Before I go on, let me say I like Obama. Like most east coast, liberal, college-educated, fake Americans, when I’m not meeting with my coven over brunch or cavorting with known homosexuals, I’m being inspired by our president. There are some things I wish he had done differently, or at all, but overall, I like him.

As a modern lady (I can be a lady if I want to) I watched the state of the union whilst Tweeting. And I saw that a lot of my fellow American social workers were struck by the same line that I was.

“When students are not allowed to drop out, they do better.  So tonight, I am proposing that every state — every state — requires that all students stay in high school until they graduate or turn 18. ”

This is an issue that affects my work directly. We work with kids who have effectively dropped out, whether or not it’s legal, all the time. It’s a problem we’re supposed to fix. I could just hear my teens’ reactions to the president’s proposal.

“Wait. I’m supposed to be in school? Heavens to Betsy, I had no idea! I’ll get myself over there post haste.”

I work with two sisters, ages 13 and 15. They’re in 7th and 9th grade, respectively. They have barely attended school all year. They see me for counseling (when I hunt them down.) ACS is involved. The school staff is shockingly dedicated, cares deeply about these kids, and have gone above and beyond to accomodate them.

But they refuse to attend school. They leave the house and go where they please. If they are walked to school, they hang out for an hour and then take off. School staff can tell them to stay, but they aren’t allowed to touch or restrain the kids. They head out to Flying-Spaghetti-Monster-knows-where until the end of the day. Their mother has no control, and has accepted the situation for what it is. They’ve been removed and placed in foster care and returned home more than once, and it made no difference.

They’re already not allowed to drop out, but they kind of have. If the age were raised to 18, would this behavior have been delayed for two years? Maybe. No wait, that’s stupid. Definitely not.

I have worked with other kids who gave up on school because they were so hopelessly far behind. I’m talking about 15, 16, and 17 year olds who were still in seventh grade, and could barely read. If they suddenly passed every year in a row, they would be 22 when graduating high school. And what are the odds that they’ll suddenly get on track academically?

There are some really good programs for kids who have missed a lot of school, are far behind, and want to graduate high school. Young Adult Borough Centers do a great job of accomodating these “overaged, under-credited” kids and getting them jobs and helping them to graduate. There are some wonderful GED programs as well. But the kids have to be in high school, and they have to be at least 17. Prior to that, they’re essentially told to wait it out.

Kids who are already truant in middle school are really lost in the shuffle. For years.

I don’t have all the answers, (it’s true, I know it’s upsetting to hear, but it’s true) but I have seen things work. Some kids have different learning needs and require an IEP, and somehow this goes unnoticed until they’re 13 and running the streets. It’s not ideal, but it’s not too late, and getting the kid in the right setting can make all the difference.

Some kids are afraid to go to school for some reason–threats of violence, fear of being arrested (one of my girls uses this excuse all the time. I think if she were really that afraid she’d stop jumping other students and stealing their stuff, but I digress.) At times this is legitimate, and needs to be addressed either by the school, or with a safety transfer.

A mentoring program or extracurricular activities that require a student to be attending school have made a huge difference in attendance for some kids I work with. One of my girls had zero interest in school, but was sufficiently excited about an afterschool dance program. It got her ass in her seat, which was my goal. Then she realized that class wasn’t quite as terrible as she thought. When kids get to an age where they’re offered, there are alternative schools that do excellent work. We need more of these programs. Desperately.

And we need more options for kids. We have over one million students in the New York City public school system. They’re not all going to graduate. I’m not talking about giving up on kids who are not succeeding academically, but we need to be realistic. There’s just no such thing as 100%. If a young person is really unable to do what is required to get an academic high school diploma, or is so disinterested that the alternative is them getting nothing and being half-heartedly chased by city officials until the age of 16 (or 18) we need another option.

Truancy is an extremely complicated, horribly frustrating problem to work on. There is not a simple solution.

Raising the dropout age, though? That’s just fucked.

Of course, we know that can’t be enough for the people conducting the audit. They kind of have to find something. If Indiana Jones kept saying, “Nope, no artifacts of note here!” we probably would have dropped him pretty quickly, and other employers are similar.

One thing we got some points off for (they actually score you with points. I’m requesting that they hold cards with a 1 through 10, a la Dancing With the Stars, when I walk in) was respecting confidentiality.

The main reason for this? We have two sign-in books. One is for anyone who comes into the office. It’s just a marble notebook, in which you write your name and the name of your worker. Another is for Metrocards. If you request one, you sign your name and write where you are going. (So we can determine if you really need it. Budget cuts, I say!) The auditors pointed out that clients could see one another’s names when signing in. The higher ups had meetings that seriously weighed the feasibility of having each family sign in on an individual sheet of paper. That would add up, cost-wise–could we cut the paper into strips? How small would they be? We don’t want people to think that we are handing out streamers, and therefore making light of the difficulties that led them to seek services.

I was confused, because the clients can see one another in the waiting room. They can hear their names being called. They live in the same neighborhood, and often encounter people they know at the office.

“Confidentiality” seems to be confused with “anonymity.” I respect my clients’ right to confidentiality. I don’t approach them on the street if I run into them. (I’m usually buying candy, so this is partially from my own embarrassment.) I don’t relate hilarious stories about them using their names or other identifying features. When actually discussing cases, I am with my supervisor, in a room with a closed door.

