Astronomical Rodeo Clown Burnout

I think I need a refresher course on Positive Approaches. I can’t speak for all social workers, but I know that for me I receive a cornucopia of trainings designed to help me be a better leader, resolve conflict and approach difficult situations positively. I sit. I glean and the scales tip disproportionately toward being a human services god. I walk out of some trainings and I’m Mother Theresa. I’m Nelson Mandela. I’m Mhatma Ghandi armed with a machine gun of Zen and positivism. I’m Lady Liberty. Bring me your tired, blah, blah, blah.
Yet, it’s a scale and with every client that calls to curse me out, bureaucratic eye of the needle I have to thread, mistake I make or misunderstanding parent (Disclaimer: I’m not insinuating all clients curse at me or all parents are misunderstanding or all bureaucracy is a needle. Okay. That last part I am saying. I’m saying this all happens eventually and occasionally and I’m human. So, it affects me.)
That scale starts to tip ever so slowly until I’m no longer the machine gun of goodness wielding Mhatma Ghandi. I’m a rodeo clown, hopping out to distract the destructive and dangerous bulls that are about to stampede their riders, leaping out of the way, back behind the fence just in time, before the bull takes us both out. Really, I’m only hoping that this whole shenanigan works and I’m looking ridiculous all the while. It’s when I get to rodeo clown level that I know I need to go back to the drawing board, tap into my resources and glean wisdom. This is known as a classic case of social worker burn out. It manifests itself in every social worker in a different way. Personally, I get Rodeoclownitis. (Disclaimer again: I’m in no way insinuating that the individuals I support are bulls. The bull might be the system, or a person or really anything. It’s a metaphor. Stop looking for something to be offended by. I’m onto you.)
Recently, my frustration has revolved around barriers in assisting consumers with achieving goals. Let’s be honest, the population of individuals with Intellectual Disabilities (I.D.) has often been made to believe they’re set up for failure or they’ve been set up for failure. When support systems (whether it be schools, social workers – myself included, families, friends, neighbors, health care providers, etc.) simply do for the individual instead of teaching the individual to do, it sends the message: “Let me do it. You will fail.” You know, teach a man to fish and all that jazz. I mean, I’m not saying send Bobby out with the keys to car and tell him to go get his own groceries or hand him his bottle of pills and say, “Take these. You’ll figure the dosage out.” I’m saying it’s difficult for all parties involved. Thank God we have support systems and I myself have to be mindful of the reality and pitfalls of setting my consumers up for failure or a lifetime of frustration. This is one barrier that’s a pickle to work through. Yet, it’s not insurmountable.
The stumbling block I’m struggling most with assisting my consumers through at the moment actually reminds me of myself in college. In college I had a couple of electives to take to fill out my semester and I jumped at the opportunity to take astronomy. I mean, hey, I love looking at the stars! I knew all the constellations. This was going to be great. The first day of class I walked in amid visions of planetariums and telescopes only to have the professor take a bat to my vision by dropping the knowledge bomb, “I will assume you have taken basic physics if you’re registered for this class as most of the course will encompass it.” Math and I are not friends. Nor do we plan to buddy-up anytime soon. (I know what you’re thinking; social worker who can’t do math: shocking. That’s stereotypical and wildly offensive and blatantly true in this circumstance, but still wildly offensive to everyone else. So, shut your pie hole.) You mean I can’t just look at the stars and talk about how they make me feel? I have to calculate them? This was unpoetic and an outrage. I never returned to the class. Nor did I appropriately withdraw. So, I carried around a scarlet “F” that took me semesters to counteract.
Recently I’ve felt like this with the individuals I support. I ask, “What can I help you achieve.” They respond with the equivalent to, “I want to be an astronomer.” To which, I say, “Oh wow! That’s great! Well, you know we’ll need to get you down to the college and sign you up for some classes like physics and other courses.”
“I don’t want to take physics.”
“Oh, man. I’m sorry. That’s part of it, but we could get you a tutor. I’ll help you through every step. We’ll make flash cards!”
“Nah. I don’t want to take physics, but I definitely want to be an astronomer.”
“Well, maybe you’d like to volunteer at a planetarium or…”
“Don’t patronize me.”
“…”
So, it goes, on and on.
“I want to move into my own apartment.”
“Right on! We can look online for a place or use the paper. I saw this phone number from a rent sign outside that neighborhood you like. How about I help you make the call.”
“I don’t want to call.”
…
“If you’d like to move we need to get your stuff together. Can I help you pack some boxes?”
“No.”
“Hang a shower curtain?”
“No.”
“Shop for a sofa?”
“No.”
“But you definitely want to move?”
“Yes.”
“Hmmm. What would you like to do then to prepare?”
“Lets go get dinner.”
Or,
“I want to get my drivers license.”
“Awesome. So, here are the steps for getting your license. Lets break those down so they’re not so overwhelming and I’ll help you get each one done. You’ll need to study some on your own. I can help you study when we’re working together. Then, when you feel ready, you can take the practice test.”
…One week later…
“Did you study while I was gone?”
“No.”
My job also includes figuring out if what they’re telling me they want is actually the thing they want, trouble shooting their hesitations and working together to complete the small tasks that encompass reaching the larger goal. So many hesitations revolve around fear and cultivating self-confidence. Bottom line: newness is scary.
Often I’m working with a whole team of family members, staff and health care providers to understand and bring to fruition the goal. Sometimes, though, no matter how amazing the team is, we still feel as though we come up empty handed.
All this isn’t to say that this is always the way it is in the I.D. community or as a social worker in the I.D. community. You can’t box in a community that way. For every individual who, for whatever reason, plants his/her heels in the mud upon expressing a desire to more forward, there is another who knows exactly what he/she wants and will get there come hell or high water if only someone will shine a light on the way to go. (My other blog entries are full of such stories.). The same dichotomy exists in each and every community because we’re all people, driven by whom we are. This is neither good, nor bad. It just is.
The truth is that their journey to reach their goals is entwined with my journey to become the best teacher I can be. The best teachers walk the path of self-realization with others, merely illuminating the signs that appear along the way, making it easier for the student to read and self-actualize. They become their own greatest explorer – uncovering a vast new territory of themselves. In the end, we are Isabella – funding the trip, the provider of the ships, the one who reaffirms, “Go!”. Then, not unlike Columbus, the journeyman often goes a completely different route, discovering something life altering and extremely important. Thus proving that the point, all along, was rarely to arrive at “Point B”, but to always move forward in the best way one knows how. There, in the baby steps of forward motion, we see what reveals itself along the way.


- Posted using BlogPress from my device for distraction and ironic social detachment.

