thoughts-of-a-social-worker

[thoughts-of-a-social-worker]

Can Fiction Change the World?

I was recently asked the question of whether or not I believe that fictional writing can change the world. As a voracious consumer of fiction for the majority of my life, I did not hesitate to answer in the affirmative. Of course fictional writing can change the world. It took me a bit longer to answer the follow up question: “How?” I started thinking about the great titans of fiction writing. The academic elite will cite writers like Shakespeare, Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, and Faulkner, but I think about fictional stories I read in my youth and young adult years – both for school and for pleasure. These included To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee, The Giver by Lois Lowry, and The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood. Today’s post won’t touch on any of these stories, though I could write much about them. Instead, I will focus on authors Toni Morrison and Ursula Le Guin.

It is undeniable that these two women are titans in (and beyond) their field. Morrison authored more than a dozen novels. Britannica cites her as being notable for her examination of the experiences of Black Americans and her exploration of unjust society, as well as her “use of fantasy… sinuous poetic style, and… rich interweaving of the mythic.” Le Guin, like author Morrison, was renowned for her work. She was also prolific – having written more than 100 novels and short stories throughout her career. According to the New York Times, Le Guin was well-known for bringing “literary depth and a tough-minded feminist sensibility” to her works. They noted that she believed her writing could be a “moral force” which helps individuals imagine the outcomes resulting from their actions.

Just because Morrison and Le Guin’s writings are works of fiction, this doesn’t mean they can’t change the world. I would argue that fictional writing changes the world by allowing us to examine what is happening around us now, connecting us to what has happened in the past, and allowing us to reimagine what might happen in the future. It can warn of dystopian futures and can challenge social norms which are problematic or unjust. Fictional works also often contain political commentary. While some might see fictional writing as nothing more than a way to escape our lives for an hour or two, I see it as a broad genre that can cause us to critically reflect upon society and our own humanity.

Le Guin’s “The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas” certainly does this. In this short story, she describes an idyllic society where everyone is happy. Nothing exists that may cause strife – be it kings or swords, police or bombs. On the surface, everything about Omelas is perfect. Then her story shifts. There’s one thing everyone, from their adolescent years on, knows but does not openly speak of. There is a child, locked in a basement closet, naked and covered in sores, who is only fed half a bowl of cornmeal and grease each day. Everyone knows that their society will fall if the child’s suffering stops. The majority of the people accept this – this child must suffer for everyone else to be happy and prosper – but some young people struggle to accept this. Le Guin describes their disgust, anger, outrage, and impotence in this situation. “They would like to do something for the child. But there is nothing they can do.” So, what do people do when they cannot continue living with this reality? They walk. Le Guin says they go into the darkness, never coming back. They leave behind the happiness and prosperity and beauty of Omelas, having no idea what awaits them. She closes her story however, saying, “... they seem to know where they are going, the ones who walk away from Omelas.” There is certainly plenty of commentary here on systems of oppression and hierarchies. I will dig more deeply into this in a moment. Before I do, I want to give a brief summary of a short story by Toni Morrison.

In Morrison’s “Recitatif,” she follows two girls – Twyla and Roberta – who room together for a brief period of time at St. Benny’s, a church-run shelter for children. As in life, there is a hierarchy, or pecking order, at the shelter. Twyla shares how the older girls cruelly picked on and brutalized them and how looked down upon they were by the “real orphans.” Twyla’s mother danced at night and could not care for her while Roberta’s mother was sick for a time, unable to provide her child with adequate care. Twyla expressed her embarrassment when her mother came to visit, with her unpolished manner, shoddy clothing, and lack of maternal instincts. Roberta, in their childhood, never judged her for this like others did. It is part of the reason they grew so close when they roomed together, but this changed as they got older. When Twyla was poor and working at a diner, Roberta laughed at and was dismissive of her, but when she was married and had a higher income family 12 years later, Roberta ecstatically greeted her and invited her out for coffee. Twyla struggled to make sense of the two interactions. When she asked Roberta why she had been so cold to her that day in the diner, Roberta replied, “Oh, Twyla, you know how it was in those days: black-white. You know how everything was.” Twyla didn’t know, and it became clear as they interacted more that Roberta’s perspective as a white woman of means did not align with hers as a Black woman who had grown up with less-than. 

