I first learned about this world from a blog called Librarian Avengers. “I just spoke with a gentleman who helps run Second Life,” Erica Firment wrote, “and he informed me that there are, like, a billion librarians there.” These librarians apparently owned a bunch of islands and somehow had found a way to practice their profession in virtual reality. Firment, the Librarian Avenger, ended her post with a smirk: “Are we cool or what?”
I couldn’t picture a website with 3-D graphics, crawling with librarians. Were the skies of Second Life thick with flying librarians in capes and glasses? I’d read a flurry of stories about someone who divorced her husband after he “married” his Second Life girlfriend; it sounded like a wild place. What were librarians doing there? Trying hard, as one early source put it, “to prove we’re not sexually repressed geeks”? The term virtual librarian had been coined to describe librarians who provided real-time help to their patrons from a distance, using chat services on computers or phones. A whole new type of virtual librarian was being invented in Second Life, little cartoon figures who could interact visually as well—extreme virtual librarians. And while they were at it, these librarians were inventing another kind of library, one their patrons could walk (or fly) around in—without either librarian or patron having to leave her kitchen stool.
I installed the free Second Life software, chose a password and a stock avatar, made up my own first name and picked my surname from a list provided by the creators and maintainers of this place, Linden Lab, which launched the Second Life grid in 2003. Unlike the dozens of other virtual-reality sites, Second Life is created by its residents, so though some people complain there is nothing to do here, it seems to be an ideal laboratory for creative and technically savvy types who for one reason or another want to operate, like the Wizard of Oz, behind the curtain of a nickname and an avatar. As one of the librarian-avatars put it: “Linden created a laboratory and let the lab rats have the tools.”
For weeks, I practiced being “in-world,” learning how to walk and fly without crashing into virtual buildings, how to simultaneously move my avatar and conduct an instant-message conversation with someone else’s. That required dexterity. My goal was simple: to work up the nerve and skill to visit the libraries and interview the librarians. I edited my profile so that anyone who interacted with Marilena would know there was a reporter at the controls.
One night I teleported over to the Info Island, and found an avatar with a sign floating over her head that said “Reference.” Georgette was sitting on a virtual park bench. Her dark skin glowed; she wore a swirly skirt and a peach-colored sweater she told me she paid fifty Linden dollars for—about fifty U.S. cents. Every few seconds, she took a big swig from a steaming cup of coffee in her hand. “Would you like a cup?” she wrote in our instant-message box. Ding! A little blue box popped up on my screen: Georgette has offered you an item from her inventory. Accept? I accepted, and, locating the new steaming cup of coffee in my inventory, dragged it onto my avatar; the cup attached itself to Marilena’s hand. And there the two avs sat companionably, pretending to drink hot coffee while Georgette (actually a bookstore clerk in Scotland) briefed me on the librarian scene on Second Life.
There was more than one library in this virtual world; in fact, the place was bursting with libraries. The Alliance Library System, a real-life consortium in East Peoria, Illinois, had been sponsoring librarian initiatives on Second Life since the spring of 2006, offering information services to avatars and helping libraries and universities gain a foothold. Alliance was helping build virtual libraries all over the place. The best of these, Georgette thought, might be the central library in nineteenth-century Caledon, run by Mr. J. J. Drinkwater. Meanwhile, librarians from the U.S., the U.K., Australia, Canada, China, and multiple European countries (some multilingual, some relying on an imperfect but useful instant translator in Second Life called Babbler) were connecting and collaborating. The Alliance had a vision of all these languages and cultures coming together in the international library, being built on the other side of the island, even as Georgette and Marilena sat nodding their heads on a park bench and this Scottish person and I had a real conversation in the chat box.