I do not, though, encourage them to sneak in and out of the office without being seen. If you pull on the copy of the DSM-IV on my bookshelf, a secret passage does not open that leads to you safely to the giraffe enclosure at the Bronx Zoo. (Note to self: look into this.) I don’t have an invisibility cloak on hand that families can huddle under to have rock cakes with Hagrid make their way back home. I suppose I could have them make masks, like Michael Jackson used to make his kids wear, for privacy when at a museum or being dangled from a balcony. Ooh, or a cone of shame!

Ah yes, that’s what I was getting to. Shame.

For all our talk of there being no shame in seeking help through counseling, we don’t always act like it. Particularly considering how the clients typically react.

Like I said, I don’t approach clients if I run into them in the street. You never know who they’re with, or what they might be thinking. Sometimes, we just walk past each other, and I don’t know if the other person noticed me or not. It doesn’t matter to me. Usually, though, I hear an astonished, “SJ?!” from a child who assumes that I live in my office. Once I was shouted to from a nine year old who was eight feet above my head, playing on the scaffolding. (I’m sure it was perfectly safe.) Moms have grabbed me and gone for the cheek kiss when we unexpectedly run into each other in the bodega, which is always extra awkward.

When I’ve gone to see children at school, I have heard their friends inquire about why I was visiting. Younger kids often explain that I am their SJ,who comes to play with them, doesn’t everyone have one? Older kids almost always say I’m their social worker or counselor. Many have offered this information. “Oh, I get out of math for a minute, my worker’s here!”

Someone might be embarrassed to be seen by someone they know in the office, and I understand that. I’m not saying they need to announce it or put it on a t-shirt. But the irony is never lost on me–you know you’re both in the same place, right? Who has the right to judge?

Digression Example- I met  my boyfriend in a bar. Apparently I’m supposed to be embarrassed about this. When I was single, people were always telling me not to try to meet anyone out at a bar. I mean, what kind of person are you going to meet there? (…) You need to do things you like, so you meet someone who likes the same things!

I realize that some adults now find it acceptable to join kickball teams, but I just can’t be one of them. What do I like to do? Um, I like going to bars. I’ve accepted that.

A girl I know told me she met a guy she really liked, but “too bad it was at a bar!” I asked what she meant–was it a gay bar, and he was with his boyfriend? No, she just wasn’t looking to date an alcoholic. Her words. I was confused. She was at the bar too, right?

It’s kind of the same with our clients. They might be embarrassed, sometimes, to be in the exact same place as everyone else. People are good at separating themselves from others who are doing the exact same thing as them. They might think that they’re worse than everyone else. Often then think that they don’t really belong. One of my aunts always says how her sister was horrified to drop her off at rehab. “We’re going to leave her here with all these drug addicts?!” Yeah. Guess why?

If you’re seeing a social worker, you have a right to tell only people you trust, when you’re ready. But things happen. You might not expect to run into someone you know walking in our door, but it’s a possibility we would all do well to be prepared for. Instead of scrambling to make an excuse, or attempting to shield our clients from the imaginary paparazzi, we can remember that we’re all in the same place, and support one another.

Because that secret passageway is really not working out.

I am trying to help this kid. Really, really trying. But with a parent who isn’t willing to even think about change, and a situation that doesn’t warrant removal (and really, would removal solve this? Would this child suddenly be in the warm, loving environment she deserves? Maybe. Probably not.) I’m limited in what I can do. A mentor and an afterschool program to get her out of the house, counseling at school, and support from me are kind of all I can do. It happens. There are situations you can’t fix, because the people in charge of them don’t want you to help.

Let’s focus on the good. For a moment

1.) I have been working with a mother and her thirteen year old daughter for close to a year now. They were barely speaking when they started coming in, and it is ridiculously heartwarming to see how much they’ve grown. They do things together and talk to each other. Soon, their case will be closed, which is depressing and thrilling all at the same time.

Anyway, this girl is super smart, and loves school. She just got accepted to the Catholic school of her choice, the one she’s been dreaming of, complete with a full scholarship. As if that weren’t enough (it totally was) she ran to the office to tell me. (After crying with her mom over it.)

2.) The other morning, there was a parenting group meeting at the office for the first time. They assured the clients that child care would be provided, but neglected to tell the workers who provide the child care. As a result, there was a lot of, “Well, I have other work to do. They didn’t tell me. I can’t watch these kids rabble rabble rabble.”

One of the kids in question was from one of my families, so I told the parents to leave their kids with me and go ahead to group. I don’t know how many of you have had the surprise experience of reading “The Cat in the Hat” to a group of toddlers who are extremely rarely read to, but it’s a delight. Trust me.

3.) Recently, we had a holiday celebration for participants that didn’t go exactly as planned. Supervision was lacking, there was a lot of petty infighting, we didn’t have time or money…the usual. But my homemade mancala boards? Were a HUGE hit. Families asked to take them home, so they could play together. Video game addict kids wanted to teach their friends to play. Victory!

Egg carton + beads = no money fun!

4.) In social work, a case being ready to close (not closing because time is up, or because they’re moving on to other services, or the kids are being removed) is a great success. I’ve got a family with an eight year old who is in just that position. They’re doing well. The mother just told me, “Things are still stressful, but I have ways to manage it now.” Yeah. That’s pretty much it.

But that’s not the best part. Here is a pic of me and her eight year old daughter.

See how we get our hair done at the same place?

