Mike

It was an unusually quiet Monday afternoon in the library. The beautiful weather - sunny, breezy, an early prelude to summer - was obviously keeping people outdoors (and we staff members wished that we could join them. I keep hoping that our budget will include a line item for a retractable roof, but so far that hasn't happened).

What had been an uneventful three-hour desk shift ended with a rather unpleasant patron encounter. Admittedly, it was my fault. An older gentleman named Mike asked about our computer classes - a common question that is answered numerous times by numerous staff members during any particular day. But before I could proceed with my explanation of the one-time, one-hour basic classes, he startled me with a further request: he wanted to know whether our computers contained special screens for the visually impaired.

I knew that they didn't. And yet I didn't want to answer Mike with a flat "no." His request was perfectly reasonable, and there had to be something that we could do for him in order to enable him to take classes. I asked Amy, my colleague on the desk, who had been with the library system for much longer than I had, if she knew of any resources. Inwardly, I was embarrassed for not having the information right at my fingertips, for having to think and to ask for assistance in helping someone who had a disability.

While Amy conducted the research for an appropriate device, Mike told me that he wanted to register for a class even if he couldn't obtain a screen to improve his sight. I did this - not thinking - jotting the date and time of the class on a small piece of paper. After I presented it to him, he thanked me, and I resumed the independent work that I do when I'm not busy with a patron.

Then Amy returned. She had found information on where Mike could obtain a personal device that could help him, and I watched from the corner of my eye as she wrote the name and phone number of the company on an 8 1/2 x 11 piece of paper. "Ah, here's a woman who knows how to work with the disabled!" Mike cried. I saw him glance at me through the corner of my eye, but, deeply embarrassed, I couldn't bring myself to raise my eyes from my computer.

I had treated him with courtesy, and had wanted to help him. But, while both are essential components of a reference transaction, they weren't enough to prevent me from handling the interaction badly. Why on Earth hadn't I thought to give Mike a form that he could actually read?! Of what use would a tiny piece of paper be to a man who has vision problems?! I had failed, not because I had to think about where he could obtain the assistance that he needed (although that was embarrassing enough), but because my response to him completely glossed over his disability. And in this case the bulk of the interaction necessitated the acknowledgment of his disability.

I sometimes find myself wondering how I could have improved an interaction with a patron. In this case I know how I could have done better. Will I have the chance to work with Mike again?