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!

Do y’all remember when we called ourselves having a boyfriend or girlfriend then our loved ones humbled the entire situation by referring to them as our “little friend?” There was something more in our hearts towards our special person than “friendship” and we wanted it acknowledged. Interestingly enough, I think there is still a speck of that on today’s dating scene. Social media is usually flooded with applications and jokes regarding cuffing season when Fall reaches the horizon. But there is something serious about being cuffed and the notion of a committed relationship.

Some time ago one of my younger cousins and I conversed about his romantic interest. I asked if she was his “girlfriend” and he scoffed: “Titles are so ‘1990s’.” We’re obviously from different generations but I believe that there could be some truth in my little cousin’s and our elders’ concepts. I’ve come to appreciate the friend zone. I don’t think that courtship has to be complicated or eternal but it pays to establish solidarity instead of “skipping to the good parts.” I believe this is as good a time as any to mention that I’m not a romance guru (or any other guru). This piece is to highlight my experiences and observations.

I’ve pondered how a man can ever be a lover to me if he cannot be my friend. I’ve learned that friendships and relationships alike require compatibility. Compatibility for me has changed over the years and I’ve gathered that it is more than “having things in common” or meeting pre-determined checkboxes. Maybe I’m thinking too much with my therapist hat but I believe that the art of compatibility requires that I search and assess myself as a multifaceted person and determine what does (or would) work well and what does and (or would) not. I would think that a person interested in me should do the same. Similar interests are great but what about communication styles? Long-term goals? Values? Spiritual beliefs?

So, reaching back to having little “friends,” I don’t think that it’s a bad idea at all. In fact, I find it genius. It’s imperative to get to know a person and their dimensions without the pressure of wanting to be liked or desired. It helps eliminate the need for masks or “representatives.” (Representatives are people who present who they want to be accepted instead of who they actually are) Once what’s important has been laid out, either the friendship can evolve or remain the same. Either way, at least you dodged investing a great deal into someone that you don’t know or followed due to shallow factors of compatibility. Some people are compatible for friendship, some for networking, and others for something more. I’m legit out here living and learning.

Truthfully, I could be wrong about all of this. But I believe otherwise. Friendships before romance should totally be a real thing.

I’ve been a part of relationships that I only heard from some people if I was reaching out to the other person. There have been others that I only heard from when they wanted something. It was insulting and saddening. I hated being a part of lop-sided friendships. Truth be told, I have a lot of growing to do in accepting change and walking in perpetual love.

I approached 2020 with the decision to no longer put effort into relationships that were upheld solely by my own efforts. It sounds good, but my said experience taught me that people only match a person's “energy” because they're hurt or to avoid being hurt. Sometime after my “2020 decision,” a sister-friend’s minimal effort dropped to nonexistent. Hindsight 20/20, my feelings were hurt and I felt rejected. I’ve learned that it takes more effort and emotional energy to match theirs than to actually rectify the problem and move on. It’s just not healthy. Here’s what I concluded: If you miss someone, tell them. If they’ve hurt you, tell them. Use the energy to forgive instead of returning the favor if you can’t express yourself. 

I was led to read 1 John. The chapters focus on both horizontal and vertical relationships. Horizontal relationships are how we relate to each other as human beings; the vertical relationship is how we relate to God. Based on the reading, it is impossible to have a vertical relationship if we do not walk in love horizontally. The first chapter, 1 John 1:7, which really caught my attention, goes as far in the Amplified version to say 

“But if we [really] are living and walking in the Light, as He [Himself] is in the Light, we have [true, unbroken] fellowship with one another, and the blood of Jesus Christ His Son cleanses (removes) us from all sin and guilt [keeps us cleansed from sin in all its forms and manifestations].(Italics added for emphasis.)”

This was a moment of truth and a legit heart check for me. My heart’s mind went beyond considering the unbroken fellowship; I realized that it was ungodly to match someone’s energy in this context. It’s a notion that was created by and should therefore remain applicable only by the world. My new challenge is to protect the peace that comes from the manifestation of the spirit of God in my life by using godly principles. Everything that has a catchy sound isn’t for [us as] believers. Finally, God has revealed to me quite plainly that we relinquish our right to hold grudges when we accept him. He forgave us, we forgive others. It’s just that simple. Our vertical relationships (with God) are significantly impacted by our horizontal ones (with others).

So, here’s my final thought: matching another person’s energy to gratify my feelings simply isn’t worth disrupting my walk with the One that counts.

Thanks for reading.

Sincerely,
Marisha

Here’s a preview of what it’s like to be a concerned and conscious Black social worker: It’s saddening to see minorities outnumber any other race (or ethnic group) in the justice system; it’s difficult beyond words trying to help people within a rigged and broken system; it feels like running uphill when you’re out of shape; there’s so much resistance that it feels like a bad idea to even try; sometimes, I’ve wondered if there have been racial slurs or condescending/stereotypical remarks used behind closed doors within private circles and conversations; it’s hurtful when violence steals a youth’s life; it’s disturbing to hear youth explain why they have nothing to lose or live for; it’s angering to be referred to as a gatekeeper and realize that you’re what stands between a child and a monster that was created to devour you both. The tricky part is feeling pressured to conceal knowledge that you are just as much prey as the child (along with everyone else who looks like you) and having to engage the dominant culture -all while appearing non-threatening, professional according to their standards, less expressive, and self-muted.