5.) Another mother just told me that her son had been acting up lately, so she made an appointment with his psychiatrist to see if his ADHD meds needed to be adjusted. This was a woman who remembered to give this child his meds only about half the time last year. As a result, this was a child who spent half the time last year throwing chairs.

6.) My girls’ group ended this week. (Speaking of crying. Oh, we weren’t? I was.) One of our traditions is to have all of the girls write a card to each girl in the group, saying something positive about their participation. Two of the girls decided to write notes to me, and insisted, under pain of death, that I display them in my cubicle.

Yeah. You don't get that often.

We can’t help everyone. There are situations that we work our best on, and then have to admit that there’s nothing else we can do. It’s just reality. The reminders, especially visual reminders, that there are, in fact, people we help, and changes we help bring about, can make quite the difference.

We’ve been celebrating MLK Day in the US since 1986. All fifty states celebrated it under the term, “Marting Luther King, Jr. Day” in 2000. Prior to that, some had resisted celebrating or actually calling it that. This was due to costs concerns about communism racism. But we’re all on board now.

When the September 11th attacks first happened, there was talk of it becoming a national holiday, or day of mourning. I  was against it. I could just see it becoming another Memorial Day or Labor Day–who knows why, but we have the day off! Let’s get some Coronas and grill some meat!

This is, of course, the danger with Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. It’s a day off. Extra time to go to the gym, get the house cleaned, a rare opportunity to go out on a Sunday night. There’s nothing wrong with that, but we should really keep it to Columbus Day. (Because, come on, that one is ridiculous.)

Dr. King reminds us of an extremely important part of our profession–a commitment to social justice. Without this component, social work is incomplete. We see the same problems, day in and day out. Many of which are very complicated, but many of which have fairly clear solutions. Maybe our public schools in the Bronx should be less terrible, in some way! Perhaps “Back to Work” public assistance programs could actually assist people in getting back to work, by helping them find or train for jobs. And of course, we should probably all be ashamed to have so many viable Republican candidates for president who are unable to distinguish between “welfare recipient” and “black person.”

Maybe, there’s something, even just a little something, that we can do about that.

We very often get so overwhelmed by the putting-out-fires aspect of our day to day work. Yes, I want to work for housing and school reform, but I need to accompany a client to her public housing interview, and then go to a school meeting for my chronically truant teen. I’m not going to start making cheesy working mom jokes about “needing to clone myself” (seriously, ladies, we’re all better than that) but it’s not easy. I know I made a lot more time for marching, rallies, petitions, and organizing when I was in college. I had less outside responsibility, and was significantly less jaded and worn down by life.

We can’t let that happen. It just isn’t right, and therefore, really isn’t an option. It’s not what Dr. King, or everyone’s social work hero, Jane Addams (who also got shit for her commitment to pacifism), would have done. Celebrating Martin Luther King, Jr. Day of Service  seems to be one good way of addressing this. But, like Christmas, we need to remember to keep this with us all through the year. However tired and overwhelmed we are, Dr. King almost definitely had more on his mind and on his plate. This is the legacy we need to try to live up to. Not just doing good, but working for change.

I’m always asking for more, aren’t I? Don’t worry, I often fall short of my own expectations.

One of the things that I’ve learned in recent years, particularly since my parents’ trip to the National Civil Rights Museum in Memphis, is that Dr. King was essentially knew that he was going to be assassinated. He knew that people were stalking him and he received death threats regularly. He knew what was coming, and he wasn’t happy about it. He was a religious man, and he believed in what he was doing and that he was called to do it, but he was still afraid.

“Because I’ve been to the mountaintop. And I don’t mind. Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place. But I’m not concerned about that now. I just want to do God’s will.”

This is what I’m always trying to remind myself of. Dr. King was a great, gifted man, but he was a man. A human. He forced himself to go above and beyond, even though he was tired, he was in danger, and had a wife and children to think about.

So perhaps I can bring myself to complain a bit less when that rally I know I should attend is right after work. It’s literally the least I can do.

It’s a bit of an unsettling feeling, when you think about it.

I went home that night and related the story to my parents. It seemed to have slipped their minds, and since I was being chauffeured around constantly in the late ’80s, it hadn’t really come up. So they taught it to me then. I still remember that phone number and address. It was my family’s from just before the time I was born until I was a junior in college.

I also still remember my aunt’s phone number, as she set it to a cheerful tune to ensure that my little cousin would remember it if he were ever kidnapped  by pedophiles and held against his will. That was following a viewing of I Know My First Name is Steven on Lifetime.

My parents both remember their phone numbers from childhood. These are extra fun, as they start with words like “Cloverfield” and “Neptune” rather than numbers. I mean, can you get more olden-timey than that? I feel like they must have had to use both hands to hold the separate ear and mouth pieces, and then they would retire to the sitting room to discuss the fact that Warren Sheffield called long distance! (Meet Me in St. Louis jokes are the best, aren’t they? Everyone gets them.)

One of the things that struck me upon getting into social work–because I swear, this is about social work–is that none of the kids I work with have similar memories. Most cannot count the number of apartments they’ve lived in. Phone numbers are kind of hopeless.

SJ: “I have your mom’s number, right?”
Kid: “The house number? That got shut off.”
SJ: “Is that the 646 number?”
Kid: “No, that’s the 347 one. The 646 might still work.”
SJ: “This 646 number?”
Kid: “Oh no, that was my step-dad’s. Mom has a new one now.”
SJ: “I’ll just dial numbers at random and hope for the best.”