Personal Space

I had a refreshingly positive experience in Wawa the other day. Julian was inline to pay for his chips and soda and I stood off to the side- present enough to step in if he misses a step (like actually forgetting to hand money to the cashier before walking away with the scanned items), but out of the way enough for him to not be able to rely on me giving him cues.
Next inline was a little girl with her dad behind her. She did what all little kids do: twirl and generally not have any clue as to what's transpiring around them.
Julian began to struggle as he could not focus on the denomination of dollars in his wallet. This wasn't the little girls fault. Checkout lines have always been a toughie. Just imagine you can't focus. That's as simple as it gets. Your brain is made in a way that it is constantly on overload processing information. You hear every conversation, see every detail and its all amplified to the power of ten. Now, put that version of yourself in a place where you have something you want in your hands. You have to stand in a line and wait for it to actually become yours though you can't completely understand why. There are a million people talking and darting around. There's music playing overhead and everywhere you look there's a sign, an ad, shiny displays with moving parts, bells and whistles. The person in front of you has a shrill voice. The person behind you has a kid that's twirling around and keeps bumping into your calf. You hate to be touched. The song just changed. The line just moved. Someone knocked over a bag of potato chips. So there aren't five bags anymore. There are four. You hate the number four. Is it your turn yet? You start listing in your mind all the albums the singer of the overhead song ever released and their correlating release dates. Someone three people behind in line just sneezed. That always throws you off. Start the list over again.
This is a glimpse into Julian's world.
Finally, it was his turn and he got hung up on the money exchange. I stepped in as the cashier was saying numbers and he blindly fished around his wallet and guessed at what she could want even though he can actually count and figure it out. He was so far into his own world I had to do an uncommon amount of intervening.
Most of the time people in line sympathize with his struggle and wait patiently and those that don't, I mentally dare to make a remark. "Your fuckin cheese puffs and hoagie can wait one minute for my friend here to figure this out."

As Julian finished and moved aside, the gentleman with his twirling kid pulled her a little closer, but not out of fear of the six foot two inch giant. The man said to me, "She was in his personal space.", In a kind way.
I was elated to hear a stranger honestly consider Julian's needs (or possibly anyone's) when out in the community and in a way that was not patronizing or diminishing. People are generally kind to him, but this guy "got it". I thanked him and explained what a rare treat it was to find someone so perceptive to those around him.

So much of our work in the intellectually disabled community revolves around helping the individual understand the world around them and what is expected of them. Yet, it truly goes both ways. This is a 50/50 deal. In as much as we teach the individuals we work with we must always teach the community to be mindful of their fellow man. People fear what they do not understand and sadly fear is what I see in many people. It has gotten better though, as more integration has occurred in schools, more services have been provided and as these individuals are seen as fixtures of the community and the community has been educated. Stigmas are being torn down, but we are in the infant stages of progress. The community is still learning to not look with pity, but with equality. We move forward.


- Posted using BlogPress from my device for distraction and ironic social detachment.

Food Fight

Today I was disheartened by the state of nutrition in the people I see all around me, not limited to my field.  Point in case; today Pat tells me he wants to get breakfast at Wawa.  Now, Wawa is a fine establishment with many healthy options, so I encouraged him to look for something healthy.  He returned with a small low fat chocolate milk.  Not bad.  Then, a large, pre-packed cinnamon, glazed strudel.  I say, "Thats not healthy in any way - sugar, fat, nothing good."
He interjects, "It's my money.  It's my choice."  He is absolutely right.  He has the same God given right to make bad choices as the rest of us.  We all make some decisions that are not in our best interest.  It's the paradox of the overweight doctor or the nurse that smokes.
Personally (true confessions:) I drink coffee everyday, hardly ever go to the dentist and haven't had blood work done since I was fifteen (mainly because I feel strongly that there should not be metal objects in my body extracting vital juices for prolonged periods of time).  I have no idea what my cholesterol is. This is a number I should know when I'm pushing thirty.  (As I write this I'm anticipating the call from my mom.)
I said, "You're right, but it's my job to help you understand what a good decision is and what a bad one is.  That's a bad one, but let me help you find something good."  We walk past a pastry case.  She pauses, "I'm sorry.  There's nothing healthy in there.", I explain.
"Not even muffins?!"
"Not even muffins. At least not these.  Most muffins are glorified cupcakes.  Substitute the icing for cranberries or apples, but still loaded with sugar and empty calories."
I'd had this same issue with Joey not long ago.  We were at the grocery store and he was about to purchase a snack - a single serving apple pie (before noon).  He asked if he should get it.  I told him the same thing.  He exclaimed, "It's made of apples!" His anger was demonstrative of his feeling of having been lied to, or deceived by some greater food force.  I explained that the apples were really more of a coincidence than a core component of the dish.  However, this did little to reconcile his frustration.  Really, rightfully so.  There is a lot of deception in the food we eat, because food is a business.  Food will always appeal to trends and slant views toward the incentive of a profit.  That's how business works.  It's full of half truths and euphemisms.
Back at the pastry case in Wawa Pat felt the same level of frustration as the previous Joey.  He threw a hand up in my face to silence me and walked away.  I pursued the point by highlighting the yogurt, fruit, eggs and cottage cheese all on display a few feet away.  he circled back around to the damned strudel and claimed his autonomy.  There I accepted my defeat; pre-packaged and all - 500 calories, 26 grams of fat and God knows how many sugars and carbs.
I went to my car and waited.  There, straight in front of me stood a father, smoking.  His two kids (maybe 5 and 7) stood beside him scarfing down a giant hot dog and kool-aid each, at 9:30 in the morning.  The truth is I dont' know the context of this.  Those kids might live off of everything from the garden six days a week and this just happened to be "super-special hot dog and kool-aid for breakfast day!", but something tells me that's not the case.
While the dietary choices of some families can be distressing, I feel more empathy for the people like Pat and Joey.  Their struggles are the norm in my field.  They may have grown up being told, "Eat this.  It's good for you." or "Don't eat that!", but even the families that make good meal choices don't always have the ability to explain why.  Nor do their kids have the desire or, sometimes ability, to hear why.  So, often times they continue through adulthood eating whatever they grew up eating for better or for worse.  Then, they develop their own patterns or eating, not knowing if it's healthy or not or why.  Obesity, high cholesterol, diabetes and so much more are rampant in my field.  For some people it's so complex to understand how and what makes a person overweight, exacerbates diabetes and raises cholesterol.  It's my job to help them understand these issues, but by the time they reach me, they're so established in their routine, it takes mountains of self-determination to adjust.  Joyfully, some truly do have an overwhelming desire to do what it takes to be healthier.

Put The Cat Down

Julian has a habit of teaching me lessons about myself and about life, unbeknownst to him.  Even if it was beknownst, honestly, he wouldn’t give a damn.  He leaves a lasting impression, though feeling no need to bestow a greater wisdom on this world – the antithesis of my over reaching attempts (self-righteously) to exit this world handing out parcels, perfectly wrapped with Ghandiesque golden wisdom nuggets.