What could librarians do in Second Life? They could serve as sources of information about the virtual world, as Georgette had just done. They could help patron-avatars with the mysteries of Second Life. They could research historic sites or eras for people trying to build immersive environments. They could create and furnish buildings on Second Life that they called “libraries,” some looking like classic Carnegie libraries from the late nineteenth century, some like futuristic landing pads, all stocked with links to websites and e-books. They could create models of futuristic libraries quickly and cheaply. They could host literary events, book discussion groups, panels, and readings (a surprisingly fun thing to do in Second Life). They could collaborate, share digital resources, and meet. I’m convinced there’s no better way to connect with people from far-flung places than on an island in Second Life—it feels like you’re all together in one place. The same was true of the parties, where librarians had fun and incidentally gave expression to some of the metaphors of library work—appearing with fairy wings, for instance, or sitting on a chair made of floating books.
Which brings us to the most entertaining thing of all that librarians could do in virtual reality—hang out together. At any hour of the day or night, from any time zone, I could fall in with a group of librarians making a mock video where they danced in sync to an old disco tune, or chatting together in a tree house. Something happened when librarians with digital skills and imagination got together. They invented things. Estimates of the number of librarians on the site were hard to verify, but of the two member groups I followed, one had almost eight hundred members, the other, more than three thousand—plenty to play with, and more than enough for a research-and-development department for the profession, which is what Second Life sometimes seems to be.
And, naturally, librarian-avatars could do what any regular librarian could do: answer our questions.
One night, for instance, I found myself logging into Second Life while at a conference in Alexandria, Virginia. I was nervous about navigating the area the next day and too keyed up to sleep. Three librarian-avatars were hanging around the reference plaza. “Hi, Mari, how’s it going?” I told them I was trying to plan my day at the conference, and the concierge was off duty. “We’ll help!” they said, and while we gossiped, they also Googled and networked. Within minutes, they gave me directions for negotiating my way via public transportation, advice from a librarian who had made a similar trip, the phone number of a reliable cab company, and the approximate cost of cabfare from the conference site to the train station. They made it easy, erasing my anxiety while arming me cheerfully with information in the middle of the night, for free. “Np,” they typed as I teleported away, “no problem.”
That’s what they did with one hand. With the other, they cooked up crazy library ideas, like Bradburyville, an island where you could take on the form of a character in Fahrenheit 451 and act out a scene where your home was invaded by “firemen,” who confiscated your books and tossed them on a bonfire. I thought of this while reading an interview with Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit’s visionary author and a longtime lover of libraries (though he preferred the computerless model). What would he have made of Bradburyville? He railed about the Internet: “It’s distracting,” he said. “It’s meaningless; it’s not real. It’s in the air somewhere.”
Well, yes…but also, no.
There was no nonsense about Hypatia Dejavu. The avatar wore black jeans and sneakers and a white collared shirt, cinched at the waist; white upswept hair framed her chiseled features. Granny glasses perched on her nose, her skin glowed, her gestures were accomplished—from time to time the avatar put her hand on her hips or glanced at her watch, natural-looking movements that had to be scripted or triggered by the human behind her. Everything about her was polished.
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In the fall of 2007, Hypatia (and the person behind her) had been on Second Life less than a year, but she clearly had a knack for organizing and exploiting virtual reality. Learning the basics was difficult, she admitted, but soon she was skilled enough to invest in three islands, shape and finish the raw landscape, and build communities. New Boston was dedicated to the New England mystery genre and evoked a moody fishing village, with a graveyard, a haunted house, and a library named for H. P. Lovecraft, complete with exhibits about his life and links to his books. One of the islands was an idealized Florida Key, all sunshine and beachfront; another, Eresos, named for a village in Lesbos, was billed as “The Greek Isles as they never were.” Hypatia recovered the fees she paid to Linden Lab by renting out plots to other avatars, many of them librarians. They built houses, furnished and landscaped them, entertained within them. They were all rated Mature, a warning that one might encounter half-naked avatars spouting X-rated text. “I don’t do PG,” she told me.
Her competence extended to her profession. She was a recent graduate of an online master’s course in library science, so she quickly took charge of the reference desk on Info Island.