One day I was sitting at lunch as I thought about the systems of our country. I realized how difficult it is for a child to win with statistics stacked against them. Working with youth involved in the juvenile justice system has made the covert plans for Blacks apparent. But the justice system isn’t the only system that oppresses Blacks: There’s the workforce, education, healthcare, housing, plus some. Admittedly, I took the job thinking I would be satisfied if I could help a handful of kids out of the slew I've encountered. I lied to myself. Seeing the slew fall and drug between the cracks became disheartening to the point of tears. I felt like I was a part of a losing battle. I wanted to leave social work. I wasn’t sure where I thought I was going. I only knew I would wear myself out in a fixed fight. I finished my lunch and returned to work without sharing my heart or thoughts with anyone. Somehow, my will to fight returned. I’m still in the field.

Don't be confused by any of the above. I love my job, I love the youth, and I love the endless list of possibilities. Any Social Worker or therapist (I'm both) can tell you that we have our days. But, we also have our rewards. Mine are seeing youth on the up and up; watching youth grow and apply what they've gained from the sessions or groups; and one of my personal favorites, the opportunity to plant good seeds into the soils of our society.

Long story short, I didn’t quit that day. I don't know that I’ll be a social worker or therapist forever; or that my length of employment in this field will merit I can “retire” from the profession. My life and those tied to it are full of purpose. My job is by providence. It would be cowardice and irresponsible to leave my post. Needless to say, I’ll be here for however long “a while” is. So, it’s ethics, prayer, good vibes, advocacy, and self-care until my next assignment…

It's impossible to dig into this post without revisiting the ugly scars of slavery; the primary concept in this context is Willie Lynchism.  For those who are unfamiliar, Willie Lynch constructed a letter to other slave owners that provided insight to ensure division among the slaves by using their complexions, hair texture, and other factors.  This may have been one of the most influential implementations as it is a form of slavery that continues to exist.  There's nothing wrong with preference.  However, there is something wrong when a person's physical appearance causes personal bias.  I have dark skin. Throughout my life, I have experienced the transition from being a "dark-skinned girl" to "being cute for a dark-skinned girl."  Now, being "cute" for a dark-skinned girl is a much more pleasant experience than just being dark-skinned.  Frankly, some other complexions make it seem as if being dark-skinned is a curse or misfortune. Neither of which is so.  Complimenting someone of darker hues by telling them they are cute within their own box or glass ceiling is really not a compliment.  It's a subliminal message that dark skin is naturally unpleasant to the eye with a hint of congratulations.  The congrats is a cherry on top because it insinuates that while you are not quite "pretty," your features helped you when compared to the greater percentage of others who are undesirable simply because they're darker complected.  Although this isn't the case for me, I believe the "curse" of being dark-skinned is what drives some women to self-hatred.  As a child, I experienced it.  I wanted to be lighter because I thought "light" was pretty.  It was that way for many years until I saw Lauryn Hill with her coarse hair and dark tint.   I came to appreciate my features that complimented my skin: my eyes, high cheekbones, full lips, keen nose-whole nine.  Being "cute for a dark-skinned girl" has challenged me to first evaluate my character because a beautiful personality beats all.  Second, it has challenged me to consider others' opinions without always internalizing them.  Third, it's encouraged me to encourage and compliment others.  You will never know what others may struggle with.  I too have been a victim of Willie Lynchism.  There was a time that I totally disregarded others who were light-skinned because I felt they assumed they were better looking.  I glorified being dark-skinned because it was what I identified with. This was one of the very goals of the letter.  As a dark-skinned cutie, I continue to encounter people in 2016 who assume they are better looking, better qualified, and frankly have the right to say what they feel about dark skin because they are lighter. The difference is I don’t go away feeling less of a person or less attractive because of their dispositions. In fact, over the years, I have begun to venture away from boxes.  I experiment with hairstyles and colors that ideally would be untouched by some who are stuck in the groove of their physical appearance.  In all humility, I’ll be the first to tell you that my skin makes mustard, burnt orange, magenta, royal blue, royal purple, and turquoise pop!  I’m ok with needing a camera flash in darker rooms! Being cute for a dark-skinned girl is an everyday experience, but just as much as anything else, it’s what you make of it.  There aren’t many “Lauryn Hill's" left.  In fact, as time progresses I suspect that self-hatred increases. Self-love and acceptance are better embraced sooner than later. One thing is for sure: your shape, size, hair length, and etc. may change, but your complexion will not. Might as well love the skin you’re in and show the world that beauty doesn’t come with categories or stipulations...