On one of our walks through town to the 711 Julian walked with the determination of a dictator on conquest to a weaker nation with an invaluable natural resource.  Only the weaker nation was 711 and the natural resources were salt and vinegar chips, Coca Cola and Ebony magazine (Ebony magazine is whole other story in itself.). 

We were less than half way, when up ahead I spotted a helpless ball of fur on the sidewalk of this busy town, feet from the bustling cars.  What a perfect opportunity to teach Julian about compassion and patience.  This for a person who sees a pause in stride as a major monkey wrench in the progress toward the Holy Land of convenience stores. 

Knowing he’d need preparation, I told him to look ahead at the cat.  I pointed out the danger that would inevitably befall it if we didn’t intervene, inciting obscure references to moral obligation as we neared it.  He listened, quieted momentarily and simply offered, “Kristen, leave the cat.” in that forced, over enunciated tone we all have when we’re truly emphatic.  Clearly it was my duty to help him navigate the emotional context he could not fathom. 

We were nearing the lost soul when it ran to meet me.  Excellent.  Undoubtedly, it sensed my protective nature and ran for my immediate rescue.  I stopped in my tracks to give it some much needed love, stroking head to tail.  This stop in our pilgrimage made Julian doubt my dedication to the chips and soda conquest. 

“Leave the cat.” He said.  Then repeated it immediately to punctuate his point. 

I scooped the cat up and it reveled in this attention.  Sammy Davis Jr., the tag read. 

“Julian, this is Sammy.” Holding him out toward Julian, so he’d confront the face he was rejecting, “He’s a lost cat.  He belongs to someone.  They are missing him.  Look over there.  That is the road with cars going by quickly.  This cat will get hurt.  The owners will be sad.  We can do a good thing and help the cat go home.  It’s important to help animals and people when they need help.  Then we can go to 711.”

At this point I should mention that in autism there are several stereotypes.  One of which is that they all have a Temple Grandin connection with animals.  As if everyone with autism has some sort of metaphysical understanding of the animal spirit.  That is a myth.  People with autism tend to be very good at very specific things.  Sometimes that’s connecting with animals.  For Julian, that was NOT his strong suit.  His attitude toward the animal kingdom landed somewhere between, “Live and let live.” and Darwinism’s survival of the fittest. 

“Put. The cat. Down.” clearly annoyed at this point, he strung out the words as they exited his lips.  You would’ve thought the beast was made of plutonium or assembled out of various diseases. 

“Look, it’s tag says ‘4 Liberty Way’.  Lets go ask someone where that is.  It can’t be far.”

“Put the cat down, Kristen.”

We march off together with Sammy in tow toward the 711.  This movement eases Julian, but that’s offset by the unwelcome presence of this new traveler.  I know his thought process was that surely, Sammy would ruin everything. Cats cannot go into 711.  Or at least he’d never seen one go in.  This equation didn’t add up and most of all, it wasn’t in the plan.  No.  It had previously been:  Kristen + Julian + walk + 711 = Plan.  Not, Kristen + Julian + stupid cat + walk + find home + 711 = x(?).  That just didn’t make sense.  There were too many factors to add up and several unknown valuables. 

We made a few steps toward the light at the intersection.  Julian continued to demand, “Put the cat down.” 

Suddenly, we heard someone from behind call out, “Miss?  Miss?  Can I have my cat back?”  I stop in my tracks.  Outside of the store where Sammy ran to meet me stands the owner, a bit miffed with a, “This always happens.” look on his face.  Chagrined, I stammer, “Oh.  I thought it was lost.  I’m sorry.  He was on the sidewalk.  His tag said another address…”  I trailed off.  The clerk gave me a knowing nod of the five millionth time someone’s tried to run off with his cat. “Yeah.  He wanders around here, in and out, but never goes in the street.”

Julian was beside himself.  Not only was there a cat, but we’d stopped again and back tracked in the opposite direction.  Plus, we were talking to a stranger who clearly, in no way shape or form, was affiliated with 711 or anything equally or more interesting.  In distress he cycled over our conversation like a background broken record.  “Put the cat down.  Put the cat down.  Put the cat down.”

I heed his advice this time and placed the cat in the owner’s arms, sheepishly giving up my crusade.  We moved on with a new found determination not to be swayed by anything in need of saving.  I’d tried to bestow some great life lesson on Julian, but really it was me who walked away with the understanding: get over myself and my savior complex.  Not everything needs to be saved.  I don’t need to spend my life looking for the vulnerable, damaged, lost and making my goal to fix what ails them.  I’d spent my entire adulthood trying to fix people or their broken pieces, but truth be told, nobody wants or deserves to be viewed as something that needs fixing or  to be conceptualized as a project.  I was just beginning to learn that balance of empathizing enough to toss in a life raft and pull the rope when someone is drowning, but not so much that you jump in with them and drown together.  Julian was right.  Sometimes you just put the cat down.

The Roman Salute

Julian stood at the crosswalk of a historically preserved, upper-middle class inhabited, suburban town. Just down the street from the synagogue he raised his right arm in a Roman Salute, or HitlergruB or you might call it, “Heil Hitler!”.  He wasn’t trying to commemorate a ruthless dictator or initiate a riot.  What he was trying to do was get to 711 the safest way he knew how.  In Julian’s reality stopping at the crosswalk begins with a pause in stride – a halt in recognition of the hand, flat, palm up.  Then this image could quickly be replaced by a distraction – a catch of the eye to a biker’s leather gloves that reminds him of Michael Jackson which, in turn, reminds him of the Thriller album, released December 1^st 1982 - a sunny day, like today, and a good day to walk to 711.  Then the thought would continue, “Oh. That’s what I’m supposed to be doing!”  This memory would prompt him to impulsively resume his stride.  His original thought about the "Do Not Cross" sign would me millions of links behind in his never-ending conscious strain of thought.  In reality, seconds would have gone by and the light would remain unchanged.  So, to avoid becoming a hood ornament, he must improvise.  Thus, the mimicking of the hand as seen on the crosswalk reminds him why he’s stopped in the first place. 

He thinks he’s a dead ringer for the sign, but the raised eyebrows, gasps and mothers covering their childrens’ eyes don’t resonate with him.  It’s hard for me to refrain from laughing at the irony of is own Jewish Heritage.

I didn’t push his arm down quickly or rebuke him harshly. That would just be my embarrassment of others thinking he was being controversial when they really don’t understand the context.  They have no reason to jump to conclusions and I have no reason to be embarrassed.  I do gently pull his arm to chest level as if he were a six-foot ken doll.  I flatten his hand in a “stop” position and quietly say, “Like this.”  He doesn’t fight it.  I want to offer him an explanation of the correction, but history doesn’t resonate with him the way it does for many.  I realized any accounts would seem trivial and silly.  I imagined his query, “So, why does one asshole get to ruin a salute that predates his own existence?”  I knew why.  I could speak to it, but it still does strike me how we lump together the inconsequential details surrounding what is truly evil with the pure evil itself.  Though they’re not the heart of the matter, those pieces to the puzzle can be enough to send someone on a very dark trip down memory lane. 

