Social workers to watch out for
I shamelessly purloined the concept of this title from the fantastic Alison Bechdel, who is so cool that I barely even notice the dangling preposition. But I think I’m going to make it a regular feature of this blog, as there are many types of social workers whose concept of “social justice” is a bit skewed. As one of my favorite professors said, “There are a lot of dumb-ass social workers. Don’t be one of them.” I couldn’t agree more.
In this edition of SWTWOF:
A cast of characters are introduced, including: a young female social worker-in-training, about to complete her MSW program; a young male individual recently diagnosed with schizophrenia and placed on a court order to receive services from the community mental health center (and boy is he mad about it!); and a middle-aged female social worker toiling away at a community center which provides various services to the low-income public, such as GED classes, food distribution, and after-school programs for kids…
Our story begins as the soon-to-be social worker (hint: it’s me!), while engaged in community outreach in accordance with her job duties, finds the young man in question without food and without money to purchase more. And, he hasn’t taken his medication for several days, which results in a lot of motormouthed tangential delusions about magic–he believes he is a wizard–and frustration which he directs at this writer, whom he holds responsible for his court order (to receive mental health treatment), the injectible anti-pscyhotic drug that makes him sleepy, the fact that his SSI check for the month was spent loaning money to “friends” and purchasing illicit substances, and various other sins (including video games and the entire profession of psychiatry). Through the course of this conversation, I learned that he (”Ray”–not his real name, of course) had not eaten in several days.
I brought Ray into the community mental health center for his injection, as he protested angrily along the way. As he was being injected with what he believes are numbing agents to disarm him of his magical capabilities, I called around to various charities in the area to see whether we could get some food for this kid. I finally found a place that holds a daily food bank for about two hours; you can only go once a month and you have to show all sorts of identification, but I figured if I went with Ray that would be good enough to get some vittles. (He doesn’t have any ID.)
After Ray got his shot and had calmed down a little, we drove to the food distribution center. I walked inside with him and saw several other presumptively low-income or homeless individuals sitting on rigid plastic chairs in the hallway. As I started over to them, a portly middle-aged woman came out of a doorway and demanded, “Are you here for groceries?”
“Yes,” I said, and offered my hand to her, which she did not take. “I just called, from Community Support and Treatment Services.”
“Have you been here before?” she asked, uninterested.
“The food’s not for me, ma’am,” I said, and showed her my badge. Her eyes flickered over to Ray (who was obviously not dressed warmly enough for the freezing weather, had on mismatched, too-baggy clothing, was poorly groomed and unshaven, and had not bathed in some time).
“Has he been here before?” she demanded, a suspicious edge to her voice.
Now, this is SWTWOF Clue No. 1: Talking about someone as if they’re not there.
Ray then stepped forward and said, very politely, “No ma’am, this is my first time.” He stretched out his hand, and she again refused it.
“ID,” she said, immediately holding out her hand as if to snatch it from him.
“Um, well, that’s the problem, ma’am, you see, I really don’t have any…” Ray began.
She interrupted him and spoke in a loud, barking voice, drowning him out completely as he tried to explain. “No ID, no groceries.”
“Excuse me,” I said, starting to get a little irritated. “I called and spoke to you. I work with Ray. I was told he could get a bag of groceries due to his special circumstances; he’s a client of CSTS.”
She regarded me without a flicker of recognition, then said, “You’re from CSTS?”
“Yes,” I said, showing her my badge AGAIN.
“Fine; go over there and have a seat. Tell him he has to sit down,” she ordered, starting to walk away. (Why don’t you tell him, bitch? He can understand you.) She went to her office and came back out with a clipboard. “Have him fill this out,” she instructed, shoving it at me.
I turned to show the clipboard and forms to Ray and to get a pen out of my pocket, and as I was doing so she said loudly, “Ma’am, you’re going to have to SIT DOWN. Tell him to SIT DOWN.”
“OK,” said Ray, and meekly sat in one of the empty chairs.
“YOU HAVE TO SIT DOWN TOO, MISS,” she yelled at me. “No one’s getting any food until you’re all seated. We can’t have you all walking up and down the hallway, it’s a fire hazard and there are people here trying to get their work done.” She stalked away, but only after I was in a chair.
Clue No. 2: Rigid adherence to rules that don’t matter.
Ray completed the form and handed me the clipboard. I wasn’t sure whether I should get up and find her, to try to give her back the all-important form, or if my getting out of the chair would spark another outburst and thus thwart everyone’s chance at getting groceries. I decided to stick to my chair. In the meantime, Ray carried on a pleasant and perfectly appropriate conversation with the woman sitting next to him, who told him another food bank where he could go for fresh produce.
When the bitchy social worker returned, she asked me (again, never directly addressing Ray at all), “Did he fill that out?” I nodded and handed the form to her. She left the room, then reappeared minutes later lugging two huge bags of groceries. Since she was obviously struggling with the heavy load, Ray jumped out of his chair and offered, “Ma’am, would you like me to help you out with that?”
She stopped in her tracks and snapped, “No. Absolutely not. GO SIT DOWN.” She refused to move again until Ray was seated again. After several more trips into the back room and more struggling with her ponderous bags, she began hanging one bag to each of the people seated. As she did, she would say, “There you go. You can’t come back until next month.”
Ray received his bag and said very sincerely, “Thank you very much. This will really help me a lot.” She ignored him completely.
I drove Ray home after that. He was happy; he must have noticed the attitude she was giving him, but he never commented on it, and instead spent the car ride wolfing down an entire packet of crackers and talking to me about Scientology (the Tom Cruise religion), spraying crumbs as he did so. Ray then informed me, as I pulled up to his apartment, that during the trip he had heard my subconscious speaking to him, and it had said, “I really want to help you.” This led him to conclude that I was a “good human being” and thus worthy of his trust. He then said–and I kid you not–”Thank you for doing this work.”
Unfortunately, my resolve to help those who are most marginalized among us and to stand in solidarity with them did not dampen my considerable ire at the way this Heinous Bitch had treated my client. As soon as I got back to the office I fired off an email to the executive director of that program, lodging an official complaint about her actions. Maybe she was fired and will have to go the food bank herself next month and be disrespected for having the nerve to beg for a can of beans. Happy thought.
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December 8th, 2008 at 2:42 am
That really is almost beyond forgiveable. People like that should not be let loose. I really am glad you made that complaint. What makes me really mad is that people who see the social care role as some kind of power trip to wave their right to ‘help’ over people that they want to feel better than. It is sickening.