“Library F.U.T.U.R.E.s” ™
“Management Mondays” ™
The Dysfunctionary
Mika Rodriguez had long ago mastered the art of strolling, a gift that let her drift almost friction-free through the dimly lit stacks of the Wesley-Keats Medical Library. That knack had earned her the nickname “the Breeze” from patrons: no matter how tight a space, she slipped past with a smile, a nod, and, often, an observation that was one hundred percent tangential to the moment.
This morning, the Breeze floated in at 8:02 a.m., just after the motion-sensing lights snapped on. She wore a sunflower-yellow cardigan that radiated cheer against the industrial gray. At the reference desk sat Kenji Tan, collection development librarian and reigning king of subtle eye rolls; in the tech alcove, Sasha Bergman, systems specialist and resident prankster, was rebuilding a misbehaving server. Near the glassed-in reading room, archives coordinator Asha Patel hunched over a cart of 1950s surgical journals, while circulation lead Benji Morales tinkered with the new RFID gate. Five staff in all: an eclectic ensemble, stitched together by necessity and caffeine inside a sprawling academic hospital whose motto, carved above the main entrance, read: Scientia, Cura, Humanitas.
Mika glided up to Kenji. “Good morning! Did you know sloths have more neck vertebrae than giraffes? I just thought of that while brushing my teeth.”
Kenji blinked. “Uh, fascinating. Can I help you with…”
“I’m fine!” she chirped, already pivoting toward the reading room. Asha braced herself.
“Do you ever wonder,” Mika announced, leaning on Asha’s cart, “whether archivists secretly rank the handwriting of dead surgeons, like Olympic judges?”
Asha tried to cloak a laugh with a polite cough. “Interesting thought. These journals need barcodes, though, so…”
“I’ll leave you to judge away!” Mika sang and drifted toward the circulation gate, where Benji crouched, screwdriver in hand.
Benji wore noise-canceling headphones: the social equivalent of “Do Not Disturb” tape. Undeterred, Mika tapped him. “Benj! If this gate were a giant skeletal fragment, which bone would it be?”
He sighed, slid off one earcup. “Um… clavicle?”
“Brilliant!” she declared, and set off again, leaving Benji to mutter, “Pretty sure it’s a pelvis.”
At 8:30, supervisor Dr. Lena Harlow strode in. Forty-something, quick-witted, and powered by dark roast, she steered straight to her office, unaware that the turbulence had already commenced.
The Whispering Huddle
By mid-morning, the four non-breezes converged in the break room, lured by the siren aroma of Kenji’s single-origin brew.
“That was a record,” Sasha said, popping the lid on a yogurt. “Two animal facts, one handwriting jab, and a bone quiz; all before nine.”
“She means well,” Asha offered, tugging at her braid, “but she derails everything.”
Benji set down his mug. “My RFID installation took an hour longer. Every two screws click, there she is with another random analogy.”
Kenji sighed. “It’s like working in a group project with a living push notification.”
A mischievous spark lit Sasha’s eye. “What we need,” she said, “is clarity through comedy. A diagnostic rubric!”
“A what?” Benji asked.
“A Top Ten list,” Sasha clarified, “so we can laugh with the chaos instead of stewing in it.”
Kenji raised an amused brow. “You mean,…”
“Exactly.” She grabbed a whiteboard marker and, with a conspiratorial glance toward the door, scrawled a title:
Top 10 Reasons You Might Be a Dysfunctionary
The term had surfaced last month during a professional-development webinar: a “dysfunctionary” was someone oblivious to the disturbances and damage produced by their habitual behavior. The label stuck to Mika like a Post-it.
“One,” Asha began shyly, “you interrupt colleagues to discuss sloth vertebrae.”
Everyone chuckled. Benji added number two: “You treat ongoing projects like improv prompts.”
Number three—Kenji’s contribution—read: “Deadline? You mean conversation starter.”
The list grew, laughter snowballing. By the time they reached ten, they’d composed a lovingly ruthless roster:
Top 10 Reasons You Might Be a Dysfunctionary
1. You interrupt colleagues to discuss sloth vertebrae.
2. You treat ongoing projects like improv prompts.
3. Deadlines are your conversation starters; a flexible suggestion.
4. You believe ‘focus’ is just another word for ‘break the silence.’
5. You ask, “What’s that doohickey?” while touching said doohickey mid-calibration.
6. Your average aside lasts longer than a TED Talk, without the slides.
7. You RSVP “Maybe” to the Outlook invites you created.
8. You think small talk is a competitive sport (and you’re winning).
9. Your feedback on colleagues’ work begins with, “That reminds me of dolphins.”
10.You exit every chat satisfied, unaware that everyone else needs therapy.
They high-fived over their collective wit, the tension easing like steam from a kettle. The list, in its snarky glory, remained on the board as they dispersed, just as Dr. Harlow wandered in for a refill.
She paused, read, and arched an eyebrow. “Team meeting. Ten minutes,” she said quietly, then walked out.
The Gentle Confrontation
They assembled in the conference nook, Mika included, blissfully unaware of the list. Dr. Harlow stood at the head, list in hand.
“I found this masterpiece,” she began, her voice calm. “It’s clever, but it concerns me.” She scanned faces: sheepish, amused, guilty.
Mika tilted her head. “What masterpiece?”
Dr. Harlow slid the whiteboard around. Mika read. Her smile flickered, then steadied, still oblivious. “Oh wow, who’s the dysfunctionary? Sounds like a handful.”
Kenji opened his mouth, shut it. Dr. Harlow took charge.
“Let’s reset. Humor helps us cope, but kindness keeps us whole. Mika, some of these points describe behaviors you’ve displayed. I don’t believe harm is your intent, yet impact matters.”
