Are You Pregnant? Can I Have Some Creamer? And Other Questions I Get at the Library

I still remember my first reference question. I was stationed next to the library’s front door, a charming spot where people slung their wet umbrellas and one man always left the newspaper while he called numbers from personal ads. I’d been there for years, but suddenly found myself as nervous as I was on my first day of work. Answering questions at circulation meant dealing with stuff like: why do you close so early and why do you open so late and has anyone ever told you that tall women shouldn’t wear capri pants? But something about sitting behind the bold-font REFERENCE nameplate felt different. This was where real research happened. What if I didn’t know any of the answers? I mean, I eat cereal for dinner most nights and I broke my own dryer because I put too many shoes in it one time. What could I possibly offer these patrons? What did I actually know?

A man approached from the stacks. I tried to smile, flexing my fingers on the keyboard in front of me. There were databases I could use, tools at my disposal. I figured worst-case scenario I’d excuse myself from a question I couldn’t answer and just drive out of state. Change my identity. Start a new life as a vet technician.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

He leaned in and whispered: “Where’s the bathroom?”

Granted, this was not the only question I answered that day, but it did set the tone for what my future shifts would look like. The thing about working the reference desk is you only learn how to do it by sitting your ass in the seat. Like most library work, understanding reference comes from actually interacting with patrons. There’s no way to know how to correctly answer life’s weirdest questions without having someone physically stroll up, plop themselves in the seat directly adjacent, and ask: “Do you know any good erotica sites?” You get a variety of different queries (for instance, I once talked a woman through setting up an online dating profile and then drew her a map to meet a date at Cold Stone Creamery on the back of McDonald’s napkin), but there’s always one shockingly similar thing that occurs when you’re sitting a reference shift. Most of the time people don’t actually know what the hell it is they’re trying to ask you.

I know, it sounds weird.

Let’s step back a second. You know that recurring joke where someone asks about a book and all they tell you is the color of the cover? There’s a reason for that: patrons do it ALL THE TIME. It’s infuriating. What are you looking for, you ask, and they provide the absolute bare minimum. Part of the reason this happens is that a lot of people feel weird admitting they don’t know everything. When someone shows up at reference, they offer up the teeniest tip of the iceberg hoping that with a little nudge they can figure out the rest themselves.

Listen, that’s understandable. I never wanna admit I don’t know something (or that I’m wrong).

Consider writing. When I’m working on a project, I’m contemplating what’s beneath the surface. I want to see what a character can’t discover about their own life. I’m asking a question and subsequently digging up even more questions that I can’t possibly answer. It’s frustrating and confusing. When I sit a reference shift, I consider that the person in front of me is experiencing the same kind of internal struggle. A patron in an academic library might ask how to format a paper, but that leads to an examination of their thesis statement, and that takes us to a whole conversation about what they’re trying to get out of college and whether student loans are a scam. Public library reference shifts might start out with locating Kelly Blue Books and wind up turning into a half-hour discussion about climate change. Think of a reference patron like a blind date—they don’t know you yet and they’re nervous about opening up. Worried it could go wrong. Once you get them talking, they start to feel more comfortable. You have a conversation; you figure out what’s beneath the surface. They finally ask the question they’ve been avoiding.

What is a question but a road map? Once you reach a destination, aren’t you ready to travel somewhere else?

Questions I’ve been asked by a single patron during a reference shift:

Where is the nearest Jiffy Lube?

How many episodes of Doctor Who are there?

How long does a pregnancy last?

For an elephant?

For a mouse?

For a human being?

Are you pregnant?

Are you sure you’re not pregnant?

Wait, you’re gay?

Are you sure you’re gay?

Can I get an STI from shaking hands?

How do I know if my kid is gay?

Do you have books about that? For me, for my kid?

Is there a Burger King nearby?

In library school, classes about reference meant every situation we discussed was hypothetical. We learned “best practices” to deal with patrons we might encounter, talked about what databases might help, or sources that would be good to bookmark on the reference computer. But something you can’t learn in a classroom: how do you answer questions people don’t know how to ask? As a person who absolutely never knows what she wants, I’m here to tell you that reference only works if you’re willing to put in the time. You look for the question burbling up behind the first one, and then you look for the question buried under that. Reference is a diagnosis; we find answers in what’s not being said.

At the end of the day, working the reference desk is about human interaction. You’re forming a relationship between yourself and a patron based on a common goal. It’s letting someone know they don’t have to apologize for “taking up your time,” that they can come back again and ask another question, and another, as many as they’d like. It’s proving you’re just as invested in learning about the world as they are; that you want to get at the heart of things.

And yeah, sometimes it’s just about pointing them to the bathroom. I guess that’s reference, too.