I attempted, “Not so long ago a very bad man hurt a lot of people.  People who followed him and some who didn’t were forced to put their arm in the air like you were just doing as a sign of respect.  So, we don’t do that anymore."  He seemed interested as he processed this new information without question. 

I didn’t bother to tell him that tiny mustaches and fist pounding speeches were out too.  I figured why cause more confusion when he’d never really showed a propensity toward either.  Though, I myself was a little pissed about the latter as I’m prone to giving psychopathic motivational speeches to my dog and boyfriend while pounding my fists on the kitchen counter.  I felt slighted that I’d never be able to bring it to the masses.  

Esther Takes The Kitchen Sink...Or Tries

I had been warned about Esther. I’d just begun working at the food pantry recently and in learning a new job’s rigamaroo I discovered that seniors receive a special voucher. Randy came in to volunteer on Mondays and Esther would try to take everything – the kitchen sink if possible.

However, when I first encountered her I didn’t put two and two together. I didn’t know this was her. She was a force to be reckoned with though she stood a slight four foot, ten inches and had a demeanor that oozed of sweetness so viscous it gave an instant emotional cavity to all present, make no mistakes when she shuffled in with her two bags, sweet smile, and general expression of awe and confusion, she knew exactly what she was doing. It was amazing to watch.

Everything was a question. If she incurred a social worker or anyone that could be perceived as a social worker her frail body pinned them to wall with a series of, “Do you have any sandwiches? “

“No. Esther, I’m sorry. Not today we don’t.”

“Tuna sandwiches? “

“Nope. No sandwiches.”

“Ham sandwiches?”

“No. We really honestly don’t have any sandwiches, but you know what? There’s plenty of groceries to choose from on the shelves in the pantry.”

“Jell-o? What about Jell-o? Pudding?”

“No. There really isn’t any Jell-o or pudding today, but I can assure you there’s much to choose from on the shelves.”

“I just really wanted a sandwich and…”

“No. I completely understand, but we just don’t have that today and if you’ll excuse me there’s some people waiting…”

“What about mayonnaise? I have some tuna and I’d really like to make a tuna salad, but I’m out of mayonnaise.”

“You know, I’m not sure. You’d have to look on the shelf - the one that I just spoke of right in the other room. Now, I really do have to…”

“Cinnamon?”

“Esther, I’m walking away right now.”

“Cinnamon!”

This was the cycle: endless and exhausting.

She’d come for the meals and stay past closing. The rules were all the same for every patron. So, while we all attempted to remain flexible, there was definitely a line that needed to be maintained. When the soup kitchen closed everyone needed to leave so it could then be converted to the food pantry where patrons would shop. Small, cramped spaces required this. So, a social worker or coordinator would notify lingers that he/she appreciated them clearing out so this conversion could take place and that they were always welcome at the next meal. Esther would stay and stay some more. Finally, a supervisor would say, “Esther, please go, but you’re welcome to come back tomorrow.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course.” She’d say as if this were the first time she’d ever heard these words. She remained stagnant.

A few moments later, “Esther, I really need you to leave. The rules are the same for everyone. Thank you.”

”Yes. I was just wondering if you had any…” and the cycle would reoccur.

“No. You can come back and shop later, but now I need you to leave.”

A supervisor would leave the room. Several minutes would pass and there she would remain. Finally, a stern, “Esther you need to leave now.” was expressed. She’d put her hand on her bag talking all the while about all the things she wanted or needed, meekly uttering how unfair she was being treated. She moved slightly toward the door, which began the process of literally corralling her outside. Since our volunteers altered from week to week and their encounters with her were few and far between, there was little way for any social work not to look like a complete asshole when they eventually laid down the law with her. She had the “elderly person card” and man did she know how to play it. What’s a volunteer going to think, “Man, that’s a sweet little old lady and that social worker’s a bitch!” or “There’s another old woman taking advantage of the system! There are so many these days!” I mean, really, we didn’t stand a chance.

What was amazing about her assertions of being treated unfairly was that she came (and if not succeeding, attempted) way more times to get food than any patron was permitted. (Whenever a client of the pantry expressed or displayed a genuine need for more food, there was no question about it. They were going to get it. This wasn't the issue for her. She just wanted - needed to take anything available constantly.) When she did get food she’d never follow the card given to each patron describing how much they could take according to his/her family size. So, she’d just snag things off the shelf without limits. It was difficult for volunteers to call her on it, on account of her looking so damn innocent. She only brought a bag or two with her though the rule was to bring a sufficient amount of bags for the food you need to take home. Finally, she’d ask volunteers to help her carry said bags home for her. The problem was she knew all the rules. She new what she was supposed to take and not, that volunteers weren’t permitted to walk patrons home, that she needed to bring bags, etc. Yet, every time she came she presented a look of wonder on her face, as if it were her first time hearing this and muttered protests of her suppression. Even in all this, one really couldn’t help but love her and look at her with the same portion of wonder she gave to the volunteers and social workers. She was amazing and an adventure to encounter. Quite frankly in my own masochistic way (and the way of nearly every social worker) I genuinely looked forward to seeing her. She was what she was and she wasn’t going to change. I was just there to ride the coaster with her and keep it from crashing, if possible.

This all led to my piece de resistance. One night she came in, as usual, right at the beginning of the food pantry shift, which lasted for an hour and a half. She accosted me with questions about marinara sauce and pudding as I made my way to the office where I checked patrons in. I checked her in first and continued the night; checking in patron after patron. Nearly an hour and a half later I went to the pantry to check on volunteers and discovered Esther still shopping and volunteers wide-eyed and unsure how to move this unstoppable force of a 95-pound woman. She weaved in between and all around of other shopper's paths mumbling an interest in various items and pulling them off the shelf with little regard to those around her. This created quite the cluster fuck. There really was only room for two shoppers at each of the four stations. She wasn’t looking for social interaction, just stuff. Everyone tried their best to continue in confusion or in pitying glances her way, but I knew. This was her routine.

So, with five minutes before closing she lagged behind and the others cleared out . I said, “Esther, you have five minutes to complete your shopping, then you need to go.”

“Oh. Okay.” She submitted. Then, “Maybe, I’ll have one of these”, randomly grabbing a can of artichokes from the shelf. “What are these?” concerning another can.

“Canned Pineapples.”

“What are these?”

“Canned olives.”

“Can I have these?”