Mika’s brows crocheted. “I just… share thoughts.”
“And thoughts are gifts,” Dr. Harlow said, “but timing is wrapping paper. Without it, even gifts can feel messy.”
She turned to the group. “You four: venting privately is human. Still, we must aim for empathy, not ridicule. Consider how this board, had Mika discovered it alone, might have felt.”
Four heads nodded, remorse blooming.
“Here’s our plan. Mika and I will meet weekly to explore strategies: mindful pauses, checking relevance, and reading non-verbal cues. Meanwhile, you’ll practice direct, respectful feedback. Example: ‘Mika, I need five focused minutes; can we chat after?’”
Mika swallowed, cheeks pink. “I didn’t realize…”
“That’s the thing about blind spots,” Dr. Harlow said gently. “We rarely do until someone holds up a mirror.”
She erased the list, leaving only the words: Scientia, Cura, Humanitas.
Coaching the Breeze
Later, in Dr. Harlow’s office: a cozy den of medical monographs and succulents, Mika perched on a swivel chair.
“First,” Harlow began, “thank you for meeting openly.”
Mika managed a small laugh. “I’m the reason, aren’t I? The dysfunctionary.”
“The term isn’t important,” Harlow said. “What matters is our shared environment. Let’s unpack today’s moments.”
They reviewed each interaction: the sloth fact, the handwriting jab, the bone quiz, the headset tap. For every instance, Harlow asked two questions: What did you hope to offer? And what might your colleague have needed instead?
Mika’s epiphanies arrived slowly, like sunrise seeped through fog. “I wanted connection,” she realized. “But maybe they needed concentration.”
“Connection and concentration aren’t foes,” Harlow affirmed. “It’s about alignment. Try this exercise: before speaking, silently ask, Is this the right time? The right place? The right person? If two of three are ‘no,’ pause.”
“Can we role-play?” Mika asked eagerly.
They did: Harlow played Benji mid-RFID install; Mika practiced observing, waiting for a natural lull, then offering help instead of trivia. They simulated the reference desk, an archives review, and a server reboot. Each scenario ended with Harlow praising the self-awareness muscles newly flexed.
Mika left the session lighter, like a balloon weighted now with just enough sand to keep from drifting into ceiling fans.
Rebalancing the Stacks
Over the following weeks, small transformations rippled through the library. Mika devised a personal “Observation Log,” jotting down when she withheld an impulse and the outcome. She even shared fun facts in a Slack channel tagged #BrainSnacks so that colleagues could enjoy them asynchronously.
Kenji, sipping coffee, typed: Sloths vs. giraffes; who knew? With a smile emoji. Sasha pinned the fact for future trivia night.
Asha invited Mika to co-present at the hospital’s lunchtime lecture on historical neurosurgery artifacts. Mika prepared meticulously, saving tangents for the Q&A.
Benji, once headphone-clad, started leaving one ear free. Mika noticed, waited, then asked, “Need a hand? Not a bone quiz. Benji grinned. “Sure. Pass the torque driver.”
Private mocking ceased; the whiteboard became a gratitude wall. Under Humanitas, someone scrawled: “Shout-out to Mika for Slack trivia that kept me awake during cataloging marathon!”
Mika added her thank-you: “To Benji for teaching me what an actual pelvis looks like on X-ray.”
A List Reborn
At the month’s end, Dr. Harlow called another team huddle. She produced two laminated sheets.
“First,” she said, handing one to Mika, “your Observation Log: 80% reduction in unhelpful interruptions. Well done.”
Mika beamed.
“Second,” Harlow continued, brandishing the other sheet, “your colleagues have rewritten the Top 10 list: this time celebrating growth.” She read aloud:
Top 10 Reasons You’re Becoming an Empathinary
1. You ask if it’s a good time before sharing mind-blowing animal facts.
2. You turn projects into improv only when the team cues ‘Yes, and…’.
3. You see deadlines as shared quests, not icebreakers.
4. Your focus rivals a cardiac surgeon’s when it counts.
5. You keep your hands off doohickeys unless invited.
6. Your asides fit snugly inside tweet-length brilliance.
7. Your Outlook invites now read ‘Definitely.’
8. Small talk is still a sport, but you check if others are on the field.
9. Your feedback starts with, ‘Building on your idea…’.
10.You exit chats leaving colleagues energized, not exhausted.
Applause filled the nook. Mika’s eyes shimmered.
Benji murmured, “From dysfunctionary to empathinary in thirty days. That’s a record.”
Mika laughed, wiping a tear. “Couldn’t have done it without the mirror, and the kindness holding it.”
Dr. Harlow concluded, “Remember: awareness is a journey. But this team just mapped a route from oblivious disruption to mindful collaboration. Keep traveling.”
Epilogue: Quiet Breezes
Library life regained rhythm: reference questions, literature searches, late-night residents hunting obscure case studies. Mika still breezed, but with purposeful airflow, like a well-placed vent guiding warmth instead of a draft stealing it.
One evening, as lights dimmed to after-hours glow, Mika paused by the motto carved above the doors. Scientia, Cura, Humanitas: knowledge, care, humanity. She’d always loved the first two. Tonight, the third felt tangible, living inside her, swirling in every mindful breath she shared with coworkers turned co-conspirators in growth.
She whispered a sloth fact to herself: seven cervical vertebrae in both sloths and humans, actually; the giraffe misconception corrected in her Observation Log, and smiled. Some gifts were best kept in the pocket until asked for.
And somewhere behind the stacks, drifting like a contented hush, the library exhaled: a breeze now calibrated to comfort, not chaos.