These two stories explore hierarchy and oppression in slightly different ways. Le Guin creates an unrelatable idyllic world which includes familiar notes of oppression and abuse that we see in our world today. The idea of putting the good of the many ahead of the one is a common one. I think about our carceral system where there are occasionally folks who get imprisoned for decades-long (or even life-long) sentences and are eventually found to be innocent of the crimes they were convicted of. Our priority to make the world “safer” by putting criminals behind bars – knowing that our judicial system is flawed and that it sometimes convicts innocent people – is justified by a system that says it is better to harm some innocent people than to leave criminals on the street. Oppress some so that others can have better lives. In Morrison’s story, Twyla, who primarily lived on the lower rungs of the hierarchical ladder,  earns worse treatment than Roberta, who – by the nature of the color of her skin, her background, and her means – ranked higher. In the story, increased status and privilege grants one the right to oppress and mistreat others who are lower on the hierarchical ladder. Both of these stories are fiction, but there are elements within them that are very reflective of the real-world.

If I had to pick which author most effectively engaged me, I would pick Le Guin. This may be, at least in part, due to the discomfort I experienced in reading Morrison’s story; it hits close to home. I grew up in a town directly adjacent to one of the worst places to live in America if you are a Black person. Racial injustice is still pervasive there, and I spent my formative years being wholly unaware of this. It wasn’t until I went off to college that I learned about my implicit biases and how I, like Roberta, was perpetuating white supremacy without realizing it. Something that is often said in anti-racist work is that we are not born racist. Racist ideologies are taught – sometimes directly, sometimes indirectly. I am still actively hunting for unconscious biases and prejudices that linger in the back of my mind and working to do better when interacting with others who society would deem as below me on the hierarchical ladder. Le Guin, however, packaged the lesson in my favorite format – fantasy. Omelas is clearly a fictional place. It looks nothing like any place that exists on earth. It reminded me a lot of The Giver, actually, in that it explored a very real, very problematic issue in the relatively safe confines of a fictional story. For all intents and purposes, I can take the lessons from Omelas without having to worry that I will ever live there. In Morrison’s story, there is a very real possibility that I could be, or even have been, like Roberta. It is likely I will never know exactly how much harm I did to others when I was a less informed person. But, reading both of these fictional stories caused me to pause and consider the real-world issues they touched on. That, in my mind, is the first step to creating change in the world. 

[thoughts-of-a-social-worker]

Prevention Through Deterrence: A Reflection on Intentional Violence Committed at the U.S.-Mexico Border

Most people who have been paying attention know that there has been an ongoing crisis at the United States-Mexico border. Jason De León, anthropologist and Executive Director of the Undocumented Migration Project (UMP), works to humanize the victims of this crisis and to educate readers about the intentionality of the violence committed against them in his book The Land of Open Graves. The book, published in 2015, vividly illustrates the violence migrants face and calls attention to the conscious policy decisions made by our government which contribute to the continued dehumanization and inhumane treatment of these individuals. 

I remember reading a story in 2018 about the U.S. Border Patrol intentionally sabotaging water left in the desert for migrants. It aligns with much of what De León spoke of in his book. He cites a line from a 1994 Border Patrol policy plan which anticipated violence increasing as a result of their Prevention Through Deterrence (PTD) initiative. PTD pushed migrants away from safer, populated areas and forced them to cross through some of Arizona’s most hostile desert territory. In the Sonoran Desert, the animals, temperature, and terrain could mete out punishment against the migrants. De León says there is strong evidence that Border Patrol watches these crossings remotely, waiting extended periods of time to let the environment grind people down before officers apprehended them. 