“I’ve got a passion for reference service,” Hypatia typed in our chat box, “so that’s what I wanted to do here, but the person in charge never responded, and there seemed to be no schedule. So I started to fill in the gaps. After a few weeks, I learned that (1) I was doing more time than anyone else there, and (2) the person running reference had disappeared.” The virtual Alliance Library System, funded by the Illinois consortium, was growing quickly; an expert, confident volunteer was just what they needed. The directors invited Hypatia to be their head of reference services. “It’s difficult to lead in this environment with all volunteers, but over ten months, we’ve gone from about eight volunteers covering sixteen hours a week to forty-two covering about ninety-two hours.” Because she compiled statistics, she knew that approximately two-thirds of her volunteers had a master’s degree in library and information science; the rest she personally trained. Most of the questions they answered were about Second Life. Reference service for avatars more than quadrupled under her direction—impressive, considering that she managed all this organizing after work.
Hypatia’s profile noted that she was lesbian and partnered, but as with many of the librarians I met in virtual reality, her real-life identity was a secret. Her employer at an unnamed public library in Pennsylvania was “openly hostile” to Second Life. (I assumed the objection was not to the library activities on the site but to its reputation for risqué sex scenes.) So Hypatia practiced strict compartmentalization. She never went on Second Life at work, and once online, she separated work from play; like her virtual staff, she maintained a relatively conservative professional image while on duty. I didn’t really care who operated the controls behind Hypatia or what she did on her virtual Greek island. The spirit of an ambitious and influential librarian was expressed in that avatar, and she could teach me plenty.
“By its nature our project here is focused on events, displays and directing people toward deeper resources,” Hypatia was explaining. “Would you like to see?” Then she led me toward the brand-new Alliance virtual library, set for its grand opening in a couple of days. That is, she tried to lead me—my avatar got stuck in a walking animation and my application crashed. Damn!
It was my first formal interview on Second Life, and don’t ask me why I picked such a formidable character. Not trusting my usual Internet connection, or my family to leave me in peace, I’d driven to the Chappaqua library and reserved one of the two private study rooms; I had my laptop and power cord, an electric outlet, a strong wireless signal, and a cup of real coffee. Unfortunately, I spaced out about the fact that the library closed at eight p.m., so if the interview went longer than an hour, I was sunk. Technically, interviewing on Second Life is a lot like juggling. I had to maneuver my avatar while typing all my questions and comments into the chat box—and if I wanted to quote Hypatia accurately, I had to simultaneously take notes with a pencil and paper (there were ways to save chat logs from Second Life but I hadn’t yet figured them out). And then there were the vagaries of this gazillion-gigabyte application, the crashes, glitches, and lags, which all participants experienced to some degree. So, yeah, I was sweating.
Hypatia was waiting in the library plaza when I logged back on, and led Marilena briskly toward the new library. The Alliance Virtual Library had several open doors and windows around all sides. Unlike the brick-and-mortar libraries with their narrow and controlled entrances, the better to protect the valuable resources within, virtual libraries tended to be porous, open, and airy, easy for avatars to fly into. This one had two floors and was divided into neat, themed sections. Digital Collections had tables set with pictures of computers; with a simple right-click, you could link to the Gutenberg Project and its thirty thousand free downloadable books, or to the Internet Public Library, a juicy website full of resources supplied by a network of busy digital librarians. Serials had kiosks where you could download copies of more than a dozen magazines or newspapers produced specifically for Second Life residents—The Metaverse Messenger, sLiterary, The Second Life Herald (“always fairly unbalanced”). Clicking on a display would bring you either a notecard, which you could keep in your inventory and read at your leisure, or a link to a webpage that opened in a separate window on your screen. Hypatia was especially proud of the Human Sexuality section, which she built from scratch to provide links to resources for every variation of sexual preference (or the thinking pornographer), from Abstinence Clearinghouse to Savage Love.
“One nice thing about virtual services is that we’re able to discuss things openly that would often cause problems otherwise,” Hypatia observed. “There’s a very large gay, lesbian, bisexual and transsexual population on Second Life.” In Coming of Age in Second Life: An Anthropologist Explores the Virtually Human, Tom Boellstorff confessed, “I could have written an entire book on queer Second Life—which, as one resident noted is ‘queer along axes we don’t even have in first life.’”