Everyone knows that children in foster care typically move many times. As do kids with a parent in the military. But it’s also true for low income families.

One four year old I worked with, over the course of a year, moved with her mother from a home for young mothers, to a shelter, to a rented bedroom, to her aunt’s home, to her grandfather’s home, and finally to her grandmother’s home. Last I saw them, the mother was considering moving in with her boyfriend, if she couldn’t get into public housing.

When I worked at Anonymous Youth Center, we collected information forms from each child when they came to program for the first time. These forms included their address, telephone number, and emergency contact, so that we could reach someone if we needed to.

We didn’t set fire to these information forms immediately upon collecting them, but we might as well have. They were entirely useless. A week after the child first came to program, they would inevitably injure themselves or attempt to sass the Great and Powerful SJ. We would try to call their homes, only to be confronted by the most irritating sound known to man. Immediately followed by, ”If you’d like to make a call, please hang up and try again.”

A bit of my soul is murdered, every time I hear those three screechy notes.

It’s constant, and slightly varied. Just this morning, I received a message from a participant whom I have been desperately trying to reach. She asked me to call her back. Unfortunately, she didn’t leave a number.

I tried her home line. A man whose voice I didn’t recognize answered, and told me I had the wrong number.

I think. I don’t speak Urdu, but that’s what I gathered.

I tried the most recent cell phone number, only to be informed that the number or code I had dialed was incorrect. I was supposed to check the number or code and try again. This is fancy phone speak for “disconnected.”

Next, I tried both teenagers’ cell phones. One was not receiving calls. That’s pretty much the point of a phone. “This cup has a giant hole in the bottom, and is not holding liquids.” So useful. The other girl’s phone went straight to voicemail. I like to think that this is because she was in class, but I have my doubts.

I always think about how this makes my job more difficult. How am I supposed to find people, how am I supposed to talk with them, however will I schedule their appointment?! And it’s true. It really is all about me.

But then I think of how stressful it is for those parents and kids. Ah, home sweet home! For now. Don’t get too comfortable. Just deal with sharing a bed for now, we won’t be here too long. You can’t use tacks to put up that Justin Bieber poster! We can’t leave holes in the wall or your uncle will kick us out! (Also, Bieber? Gross.)

To not even be able to do something so simple as call your mom when you need to. If I can’t track down a working number for her, neither can the school. Very often, neither can the child.

It’s got to be disconcerting.

I was fortunate to grow up with a sense of stability in my life. It helps to bear that in mind when I’m shouting obscenities and punching the phone after being urged to hang up and try again for the sixth time that day.

Not that I’ve ever done that.

The problems arise when I find myself asking why some of my coworkers got into this field.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned from TV and movies, it’s that the people who are really good at their jobs are mean, and you don’t want to be around them. You know, the only doctor who can diagnose and cure your smallpox is an egotistical dick, and the teacher who gets the best results from those inner-city kids is the one who breaks all the rules and swears a lot.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned from social work, it’s that this doesn’t necessarily carry over to the real world.

Some of my coworkers, and people I’ve met in this field that I haven’t had the misfortune of working with, simply mystify me. Of all the professions to enter, you chose one in which you work with people who have been rejected and beaten down by society, and where you won’t get paid enough to make up for it.

If you’re a miserable person, and don’t like others, couldn’t you at least try find work at the DMV?

Some people I work with, I don’t like. I feel entirely justified in this, because they’re obnoxious. I suspect they were raised by pandas, because they have no sense of appropriate human interactions or social graces.

Some are incredibly nosy and think that this is fine, because I’m younger than they are.

Crazy Coworker: “I like that outfit! Did you just go shopping? Did you meet someone?”
SocialJerk:  “Thanks? What? I’m just waiting to use the microwave.”
CCW: “Oh, you haven’t had kids yet.”
SJ: “Yet?”
CCW: “Yeah, you shouldn’t stand in front of the microwave, it might affect your ovaries. And you know that people who don’t have children regret it later in life.”
SJ: “Who are you?”

This is bad, because it negatively affects my day. Me having a nice day is a pretty high priority for me.

My highest priority, though, is that our clients’ needs are served and that they are treated with dignity and respect.

Oh boy.

For the most part, I think my agency does good work. But then there are those people who just make me wonder. I know you didn’t go to social work school, but you have interacted with humans before, right? You took some class in what to expect when working here, didn’t you? Or is this some kind of work release program?

When I first came here, I inherited a number of cases from our Worst Offender, as she was moving to another part of the agency (unfortunately, to do the same job.) We had a joint meeting with a woman with whom I would be working. This new client asked Worst Offender if I was aware that she had a history of depression.

Worst Offender ( and this is true) rolled her eyes behind this woman’s back and said, “Well, yes, we all get sad sometimes.”

Yup. Helpful.

When I say WO went to another part of the agency, I, sadly, mean that she went down the hall, and never fully left my professional life. One of her girls has been a more or less permanent fixture in my teen groups. This girl, who has a long history of trauma and therefore no sense of appropriate boundaries, talked rather graphically in group about her experiences of being molested. She then licked her hand and stuck it into the group bowl of pretzels.

I had a number of concerns. Number one, of course, was this girl’s safety. Number two was this girl not being ostracized in group due to her boundary issues. Number three was that I remember that, even though I love pretzels, they were now off limits.