“No. The items on the very top shelf and bottom shelf along the floor are for the soup kitchen’s use.”

“What about these? Can I have these?”

“Those? They’re paper plates for the soup kitchen. No.”

“Please. I really need paper plates.”

“Seriously? How many do you need.”

“I don’t know.”

“Four?”

“Yeah.”

“Here are four paper plates. Now we’re closed. So,...”

“Can I have those?”

“Tupperware? No.”

“Those?”

“Spoons? No. None of this is for taking home. The food pantry is the shelves here, which I’m now going to pull the curtain closed on, since we are now closed.”

She desperately forced her tiny body around mine to snag a couple more cans of things she could not identify to add to a huge pile of goods she did not have enough bags for and not nearly enough man power or strength to carry home.

I turned my back for a second to close the curtain fully. I turned back around to see an amazing sight. Esther had shimmied her foot under the food pantry shelf and summoned forth a gargantuan vat of chocolate fudge. She shuffled it like the cinder block it was, with her feet, toward her cart. I watched, stunned. She bent over and tried to lift it, but could not. All the while she grunted, “I (huff) don’t know (huff) what this is, (huff) but I’m just going to take it with me…”

I stooped down and calmly said, “No. Esther, you are not going to take that home. It is a giant vat of chocolate and what use could you possibly have for this? How will you carry it home?” Honestly, I didn’t even know what possible use we had for it - Ice cream social? Whatever. I scooted it back to its home. No sooner was she at the freezer selecting frozen dinner to bring home.

“How do you make this?”

“350 degrees in the oven for thirty minutes and you need to go home right now.”

The volunteers had begun to tidy up the place for closing and were about to bring a dinner to the fridge, which she was blocking.

“Esther, I need you to move. The volunteers are coming with large containers of food to put in the fridge.”

“Okay.” No movement.

At this point, I literally had to physically move her. I gently pivoted her away from the fridge as she didn’t lose a moment looking in the freezer.

I slowly closed the freezer, handed her a bag and took the other, physically guiding her out of the pantry as she began the cycle,

“Do you have any sandwiches?”

Not indulging in her persistence she turned her ambitions elsewhere and asked, “Can you carry my groceries for me to my apartment.”

“No. You know the rules.”

Her frustration grew as she saw she was running up against wall after wall in her endeavors. Under her breath she made her protests known as she carried her bags down the sidewalk.

She was a sweet woman who was going to work any angle to get as much as she could as often as possible. Most people are the way they are for logical reasons. The way they were raised, a disposition they were born with, a series of life events and/or choices all make a person who they are. I’m sure Esther is no exception, but it is interesting that we form stereotypes about who we think takes advantage of the system and who we think doesn’t. No one ever suspects the sweet, tiny, elderly woman. Yet, I’ve found, more often then not, it’s not the people who are stereotyped as freeloaders that are such. Most people truly are doing the best they can with what they have, even Esther, who, for whatever reason, felt the need to carry home enough chocolate for a diabetic comma. What was she going to do with that chocolate?

Friday

Every week I wait outside a packaging business at 3p.m. for Danny to emerge from a long day of assembling boxes, or taping boxes, or applying labels - whatever that week entails. The place is largely employed by individuals with special needs - providing them with a work environment catered to meet the individual's needs. There aren't many places that a person can work and completely lose focus for a moment, wander from their station, have an outburst or simply not show up, but be held accountable and still keep their job. This is one such place. Their approach says, "Yeah. We get it. Life's stressful. Work with us and we'll work with you.".

On any given day I witness an envious display here. At three o'clock, on the nose, a mass exodus bursts forth from a single glass door. In one thrust all are casting the offal of the day from one side of the pane to the other in a near stampede. This is how everyone feels when they leave work, but lack the bravery to display such exuberance. They spill out onto the side walk in a cackle of commotions, yelling to one another, igniting cigarettes with shared lighters, and one - my favorite of all - bursts forth in a flat out run, arms flailing, all the while screaming in pure joy to be done with it. He is my favorite because he most mirrors what I feel every Friday. Yet, he is not the only one in a sprint, a jog, a hustle to something beyond work. They all are and in an impressive tizzy.

Today one 20 something man zipped through the open door way and made a bee line toward me. I know his face. I know nothing beyond that. He, however, came up to me with the self-assured "HEY!" that likened years of well established friendship. He donned a Philadelphia Eagles cap, sneakers... and a three piece suit. He offered me a fist to bump. I was obliged. I considered "blowin' it up", but decided to keep it simple.

"How ARE you?", He queried.

"Good. Good...what about you?"

"Oh. Great!"

"You look sharp. What's the occasion?" I had to know.

"Nothing. Nothing. You know what I mean?" Then he paused.

"Yeah. Right on.". Awesome. Only in this place does a man, in complete self-confidence, wear a three piece suit and sneakers to tape boxes together.

Why am I not wearing gala gowns to file papers? Why don't I throw elbows and sprint for the exit at five o'clock, arms outstretched screaming hallelujah? That's how I feel, sincerely! Why not just "be" how I feel? What a great example.

He continues, "It's Friday! You know what I mean?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I totally do." I offer, and with it, another well deserved fist bump.

Tattered

That was the day I was supposed to be going to someone else's house, but not Ray's.  In my line of work you have the dress the part of the day.  Working with Andrew meant old clothes because you might be cooking or painting or having banana smeared across the back of your shirt because that's just the sort of thing that happens with Andrew.  Working with Ray often meant doctors which meant putting on something professional enough so that the doctor took you seriously when you asked if dysphagia was a real possibility or if he could explain the intricacies of diverticulitis.  Today someone else was taking Ray to the doctors and I didn't concern myself with appearance.  So when my boss came up to me and asked if I could last minute take him I slightly wished I had rethought my choice of ripped jeans, black tank, zipper hoodie and flip flops, but was more than happy to jump in where needed.

I picked Ray up and it was chit chat as normal, but as we pulled into the parking lot of the doctor's office Ray was in no mood for mincing words.  He notified me with flat coolness of an IRS auditor, "You can't go in with office with me."

"What?"

"You can't go in the office."

"What do you mean?  That's what I'm here for.  It'll be fine."

"You have holes in your jeans.  You can't go in like that.  It's terrible.  I can't believe you came here with holes in your jeans."

I contemplated the irony of the balding man with dentures and a lazy eye, often disheveled and unshaven critiquing my appearance.  However, I gave credit to his point.

"Ray, I wish I didn't have holes in my jeans too and if I knew I was taking you today I would have dressed differently.  I'm sorry, but believe me, the doctor doesn't care at all about what I'm wearing.  All sorts of people come to see him."

"No.  You're not coming in.  Wait in the car."

"Wait in the car?"

"Turn on the radio and wait in the car."

Wow.  He was getting specific and bossy.  It was 90 degrees outside and hotter in my all black interior/exterior Jetta when left sitting in the parking lot.

