world event occurred she encouraged me to take time without worry, further giving me the space I needed to take care of myself. (Note: The important piece here is that we already have built that trusted relationship.)
Allow and encourage the creation of “only” spaces for folks from historically marginalized communities at all levels within institutions and in the profession as a whole. Allowing “only” spaces continues to be a contentious topic, but in the face of complex and chaotic systems, people will seek out or create the structure they need. The most supportive leadership recourse is to make space for that, or any other self-chosen supports, to happen. I am so thankful for and have benefitted from BIPOC-only librarianship spaces! They are spaces where I know I won’t have to do any educating, where I can just be my whole self and commune about work things that are happening or get support, learn about things that I care about, or share great opportunities and information. Whether or not I feel I can engage with them or have the time, I’m always glad they’re there. However, there are still concerns about power and privilege with fellow BIPOC who are at different levels in the profession or institution, so the ability to have BIPOC-only spaces for all levels is also needed.
Actionably address systemic barriers to BIWOC in leadership. It was really encouraging, uplifting, and pivotal to my retention in the field to have a woman of color for a supervisor. Library leaders should initiate or support the creation of new and rethink existing pathways to leadership and speak openly about those opportunities; offer them equitably. They should also acknowledge the barriers to the success of BIWOC in leadership and actively address them. And acknowledge and address them across the board – not just personal bias training, but also institutional processes, policies, and structures.
Treat librarians of color as consultants. If you would like us to do equity, inclusion, diversity, and belonging work, and we are interested in doing that work, pay us.
Create a culture, at all levels of the library organization, of regularly engaging with the LIS literature of BIPOC librarians. There is no reason for folks to have not read much, if not all, of the BIPOC LIS literature, especially if they are actively working on EDI initiatives.
Rethink qualifications for academic library and information science positions. These can be systemic barriers for current and future BIWOC librarians and library leaders.
Do the actual hard work of EDI. EDI “initiatives” are not enough. I cringe when folks include hiring or being on a committee or interacting with a person of color in a professional capacity as their contribution to EDI. It is tokenism and this takes away our (BIPOC) agency and power as we become objects to be engaged with to check a box for you. What did you actually do in the hiring process to make sure it was equitable? What actual work did you do on a committee? And then, how does all of that extend to addressing a system that was created for inequity? That is the actual work.
(All) While this section was our chance to divine a more just future, we found it disturbingly difficult to do so. We found ourselves preoccupied with just working to survive or getting stuck in the minutiae of making changes to what is. But that’s what oppressive systems hope for, right? That we get stuck on changes to what is versus destroying, imagining, and creating something new that actually serves everyone. We have shared our personal experiences in this article to help others understand the labor intertwined with our individual identities. During this pursuit, we turned to each other and the work of other BIPOC scholars, and concluded that community and solidarity are what we need to create a more just and inclusive future. We are co-signing and amplifying the calls to action made by other BIPOC library workers for solidarity amongst BIPOC groups, [55] but also call for solidarity and creating community among all folks across the profession.
The COVID-19 global pandemic and the summer 2020 protests brought more visibility to the inequities in our communities and on our campuses. So much so that libraries can no longer afford to ignore them. Library organizations need to move beyond individuality and move towards being in community. Working for racial justice (or justice for any marginalized community) needs to be shared work, not just important to BIPOC. White colleagues need to work on understanding whiteness as a concept and a place of power and privilege and understand, respect, and appreciate the cultural context and journey of BIWOC. This work needs to come from personal and institutional commitment to the liberation of all people in our community rather than a desire to benefit the existing system of whiteness.
The field of librarianship needs to acknowledge and then address the racism and whiteness that continues within our institutions. We need to acknowledge and address the history of oppression, racism, and whiteness in institutions of higher education. Not doing so is to suggest that it doesn’t exist and that it doesn’t permeate throughout our organizations today. Without this acknowledgement, any progress made is inherently flawed because the foundation is flawed.
