Out of Circulation: Reflections on Nontraditional Librarianship

By Wes Smith (Former Academic Librarian)

To My Friend’s Colleagues,

Hi! My name is Wes, and before you go looking up my CV or credentials, I’ll start with this: I’m no longer in the library profession. I’m unsure whether that revelation might cause you to stop reading or discount what I say, but I hope it doesn’t. I’m writing this to share my thoughts, feelings, and experiences, hoping they might help shape a more inclusive and expansive future for libraries.

Let me share a bit about who I am, or maybe who I was. I come from a background in multimedia production. I got my start in libraries as a graduate assistant in a multimedia lab, working in the library but not for the library. At the time, I didn’t realize this was even a full-time role in academic libraries. But when I graduated, I found that some libraries did hire for positions like mine and started my first role in a library.

That first job also marked my first real experience working alongside librarians. And it’s where I began to sense the disconnect between staff and faculty, between traditional and “nontraditional” roles, and between the work libraries had historically valued and the work I think they were starting to need.

During my first job, a full professor and tenured librarian told me, “The kind of work you do doesn’t need to be in the library. It should be in the building next door.” That was one of my first encounters with the idea that some people viewed what I did as something other than librarianship. It was a new thing, a novelty — one that would not last the time of “real” librarianship.

When I later accepted my first faculty position, I encountered something similar, this time on my very first day on the job. During the first faculty meeting I attended, as we were discussing the library faculty handbook, a tenured librarian made the case that we should not revise the handbook in a way that would not allow individuals without an MLS to qualify for librarian faculty status. And then, almost as an aside, acknowledged that the new faculty member without an MLS, me, was sitting in the room.

That meeting shaped my early understanding of librarianship and may be a contributing factor for me to leave. It left me with lingering questions about the work that I was brought here to do. What does it mean when someone views your work as essential, but not “library work”? What are we really saying when we draw a hard line around who belongs in the profession and who doesn’t?

The question of belonging continued to surface. One of the most persistent challenges I faced was the perception that, without an MLS, I didn’t fully belong. There’s a quiet assumption in some library spaces that credentials equate to commitment, or worse, to competence. I was sometimes viewed as a guest in a space where others were seen as permanent residents. The misperception was that I lacked the depth or context to contribute meaningfully to library strategy or pedagogy. My work wasn’t “less than.” It was simply different. But because that difference didn’t fit longstanding definitions of librarianship, it occasionally felt invisible or undervalued.

I remember presenting at an ALA conference with a group of non-MLS librarians, and during the Q&A, someone in the audience made a comment: “Well, you’re librarians… but not Big L Librarians.” I don’t recall exactly how my colleagues or I responded in the moment, but I do remember how I felt afterward: taken aback, maybe even a little gutted. That moment stayed with me. It wasn’t the whole room, just one voice, but it echoed something deeper: that this profession doesn’t always know how to uplift work that doesn’t fit the traditional narrative. And when that happens, it risks sending a message that difference is less valuable, even when it’s deeply needed.

That feeling followed me into professional spaces. Through the first couple years of my career, I had the opportunity to present at both the ACRL and the ALA. And after attending a few sessions and chatting with colleagues, I had this strange feeling: I might be the only one of me here. We’re all unique, so let me explain what I mean. At the time, I was a tenure-track librarian at a mid-sized metropolitan university. I was a Black male who specialized in multimedia production. And I didn’t hold a degree in library science.

Out of more than 160,000 librarians worldwide, it seems unrealistic that I was the only one with that mix of characteristics, but it felt like I was. Finding one’s place in a new profession is always hard. It’s even harder when you’re not just new but viewed as an outsider.

And yet, my work aligned with librarianship in ways that deeply mattered. My work was similar, yet different, from that of my colleagues. Or maybe I just saw it differently, because I didn’t enter the profession with preconceived notions of what “librarian” work was supposed to look like. I didn’t work a traditional research services desk, but my role embodied the same core values of librarianship outlined by ALA. I provided access, but instead of databases or journals, it was to creative software and camera equipment. I supported equity by creating a space where students could express themselves through new mediums, often in vulnerable, courageous ways. It’s one thing to write a paper. It’s another to produce a short film and screen it at a student film festival in front of your peers and faculty members. When it came to intellectual freedom and privacy, media creation was a perfect entry point. I wasn’t teaching something unrelated to librarianship. I was simply helping students explore its values in a different format.

Professional development offered its own challenges. The first time I realized there wasn’t much professional development designed for someone like me was when my library sent me to ACRL Immersion. It was a great experience, and I met many thoughtful, passionate colleagues, but I was clearly an outlier. Much of the discussion and the activities were built around a different kind of librarian, one rooted in an area that I had no clue in. The real gap, in hindsight, wasn’t the content. It was the assumption that everyone in the room shared the same professional identity. It left me wondering: what do we do with professionals who don’t fit the mold?

To be fair, ACRL Immersion may have evolved since my time there. But what would have helped me then was something simple: a clearer sense that I belonged, and my work belonged. I understand some of that work is internal, but it was also clear that the program didn’t quite know how to include someone with my background. Eventually, I found community elsewhere. Over time, as I began publishing and presenting, I discovered a more cross-disciplinary network, librarians and other faculty whose work also lived at the intersection of media, design, and scholarship. They helped me think more broadly about what it means to contribute meaningfully to a profession without matching its dominant narrative.

Recruiting others like me means rethinking how we advertise these roles. If libraries want to attract professionals with specialized skills, it’s not just about where you post. It’s how you label the job. Keep posting to places like LinkedIn and Indeed, not just ALA lists. And consider that someone with deep multimedia expertise might never search for a title like “Emerging Technology Librarian,” even if the role is tailormade for them.

And once those individuals arrive, we must consider how we welcome them. Sometimes, it takes someone from outside the profession to help us recontextualize the experience of others. When you’re embedded in a culture, any culture, it’s easy to miss the invisible rules, the subtle hierarchies, the stories we tell about who belongs and who doesn’t. To the future leaders of libraries: lean on outside expertise. Bring in those with different training, different lenses, and different stories. Nurture them in the values of librarianship, yes, but also give them the space to be fully themselves. Help them cultivate a sense of belonging, even when they can’t yet see a community that looks like them. I wrote a piece with a good friend on the future of libraries. We talked about the tension between joining and changing, between honoring a tradition and gently reshaping it.

This is what I carry with me. I’ve come to believe that it’s not the degree that makes someone a good librarian. It’s the community. Like in any profession, holding a credential doesn’t prepare you for every nuance of the work. What makes the difference is how well a community welcomes, supports, and mentors someone into the culture. We have the power to make great librarians. Cost and access barriers may prevent someone from pursuing an MLS, especially if they’ve already earned a different graduate degree while working in the field. These individuals often embody the very traits we celebrate in librarians: curiosity, service, adaptability, and a deep commitment to learning. But without the credential, they may never get the chance. That’s not just a loss for them. It’s a loss for the profession.

I may no longer work in libraries, but I carry the values I learned there with me every day. I still believe in access, in service, in intellectual freedom, and in the power of learning to change lives. And I believe the profession has room to grow, not just in its services, but in how it defines who belongs. If this letter reaches someone who feels like an outsider, I hope it gives them encouragement. And if it reaches someone shaping the future of the profession, I hope it gives them pause. Because libraries don’t just need people who fit the mold. They need people who can help reshape it.

Wes Smith is a former academic librarian with a background in multimedia production and instructional design. He began his career working in and alongside libraries in nontraditional roles and has presented at ACRL, ALA, and other conferences. Wes currently works in corporate learning and development and remains interested in the evolving boundaries of professional identity in libraries.