"Uh.  No.  I'm not waiting in the car with the radio on."

He threatened to leave.  I called his bluff and walked toward the entrance of the office.

He turned to me and with all the conviction of a neoconservative evangelist preacher and uttered the words,

"You are an embarrassment."

This from the man prone to loud displays of anger in public places, the man who storms out of offices, meetings, and appointments on a regular basis.  I stood frozen for a good thirty seconds as did he.  Who knew jeans with holes was his hot topic button?  I choked back laughter because this was very serious to him and to laugh now would be mocking him and to mock him would be rude and he would certainly leave without seeing the doctor and above all he needed to see the doctor.  I walked past him to the office and explained that he had arrived.

I thought I might call his bluff again and I sat there waiting for him to be called back.  When he was called I silently stood up to follow him back as if nothing happened. He swung around swiftly and (if any of you understand a family guy reference) pointed at me in the exact way that angry monkey from the closet points at Chris Griffin and says, "You CAN'T come back."  I sat down obediently, conceding my loss.  Never again would I wear jeans with holes in them to an appointment.

The door opened less than sixty seconds later.  "Okay.  You can come back now.", he said.

How Does It Feel?

Chris and I were traveling down the road on the way to the grocery store.  That's one of the things we do together.  I'm entrusted with the task of making sure he doesn't spend all his life savings at the store... any store.  

On this day, with an unusual level of enthusiasm Chris said, "Guess what I saw the other day?!" 

"I don't know, what?" I was intrigued.  

"I saw a little person! Right there! Walking down the street! I had never seen one before."  He said it like it was an exhibit at the zoo - an Okapi.  He continued, "He was a student going to class.  I know because he had a backpack."  

"I saw the show on TLC - Little People Big World, but I'd never actually seen a little person.  That's what they like to be called, 'little people'. I know they don't like 'midget'.  I learned that.  I'd never call them that.  I'm nice.  I would have offered him a ride.  I'm very nice and I would have pulled over and offered him a ride." (Chris drives.)  

The irony of this whole conversation was not lost on me.  I was practically swimming in an ocean of it.  I considered the fact that Chris barely clears five foot in a pair of good shoes.  I marveled internally at his obliviousness to the fact that he was perpetuating the same reaction he'd fought so hard against all his life.  How many times had he been gawked at by bystanders? Was this the reason he deemed it okay, saying, " I've been treated this way all my life.  It's the norm.  It's okay." or was it that he just didn't get how ironic his reaction was.  I genuinely believe it's the latter.  

At this point my social worker instincts kicked in and I posed a safety thought in his path, "You know Chris, just because he's a little person doesn't necessarily mean he's nice.  You know I think that because you have a rule not to let strangers in your car that you should stick with that regardless of their height."

"Oh I know.  Oh I would get to know him.  I would pull over while he was walking to class.  I would open my door and I would say, 'Hey.  How does it feel to be a dwarf?'.  That's was I would say, dwarf, not midget.  Because I know they don't like 'midget' and I'd never call them that."

I fought with everything in me not to laugh - not to lose control of the car in such violent laughter - with the image in my mind of a middle-aged person in a small SUV pulling off the side of the road, opening his door to a non-suspecting little person.  The door would open the same way a minivan door does in a drive-by kidnapping.  Then the question, "How does it feel to be a dwarf?" and that's all.  Silence.  I debated whether to innocent pedestrian would give him the finger, tell him to fuck off, call him a jack ass or all three.  I was leaning toward all three.  

I didn't want to kill his spirit of friendliness, but perhaps challenge his thinking a little.  I said, "You know Chris, I think that little people would like to be treated like everybody else and maybe asking 'How does it feel...'"

"Oh I know!" He interjected, "I would treat him just like everybody else. I'm nice.  That's what I'd do."

I considered him driving up to a stranger, flinging the door open and asking, "How does it feel to be of average height?"  I could see the dilemma in his statement, but he never could.  So, if you happen to be a person of somewhat shorter stature and are approached as if you might be kidnapped in a drive by door flinging open experience in which you're asked the most personal of questions.  Just know, it's not personal.  Chris just wants to get to know you and maybe offer you a ride.

I had been working with Lance for a month. I came on board with the understanding that he was amongst a great deal of change. He had recently graduated from a reputable school for individuals with disabilities in the city. A big, "What's Next?" rested over his head to the extent that I could not fully grasp. This is the delimma that so many people with special needs face. They are no where near ready to be in some sort of group home or institution or what have you. They are finished with whatever structural state programs are available to them. They are 21 and the state is through with them. Good-bye. Good Luck. Parents and individuals face the tedious endeavor of figuring out whether they should/could get a job, be placed in a residential setting, stay home, and a million other questions no one can fathom until they have gone through it.

He also had rods in his back that helped stabalize his waivering frame. He could not sit up on his own without them. This was a poor substitute for a functioning muscular/skeletal structure. It is all science has now and it had failed him, like so many other medical attempts. Medicine has come so far and has so far to go. The rods were infected. They had to come out so it would not spread. So, a little after a month after he and I were aquainted, he went to the hospital to have it removed. His back had been sliced down the middle nearly the full length of his back. Mom warned the surgeon that he had very little skin to work with. Like so many other parents, she wasn't taken very serious. Consequently, when they went to sew him up there wasn't enough skin and a plastic surgeon had to be called in to "find" some more.

He came back home as someone I didn't recognize. That was most painful for his family. It wasn't any appearance that was foreign. It was his demeanor that was so different. He is a cheerful, happy person. Now he was exhausted, frustrated, limited. You think, how much more limited can some who has a diagnosis "non-verbal" and rolls in a power chair get? The answer is, alot. Especially if you're Lance. Lance does marathons with his Dad and friends. He swims with dolphins. He rides in gliders and race cars. He's just shy of sky diving. Seeing him with tubes and wires, awake for only parts of the day was disheartning. Seeing his level of frustration peak when he was pushed to try and try again with little tasks was daunting.

It felt like endless trips to the doctor continued until he was able to get his stitches out. His mom, Lance and I all went. Having been traumatized with painful and comprehensive proceedures all his life, every trip to the doctor was torture for him. "What will they do to me this time?" he seemed to wonder. He often cried and thrashed about. And so it was as they painlessly took the stitches out. How did he know it wasn't going to hurt. It's excrutiating being so vulnerable.

We brought him the hour and half home from the world class hospital where they'd been taking care of him. His stitches were out. He had lunch. I remember him laughing at his mom and I as we transported him from the chair to his bed for his afternoon rest. I remember this because it was so juxtaposed to what was actually happening. He lay in his bed. It was time for me to move on to my next client so his mom tended to him while I went to the bathroom before leaving. As I washed my hands. I heard a suttle "Oh no." come from his mother, in the bedroom. Then an "Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God."

