My Truth About Becoming A Social Worker
T R U E S T O R Y
I was fascinated with postal workers who had access to post office boxes. I wanted to be a mail lady before I started kindergarten for that purpose. This memory is so vivid to me. It was the summer before I started kindergarten. My sister and I were visiting extended family in Baltimore. My aunt was at work, my sister was napping, and I was up and bored.
My imagination was my sole entertainment at the moment. I wasn’t in my aunt’s house anymore. I was at work. I was a mail lady about to put mail into the post office boxes. There was a problem. I needed a rectangular box with holes to insert an imaginary key to unlock the box. I looked at the wall; there it was! My mailbox was in plain view! Now I needed a key. I searched on the floor and found a hairpin. I thought, this is my key! I inserted my key into one of the holes in the box on the wall. It went it! I was met with intense pain before I could turn the key to unlock the mailbox. My pointer finger burned like I had never felt before. I ran into the bathroom and tried to turn on the light, but nothing happened. Luckily, the water still worked. I turned on the faucet and ran cold water over my finger (Cold water made everything feel better back then.). It burned even more.
Shortly after, my sister woke up from her nap and tried to turn on the radio. It didn’t work. She tried to turn on the light to look at the radio. The light didn’t work either. I followed her from place to place in the room silently. She turned and looked at me sharply, “What did you do?” I said nothing, but she knew I was lying. Her eyes darted to the hairpin on the floor near the electrical socket. She put two and two together. Next was the spanking of the summer. Afterward, I laid on the bed and cried myself into a nap. I never (ever) thought of being a postal worker again.
Fastward some weeks and kindergarten began. My teacher went around the room to all the students sitting in what is now called “criss-cross-applesauce.” When she got to me, she asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I froze. I didn’t know. She went through some options quickly. “Would you want to be a doctor or lawyer?” I said, “Lawyer.” She went on to the next student. Truth is, I didn't know what a lawyer was or what they did. I just liked how it sounded. I asked my mom about it when I got home. After she explained their role, I was good with it. It was a sudden decision. But, I held on to it as my career choice until my senior year in college: I was going to be a lawyer.
A lot happened after that day in kindergarten. As a college student, I loved everything about criminal justice. However, going to law school didn't seem to fit my life at that time. I decided against it my first semester of my senior year. I graduated from undergrad and accepted a job unrelated to my dream or degree. I stayed there for about two months before I determined I couldn’t continue that way. I applied for a Master of Social Work program and was accepted. Once accepted, I had a new language to learn. Social work was so different from criminal justice. It was two different mindsets and systems. It was a new world for me. I adjusted and graduated with an MSW in May 2010.
I was fully employed in my first position as a Geriatric social worker in June 2010. I worked in a nursing home. That position taught me immensely about work life, the need for balance, knowing my worth, and understanding systems, people, and life. Working there challenged my culture as I learned of diversity and shared experiences. Within the first six months there, I was serving an elderly woman who had to make a financial decision to remain in the facility or return to live in the community. But there was a problem. She no longer had her own home. Thus, she would have had to move in with her daughter. My supervisor and I met with her daughter in an office where she was informed about her mother’s situation. My supervisor presented the options. The lady’s daughter began to cry. She explained that she loved her mother, but she could not see herself changing her mother’s adult diapers or even taking care of her because her mother never cared for her. The lady was raised by her grandmother because her mother chose to lead another life without her. That moment in the office furthered my interest in culture and family dynamics because I had never heard of such a situation explained so plainly and directly.
Though many stories and experiences have followed, many of which have added to the mold of who I am as a clinician and person, that experience helped me discard the box and expectations I had for others. Everyone has a story. Everyone has a why. Our various experiences and journeys help cultivate subcultures and ways of life. The stories and whys have been my cause for finding and presenting solutions. It’s my privilege to serve others in the capacities of raising awareness, encouragement, and spreading hope. Social work is not for the faint of heart. But it certainly has its rewards. Here’s my ode to all other social workers making strides and lasting impacts to make a better society.
Happy Social Work Month!