Academic libraries need women of color as leaders and decision makers. But in addition to the need to promote and provide leadership opportunities for women of color at the dean and director levels, academic libraries need to promote and value more collective leadership practices. A good framework is the collective visionary leadership philosophy [56] of Ella Baker, highlighted by Sarah J. Jackson, Presidential Associate Professor for Communication, as she points to co-founder of the Black Lives Matter Global Network, Alicia Garza, as a model. In this framework, those in leadership positions focus on nurturing the leadership of others and empowering them to lead with their own experiential knowledge; the focus is on community. It also centers the leadership of those from the most marginalized communities, believing that “those on the margins often contribute the most toward the goal of collective power”. [57]
With the tenants of community and solidarity at the forefront, we can create library spaces where BIWOC have agency, opportunity, and the mental and emotional space to thrive. Without it, BIWOC will continue to leave the profession and libraries will cease to be relevant. And without us, academic libraries will no longer be able to adequately serve their campus communities.
Acknowledgements
We would like to thank all the BIPOC library and information workers whose work we build upon. We deeply appreciate the up//root editorial team for publishing this piece. We’d also like to thank Sofia Leung, Kristina Santiago, Ashlynn Chand, and Maria Rios for their feedback throughout the process, which helped this piece become more fully realized.
Endnotes
[1] Including all those self identifying as women, and including members of the non-binary community.
[2] “Labor Force Statistics from the Current Population Survey,” U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics, accessed April 16, 2021, https://www.bls.gov/cps/cpsaat11.htm Census data included in the 2000 ALA Diversity Counts report states that 89% of librarians are white, 5% African American, 3% Asian/Pacific Islander, 2% Latino and less than 1% Native American/Alaskan. In ALA’s 2017 Demographic Study Report of self-identifying members, numbers remained fairly constant — 86.7% chose the identifier white, 4.4% Black/African American, 3.6% Asian, 1.2% American Indian or Alaskan Native, 0.4% Other, 2% Native Hawaiian. Of all surveyed, 4.7% chose Hispanic/Latino for ethnicity.
“Table Series A: 2009-2010 American Community Survey Estimates Applied to Institute for Museum and Library Services and National Center for Education Statistics Data,” Diversity Counts, American Library Association, accessed April 20, 2021,
https://www.ala.org/aboutala/sites/ala.org.aboutala/files/content/diversity/diversitycounts/diversitycountstables2012.pdf
“2017 ALA Demographic Study,” American Library Association, accessed April 16, 2021,
https://www.ala.org/tools/sites/ala.org.tools/files/content/Draft%20of%20Member%20Demographics%20Survey%2001-11-2017.pdf
[3] The term “intersectionality” was coined by Kimberlé Crenshaw, a legal scholar and critical race theorist who highlighted the invisibility of women of color in society at large. Kimberle Crenshaw, "Mapping the Margins: Intersectionality, Identity Politics, and Violence against Women of Color," Stanford Law Review 43, no. 6 (1991): 1241-1243.
[4] Kawanna Bright, “A Woman of Color's Work is Never Done: Intersectionality, Emotional, and Invisible Labor in Reference and Information Work,” in Pushing the Margins: Women of Color and Intersectionality in LIS, eds. Rose L. Chou and Annie Pho (Sacramento, CA: Library Juice Press, 2018), 172-173.
[5] Bright, " A Woman of Color's Work is Never Done," 190.
[6] Arlie Russell Hochschild, The Managed Heart: Commercialization of Human Feeling (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2012), 20.
[7] Veronica Arellano Douglas and Joanna Gadsby. “Gendered labor and library instruction coordinators: the undervaluing of feminized work,” in Proceedings of the 2017 Association of College & Research Libraries Conference, (Baltimore, MD: ACRL 2017). Accessed December 1, 2022.
[8] Fobazi Ettarh, “Vocational Awe and Librarianship: The Lies We Tell Ourselves,” In the Library with the Lead Pipe, January 10, 2018, http://www.inthelibrarywiththeleadpipe.org/2018/vocational-awe/
[9] Amy Wharton, “The Sociology of Emotional Labor,” Annual Review of Sociology 35, no. 1 (2009): 150. https://doi.org/10.1146/annurev-soc-070308-115944.
