I am not my workplace.

I have no plans of turning this into a work, professional, or library blog. Don’t get me wrong–I love what I do. I enjoy being a librarian. I like the people I supervise. I enjoy helping the public find information. But the idea of writing a library blog just doesn’t do it for me. There are plenty of other people who do it better.

But sometimes I feel the need to take over my personal webspace (which I don’t update very often, ahem) to talk about something professional, and tonight is one of those nights.

Before we proceed, let me be clear: I am not writing this while at work. I’m at home. And this is my web space, which I own, and my views and opinions do not belong to anyone but myself. Because I am not my workplace.

I’ve noticed a distinct divide sometimes at work. There are people who live for their jobs. And there are those, like me, who prefer a very distinct balance between worklife and real life. I don’t check work e-mail from home. I don’t work overtime unless there is something specific that I need to do. I tend to not let work-related issues take over my free time. My free time is far too precious for that. Forty years ago, when people left the office, they left the office. They might have taken work home with them, but they weren’t constantly connected to the Mothership via e-mail or mobile phone. I’ve noticed a couple of other co-workers have stopped checking work e-mail when they’re taking vacation time, and I say hooray for that. More people need to start respecting their leisure time.

So I am very angry–no, livid–that worklife is invading my home tonight.

Since this is my personal space and my personal time, and since I am a person who is pretty open about most things, I will tell you this: this morning, I was reprimanded by my boss for using Twitter. Yes, Twitter, that thing that millions of people worldwide use to stay connected, vent about random things, talk about the weather, and describe what they had for dinner. I’ve been on Twitter now for over two years and have developed a professional and personal network that, frankly, means a lot to me. I’ve met and become friends with some brilliant people through Twitter, I’ve had questions answered, and yes–I have vented about some of the various frustrations of my job. I have dropped the s-bomb on occasion (which is mild for me, as you probably know if you’ve talked to me in person on a casual occasion).

I was told that things I’ve said on Twitter were “indecent.” I have seen indecent. It was a lot worse than the word “shit.”

I was told that the things I said on Twitter would impact my ability to get a library director position. I follow several library directors on Twitter. Some of them have said things on Twitter that I wouldn’t even consider saying.

What galls me is this idea that I am constantly representing my workplace, no matter what I’m doing. Am I representing the library when I get my underarms waxed? When I’m using the toilet? When I’m at the doctor’s office, about to get another invasive and annoying exam? No, I’m not. I’m representing nobody but myself. Even if I get a promotion and become Benevolent Dictator of the Library, I’ll still be representing only myself.

In our social media-crazed world, I think most people are aware that individuals are not representing their workplace in everything that they say or do. Unless you’re posting from an account that explicitly belongs to your workplace, the personal/professional divide is in full effect. I don’t think that my colleagues are representing their prestigious academic research library when they talk about their child’s poopy diaper or how pissed off they are that their flight has been canceled. And I’m not representing my workplace when I say, in an offhand comment to a close friend on Twitter, that milk comes from teats.

(Nor are teats indecent. They’re a cow’s udders!)

So I’m furious, I’m offended, and I’m torn. I’ve spent a long time building a social network on Twitter. I follow and am followed by a lot of like-minded library people. I know that if I have questions or concerns about professional issues ranging from unanswerable reference questions to YA book recommendations to sticky cataloging problems, I can find an answer from my friends on Twitter. I’m resentful that I may have to let it go and switch to a brand-new (or anonymous) account, or have dual accounts–one where I can be honest and be myself, and one where I pretend to be some kind of prudish, inoffensive, shiny-happy-librarian. I can’t be perfect. I’m not. I’m human, and I get frustrated with things as varied as people wearing pajama pants in public, students in my cataloging class whose poor planning causes needless conflicts, the fact that my body does not seem to work properly sometimes, and the pile of icy, slick snow just beyond my driveway. And I see absolutely no harm in being open about my frustrations, or venting them in public.

But I can’t flout authority, as much as authority is severely pissing me off at the moment. It’s not like jobs are out there for the picking, and I do like the one I have very much. So I think my best option at this time is to lay low and be quiet. Don’t be alarmed if you don’t hear much from me for a while. I’m fine, really. Maybe a little more angry than usual. Buy me a beer, and I’ll tell you exactly how I feel–just don’t assume that I’m representing my workplace when I’m drinking, having a good time, and using “indecent” language.