How can we reconcile this treatment of migrants with the United States’ reputation as being the “land of the free” and a place of endless opportunity? De León addresses this as well. He describes a state of exception where multiple conditions are met which allow the deaths of thousands to be considered acceptable. The first condition is heightened state power due to a state of emergency. The second condition is the suspension of normal processes or applications of law, where normal protections do not apply. The third condition is the government being freed from its usual behavioral constraints. These conditions have all been met and, while in the state of exception, the U.S. government is free to adhere to what De León calls a “bare life” concept. Migrant lives hold little, if any, value and their deaths are viewed as no more consequential than the death of an animal or plant in the desert. I am reminded of the relatively recent “stand your ground” laws popping up in states all over the U.S. where, if someone perceives themselves as being in mortal danger, their own rights to take another person’s life are increased, while the value of that other person’s life is diminished. Whether or not there is any true danger present in that situation, what matters is the person’s perception of danger is what the law takes into account. 

Unfortunately, the United States has a long history of utilizing a state of exception to commit violence against people who are perceived to be threats. It happened during World War II with the creation of internment camps for those of Japanese descent – even those who were U.S. citizens. It happened when we forced Native Americans onto reservations, breaking previously agreed upon treaties when they no longer served U.S. interests. Today, we still have Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) detention camps where thousands of migrants are held without any right to due process. 

Jason De León opened his book with a story from his field journal where he and some colleagues were searching for human remains in the scorching desert. The lead guide, Bob Kee, had previously called police when he found signs of a dead body, but law enforcement was not motivated to conduct a thorough survey of the area. Though Kee knew further searching of the area on his own would qualify as disturbing a crime scene, he continued hunting for the body parts police missed. What they eventually found were remnants of a horrific death, with hardly any evidence left to show for it. De León wrote, “The desert has already started to erase this person, along with whatever violence and horror she or he experienced.” Still, he continues his work with UMP to find any signs of individuals who did not survive the trek toward freedom, because someone, somewhere, is still looking for that loved one. 

[thoughts-of-a-social-worker]

Our “Birth-to-Death Contract” with Toxic Chemicals: A Commentary on Silent Spring

It has become painfully clear, in recent times, the profound impact humans have had on the earth and its inhabitants. While I am very familiar with campaigns to save the bees and vividly recall marketing campaigns from my childhood urging me to cut plastic rings before disposing of them to save the turtles, I had not heard of Rachel Carson and her influential book Silent Spring until this week. Rachel Carson, an American marine biologist, published this work in 1962 with the intention of combating false narratives of the “safety” of pesticides like DDT. She explained the devastating effects of DDT and other pesticides not only on the environment but also on people and argued that systemic change was needed if we were to avoid disaster. 

In her book, Carson warned of the dangers tied to “birth-to-death contact” with chemicals. Though these words were written 60 years ago, they remain eerily relevant today. When she spoke of chemicals lining shelves near other home goods, and well within the reach of children, I had no problem visualizing it. I see this every week in my local grocery story. The fact of the matter is that chemicals are terrifyingly common and easy to find in any household. My child’s preschool taught an entire unit on household safety and included one specifically relating to chemicals and other toxic materials in the home. While knowing how to stay safe around chemicals is important, I think most adults (particularly in the U.S.) do not recognize them as poisons – and treat them as such – when they purchase and use them. Carson made a fantastic point in her book about this, stating: “If a huge skull and crossbones were suspended above the insecticide department the customer might at least enter it with the respect normally accorded death-dealing materials.” In addition, if warning labels were placed more prominently on the packaging of these chemicals, we may think twice about purchasing them. 

Even were we all superbly careful about the chemicals we purchase for home use, we would still fail to avoid chemical exposure. Carson spoke about the chemical residues used in agricultural farming that coat the foods we eat. Rinsing them with water does little to remove the contaminants, and some chemicals cannot even be cooked out of food. She noted that, as is true now, the existence of these residues is either downplayed or wholly denied by the industry. However, Carson cited studies that clearly demonstrate chemicals are building in people’s body fat and that our foods are undoubtedly contaminated with DDT. The DDT era began in 1942, and by the mid-1950’s individuals were averaging 5.3 to 7.4 parts per million of DDT according to collected body fat samples. Carson added that there was evidence to support that this number is consistently rising. 