[10] Bridget Turner Kelly, Paige J. Gardner, Joakina Stone, Ashley Hixson, and Di-Tu Dissassa. "Hidden in Plain Sight: Uncovering the Emotional Labor of Black Women Students at Historically White Colleges and Universities," Journal of Diversity in Higher Education 14, no. 2 (2021): 20. doi:10.1037/dhe0000161.
[11] Wharton, “The Sociology of Emotional Labor,” 151.
[12] Arlene Kaplan Daniels, "Invisible Work," Social Problems 34, no. 5 (1987): 403.
[13] Miguel F. Jimenez, Theresa M. Laverty, Sara P. Bombaci, Kate Wilkins, Drew E. Bennett, and Liba Pejchar, "Underrepresented Faculty Play a Disproportionate Role in Advancing Diversity and Inclusion," Nature Ecology and Evolution 3, (2019): 1030, https://doi.org/10.1038/s41559-019-0911-5
[14] Sofia Leung. "The Futility of Information Literacy & EDI: Toward What?" Special issue of College and Research Libraries, 83, 5 (September 2022).
[15] David James Hudson. “On ‘Diversity’ as Anti-Racism in Library and Information Studies: A Critique.” Journal of Critical Library and Information Studies, no. 1 (2017): 10-13
[16] Marion G. Crain, Winifred Poster, and Miriam A. Cherry. Invisible Labor: Hidden Work in the Contemporary World (Oakland, CA: University of California Press, 2016), 106.
[17] Derald Wing Sue, Microaggressions in Everyday Life: Race, Gender, and Sexual Orientation (Germany: Wiley, 2010), 10.
[18] Chester Pierce, “Offensive Mechanisms,” in The Black Seventies, ed. Floyd Barbour (Boston, MA: Porter Sargent, 1970), 266.
[19] Tema Okun. "White Supremacy Culture Characteristics." White Supremacy Culture (2021). https://www.whitesupremacyculture.info/characteristics.html
[20] Kari M. Haines, C. Reyn Boyer, Casey Giovanazzi and M. Paz Galupo, "’Not a Real Family’: Microaggressions Directed toward LGBTQ Families," Journal of Homosexuality 65, no. 9 (2018): 1148.
[21] Nick Croft, "Slack Survey Finds 97% of Black Knowledge Workers Want the Future of the Office to Be Remote or Hybrid," Future Forum, March 25, 2021, https://futureforum.com/press/slack-survey-finds-97-of-black-knowledge-workers-want-the-future-of-the-office-to-be-remote-or-hybrid/.
[22] Ruchika Tulshyan, "Return to Office? Some Women of Color Aren't Ready," The New York Times, June 23, 2021, https://www.nytimes.com/2021/06/23/us/return-to-office-anxiety.html.
[23] Lalitha Nataraj, Holly Hampton, Talitha R. Matlin, and Yvonne Nalani Meulemans,“‘Nice White Meetings’: Unpacking Absurd Library Bureaucracy through a Critical Race Theory Lens,” Canadian Journal of Academic Librarianship 6 (2020): 2-8. https://doi.org/10.33137/cjal-rcbu.v6.34340
[24] Jean E. Fox Tree and Jyotsna Vaid. “Why so Few, Still? Challenges to Attracting, Advancing, and Keeping Women Faculty of Color in Academia,” Frontiers in Sociology, 6 (2022): 1-14
[25] Teresa Y. Neely, “I AM My Hair, and My Hair is Me: #BlackGirlMagic in LIS,” in Pushing the Margins: Women of Color and Intersectionality in LIS, eds. Rose L. Chou and Annie Pho (Sacramento, CA: Library Juice Press, 2018), 135.
[26] Chante Griffin, “How Natural Black Hair at Work Became a Civil Rights Issue,” JStor Daily, July 3, 2019, https://daily.jstor.org/how-natural-black-hair-at-work-became-a-civil-rights-issue/.
