My family moved a lot when I was growing up. I once counted that from the first grade
through high school I had attended 12 different schools.
This many moves creates a sense that all things are
temporary. Wherever we lived, things
were different, and yet things were the same.
My family was the same. People
had different faces and different names but were essentially the same as the
people in the last place I lived. Some
were nice and friendly. Some were shy
and reserved. One or two wanted to be my
friend. And one or two liked making fun
of the “new kid.”
I didn’t really give a whole lot of thought to the community
I lived in. I tried to be as quiet as
possible and blend in. I wanted to leave
a small footprint. This approach was
fine until my Senior Year in college.
I started college working towards a bachelor’s degree in
Journalism. The career seemed to suit
me. I was complimented on my writing
skills in High School. I enjoyed
writing. And I could be the objective
observer of the society I lived in; wiring about other people’s lives. I had a fantasy of writing humorous
stories. I wanted to use dialect and
humor like Mark Twain and to make poignant observations about the world around
me.
I didn’t understand that before I got to Mark Twain, I first
had to write objective, bland Who, What, Where, How and maybe Why stories in
upside down pyramid order without embellishment. No one got a by-line back then unless they
were writing editorials. Or were famous.
By the end of my second year, my grades were telling me that
I should give up getting a degree in journalism. I went, instead, toward a degree in
Psychology, where I had strong grades and a strong interest.
By the end of my third year in undergraduate school
(technically my fourth, since I waited too long to change majors), I realized
that I was going to have to go to graduate school if I wanted to earn a living
in the field of Psychology.
I had one of my infrequent conversations with my
advisor. This was maybe my second of two
trips to the advisor during my five years getting my B.S. I wanted to discuss what I could do or where
I should go in order to work in the field.
There was an Applied Master’s Degree in Psychology at the University,
but they only accepted six students a year, and they had a lot of
applicants.
“What can I do for a back-up plan?” I asked, remembering all
the “C’s” I had settled for earlier in school.
I was going to apply, I just realized the chances were getting pretty
slim for me to get into the psychology program.
She suggested I look into getting a master’s degree in
Social Work (MSW).
My mom did a good job of raising my sister and I to be
fiercely independent. This can be a good
trait a lot of the time. But sometimes,
it is not so good. For me, being
independent means that I try to do everything I can by myself. If a problem comes my way, I handle it
myself. Usually I’m successful. Sometimes I’m not. Either way, I survive it. This is why I only met with my advisor twice
in five years. It is also why I have
trouble asking for help. And sometimes
this means that I have trouble asking all of the right questions. When I come home from an important meeting or
from the doctor’s office, Wife always has a dozen really good questions that I
should have asked but didn’t.
My tendency to not ask enough questions led me to take a
long hike across campus to meet with the director of the Sociology Department.
To save you, the reader, the same embarrassment I
experienced on that day, I’ll explain that Sociology and Social Work are two
very different fields. One studies
societies of people. The other is a
mental health practitioner who helps people through therapy and by connecting
them with social resources, such as family, organizations, or governmental
agencies.
I didn’t hear the Sociology professor laughing as I left the
building, so maybe this is a common error.
Another long hike across campus and I found myself in the
right building, talking to someone about careers in Social Work. I applied for the program, thinking it was my
fallback plan. The Psychology program
accepted six applicants a year. The
Social Work program accepted 80. 80
versus 6! Getting into the MSW program
was a cinch. Looked like I was going to
have to settle for the title of Social Worker.
Nothing wrong with that.
But, I could still dream of the Psychology degree.
I got married, graduated with my B.S., and started working
in the warehouse at W.W. Grainger to pay the bills. Wife and I waited to hear from one school or
the other to see if I was going to graduate school, or if I should try to make
a career out of Grainger.
Early Summer came, and I got my first letter with the University’s
letterhead. The outside of the envelope said,
“School of Social Work.” Hmmm. I wanted to hear from the Psychology program,
first, so I’d know how to respond to the MSW program. As I opened the envelope, I was wondering if
I could accept, and then not go should the Psychology program accept me.
I read the letter in amazement. I was NOT accepted! The school offered its regrets but said that
I had no history of community service. I
had never advocated for others.
They were right, of course.
I had no sense of “community” outside of my family. I’d never spent any significant time living
in a community, growing roots, connecting with others. Being a part of the community beyond my
family and a couple of friends was foreign to me.
That accusation.
Those words in the letter. They
have stuck with me throughout the rest of my life. They have motivated me to give up the life of
an island and to participate in my world.
I began trying to be a part of a community larger than I was soon after
graduating with my M.A. in Psychology in 1977 (fortunately, and against all
odds, I was accepted into the Terminal MA Psychology program). I have belonged to profession-related
organizations, church boards, chamber of commerce, and city council. I have gone beyond membership and become part
of the leadership.
I have learned about the work it takes to be involved in the
community. But the most important thing
I have learned is that life is about participation, and not observation. It takes time and energy to move outside of
my small circle of family and friends.
And as much work as it might take, working within the greater community
provides me with a sense of permanence, ownership and belonging. It fills me with the sense that my presence
has made a difference. These are true
blessings that fulfill me.
