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A Genealogy of Refusal : Walking away from crisis and scarcity narratives

The Starless Sea: A Novel

"Zachary Ezra Rawlins is a graduate student in Vermont when he discovers a rare book hidden in the stacks. As he turns the pages, entranced by tales of lovelorn prisoners, key collectors, and nameless acolytes, he reads something strange: a story from his own childhood. Bewildered by this inexplicable book and desperate to make sense of how his own life came to be recorded, Zachary uncovers a series of clues -- a bee, a key, and a sword -- that lead him to a masquerade party in New York, to a secret club, and through a doorway to a subterranean library, hidden far below the surface of the earth. What Zachary finds in this curious place is more than just a buried home for books and their guardians--it is a place of lost cities and seas of honey, lovers who pass notes under doors and across time, and of stories whispered by the dead. Zachary learns of those who have sacrificed much to protect this realm, relinquishing their sight and their tongues to preserve this archive, and also those who are intent on its destruction. Together with Mirabel, a fierce, pink-haired protector of the place, and Dorian, a beautiful barefoot man with shifting alliances, Zachary travels the twisting tunnels, darkened stairwells, crowded ballrooms, and sweetly-soaked shores of this magical world, discovering his purpose -- in both the rare book and in his own life"

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I am not your hero In our genealogy there are stereotypical librarians from the Bookmobile Bad Girl, to the Parks and Recreation "Sssshh!" librarian, to Morgenstern's Acolytes, Keepers, and Guardians in The Starless Sea. Each of these stereotypes help us to recognize the encumbered ways librarians live out saying nothing but "yes" so we can "deliver it all over town," or how we "Ssssh!" in the face of actual crisis, or even offer ourselves up to elinguation so that saying "No" becomes impossible. The burden of these roles make it difficult for library employees to refuse, let alone have the difficult conversations we need to work through if we want to experience greater trust in community, whether during abundance or crisis.

As an antidote to the hero narrative and accompanying vocational awe, we propose Martha Wells' Murderbot, an anti-hero, as the new patron saint for librarians.
In her novella All Systems Red (2017), author Martha Wells introduces readers to Murderbot, an artificial intelligence designed to serve as a security unit (SecUnit) for profitable ventures. The SecUnit was created for a single purpose: keep the contract alive, even if it means taking damage to itself. Murderbot's feature set ensures that it can do so-- but through a first-person perspective, it becomes clear that Murderbot is no gung-ho savior seeking adulation. In fact, the Murderbot cares about keeping its cohort alive, but only in a self-interested capacity that requires the minimum level of effort and interaction with those it protects.

We learn that Murderbot has hacked its own governor module - the device that is supposed to keep it under the command of the mission leader - and is free to make its own decisions. With this newfound freedom, Murderbot isn't volunteering to take on more work; nor is it attempting to fraternize with its cohort, or ingratiate itself in search of greater acceptance or promotion. Murderbot uses its specialist capabilities to create workplace efficiencies that allow it to spend less time working, and more time doing the things it prefers to do. Self sacrifice is the furthest thing from its mind as it escapes the tedium of work and its workmates by watching episode after episode of Sanctuary Moon re-runs.

This fan-imatic by Mar set to a soundtrack by Canadian duo Tegan and Sara depicts Murderbot, freed from its governing module yet no less expert, no less effective as it [re]-negotiates its relationship with work and team members.