[27] Erica Smith, “Natural-Hair Discrimination Is One Step Closer to Being Banned Nationwide,” The Cut, New York Magazine, September 22, 2020, https://www.thecut.com/2020/09/house-passes-crown-act.html.
[28] The CROWN (Creating a Respectful and Open World for Natural Hair) Act was mentioned in this piece. Between the writing and the publishing of this piece, as of December of 2022, the attempt to make it a federal crime to discriminate based on hair texture and style did not succeed in the U.S. Senate.
[29] Kaetrena Davis Kendrick and Ione T. Damasco, "Low Morale in Ethnic and Racial Minority Academic Librarians: an Experiential Study," Library Trends 68, no. 2 (2019): 178. doi:10.1353/lib.2019.0036.
[30] Sara Ahmed, On being included: racism and diversity in institutional life. (Durham, North Carolina: Duke University Press), 51-82
[31] Leung, “The Futility of Information Literacy” (2022): 751-764. https://doi.org/10.5860/crl.83.5.75.
[32] Hudson, “On ‘Diversity’ as Anti-Racism”: 13
[33] Amanda Mitchell, “One Year Into Pull Up For Change, Has The Beauty Industry Really Progressed?” Refinery 29, July 17, 2021, https://www.refinery29.com/en-us/2021/06/10532007/pull-up-for-change-beauty-brands-anniversary
[34] Jennifer Brown, Jennifer A. Ferretti, Sofia Leung, and Marisa Méndez-Brady. “We Here: Speaking Our Truth.” Library Trends 67(1), (2018): 163-181.
[35] Jennifer Brown and Sofia Leung. "Authenticity vs. Professionalism: Being True to Ourselves at Work" In Pushing the Margins: Women of Color and Intersectionality in LIS, edited by Rose L. Chou and Annie Pho (Sacramento, CA: Library Juice Press, 2018), 329-347.
[36] Brown and Leung. "Authenticity vs. Professionalism” 329-347.
[37] Trevar Riley-Reid. “Breaking Down Barriers: Making It Easier for Academic Librarians of Color to Stay,” The Journal of Academic Librarianship 43, no. 5 (2017): 392–396. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.acalib.2017.06.017.
[38] Ione T. Damasco and Dracine Hodges, “Tenure and Promotion Experiences of Academic Librarians of Color,” College & Research Libraries 73, no. 3 (2012): 279–301. https://doi.org/10.5860/crl-244.
[39] Freeda Brook, Dave Ellenwood, and Althea Eannace Lazzaro. “In Pursuit of Antiracist Social Justice: Denaturalizing Whiteness in the Academic Library.” Library Trends 64, no. 2 (2015): 246–84. https://doi.org/10.1353/lib.2015.0048.
[40] Sarah Kostelecky, “American Indian Women in Academic Libraries: Progress and Challenges,” in Gender, Race, and Ethnicity in the Workplace: Emerging Issues and Enduring Challenges, ed. Margaret Foegen Karsten (Santa Barbara, California: Praeger, 2016), 359–376.
[41] Dawn Quigley, “Research and Resistance: Reasons for Indigenous Research Methodologies,” in Racial Battle Fatigue in Faculty: Perspectives and Lessons from Higher Education, eds. Nicholas D. Hartlep & Daisy Ball (New York: Routledge, 2020), 145–56.
[42] Alyse Minter, and Genevia M. Chamblee-Smith. “‘Sister, you’ve been on my mind’”: experiences of women of color in the library and information science profession,” in Pushing the Margins: Women of color and intersectionality in LIS, eds. Rose L. Chou and Annie Pho (Sacramento, CA: Library Juice Press, 2018),197-251.
[43] Pierce, “Offensive Mechanisms,” 266.
[44] Peace Ossom-Williamson, Jamia Williams, Xan Goodman, Christian I.J. Minter, and Ayaba Logan. “Starting with I: combating anti-Blackness in libraries.” Medical reference services quarterly 40, no. 2 (2021): 139-150.
