Quote from a colleagues' email explaining the three years it took for us to reach the current stage of a certain still incomplete project:
"...the difficulties in getting several large bureaucracies to move in sync while dealing with a set of complex and sometimes uncertain requirements..."
Sometimes the surprising thing is not how long it took but the fact that it happened at all.
Showing posts with label arcane academe. Show all posts
Showing posts with label arcane academe. Show all posts
Friday, April 17, 2009
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Committee
And commit me before I ever commit myself to serving on another one of those.
A few months ago I was selected to be a member of a University committee that would be overseeing the purchase of a particular computer product. This puzzled me, as while I have a reasonably computer-oriented background for a librarian, anything I ever knew about products of this type is many years out of date and was pretty minimal to start with.
I soon found that I wasn't picked to serve on this committee out of any idea that I might have useful knowledge to contribute. I was added because our administration likes the Library to have a "voice" in as many University decisions as possible, and so got a spot for a librarian reserved on the committee. (Non-librarian library staff - the people in the systems department who might know something about technical products - apparently don't qualify as "voices".) And the first person who was asked suggested me as a replacement.
But that was okay, because none of the other people on the committee were selected for their knowledge either, apart from a representative from one of the technology vendors who was there to advise us. As far as I can tell, the other committee members were also each chosen to represent a University department. Apart from the committee chair, who had some sort of managerial responsibility in the University's technology department and apparently fulfilled this responsibility unhampered by the slightest taint of computer knowledge.
Fortunately, one of those departments was I.T. Now, the library usually has a Mutually Assured Avoidance policy with I.T., because we're afraid they'll screw up our systems and they've learned that we're more trouble than we're worth. But we both quickly found ourselves ignoring that, because it was such a relief to have someone else there who spoke the language.
Yep. About a dozen people on a computer system selection committee, only two people who had a vague idea what the system actually did. Plus a vendor.
Now, I'm totally in favour of non-tech types having input into software purchasing decisions, especially if they're going to be stuck using the thing. In fact I think it's essential - users are really the only ones who can say whether the system works for them, if the interface is easy to learn and use, if the functionality is there for what they need it to do. But that's it.
We were each given a worksheet with a vast list of possible system features and options organized into various categories, and told to check off the ones we thought our system should have. This was to be fed into an online database of such systems which would then spit back the best system for us. So people like X from accounts who will be doing data entry and Y who's a secretary and might be asked to learn the system someday started merrily checking off different virtual memory management options, setup and configuration features...
I questioned this way of doing things, so the committee chair kindly explained to me that we had to follow a procedure that was impartial. When his superiors asked him why the committee had made the decision it had, he needed to have something to point to. He needed to follow the standard procedure.
At first, this left me with the belief that he cared more about following procedures and covering his rear than about actually selecting a product that would do what the university wanted it to. Later, I came to a somewhat kinder view of him. I think that he somehow believed that following the standard impartial decision process would lead invariably to the right outcome, that stopping and asking if the process made sense for this particular decision, carried out by this particular committee, was both dangerous and unnecessary.
I left several areas of my worksheet blank, as I didn't feel qualified to comment on some requirements. It turned out not to matter much, because the group's combined final worksheet had the delightful result of eliminating every possible system from consideration, much to our chair's dismay.
At that point, when he was at his weakest, I attacked, being completely not up to sitting through any more of this. With I.T. guy, I improvised a more flexible procedure that gave us more scope to argue with the rest of the group when necessary. And we did so, for the next three months... but I'm not up to even trying to describe that part.
A few months ago I was selected to be a member of a University committee that would be overseeing the purchase of a particular computer product. This puzzled me, as while I have a reasonably computer-oriented background for a librarian, anything I ever knew about products of this type is many years out of date and was pretty minimal to start with.
I soon found that I wasn't picked to serve on this committee out of any idea that I might have useful knowledge to contribute. I was added because our administration likes the Library to have a "voice" in as many University decisions as possible, and so got a spot for a librarian reserved on the committee. (Non-librarian library staff - the people in the systems department who might know something about technical products - apparently don't qualify as "voices".) And the first person who was asked suggested me as a replacement.
But that was okay, because none of the other people on the committee were selected for their knowledge either, apart from a representative from one of the technology vendors who was there to advise us. As far as I can tell, the other committee members were also each chosen to represent a University department. Apart from the committee chair, who had some sort of managerial responsibility in the University's technology department and apparently fulfilled this responsibility unhampered by the slightest taint of computer knowledge.
Fortunately, one of those departments was I.T. Now, the library usually has a Mutually Assured Avoidance policy with I.T., because we're afraid they'll screw up our systems and they've learned that we're more trouble than we're worth. But we both quickly found ourselves ignoring that, because it was such a relief to have someone else there who spoke the language.
Yep. About a dozen people on a computer system selection committee, only two people who had a vague idea what the system actually did. Plus a vendor.
