One of the challenges, for me at least, in teaching social policy to social work students, is finding ways to make it…real.
Compared to clients who sit across the table from us, crying or smiling (or both!), with kids hanging on their legs and hands that warmly clasp ours, policy can seem quite stale, removed, dull.
When, of course, it’s very much alive, intricately connected to everything that social workers do and, even, to the lives of those very same, very real clients.
But sometimes, even the paperwork that plagues social workers’ existences can seem more vibrant than HRsomethingorother, with abbreviations and cross-referenced statutes and presumptions galore.
And, so, I have my work cut out for me.
One of the techniques that I use, which I certainly didn’t exist, is the introduction of narratives that highlight social problems and their intrusions into people’s lives. It’s a way of bringing clients into the classroom, so that I can walk students through the root causes of the situations that entrap and stifle individuals, families, and communities. It’s especially useful in the courses I teach in the BSW program, where most of my students are not yet in practice and, so, I’m competing for attention not even against actual direct practice but against the idea of it.
A book that I’ve used pretty successfully in this venture is All Souls: A Family Story from Southie. It’s a really compelling story–I read it until early in the morning one Halloween when I was first contemplating using it in class–and the students really like it.
And, eventually, we get to the structural issues that underlie the South Boston community in which the story takes place–how poverty and unemployment make self-sufficiency out of reach, how fervent ethnic identity is forged through discrimination, and how low-income communities are exploited by those on the outside and made dumping grounds for drugs and guns that destroy those without anywhere else to go.
Reading and discussing the book puts us in another place, and sort of in someone else’s shoes, and that fosters understanding about how people react to the constraints that policies force on their lives. Which brings us to the nexus between clinical and macro practice, and to the realization that we cannot do one well without integrating the values and skills we borrow from the other. Which is exactly where I want us to be.
But it’s not always an easy journey.
Because what I’ve learned through the past 4 years of teaching is that my students are not immune to the tendency–partly human and partly a unique relic of the American orientation to the individual–to begin and end our investigation into pathology with the person living it. So when we read about Michael Patrick MacDonald’s family tragedies, my students often focus on what his mother could have done differently…or should have, instead of how much what happened to them was a product of the impact of the environment in which they were rooted–and how much that environment was shaped by the much larger economic, social, and political factors that were (are) perpetuated by those with a vested interest in their sustenance.
So, while we never ignore that individuals and families play a significant role in charting their own futures–it’s called the Person-in-Environment perspective because both parts matter–the class includes a sort of consciousness-raising process to dig towards root causes even while we also think about how we could help this particular family, if faced with them across our desks.
It’s always an experiment, how to manage class discussion and ask questions (lots and lots and lots of questions–I try not to say anything during these class sessions without a question mark!) that help my students connect what they know about the MacDonald family with what they’re learning about the macro conditions at work. I’ve also found some tactics that seem to help a bit:
In direct practice, we start with stories–the stories our clients tell about themselves and their lives, and the stories that others tell about them (which are always incomplete and at least partially inaccurate). That’s where we should begin.
But we can’t end there. To really honor their stories–anyone’s stories–we must move from the individual to the societal. We must identify the ways in which context makes a difference, for better and for worse, and we must center our interventions not just on those experiencing the problems but on those responsible for them, too, however large and powerful they may be.
In doing so, we’ll create more stories, worth telling over and over again.
Sometimes you have to hit bottom
Even though I often have to beg off when someone–hairdressers, or my kids’ teachers, or even another mom at the park–thinks that I can help with a psychological problem when I mention that I’m a social worker (I’m completely unqualified to provide counseling, and so I have to add the disclaimer, “not that kind of social worker,” and make a referral), I still think in clinical terms sometimes.
And, you know, working in public policy, and with elected officials, that’s sometimes really helpful.
Like this year, in my state legislative advocacy, I’ve been thinking a lot about psychopathology, or at least what I know of it, and about addictions and recovery.
And I’ve been thinking about the truism that, sometimes, our clients have to “hit bottom” before there’s enough incentive to change, and that crises can be powerful motivators for healing.
To me, that sounds a lot like where we are in our movement-building this year.
It’s hard to imagine things being much worse (although, just like in clinical social work, I’m hesitant to claim that they couldn’t be!): class sizes in public schools are too big, community mental health centers are turning people away, and public assistance offices are closing around the state.
We face the possibility of several lawsuits related to the actions of last year’s legislature–in the areas of reproductive rights and voting rights, most likely–and defending those will take even more money from the state’s coffers. It’s getting harder to be a student, or a woman, or an immigrant in our state, and there’s a collective sense of looking over one’s shoulder to see who will be the next target.
Except.
Just like when faced with a client whose life is crumbling around herself, I see promising signs of renewal.
I’m getting more emails from social service organizations with questions about how they can advocate. A workshop for agencies trying to transform themselves into agents for social change attracted more interest than they could accommodate. More letters to the editor decrying the program cuts are popping up in the papers. A community meeting about the closing of a local welfare office was standing-room only. Our local coalition against anti-immigrant legislation is growing statewide, with organizing cells taking off in communities large and small.
Just like someone dealing with his/her own personal demons, these first steps are only that–tentative, sometimes conflicted, often inadequate.
There will be more dark days.
But if the first step is recognizing that there’s a problem, we’re on the path to healing.
Our struggles have names, and we have a shared hope that comes from having companions on a difficult journey.
We may be at the bottom, or at least near it, but we’re not down here alone.
And if those with whom social workers have the honor to work, every day, can build from their strengths to best their own battles, then we can, too.
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Posted in Analysis and Commentary
Tagged advocacy, clinical social work, Kansas