This issue is still present and our government, Carson argues, is only protecting us to a limited extent. The Food and Drug Administration (FDA) is limited in both its jurisdiction and its capacity to inspect products. Despite having established “safe limits” for chemicals on food which allow a “sprinkling of poisons,” the FDA simply does not have the capacity to enforce these limits. Carson also lists multiple examples of farmers who regularly abuse chemicals, resulting in foods being marketed and sold to consumers that are well outside of the current limits. I was disappointed to read that, at the time of the book’s publishing, more than 99% of food shipments within the FDA’s jurisdiction do not get inspected (and this does not include food grown and sold within the same state).

However, not all hope is lost. While Silent Spring paints a grim picture of our situation, Carson does propose several solutions. The first is the complete elimination of toxic chemicals being used on our food, and the increased policing by the FDA of that food which should be accompanied by a mass hiring of inspectors. She anticipated an argument that this would place undue burden on farmers, however, and proposed another alternative. Our society could make a shift toward safer, plant-derived chemicals and non-toxic synthetic substitutes. Regardless of the solution we pursue, Carson did argue for increased public education about the nature of the chemicals being sold to us and the need to explore non-chemical options for pesticides in the agricultural industry. There are an abundance of non-chemical pesticide options in existence now. Carson discussed everything from male sterilization techniques among insect populations to the use of microbes and other insect pathogens which only harm their intended targets.

If there is one thing climate change is working to teach us, it is that nature will always win. Rather than trying to destroy a balanced part of the ecosystem, we should be working to find sustainable and safe ways to control our environments in a limited capacity. Science has given us both amazing and terrifying gifts. Mass death can be dealt with nuclear weapons, but many lives have been saved with the advent of antibiotics and vaccines. We can terminate our “birth-to-death” contract with chemicals if we so choose. It may take us a long time to discover a way to permanently remove these chemical traces from human and animal bodies but, for now, the least we can do is work to stop increasing those numbers.

[thoughts-of-a-social-worker]

Writing to Change the World: My Journey to Address Sexual Violence (Part 1.5)

I have devoted a decade of my life to social service work. This work occurred across many agencies and included many different roles. When people ask what initially drew me to this field, I usually say, “I’ve always wanted to help people.” I must admit that this answer feels like a bit of a cop-out, because I know how much my own life experiences have influenced my chosen career path. When I joined AmeriCorps in 2014 to work with teen moms who were trying to build stable lives for themselves and their children, it was in part because I was the child of a teen mom. When I became a dating violence prevention educator, it was because I remembered what it was like to be victimized by past partners. When I entered the Master of Social Work (MSW) program at the University of Iowa and had to choose a placement agency for my field experience, the Rape Victim Advocacy Program (RVAP) was my first choice. As a survivor of multiple assaults, who had benefited from services RVAP provided, I knew in my heart that I had to be a part of their team.

It was a warm autumn day in 2012 when I first learned about RVAP and its mission to “provide free, confidential, trauma-informed advocacy to people affected by sexual violence and [to] promote social change through prevention education.” I had just transferred to the University of Iowa to finish my undergraduate degree and was attending an organizational fair for new students at the Iowa Memorial Union. I recall stopping at RVAP’s table, picking up their brochure and a sticker, and signing up for their volunteer list. At the time, I didn’t fully understand the value of their prevention work. As a student graduate of D.A.R.E., a notoriously ineffective U.S. drug prevention program, I may have been a bit pessimistic about the effectiveness of prevention work. However, the more I learned about sexual violence in the wake of my first assault, the clearer the value of RVAP’s prevention work became. My MSW field placement was never a question in my mind. If I could contribute to the creation of a culture that would eventually eliminate sexual violence, I was all in.

  Despite overcoming my own skepticism about prevention work, it turns out, many other people still suffered from similar skepticism. Unlike its direct service counterpart which provides care to help individuals heal after experiencing sexual violence, prevention work addresses the root causes of violence with the goal of stopping it before someone is harmed. In terms of long-term solutions, prevention work seems like a great investment, but why was it so difficult for others to see that? I decided to explore this question and to examine how we might shift our societal focus from one centered primarily on crisis intervention and direct services to an integrated approach grounded in prevention work which addresses the root causes of sexual violence.