I’m guessing the librarian behind Hypatia had lost a few battles bringing such resources to her public library. She named her avatar after Hypatia of Alexandria, a fourth-century librarian, scholar, and pagan, torn to death by a Christian mob.
We teleported upstairs and checked out the other collections, among them Romance and Cowboy and Western, with its links to cowboy movies and poetry sites. The roof was open, so we flew up and out.
“Info International,” Hypatia began typing, “is designed to be a cultural hub and the heart of a growing Info Island archipelago.” Along with the library, other sites slated to open on the island included a Mexican cantina, a Chinese café and education center (staffed with Chinese-speakers), and a garden. There would also be a suspension bridge dedicated to stateless people around the world, featuring links to notecards every few steps with information about the Roma Gypsies, say, or the hill tribe people of Thailand.
Hypatia wanted to show me the bridge, which she’d programmed, but it was closing time at the brick-and-mortar library in Chappaqua. I ran out of the study room with my laptop, and thrust it at Cathy, who was on the reference desk. On my screen, Marilena and Hypatia hovered like Tinker Bells above the virtual library. I explained that one of these avatars was a librarian and one was, more or less, me, and that I was in the middle of an interview. Could I possibly stay past closing? “Will you look at that!” Cathy marveled and called another librarian over. Together, they gaped at my screen. “That’s a librarian?”
Cathy said there was a program going on next door in the auditorium, which the wireless network covered; I could sit in the hall outside, then exit through the auditorium when I was done. So I hurried over and flopped down on the carpet like a college student. The computer was hot on my lap; heat radiated from my body. Marilena was bouncing off the virtual library wall. But Hypatia looked as cool and composed as ever, hand on her hip and eye on
her watch.
The speed with which the information archipelago in Second Life was growing was crazy-making. Every time I ran off to chase a real-world librarian, one or more virtual libraries opened. Just days after Hypatia took me touring, the Info International compound debuted with speeches in English and Chinese, games, prizes, a dance, and virtual fireworks. Virtual fireworks! Who, I wondered, thought up such marvels? My screen exploded with graceful arcs of color. Standing in-world as Marilena, with my new long red hair and dressed in another great new outfit, while also lying around in person in my rumpled bed in an old nightgown, I watched the glorious bursts of color from both perspectives, and tried once more to interest my husband in the spectacles of Second Life. “Yes, yes, but what’s it for?” he said, as he always does.
Every few weeks, another meticulously created environment debuted with parties, tours, and celebrations. The loose network of volunteers jumped on every new idea with speed and intensity, and real-world grants (from the Alliance Library System in Illinois, or Linden Labs, or from commercial sponsors and library vendors) often drove the antic schedule. In late October, a call for volunteers went up on the Alliance’s electronic bulletin board. Did anyone want to help create the Land of Lincoln? By January, final touches were being put on an expansive region that encompassed a virtual, historically accurate, 1860s-era White House, replete with period furniture; a Civil War graveyard; a Union encampment; the village of Lincolnshire, along with its library, general store, one-room schoolhouse, church, town hall, and livery repair; Abe’s Springfield home, re-created from the original plans; and a plantation like the one where Mary Todd Lincoln spent her early life.
The Land of Lincoln was dense and deep; everything you clicked brought up cards of information, or linked to digital collections about cooking in the 1860s…period music…the founding of the Lincoln-Herndon law offices…popular novels of the era…cartoons of Lincoln that had appeared in the London Punch. Every aspect reflected hours of research done by librarians who had not only tapped a network of their peers (in their real and second lives) to verify each physical detail, but had also corralled collections that could be accessed from the Land of Lincoln. Soon, for instance, the Joseph N. Nathanson Collection of Lincolniana at McGill University would be accessible through the virtual library, thanks to a McGill graduate student in library and information science who was active in Second Life.
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