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I’ve attempted to build my career by navigating a contradiction: I long to contribute toward collective liberation; yet I’m a fiercely solitary person who has struggled to feel self-worth. For six years, I found that public librarianship satisfied my disaccord. I loved supporting people with information and tools for empowerment. I’m proud to have connected patrons to the job posting, picture book, DVD, sample ballot, or long-buried personal email they needed. Libraries are versatile. I’ve also shared free meals, local produce, school supplies, and solar eclipse glasses with patrons. My job aligned with my values. And, after a day’s work, I was content to return home to my quiet life. For me, my contribution was helping. 

 

Times of crisis demand helpers. Looking back on the COVID-19 pandemic, I actually experienced beautiful moments. I recall emotionally greeting the first person to enter the library after several months of lockdown. Countless people pointed to the library and its collection as sources of resilience. I hold onto handmade thank you notes that families gifted me. Still, it became impossible to ignore that, despite the library’s granted senses of security, we were merely treading water. I grew to feel that library services offered a flimsy safety net in a failing society.

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For instance, a wave of crypto ads debuted during the 2022 Super Bowl. In the following weeks, many patrons who generally struggled with emails and printing requested help with first time investments. Predatory norms like these are not lost on public librarians; they’re all too aware of systemic issues that impact our community, like poverty and inequitable access to transportation, safety, or opportunity. In time, it grew untenable for me to accept hosting the occasional information literacy course while 54% of U.S. adults read below a sixth-grade level. It felt meager declaring the library a "cooling center" while the UN declared climate change a "code red for humanity." More and more, these issues are compounded by an increasingly sick culture - as well as by the problems of the climate change polycrisis.  

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Transitioning to a just and livable future will require shaping a new culture. I’ve seen similar arguments become increasingly commonplace. A popular maxim is that the climate crisis is also a crisis of imagination.In my own time of personal crisis, feeling unmoored and unable to help, I contemplated cultural change. For inspiration, I turned to museums and studying cultural heritage. As a librarian, I have always championed lifelong learning as necessary for flourishing. But the museum sparked a deeper understanding within me. Engaging with material culture helps to viscerally realize, and see the evidence of, constant change. More pointedly, cultural heritage communicates the truth that people can and have lived in social orders different than our own. I may have always intellectually grasped a realm beyond capitalist imperialism. But close looking allowed me to deeply feel the possibilities. In fact, research shows that contemplation in museums can foster empathy, spiritual solace, and transcendent moments that seem to link the viewer with other times, peoples, places and even transpersonal feelings. Through practicing this work, I have generally overcome my feelings of isolation and low self-worth.

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Such embodied realizations are essential for overcoming capitalist realism, which Mark Fisher describes as "the widespread sense that not only is capitalism the only viable political and economic system, but also that it is now impossible even to imagine a coherent alternative to it." 

 

Murray Bookchin said: "The assumption that what currently exists must necessarily exist is the acid that corrodes all visionary thinking." I believe an essential antidote to capitalist realism lies in our collective heritage. Museums, historic sites, and cultural spaces hold the keys to unlocking our imaginations and capacities to shape the future. The deeper I’ve explored this topic, the more I’ve discovered experts who are articulating how heritage might save us. 

 

Andrew Simms writes:

 

"Museums matter because they challenge our lack of belief in the possibility of change. In fact, they graphically demonstrate its inevitability. Museums give the lie to the myth of permanence. They are filled with objects and documents that show how change happens, including the possibility of rapid transitions, whether in response to cultural, political, or environmental factors, or war, technology, or demography."
 

In her Letter to a Young Archaeologist, Hannah Fluck describes archaeologists’ superpowers: "story telling; time travel; evidence of how people change the environment; and evidence of how people can live without fossil fuels." 
 

Cornelius Holtorf tackles the Climate Heritage Paradox, describing its two contradictions:
 

"Firstly, in contemporary society, when humanity anticipates and prepares for climate change and associated transformations, archaeological and other cultural heritage predominantly look backward and emphasize continuities. Secondly, when humanity on Earth needs panhuman solidarity, trust, and collaboration to be able to face enormous global challenges together, archaeological and other forms of cultural heritage are still managed and interpreted within frameworks of national governance. There is, therefore, a need for developing new understandings of cultural heritage that (a) are predominantly about stories of change and transformation rather than continuity and spatial belonging, and (b) express a need for humanity to collaborate globally and overcome national boundaries."

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One skill I hope to demonstrate is the ability to pull at the common threads and generative aspirations across these various statements. I’m inspired to go beyond my old comfort levels, to humbly step into a role that promotes change.

 

Here is a thought-provoking outline of roles people play in advancing social change, presented by the Building Movement Project:
 

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