It helps to have some foundational knowledge when exploring a question as complex as this one. Through my own professional and volunteer work, I learned about local and national resources – such as the Iowa Coalition Against Sexual Assault (IowaCASA), the National Sexual Violence Resource Center (NSVRC), and RAINN – which helped build my foundational knowledge about sexual violence. For example, according to RAINN, someone in America is sexually assaulted every 68 seconds (2020). In IowaCASA’s 2018 general information brochure, it states that 1 in 3 women, 1 in 6 men, and 1 in 2 transgender and gender nonconforming individuals have experienced some form of sexual violence in their lifetime. Clearly, sexual violence is a problem, so how do we fix it? This is a question I was a bit less equipped to answer.

  My victim advocate training through the Iowa Coalition Against Domestic Violence (ICADV) and my access to the University of Iowa’s library services has been invaluable in collecting resources to help me more deeply understand the research that supports an investment in sexual violence prevention education as a solution to sexual violence. I’m thankful also to my practicum supervisor who has passed along resources to help me better understand the goals of primary violence prevention work.

When I began my journey to answer the question of how we shift society’s focus to address sexual violence through a comprehensive violence prevention approach, I was excited to find that a lot of research has come out within the last five years or so supporting this idea. Everything I was reading showed that comprehensive sex education and social emotional learning (SEL) are major tools in effective violence prevention education. As a part of a comprehensive violence prevention program, these tools both protect children and shift cultural norms, creating safer, inclusive environments. By teaching skills like empathy and boundary-setting, and pairing them with scientifically-accurate information, across grade levels we can work to end sexual violence before it starts.

[thoughts-of-a-social-worker]

Why Henrietta Lacks’ “Immortal Life” Matters

I don’t recall hearing the name “Henrietta Lacks” before college. I suspect that this is a common story among folks my age and those who graduated before Rebecca Skloot’s book The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks was published in 2010. In fact, the reason Skloot wrote her book in the first place was because no one seemed to be able to answer her question – who was Henrietta Lacks? Skloot, who has dual degrees in biological science and creative nonfiction, set out to find the answers on her own. After more than a thousand hours of interviews, scientific and historical research, and deep dives into archival content (as well as the personal journals of Henrietta’s daughter, Deborah Lacks) she was able to show the world a holistic story not just of HeLa cells and Henrietta Lacks but of her family and their struggle to come to terms with her “immortality” – as well as how that immortality came about. 

Skloot’s book stayed on the New York Times bestseller list for more than six years and, ultimately, I believe it raised awareness of an individual’s rights (or lack thereof) to control how their tissues are used, as well as illustrating the racial inequities embedded in the U.S. medical system. In Skloot’s afterword, she noted that it was not illegal for doctors to take Henrietta’s cells without her knowledge in 1951, nor would it have been illegal when the book was published in 2009. She discussed how, while hundreds of millions of tissue samples are being stored in the U.S., there is no case law that fully clarifies whether an individual has a right to control their own tissue once it is removed from their body. While it’s true that this absence of individual rights resulted in major medical breakthroughs, the Lacks family didn’t find out how Henrietta’s cells were used until decades later and never received any compensation from the entities who profited from the use of her cells. Skloot included a quote from Deborah Lacks which summed up the family’s frustration well, stating, “... I have always thought it was strange, if our mother cells done so much for medicine, how come her family can’t afford to see no doctors? Don’t make no sense. People got rich off my mother without us even knowin about them takin her cells, now we don’t get a dime.”

The Lacks family is certainly not the only family to have ever been taken advantage of by the U.S. medical system for research purposes. There is an extensive history of exploitation – particularly of people of color – which is justified by the need for continual advancements in medicine. From the 1840s experiments performed by Dr. Marion Sims (also known as the “Father of Gynecology”) on enslaved Black women to the 1932 Tuskegee experiments which purposefully denied syphilis treatment to Black men, subjecting BIPOC individuals to medical violence for the purposes of study is not a new phenomenon. It’s no surprise that marginalized communities, especially Black communities, have a deep mistrust of the U.S. medical system. I think about the vaccine skepticism among communities of color during the COVID-19 pandemic and, with these repeated acts of medical violence in mind, I find myself having much more empathy for those who may have been afraid to get the COVID-19 vaccine. 