[45] Beth Patin, Melinda Sebastian, Jieun Yeon, Danielle Bertolini, and Alexandra Grimm. "Interrupting epistemicide: A practical framework for naming, identifying, and ending epistemic injustice in the information professions." Journal of the Association for Information Science and Technology 72, no. 10 (2021): 1306-1318.
[46] Jennifer Brown, Nicolae Cline, and Marisa Méndez- Brady. “Leaning on Our Labor: Whiteness and Hierarchies of Power in LIS Work,” in Knowledge Justice: Disrupting Library and Information Studies through Critical Race Theory, ed. Sofia Y. Leung and Jorge R. López-McKnight (Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 2021), 95–108.
[47] Amelia N. Gibson, Renate L. Chancellor, Nicole A. Cooke, Sarah Park Dahlen, Beth Patin, and Yasmeen Shorish. “Struggling to breathe: COVID-19, protest and the LIS response.” Equality, Diversity and Inclusion: An International Journal 40, no 1 (2021): 74-82.
[48] Brown, et.al, “Leaning on Our Labor,” 95-108.
[49] Harrison W. Inefuku. “Relegated to the Margins: Faculty of Color, the Scholarly Record, and the Necessity of Antiracist Library Disruptions,” in Knowledge Justice: Disrupting Library and Information Studies through Critical Race Theory, ed. Sofia Y. Leung and Jorge R. López-McKnight (Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 2021), 197–216.
[50] "Reports." Stop AAPI Hate, July 07, 2021, https://stopaapihate.org/reports/.
[51] Aggie J. Yellow Horse, Tse-Chuan Yang, and Kimberly R. Huyser. “Structural Inequalities Established the Architecture for COVID-19 Pandemic Among Native Americans in Arizona: A Geographically Weighted Regression Perspective,” Journal of Racial and Ethnic Health Disparities 9, no.1 (2021):165-175. https://doi.org/10.1007/s40615-020-00940-2.
[52] Randall Akee and Sarah Reber. “American Indians and Alaska Natives Are Dying of COVID-19 at Shocking Rates.” Brookings Institution, February 18, 2021. https://www.brookings.edu/research/american-indians-and-alaska-natives-are-dying-of-covid-19-at-shocking-rates/.
[53] Isabel Espinal, Tonia Sutherland, and Charlotte Roh. “A Holistic Approach for Inclusive Librarianship: Decentering Whiteness in Our Profession.” Library Trends 67 (1). Summer 2018, 2018. https://doi.org/10.1353/lib.2018.0030 .
[54] Ruha Benjamin, “Ruha Benjamin on "The New Jim Code? Race, Carceral Technoscience, and Liberatory Imagination." Other and Belonging Institute, October 17, 2019, https://belonging.berkeley.edu/video-ruha-benjamin-new-jim-code-race-carceral-technoscience-and-liberatory-imagination.
[55] Desmond Wong,, Anastasia Chiu, Jessica Dai, Deborah Yun Caldwell, and Charlotte Roh. “Letter to Asian Diasporic Library Workers.” In up//root, (2021). https://www.uproot.space/features/letter-to-asian-diasporic-library-workers; Alexandria Brown, James Cheng, Isabel Espinal, Brittany Paloma Fiedler, Joyce Gabiola, Sofia Leung, Nisha Mody, Alanna Aiko Moore, Teresa Y. Neely, and Peace Ossom-Williamson. "Statement Against White Appropriation of Black Indigenous and People of Color's Labor" In WOC+ Lib, September 2021, https://www.wocandlib.org/features/2021/9/3/statement-against-white-appropriation-of-black-indigenous-and-people-of-colors-labor
[56] Sarah J. Jackson, "Black Lives Matter and the revitalization of collective visionary leadership." Leadership 17, no. 1 (2021): 8-17.
[57] Jackson, “Black Lives Matter and the revitalization of collective visionary leadership,” 15.
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