Confessions of a Disillusioned Child Welfare Worker, Part Two: Setting the Stage
Becoming a social worker, I was prepared for the focus of my gaze to be on others: who they are, where they come from, how to help them. I was entirely unaware of the emphasis that would be placed on understanding myself. It is important for me to tell you where I have come from, what I have experienced, and what I have not. I must tell you about the privileges that have been built into my life. Rooted in this understanding, you can consider how my identity has shaped the story I tell. I am not objective or neutral. This is my version of truth.
To begin, please allow me to introduce various versions of myself, all of whom are still very much alive within me.
I am a 10-year-old girl who felt the pain of her father deeply and identified herself as his protector. A child whose world was turned upside down by her parent’s divorce, her father’s depression and alcohol addiction. Someone who sacrificed her needs and yet never felt good enough to be her father’s priority.
I am a 12-year-old girl who first saw poverty in a meaningful way while volunteering at an inner-city children’s program. This was the first moment when the way I saw the world fundamentally shifted; my bubble was popped. In this heartbreak, I further developed the well-intentioned but misguided notion that my life’s purpose was to save people.
I am a 14-year-old girl being romantically pursued by my 28-year-old manager at my high school job. He is another man submerged in darkness but fortunately I was already well practiced. In trying desperately to keep him stable I destabilized myself.
You may find similar wounds common among those of us who enter social work. These experiences may draw us to help, protect, comfort, and shield. They may make us angry, passionate, and bold. They give some the tenacity and courage to fight for a world more just than they had. I hope in speaking about this it reminds us, and everyone else, of our humanness.
Since life isn’t about “either/ ors”, let me tell you all the other things that are also true about me. In addition to my wounds, I had such profound privilege.
I have a wide network of family who have the capacity and resources to be present in my life. We are immigrants from many generations ago who were deemed desirable. We continue to be rewarded for our whiteness with land, access, opportunity, respect, and so on.
My mother had access to education and a high paying job. This ultimately gave her the choice to leave my father without losing everything.
My father eventually found his way out and began to show me his love in all the ways I always wanted. I had the opportunity to receive an apology, and he had the opportunity to change.
I have never had to worry about where my next meal was coming from or where I would sleep. I have lived a life free of the toxic stress of uncertainty.
The way I have experienced life, I came to trust that most people were good. Generally, I learned the world was a place I should lean into, not protect myself from.
I did well in school without strain. I achieved and achieved and achieved some more. Although I have never been particularly attractive or skinny, I redeemed myself by being smart, quiet, and non-offensive.
From birth, I was taught the language, mannerisms, and temperament acceptable to white society. I came from a middle-class, predominately white community where I was acceptable as a middle-class white girl. The path for my success was well worn and largely without roadblocks.
When you add all of this together, what do you get? In my case, I became a high achiever dependent on external validation. I became empathetic, particularly gifted in people pleasing, and all too eager to fill every gap. I became someone who was constantly striving but never felt she measured up in her world. I deeply wanted to be somewhere where I felt valuable.
So, perhaps to the least of anyone’s surprise, I am the young girl who decided I was going to be a social worker. Partially to address my growing discomfort with the injustices I saw in this world. Partially to meet others needs. Partially to meet my own.
By way of transitioning to the next phase of this story, allow me to introduce one more version of myself:
I am an 18-year-old girl who got hired for the overnight shift at a youth shelter. I am someone who was wholly unaware of the ways this decision would change who I was at my core: how I saw people, how I saw the world, how I saw myself. This is where the next portion of this story begins.
Signed,
A Disillusioned Child Welfare Worker