I spoke with WO about this. I needed to ensure that she was aware of the molestation, so that it was properly reported and addressed.

Again, she rolled her eyes. “That girl has, let’s say, a tendency to get molested. I’m not saying she asks for it, but…”

No no. Just stop. I have a tendency to punch assholes in the kidneys, and we can’t have that now.

That girl, the pretzel licker, came to me after our next group, saying that her worker had told her that the other girls were complaining that she was greedy with the food and ate too much.

Yes. This was what WO decided to do with me telling her, “I’m concerned about this girl and want to make sure she’s getting a sufficient amount of help.” Tell a fifteen year old that her peers are talking shit about her. Maybe throw in that they called her fat? Certainly that will help.

They’re not all this horrendous. Worst Offender is the only one I have felt the need to report (on more than one occasion) to a supervisor, for fear that she was doing much more harm than good to the people whose well being she was entrusted with. (Don’t worry, my concerns were sufficiently ignored.) But there are people who make you wonder, ” what did you think you were getting into?”

The recent graduate who became nearly hysterical when participants routinely did not show up for their sessions, requiring her to go out on visits. “It’s just like any other appointment! Why can’t you call to cancel?” The people who have no problem watching three workers (hint: one of them is always me) frantically set up for a holiday party, while popping their headphones in and explaining, “Oh, I have a lot of notes to write.” The worker who describes a client as, “so fucking clueless” until it is painstakingly explained that this person’s “cluelessness” is a manifestation of their mental illness.

This isn’t a job that people are necessarily banging down doors to get. And we all have our days when we lose patience, and think or say things (in private, or anonymously on the internet, one would hope) that aren’t productive or helpful. But if you’re debating whether or not you can do this job, or if you have the right mindset, please take a little extra time to consider. We’re desperate for workers, but we’re not that desperate. This isn’t a field you go into because your modeling career didn’t work out.

You don’t want to be “that” worker.

You would think that hearing, “I’m not here to take your kids!” would be a comfort to everyone, especially the parents. And it often is. But then there are the parents of teenagers.

I most often get this from mothers of teen girls, but it happens with boys at times as well. These parents come in, sometimes self-referred due to struggling with their teenager in the home, or referred by ACS for “educational neglect.” (This term, when applied to young children, means that the parent is being negligent in getting the child to school. When applied to teens, it means the kid is truant due to 1) unmet special needs 2) problems in the home or 3) being a lazy jerk. These are all technical terms, do try to keep up.)

A lot of parents come in and are fed up. I think we all get that. Teens are exhausting. I work with them, and I was one. Sometimes I wonder why my parents still talk to me. I’ve also had a couple…let’s say, free-spirited youngsters, in my family. So it’s not that I don’t understand how someone could feel like they’re at the end of their rope.

That’s not to say I agree with the desperate “take my kids, please!”

Parents regularly come to us, wanting their teenagers removed from the home. Not forever, mind you. They want them to come home fixed.

I blame Sally Jesse Raphael. Remember that show? Overwhelmed mothers would bring their out of control, swearing, skanky teens on the show. The audience would boo them, get sassy with the teens in question (“Yo momma brought you into this world, she can take you out!” Really? Murder?) and then a “drill sergeant” (sorry, putting on fatigues doesn’t make you a drill sergeant) would yell and make them run through tires. They would cry and hug their moms, happy to be home after a harrowing afternoon. Problem solved.

I sincerely doubt that this works. But hey, television is a powerful medium. People very often believe what they see, especially when they’re feeling desperate.

People who really want help don’t seek it on TV. If you genuinely want to meet someone to spend your life with, or find out who the father of your child is, you don’t do it on The Bachelor or Maury. Unless you are seeking attention, or a complete idiot.

Mom: “She’s out of control. Can’t you send her to one of those boot camps?”
SJ: “What boot camp? You want her to enlist?”
Mom: “No, those programs for bad kids, like on the talk shows.”
SJ: “I think those are rather expensive.”
Mom: “Well, the city can pay for it!”
SJ: “The city doesn’t do that.”
Mom: “Why not?”
SJ: “I don’t know. We can write a letter. This isn’t helping right now.”

Get this kid out of my house, she can come back when she’s ready to listen. (Note: I don’t want to be the one to make her listen.)

I’m not talking about the parents of children with mental illness, looking for residential treatment. I’m talking about parents who have, for lack of a better term, let their kids run wild. Little kids “acting bad” is generally regarded as cute. They swear, they get sassy, and everyone laughs. Then they’re teenagers, bigger than their parents, and it isn’t so cute anymore.

The common thread here is wanting the kids sent away. Wanting someone else to come in and fix things. These are most often the parents who send their kid in for counseling, but refuse to participate themselves, saying they’re not the ones who have the problem. They are genuinely shocked and appalled that they are expected to do some hard work and make changes. “Why won’t you whisk him away to the Good Teen Factory?!”

Like I said, I get it. I understand being overwhelmed, being depressed, or not having supports to turn to. I understand feeling undermined as a parent by systems that you don’t want in your life. But I don’t understand feeling like your child is someone else’s responsibility.

I was raised with a pretty strict, “You made this mess, you clean it up.” If Rudy Huxtable was responsible for cleaning the kitchen when she tried to make jelly in the blender (so cute) then you can at the very least participate in getting your teenager’s life back on track.