"What is it?" I came running into the room.

She stood a distance away, staring.

I stood and followed the path of her eyes to Lance, his white tee-shirt, a pool of blood.

All of this happened in seconds. A period of disjointed phrases, understanding, uttered familiarity, underlying panic submerged in remarkable calm. All of these things passed between us like a ball in the hands of clumsy children.

"Okay..." As if, "here we are, now lets figure this out.".  One of us decided the shirt had to come off.  One of us found scissors. Both of us saw the gapping mass -the great void- going down the length of his back. I had never seen so deep into a live, conscious person and realized this is because one is not supposed to see so deep into a live, conscious person. His back lay open. There was skin, muscule, bone (?), a lot of blood. There was no putting pressure on the wound when the wound is over a foot long. I thought to myself, "I have first aid training. I must have slept through the part that discussed the GIANT GAPPING SPINAL LACERATION!!!". The back needed to be closed (obviously). The only things we had going for us was that he was on his stomach and was not actively bleeding out. Miraculous. It was also a plus that he could not see or touch his wound because there's no other way to explain it: he would have flipped shit. He had already reduced himself to tears as we found tape and proceeded to tape his back shut He sensed the panic that had decended on the room and cried unconsolably at what he could not understand. He must have thought, "What is happening to me?". His mother called his father. I refused to leave. She called the hospital where the surgery and all the follow-up work was done. They wanted him to come back to have the "repairs" done. They wanted to cover their tracks.  

His father came home. Emergencies were not foreign to them. He covered his panic well. They had to transport him to the hospital in the wheel chair accessible van which meant he had to be put in his chair, sitting up. They drove seperately to the hospital. I didn't go. My work day was only half over. I had to go work with Julian still. Hell of a start to the day.

My adrinalin was sky high - through the roof. As I continued through my day my petitions to God were non-stop and repetitive. "Dear God, don't let him bleed out." Over and over for hours on end. I was sure that if science, logic or gravity had anything to say about this, he'd bleed out before he made it through the doors of the hospital.

Later, I got a call. Lance made it through. He was all sewn up again. He hadn't bled very much on the way down or waiting for the doctors to come see him. I didn't know how it was logically possible, but I was grateful. Turns out that the surgeon didn't sew as comprehensively as usual after the surgery. He didn't want any of the infection to adhere to the stitching. Consequently, it didn't heal typically without the usual stitching.

The surgeon never sent a bill to his family.  Apparently he filed it under "Learning About Cerebral Pausy."  It's nice to be able to label your mistakes as pro bono.

Lance has recovered fully. He's less stable than he was before the rod was taken out, but he has come full circle to the cheerful person he was before.

Please Understand

The Following is from an older blog I did some time ago:

One of my guys needs an apartment so that's where I come in. I help find that place. The search has been a tedious one, but most people are accomodating and kind. I do online searches, word of mouth and even newspaper hunts. One newspaper I was looking through showed an advertisement for a reasonably priced 1 bed room. I gave a ring and left a message, hoping to set up an appointment soon. The next day I got a ring back from a kindly sounding man who inquired about me needing a 1 bedroom for myself. I explained that I worked for an agency and what my purpose was. Understandably he wanted to know more about the agency and how this individual would be able to pay for this place. I explained what we do and that the agency itself would be paying for the place, to which he wanted to know if the gentleman was "section 8". (Section 8 is subsidized housing for people in need financially and/or because of disabilities.) I explained that he was not, but that the payment for the place was similiar to section 8 because you could definitely guarantee the money would be there since it was coming from an agency. Then the man said,"I'm just concerned about section 8 people being a disturbance to the other tenants.""I don't follow" I said, but I was afraid I really did follow, but didn't want to."You know. I've seen it time and time again. Section 8 people are a disturbance to the other tenants around them.""I'm sorry I still don't understand what you mean by disturbance.""Yelling, screaming, filth, trash every where. I wouldn't want to live next to that. Would you?" He said abrasively."Well no I would not, but I can assure you that this is not something you'd have to worry about with this individual." I couldn't believe what I was hearing."I've just seen this over and over again with people who are on section 8 and I don't want to bring that to my place."I was furious. "So are you going to meet this person and show them you're apartment or are you not even willing to show them your place because they're of a financial position to where they would need the services of section 8.""No. I'm not going to show him my apartment."With that I hung up the phone.One adult male human being had just stereotyped a whole demographic population. He had just seriously told me that people who need assistance from the government to pay their rent were filthy, disruptive and not worth giving the benefit of a doubt or the time of day. The year: 2007. The belief: not that far from precivil rights, presocial services boom of the early 20th century. There are still people that walk this earth and fear people with special needs. They fear the poor. They fear what they do not understand. " Do not wax indignation. Understand."Maybe the next time you see someone who acts a little different from what you're used to seeing, don't let the fear of what you don't understand define that moment. Just know that they're on your level even if they can't convey that. Maybe you walk this walk every day of your life, then thanks for being one more voice and one more body to offset the ignorance that still plagues our society. I'm not naive. I know this world is full of ignorant people. I guess sometimes you just hope for a bit more.

Dien Bien Phu

My day began with country music.  That's what The General told me he liked to listen to when I picked him up for an a.m. appointment.  I had met him before, but never got to know him.  Our rush-hour-traffic car ride to his Psych visit gave me the opportunity I'd previously lacked. 

He began by telling me that he paints nails - as in finger nails.  This is all well and fine, but not something you expect to hear from an unkempt, middle-aged man with a mustache and secondhand Redskin's sweat shirt.  This was to be one of many surprises.  I asked where he got this interest from.  He told me about some instance where he found himself in a salon surrounded by "thousands" of bottles of nail polish.  He saw these nails being painted.  He liked it.  He thought, "I could do that." and vowed to learn.  "I have 'Champagne Charade Pink' at home", He said without an inkling of femininity or humor to his voice.  

"Wow. I like dark colors a lot." I said.  (I often find I can self-indulge in conversations with the people I work with that I just can't have with anyone else, the same way I can sing completely uninhibited in the car with the people I work with.  This is much to their dismay. I'm sure.)  "I'll show you." I took off my gloves. "See? It's Purple.  It looks black, but it's actually purple." 

"You know one thing you are definitely doing wrong?" He rebuked.  I was concerned he noticed the  way I painted outside the lines.  "What?"

"Do you have the top coat on?" 

"Yes."

"Oh. Nevermind. I was thinking I might like to go to beautician school some day."

I imagined a 20-something trend setting woman coming to him for all her beauty needs. It seemed like my dream of training my pet frog to be a kung-fu master ninja that would rob a candy store, drive the get away car and give me the booty.  Improbable, but awesome.  Who am I to stifle dreams? Nobody.

"That sounds great." I said.