Now, I'm totally in favour of non-tech types having input into software purchasing decisions, especially if they're going to be stuck using the thing. In fact I think it's essential - users are really the only ones who can say whether the system works for them, if the interface is easy to learn and use, if the functionality is there for what they need it to do. But that's it.
We were each given a worksheet with a vast list of possible system features and options organized into various categories, and told to check off the ones we thought our system should have. This was to be fed into an online database of such systems which would then spit back the best system for us. So people like X from accounts who will be doing data entry and Y who's a secretary and might be asked to learn the system someday started merrily checking off different virtual memory management options, setup and configuration features...
I questioned this way of doing things, so the committee chair kindly explained to me that we had to follow a procedure that was impartial. When his superiors asked him why the committee had made the decision it had, he needed to have something to point to. He needed to follow the standard procedure.
At first, this left me with the belief that he cared more about following procedures and covering his rear than about actually selecting a product that would do what the university wanted it to. Later, I came to a somewhat kinder view of him. I think that he somehow believed that following the standard impartial decision process would lead invariably to the right outcome, that stopping and asking if the process made sense for this particular decision, carried out by this particular committee, was both dangerous and unnecessary.
I left several areas of my worksheet blank, as I didn't feel qualified to comment on some requirements. It turned out not to matter much, because the group's combined final worksheet had the delightful result of eliminating every possible system from consideration, much to our chair's dismay.
At that point, when he was at his weakest, I attacked, being completely not up to sitting through any more of this. With I.T. guy, I improvised a more flexible procedure that gave us more scope to argue with the rest of the group when necessary. And we did so, for the next three months... but I'm not up to even trying to describe that part.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
I walk the line
The picket line, that is. We've gone on strike. Having faculty be a union still strikes me as a little odd; I grew up thinking of unions as for factory workers, construction, that sort of thing. The oppressed proletariats earning bread by the sweat of their brow, not the intellectual elite. What would Marx think?
It's all about what you'd expect from a bunch of striking academic geeks. The Modern Languages contingent is carrying signs with slogans in languages from Arabic to Spanish, while Classical Studies uses Latin and Greek. Some Music faculty have signs with what I eventually realized were the first two bars of the music for Solidarity Forever (also Battle Hymn of the Republic, also my alma mater's fight song, but I'm pretty sure that's what they meant). Engineers have gone in for functional notation: f(no)! There are also the puns, ranging from mildly clever to dreadful, and a few sexual references to our administration.
Strike in German is "Streik," which I'm sure has caused some passing onlookers to mutter to themselves "what are they doing asking for more money, damn academics, can't even spell."
I've been feeling, more than I'd have expected, a sense of ... solidarity, I guess. And affection. Marching and attending rallies with my colleagues, spending time walking and chatting with people I don't usually see much, carpooling in. Sort of: these are my people, with their incomprehensible signs, awkwardness and slight diffidence, intellectual chatter and harried disorganization. I'll happily carry signs with them, and snark about it later, just like they will.
It's all about what you'd expect from a bunch of striking academic geeks. The Modern Languages contingent is carrying signs with slogans in languages from Arabic to Spanish, while Classical Studies uses Latin and Greek. Some Music faculty have signs with what I eventually realized were the first two bars of the music for Solidarity Forever (also Battle Hymn of the Republic, also my alma mater's fight song, but I'm pretty sure that's what they meant). Engineers have gone in for functional notation: f(no)! There are also the puns, ranging from mildly clever to dreadful, and a few sexual references to our administration.
Strike in German is "Streik," which I'm sure has caused some passing onlookers to mutter to themselves "what are they doing asking for more money, damn academics, can't even spell."
I've been feeling, more than I'd have expected, a sense of ... solidarity, I guess. And affection. Marching and attending rallies with my colleagues, spending time walking and chatting with people I don't usually see much, carpooling in. Sort of: these are my people, with their incomprehensible signs, awkwardness and slight diffidence, intellectual chatter and harried disorganization. I'll happily carry signs with them, and snark about it later, just like they will.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Evaluation
I suspect that very few people write glowingly about how enjoyable, enlightening and empowering their annual review processes are. (At least not if they're the ones being reviewed.) So I'm try not to hold the one I'm currently being subjected to to a very high standard.
Perhaps it has something to do with being the data and computer science librarian, but I like things to be logical, impartial, quantifiable. (At least in my work life; at home I'm a disorganized romantic.) Sessions taught, patrons helped, guides and tools developed, feedback positive or negative. Output, that is; actual results. The success I've had in bringing data files and computer monographs to the masses. But as far as I can tell the only aspect of our job that is in fact evaluated quantitatively is collection development, which appears to be judged entirely on whether or not we spend our budget. Which strikes me as bizarre - what if I spent the entire budget on Winnie-the-Pooh?