I’m always being told by these parents that they have reached out for help, so if we don’t “fix” the child in question, and that child gets arrested or hurt, they’re going to sue.

Seriously. People say this. Constantly.

First of all, if your kid is hurt, dead, or in jail, and your first thought is, “Who is paying me for this?!” just go fuck yourself. This is not a social worky, strengths based statement, but I do think it’s accurate.

Second of all, fine. Bring all the law suits you want. But this kid is your responsibility. First and last. I will never understand a mindset that contradicts this.

I don’t like lamenting a lack of personal responsibility. It makes me feel like a Republican, which isn’t good, because I can’t shower at work. But I need to be honest.

Challenging this mindset is a huge part of my job. And complaining about it on the internet seems to be a huge part of keeping me at it.

Anyway, I was thinking of taking the week off entirely, and seeing you all in 2012. But then I remembered I wanted to do my 2011 retrospective, and that would just be passé on January second. We’re all a year older (another trip around the sun, if you’re fifteen and thinking that indie music is deep for the first time) but I’m actually a year older, as that’s when my birthday falls. (Oh wait, you didn’t care? How embarrassing.) This, plus being an emotional social worker, means I get a little extra reflective.

Therefore, I present: What SocialJerk Learned in 2011

• Good supervision matters. A lot.

I’ve not made any secret about the fact that my supervisor is great. She trusts her employees, never micromanages, puts up with my weirdo sense of humor, and she bakes cupcakes.
Perhaps most importantly, she has my back. She is not afraid to break out the Bronx when necessary, in a respectful and professional manner, of course. I have been told that I’m not one to suffer fools gladly (what kind of an idiot said that?) but if someone else’s supervisor is accusing me of handling something incorrectly, there’s only so much I can do.

An ACS worker, who failed miserably at her job by losing track of a case that had been referred to me–literally, the family moved and  she didn’t know where they went–tried to put her massive failure off on me. My supervisor was out, so she spoke with the only other supervisor who was in the office.

We’ll call that supervisor Cruella.

Cruella essentially apologized for me not being clairvoyant, and believed everything this ACS worker fed her. Fortunately, I was able to hand her my carefully dated notes (I think Cruella was a bit upset that I did not curtsy when I did this) and waited for MY supervisor to return. Not unlike a child waiting to be picked up from day care.

When my supervisor came back, I only got the ACS worker’s name out before my supervisor said, “Oh no. You were not responsible for that. I’ll speak with her supervisor, don’t worry about it.”

Told ya, Cruella.

Knowing you have someone to go to, when you’re stuck with a particular case, being railroaded, or having a shitty day makes a world of difference in this field.

• Document everything.

Write a note  for everything. Write a note when you sneeze. And don’t cut and paste, they’ll know. (For further explanation, see point #1.)

• Thank your wonderful supervisor, if you have one.

Again, see point #1.

• Tell people that you need help, and accept it.

I learned this one in teen group. For some reason, I am one of those people who has a hard time with this at work. I have a desperate need to be the hardest working one in the room. I blame my parents’ 1950s style work ethic. (If I hear my dad took a sick day, I assume one of his limbs spontaneously fell off and he was unable to find strong enough thread.)  I somehow got the idea that I should be doing most of the work. I carried this into teen group, for which I have a co-leader. This promptly resulted in me hating resenting my co-leader.

Yes, she should have done more. She shouldn’t have thought that having other work to do excused her from setting up or planning for group. But I should not have been so quick to say, “I can do the note this week. I can bring the materials in from home. Oh, I’ll set up the activities if you’re busy.”

Taking on more than we should, can, or have to, and then feeling run down and complaining about it, does not make us noble. It makes us idiots.

• Offer to help.

Actually, don’t offer–just help. On the off chance that my co-leader, or anyone I supervised when I first graduated from college, is reading this, please just fucking do it. Standing around and saying, “Well, I’m happy to help! What do you need me to do? Just tell me what to do! OK. How do you want that done? How many do we need?” is actually not helpful. It just creates more work for idiots like me, who eventually get frustrated and tell you to go away so we can do it ourselves. Because really, we don’t mind.

Except we do. We hate you.

• You are not entitled to an explanation.

This really ought to be “you are only very rarely entitled to an explanation,” but I prefer to be dramatic and deal in absolutes.

I’ve been learning this one my entire life. I have two last names, and cousins who are clearly a different race than I am. People, most often strangers or casual acquaintances, have really, genuinely believed that they had a right to know how these things came to be. Were my parents divorced, or never married? Did my mom keep her name for “professional reasons?” (Whatever the fuck those are. She’s not a Kardashian.) Am I married? Are my cousins adopted, or perhaps racially mixed? Are they Filipino, or what?

In social work, we get these kinds of situations. There are times when we want information, just because it’s interesting, and as humans, we are nosy. I have been asked on two separate occasions, by coworkers, if a twelve year old girl I work with is gay. How could this possibly impact their lives? Unless they have a pre-teen niece who is looking, but still, I think that’s inappropriate.

One coworker, with whom I prefer not to associate, as she is horrible, suggested during group supervision that a fellow social worker lie to a client, saying he needed her children’s birth certificates, in an effort to determine if her brother (who had raped her) was the child’s father. One, I doubt that would work. Two, I repeat–you are horrible. Three, how would that help his practice, and this woman?

In social work, and in life, we need to ask ourselves: is this question going to help us to move forward? Is it going to keep everyone safe? Is it just satisfying my own curiosity? Is the world going to be a better place if I ask this?

