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!

I followed Trayvon Martin’s case closely. I remember watching it from work in between tasks. I still remember how it felt when I learned that Zimmerman was not guilty: I felt betrayed; I was surprised; I was sad; I was angry more than anything else. In a sense, I was also traumatized. I never followed another trial or charge of a police officer against a Black person until George Floyd. I’ve never met him personally, but for a while, every time I thought of him crying out for his life and his mama, my eyes would grow moist.

I admit that I’ve had some grave concerns about my feelings towards the murder, the trial, and some of my heart’s responses. The Bible instructs me to love everyone(Matthew 5:44-47). It instructs to rise above mistreatment and be the bigger person, which, was the opposite of what I wanted to do. I was angry. I was offended. I was also frustrated with anyone who expressed anything other than what happened to George was wrong.

The word of God is my manual for living. It tells me how to respond to the issues of life in a way that always has my best interest at heart. God is multifaceted. He is so much more than what a lot think of him: a great and big God who either blesses, punishes, or sends people to heaven or hell. He should be revered and feared, but he should also be loved and adored. The same God that instructs me to love and rise above mistreatment also instructs me to seek justice. God loves justice.

So, where does that leave me? It leaves me to recognize that all have sinned and fallen short of God’s glory (certainly includes me). It leaves me to recognize that we all have a soul; to consider that Derek Chauvin is loved by God and worthy of forgiveness just as much as anyone else. Do I rejoice because Derek Chauvin is incarcerated? Not so much-- but I do rejoice in justice.

Truth moment: I lowkey judged people who lost loved ones but continued to gather like we weren’t in a pandemic. As I write this, my grandmother officially transitioned from Earth about 4 hours ago, and all I can think of is how badly and tightly I want to hug my daddy-as unsafe as it is in a time like this. This was not the first family death that I’ve experienced since the pandemic. Nearly a year ago, I lost an aunt to COVID. I refrained from writing or speaking publically about it because I did not want to be insensitive to my family. But here’s the truth: virtually grieving was hard. Abbreviated gatherings seemed insufficient. But it’s where we are right now.

My introduction was written over three months ago when my grandma died. As of yesterday, my aunt has been deceased for one year. We don’t miss them any less. I come from large families: My mother is 1 of 13, and my father is 1 of 13. So, I have aunties, uncles, and cousins for days and days. Huge families are everything! Family gatherings are too! I’ve missed gathering while forced to grieve during the pandemic. My families are the types to celebrate and show love as units. Watching my aunt’s funeral via Facebook Live intensified my hurt because I was separated from my mom. We were fortunate. Some restrictions were lifted so we could gather in a small crowd when it was time to see my grandmother off. That was enough to be grateful for.

2020 and 2021 have helped me appreciate my loved ones more. There are lots of people who had goals for 2020/2021 that didn’t live to see. Some people planned to reconcile but lost the opportunity because death came too soon. COVID has highlighted the importance of humanity, love, and physical affection. Some things that I took for granted before now. Shoutout to everyone who has lost someone during the pandemic. Some people’s mental health was shaken. So grief hasn’t helped. Take it one day at a time. Embrace warm memories. Show love when you can.

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…

I can’t say that I’m appalled by the events that have happened within the past week.  I can’t even say that I’m disgusted. Is it fair to say that something (such as racism) "is what it is" while maintaining an appropriate level of concern and desire for change? I hope so; because that’s where I am.  

Just throwing some things out here…
I find it interesting that people in Charlottesville were injured; a life has been lost; but, no one [in the media] has referred to what happened in Charlottesville as a “riot.” I personally believe that the media should be held more accountable for the word play they use when sharing coverage. If a rally hosted by people of color was to grow violent, it would be referred to as a riot. What was so different about what happened in Charlottesville that it didn’t meet criteria?  

Throughout our president’s election I have held the notion that he is not a racist. I believe(d) he was just someone who never really had to filter his mouth because of his wealth.  I also concluded that he speaks of those of lower classes as he does because he has probably never been “exposed” to them or had to relate to them. During his administration, Obama caught a lot of slack from blacks and whites. Some whites were disrespectful because he was black. Some Blacks were disrespectful because they did not feel that the president was doing anything for “us.” The president is supposed to act unbiasedly.  However,  as I consider President Trump’s comment regarding alt-right I haven’t been able to distinguish if he was acting unbiasedly or if he condones what happened. At minimum, there is a way that one can show disdain for someone else without harming others. Why wasn’t that expressed from the platform? What happened to the twitter fingers?

From VA to NC…
I was glad to see that there are people beyond the black race that recognize injustice. I was glad to see that there are some, other than the oppressed, that are outraged and want to do something about it.  I was even happy to see that there are some that are willing to stand “for” us. I just want to see some stand with us. I’ll explain that thought process in a sec., but let me state this [first] for those that don’t understand the negative connotations associated with public display of rebel civil war leaders: it is an exalted reminder of oppression, bigotry, violence, discrimination, and dehumanization.  A statue erected in their honor is beyond disrespectful to those who are descendants of such dehumanization. Some people of the dominant culture suggest that former racism and slavery should be forgotten.  Confederate monuments and paraphernalia make this difficult. It is troubling to see and hear people that can’t understand that. I understand we should be proud of our heritages. However, that doesn't mean we have to embrace the negativity with it. While I previously stated my thoughts on the forceful demonstration and removal of the statue, I do not in anyway discredit our governor for his decision to remove the monuments. I appreciate it. 

So, back to standing with us...
There are some things about being, not just black but a minority of any race, that people who are not involved in the group would not get: racial profiling, stereotypes, discrimination, oppression, cruelty, and etc. Because one does not know how it feels per se, let those that do, do the explaining. Hence my statements regarding standing with us versus for us. Allow the oppressed to have a voice while working together to support the cause. This means taking stands beyond public platforms and using the opportunities afforded to you, but denied by others, to make a difference. I was doing some reading about the heroin “crisis” and came across this quote: “‘Because the demographic of people affected are more white, more middle class, these are parents who are empowered,” said Michael Botticelli, director of the White House Office of National Drug Control Policy, better known as the nation’s drug czar. “They know how to call a legislator, they know how to get angry with their insurance company, they know how to advocate. They have been so instrumental in changing the conversation (https://www.nytimes.com/2015/10/31/us/heroin-war-on-drugs-parents.html).’ ” If you have these type of influences and are willing to use them, this is standing with us.

We’ve made a lot of progress but there is more progress to be made. I’m Here for it.

Peace,
Marisha