All of which leaves me at something of a loss when dealing with the form I'm currently attempting to fill out. These are some of the sections I have to fill:
"Demonstration of ability to communicate effectively" with various (specified) groups of people. Well, I communicate with people all the time - talk to them individually, in groups, write them memos, send email. But how do I demonstrate that the communication was effective? Should I be keeping a running tally of how many people complained that they couldn't understand me?
"Demonstration of ability to work co-operatively" with same specified groups of people. Including patrons. If I let the patron ask the question and then answer it, am I working cooperatively with him or her to find the answer?
What if I can demonstrate that I have the ability, but I haven't actually been using it?
And this is my favourite, here in all its glory: "Demonstration of ability to relate assigned duties to the overall goals of the library." It seems that assigning me duties that serve to somehow advance the library's goals should properly be the task of my supervisors? If they've neglected to do so, should I be using this space to explain how I subverted my supervisors and managed to somehow fulfil library goals anyways? Or, am I supposed to just write a little essay discussing how my assigned duties are in fact congruent with the library's goals - that is, demonstrate that my supervisors did a good job in assigning me duties? Looking back, I think that's what I did last year, but the reasoning behind it escapes me.
Perhaps it has something to do with being the data and computer science librarian, but I like things to be logical, impartial, quantifiable. (At least in my work life; at home I'm a disorganized romantic.) Sessions taught, patrons helped, guides and tools developed, feedback positive or negative. Output, that is; actual results. The success I've had in bringing data files and computer monographs to the masses. But as far as I can tell the only aspect of our job that is in fact evaluated quantitatively is collection development, which appears to be judged entirely on whether or not we spend our budget. Which strikes me as bizarre - what if I spent the entire budget on Winnie-the-Pooh?
All of which leaves me at something of a loss when dealing with the form I'm currently attempting to fill out. These are some of the sections I have to fill:
"Demonstration of ability to communicate effectively" with various (specified) groups of people. Well, I communicate with people all the time - talk to them individually, in groups, write them memos, send email. But how do I demonstrate that the communication was effective? Should I be keeping a running tally of how many people complained that they couldn't understand me?
"Demonstration of ability to work co-operatively" with same specified groups of people. Including patrons. If I let the patron ask the question and then answer it, am I working cooperatively with him or her to find the answer?
What if I can demonstrate that I have the ability, but I haven't actually been using it?
And this is my favourite, here in all its glory: "Demonstration of ability to relate assigned duties to the overall goals of the library." It seems that assigning me duties that serve to somehow advance the library's goals should properly be the task of my supervisors? If they've neglected to do so, should I be using this space to explain how I subverted my supervisors and managed to somehow fulfil library goals anyways? Or, am I supposed to just write a little essay discussing how my assigned duties are in fact congruent with the library's goals - that is, demonstrate that my supervisors did a good job in assigning me duties? Looking back, I think that's what I did last year, but the reasoning behind it escapes me.
Friday, August 17, 2007
Utility function
I recently volunteered to proof-read articles for the journal of a library association that I belong to. My first article was a wonderful exemplar of the axiom that no good deed goes unpunished. The paper concerned ways of getting people to make certain research products available to the general public, and was written from an economist perspective. (The journal in question is emphatically not aimed at economists.) I have some economics background, but...
This paper talked about things like the Pareto-optimal allocation of resources, non-cooperative game theory and incentive inefficiency. It contained several utility functions to be maximized and two and a half pages that consisted mostly of equations. I spent about a week, off and on, editing it, and there were individual sentences that I spent as much as fifteen minutes trying to decode with the help of a colleague with an economics degree.
I'm pretty sure I now understand the paper, and I'm also pretty sure that I can sum the whole thing up as follows: to get people to do X (X being the action of concern here), you need either a reward that is higher than the cost of doing X or a punishment that is more costly than the cost of doing X. Otherwise, it makes more sense for them to not do it.
I can think of no way in which either the writing or the reading of this paper can possibly maximize any sort of utility function. Unless the original author just really enjoys doing that sort of thing, I guess.
This paper talked about things like the Pareto-optimal allocation of resources, non-cooperative game theory and incentive inefficiency. It contained several utility functions to be maximized and two and a half pages that consisted mostly of equations. I spent about a week, off and on, editing it, and there were individual sentences that I spent as much as fifteen minutes trying to decode with the help of a colleague with an economics degree.
I'm pretty sure I now understand the paper, and I'm also pretty sure that I can sum the whole thing up as follows: to get people to do X (X being the action of concern here), you need either a reward that is higher than the cost of doing X or a punishment that is more costly than the cost of doing X. Otherwise, it makes more sense for them to not do it.
I can think of no way in which either the writing or the reading of this paper can possibly maximize any sort of utility function. Unless the original author just really enjoys doing that sort of thing, I guess.
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