We’re not entitled to an explanation, except when we are. We need to think more about when that it.

• Nice is different than good.

Brilliant advice I wish to impart on everyone, especially my teen girls, taken directly from Sondheim’s Into The Woods. You can learn a lot from musicals. I swear. My girls talk about the importance of being nice, or finding a nice guy. I tell them, as delicately as I can–fuck nice. Be good. Not like E.T., except he was pretty good, wasn’t he? Look for good people. The people who act nice, tell you what you want to hear, are not usually good. Being nice often involves not making others feel bad. But when kids have been victimized as often as ours have, they need to know that they can be a little rude if it makes them safer.

And I know things now
Many valuable things
That I hadn’t known before:
Do not put your faith
In a cape and a hood
They will not protect you
The way that they should.
And take extra care with strangers
Even flowers have their dangers.
And though scary is exciting
Nice is different than good.

• Take a fucking vacation.

When I took these four days off, my supervisor told me that the amount of vacation time I had banked was “offensive.” I was getting to a point where I knew I was not the best social worker I could be, because I was getting a little burnt out. This is not a fancy vacation. It’s actually a staycation, if you want to be a dick about it. So far today, I have gone running, grocery shopping, hit up the post office, done laundry, vacuumed, and deposited checks at the bank. You know, mostly errands and things that I’m pretty sure should actually still be my dad’s job. Very exciting. But I feel like a new person. And I will, through all the dread, actually be looking forward to getting back to work and seeing my clients again.

There is no prize for making yourself the most miserable. If there were, I would have several worthy candidates to nominate.

See you all in 2012.

It’s important. I hear more and more about the Obama administration ushering in an era in which pre-schoolers are putting condoms on anatomically correct dolls, but I feel like my girls are less informed with each passing year.

This isn’t true for all of them. Some are at least savvy in some matters. Just recently I was walking to the office with one of the twelve year olds I work with who started informing me of the girls she has crushes on. After a minute, she looked at me and asked, “Do you know what bi means?”

Um, yeah. I was watching My So-Called Life before you were born. I remember Danielle rolling her eyes and telling her mom “it means bisexual.” Not to mention I’m fifteen years older than you, come on.

My teens, though, they’re confused. They’re not sure what they think or who to believe. We’re battling the media, you know. It’s not always giving them the best information.

14 y/o: “Can’t the baby claw its way out of you?”
SJ: “Not outside of Twilight.“

15 y/o: “Oh, I know this one girl…”
SJ: “Do you know this girl, or is this another ‘I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant’ story?”
15 y/o: “It’s ‘I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant.’”

14 y/o: “But one girl on Maury said she didn’t have sex with the guy the DNA test said was the father, she just…”
SJ: “Maury is not an acceptable source. For anything. Ever. Except for funny ‘not the father’ dances.”

I’m glad they at least feel comfortable asking questions.

“If a boy masturbates and then shakes your hand, can you get pregnant?”
Wow. Why would that even happen? No you won’t get pregnant, but maybe invest in some Purel if that’s really a concern. Bonus points for use of correct language, though.

SJ: “You can get STDs from oral sex, but you can’t get pregnant.”
15 y/o: “Even if you swallow?”
And now I’m nauseated.

There’s always the one who thinks she really knows what she’s talking about. Rather often, that’s the one with the greatest number of “facts.”

“Well, there’s always the risk of STIs. And those can turn into STDs!”
You’re a little misinformed. But I think your heart is in the right place.

“Two guys together is nasty to girls, and two girls together is nasty to guys.” Now you’re just grossly misinformed. Not to mention the fact that we’re respectful and non-judgmental in this space. (But seriously, have you heard of the internet? Silly.)

15 y/o: “The fetus is what the baby grows in.”
SJ: “Well that’s actually the uterus. The fetus is what we call the baby when it’s developing, before it’s born.”
15 y/o: “No, but like, it grows in the fetus.”
OK, you’re saying it a little differently, but still no.

“If you go off the pill, and then have sex with a bunch of different guys, you can get pregnant with like, four different guys’ babies at once.”
That’s it, you’re staying after for a remedial session.

Some girls are just uncomfortable, and need a little baptism by fire.

SJ: “Some people only consider it sex if it’s penis in vagina.”
13 y/o: “Ew!”
SJ: “What, vagina?”
13 y/o: “Ew!”
14 y/o: “Or penis?”
13 y/o: “Ew!”
15 y/o: “We all have a vagina in here.”
13 y/o: “Ew!”
SJ: “OK this is silly. Penis vagina penis vagina penis vagina.” (To the tune of “La Cucaracha.”)

And sometimes, they’re just hilarious.

“Pfft. Her booty isn’t a virgin.”
Did you steal that from a book of proverbs?

“I don’t want to have sex ever! Well, I mean, I guess before I die. I don’t want to be a nun. I heard you can die if you don’t have sex.”
Yeah, I don’t know either.

“I would like to see you all wait until you’re 21.”
My group coleader. Isn’t that cute? She’s new at this.

SJ: “Is it ok for someone to have sex because they want to have a baby?”
Group: “No!”
SJ: “OK, at your age, I agree. But what if the person is older, and they’re married or in a relationship, and they want to have kids?”
13 y/o: “I just don’t feel like that’s a good choice in this economy.”

Occasionally, there are moments of awesome.