We continued on the ride to the appointment talking about this and that - things we liked and didn't like.  He sipped his small Dunkin Donuts coffee and I gulped my large Starbucks.  

"I've worked for the grocery store for 21 years. And next year I get 4 more vacation days."

"Wow. How many do you have now?"

"Four."

"What do you like to do on those vacations."

"Oh, read and go to the Y."

"What do you read?"

"Right now? I'm reading 'The Great War: 1914-1918'"

I knew this was true.  I had seen it on the floor through the crack in his apartment door while he made me wait outside for him.  It was book marked mid-way through.  He shared with me about various battles and wars on our ride.

"I know one thing.  I don't believe we should be in Iraq."  He scoffed.  It is one thing to digest, retain and regurgitate mass volumes on history.  It is another to understand the complexities of current world affairs and tout observations.  I was intrigued.  "Why do you believe that?" I asked.  "I think we have to let the Iraqi's solve their own problems.  It'll be another Dien Bien Phu (For those of you not up on your history see the link for Wikipedia.). And if we keep having casualties over there, were not going to have an army."

"Dien Bien Phu?  Where was that fought?"  I embarrassingly asked.

"Vietnam."  

By this point we'd made it back to his house from the appointment.  He had to go in, change his shirt and come back to the car so I could take him to work.  I made him promise me he'd tell me all about that battle when he came back.  He did.  He recited his knowledge with the poise of a grade school student. "Okay. The Battle of Dien Bien Phu.  The Battle of Dien Bien Phu was...", He began.

As he divulged his explanation I was awestruck at his insight.  Was his point debatable? Absolutely.  The point was not that it was fault proof or whether he was right or wrong, but that he had a well founded opinion.  No.  Furthermore, he had a well educated opinion based on the solid grounding of history itself.  He reached back in time for a reference that was not only applicable to the current situation, but strikingly intuitive to our future situation in Iraq.  In a world full of people who ignorantly scream, "I say 'Blow 'em all up'.", "No. We can't 'cut and run." or "We have to get out now.",  he connects a complex tie between two points in history to make an educated and informed decision.  Yet, society say he's the mentally challenged one.

 

Teeny Weeny Blue Bikini

I had just turned twenty when I became a social worker.  I knew nothing... about anything.  I had been hooked up with a family that really functioned well as a unit.  Mom and Dad were in the picture all the time.  During the summer they spent a great deal of time at the community pool.  I understood that part of what I was supposed to do was help out with the kids at the pool and the rest was helping out at their home.  

I had no vision primarily because I had little idea what I should be doing.    If someone told me what to do then I could do it.  I was smart and a quick learner, but innovative, I was not.  I also had no concept of how to present myself in a professional fashion.  This led to a major faux pa on my part.  This family was conservative and very devote in their beliefs.  Now, if I approached a family like this now I would have read that instantly and adjusted myself to accommodate.  I came from a background like this, so it would have been easy.  Yet, at the time I was self-absorbed in my newfound independence as an adult that I had little regard for sociological analysis of others.  

I wanted to do what I wanted to do and look the way I wanted to look.  Who cares what anyone else thinks?  Simultaneously, I wanted to look professional at my job.  Not because it was a way to convey competency through appearance, but because I had a new and important job and that was really cool.  So, naturally, in a family of rough-housing, busy kids with conservative parents what would a social worker wear, but the smallest bikini possible and perhaps a really nice pare of pants and shirt.  

At the pool I frolicked about in - no -not a sensible one-piece or even a modest two-piece, but a tiny, miniscule, blue bikini. I could barely stuff my ass in the bottoms and lacked enough goods to fill the top.  It was a spectacle for sure.  At the house I wore nice clothes not at all fitting to romp around with kids in.  

They liked to garden and one day I realized I didn't have the appropriate attire so I just decided to garden in my bikini.  Why not? Right?  The mom was gardening with us and a neighbor from church came over to chat with her.  On hands and knees (I was no stranger to weeding in my country upbringing) in some kinky southern boy's fantasy I heaved and hoed, pulled and tugged.  This was not what these northern, conservative mothers wanted to see.  

After that it wasn't long before I received a notice from my supervisor that this family didn't require my services anymore.  They just didn't feel like it was working out.  Thanks, but no thanks.  

This was my first of many lessons that ushered me into the foreign territory of an adult career.  Some were less painful than others.  Most were less painful than this one.

Hot For Teacher

One of my jobs can be to help a person develop a great sense of hygiene.  In one particular case I had to help Julian shower comprehensively.  This meant I would just check in on him and direct him verbally to wash here or there, wash his hair, rinse thoroughly, etc.  I always had to remind him to dry off really well.  He was normally concentrating on something else, something far more important like the news, a memory or who knows what.  He would pace about his room, water dripping off.  I entered his room on one occasion and before I could say a word he exclaimed, "Kristen!". (Okay, let me interrupt myself to explain that this man has a library of music in his head and there is no telling when a music video or song will burst through.) 

"Yes Julian!" I exclaimed back.  I knew it must be important and awesome.  It normally was.

He was toweringly tall.  He expanded his arms as wide as possible gave me jazz fingers, a cheshire smile and there in all his naked, sopping wet glory exclaimed, "HOT FOR TEACHER!"  "Wow!" I said, told him to get dressed, left the room having no idea what just happened.  This also happened often.  

Later that night I went home to my husband.  I said, "Hun, you know what 'Hot for teacher' is?" "Yeah. Why?"

I explained to him the events that had transpired in the past few hours.  He lost it laughing.  He explained to me that Eddie Van Halen had a song by that title and at the very end of the music video he did that very same movement (mind you, with clothes on, but still, the very same movement).  Sometime in the future I saw this video with Julian and it all became clear, but I'll never forget the image of him naked in his room reenacting "HOT FOR TEACHER". 

Who I Am - What I Do

I am a social worker.  That's  a broad term.  I work one on one with individuals with special needs.  (Secretly, I think we all have special needs.)  I have six people I work with.  They all range tremendously.  Some use vocal chords and some don't.  Some can walk and some can't.  Some have a tremendous amount of physical needs and some have a tremendous amount of social needs.  

I am never bored and I am never quite sure what each day will bring.  I may have an idea only to have fate laugh in my face.  I normally laugh along.  It's about all one can do and most of the time it's hilarious anyway.  

Since I'm often asked to repeat what happens in my job to people I on a regular basis, I thought I'd start this blog.  I have changed the names.  I want to honor the people I work with and would never want to make light of them more than I would make light of my own self or situations.  We are all equals.  The comedy in these stories is not meant to entice a finger pointing laugh out loud reaction to the people I work with, but really to appreciate the hilarity of life itself and how we all have our own ways of dealing with its great comedies and tragedies.

I hope you enjoy these stories as much as i enjoy my work.