13 y/o: “Is it good if you tell a guy you’re not ready, and he’s ok with it, and he still wants to date you?”
SJ: “Yeah, I think that’s great.”
13 y/o: “Oh yeah, that’s my man!”
14 y/o: “Can we clap for Liz’s man?”

You know we clapped. Also, Liz’s man is in fact fourteen.

For all of the laughs, and the moments of wanting to slap myself or others in the face (YOU CAN GET PREGNANT YOUR FIRST TIME AND BIRTH CONTROL PILLS ARE EFFECTIVE WHEN TAKEN CORRECTLY) I love these sessions. Somewhere along the lines, we’re really failing our kids in terms of sex ed. It’s a very concrete way we can shape kids lives, and help them to make good, informed decisions.

Or at least teach them to say “vagina” without cringing.

The parties can really pile up. Between friends, (shit, I still need to get my Kris Kringle gift) family, (much more fun now that I’m allowed to drink) and work (oh, we’ll get to that) your schedule can get pretty packed.

I remember hearing about wild office parties on TV when I was growing up. As a child, I couldn’t imagine why someone would have the urge to photocopy their own buttocks, but I understood that this was an important part of celebrating the holidays with coworkers. People were to get drunk, hook up in supply closets, talk shit about their boss, and then come in the next day reeking of Schnapps, shame, and regret.

Things don’t quite go that way in social work. Our parties are a little…tamer, to say the least.

At Anonymous Agency, we have our “celebration” (yes, those are sarcastic air quotes) in the middle of the day. A normal agency would send its overworked and overpaid workers straight home after all that organized “fun” (yes, again) but they chose not to. After two hours of luke-warm catered wares, eaten while balanced on our laps, and a half-hearted attempt to organize us into groups to sing “The Twelve Days of Christmas,” we were sent back to our offices. A half an hour away.

Not that I’m still pissed, or anything. (Not in the charming British drunk way–just furious.)

That get together isn’t quite enough. That’s for the entire agency, and we still have to celebrate with just our site. Because we love each other so, so much, and simply don’t spend enough time together.

The debate rages on. Do we go out to eat, or do we have a potluck in the office? A real Sophie’s choice. Whichever side I fall on, I’ll end up hurting someone, it seems.

Honestly, I don’t care. It’s happening in the middle of the day, and booze isn’t allowed no matter where we go. I’ll either be spending time and money baking, or spending money on lunch, because our budget for the Christmas party seems to be that we have no budget.

My only non-stick-in-the-mud coworker and I toyed with the idea of an after-work happy hour. This was primarily a way to get everyone drunk, so we could see if our intoxicated imitations of our supervisors were correct. But I don’t think it’s going to happen.

Whatever, staff. It’s not important. We all know Christmas is for the kids.

We also have a Christmas party for the families we work with. Here’s a word to the wise–when it comes to planning in the office, if you volunteer to do something once, you become the person who does that thing.

My first year here, as an engergetic new social worker, I volunteered to make the flyer for the party, and to run the arts and crafts room for the kids. Three years later, guess what I’m still doing?

They’re kind enough to say, “Oh, well SJ does such a great job with the flyers.” It’s true. I am able to type up dates and times, and steal snowman clipart on Google. It’s a gift, I suppose.

Then we have to discuss how many families we can invite. We work with a lot, and the office isn’t so big, so we have to cut it off somewhere. New Director is fond of advertising any goings-on at the agency, which puts all us workers in the awkward position of telling our families: yes, we’re having a party. No, you weren’t invited.

We’re the mean kid in your elementary school who hands out pool party invites to almost the whole class.

Some families get Christmas gifts through our donors, so we try to invite the families who don’t get gifts. Of course, given some of the gifts we’ve seen come in, I feel a little guilty about that.

Even if you don’t know that a kid has a history of vandalism, who gets an eleven year old a pack of Sharpies as a present? If something says, “small parts–not for children under 3″ don’t give it to a fifteen month old. If I indicate that a six year old is a size nine, as her parents have yet to learn portion control, don’t assume that I’m an idiot, and she’s actually a 6x. Also, if you get one kid eight gifts, don’t give her older brother and sister three each, and think they won’t notice. They will. I had spreadsheets comparing what my brother and I got year to year when I was young. Have you ever seen a kid?

Anyway, back to the festivities. The debate tends to rage over what kind of food to get. Should we branch out, and try ham, or turkey? How about Italian food, something our families don’t usually have?

Then we remember we don’t have any money, and everyone will be sad if we don’t have rice and beans, anyway. Fine.

Then we need activities. As I mentioned, I’m the arts and crafts expert. What this actually means is that I am willing to sit in a large counseling room with rowdy children, guiding them in decorating tree ornaments, making cards, coloring snowy scenes, and generally not murdering each other. I do this all while wearing reindeer antlers, because I am festive and whimsical.

At least it’s not Easter, when eggs need to be boiled. Gross.

There’s usually a discussion about sending the kids home with gifts. Our budget is so small, we’d pretty much be sending them each home with a pencil. More than anything, I think this just calls more attention to the fact that we suck, and it’s best to avoid it.

Despite a lack of money, and no shortage of sugared up kids, the parties actually are always fun. It’s nice to see families come together and have a good time. And as much as I bitch about time with my coworkers, who understands the insanity of the job better than them? Once or twice a year, it’s nice to be reminded of that.

Provided we get to leave early.