Johns Hopkins, the medical establishment which first took and cultured Henrietta’s cells, initially tried to better understand how her cells worked by studying her children – and it’s important to note that this was done without the family’s awareness of the researchers’ intent. Today, Johns Hopkins hosts a symposium every year in honor of Henrietta Lacks and celebrates the advancements made possible with her cells. While members of the Lacks family have been present, and she has posthumously been thanked, no additional recompense has been provided to the Lacks. In fact, it ended up being the Henrietta Lacks Foundation created by Skloot which provided money to Henrietta’s immediate family members, in the form of grant funds. As of this spring – more than 70 years after Henrietta’s death – the attorneys representing Lacks’ estate shared that the family has received no financial compensation from either the pharmaceutical or biotechnology industries that have profited from the use of Henrietta’s cells. In August, there was still no update as to whether or not the lawsuit filed by the Lacks family will go to trial or be dismissed by the judge. For now, her family continues to wait, and hope, for justice.

[thoughts-of-a-social-worker]

A Reflection on the APA, the American Healthcare System, and Being LGBTQ

Throughout the history of the United States of America, every human rights struggle has looked a little bit different. Given that it is LGBTQ History Month, it felt appropriate to explore the fight for LGBTQ rights in some way. While I could have chosen to delve into the importance of the Stonewall riots or marriage equality, these are milestones often highlighted by other authors. Instead, I will be diving into the fight to see LGBTQ identity – specifically that of homosexual and transgender individuals – as a natural state of being, rather than as a mental disorder to be treated or fixed.

This American Life published a podcast episode in 2002 titled “81 Words.” In it, reporter and senior producer Alix Spiegel shared the story of how her grandfather contributed to the American Psychiatric Association (APA) removing language that classified homosexuality as a “mental disease” in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual, otherwise known as the DSM. For those who aren’t familiar with the DSM, this is the manual used by mental health professionals to guide the diagnosis of mental disorders. At one point in time, 81 words were used to describe homosexuality as a disease. While there was no one person who could take credit for removing homosexuality from the DSM, Dr. John P. Spiegel – Alix Spiegel’s grandfather – was the President-Elect of the APA in 1973 when homosexuality was replaced with a new term: “ego dystonic homosexuality.” The new term was meant to diagnose homosexual individuals who experienced “subjective distress” as a result of their identity. Since 1970, the APA has gone from 90% of its members believing homosexuality was a pathological disease to 90% of its members believing that homosexuality is a normal variant of sexual behavior. Given this paradigm shift in the field, it’s unsurprising that the term “ego dystonic homosexuality” was quietly removed in 1987. I appreciated the way Spiegel summed up the major causes of this shift in perspective at the close of her podcast, stating that it took insiders and outsiders working together, as well as folks on the periphery of the discussion, being involved. Perhaps more importantly, she added: “The change happened partly through scientific debate and partly simply because psychiatrists got to know gay men.”

While homosexuality has become more normalized and accepted over the past 50 years, certain subsections of the LGBTQ population still struggle to find acceptance from the APA. Professor Roy Richard Grinker wrote an opinion piece in The New York Times titled “Being Trans Is Not a Mental Disorder.” This piece, published in December of 2018, lauded the World Health Organization (WHO) for removing “gender incongruence” from the mental health to the sexual health section of the International Classification of Diseases and for stating “the evidence is not clear that it is not a mental disorder.” Grinker called on the APA to do the same by removing “gender dysphoria” – the term used for people who are unhappy because their assigned gender does not match their gender identity– from the DSM. He argued that this would help reduce societal stigma around transgender identity and, hopefully, help advance transgender rights. I felt the author summed up his reasoning quite well when he stated: “Why should the transgender person who is sad, tired and losing weight have ‘gender dysphoria’ while a straight or gay person with the same symptoms has ‘depression?’” By centering identity as the mental disorder, a heavy burden is placed upon transgender individuals to “fix” themselves. Their suffering is blamed on what is perceived to be a chosen identity rather than an innate one that society stigmatizes and many conservatives call “unnatural.” While transgender identity is still not the norm in Western society, many biologists and anthropologists recognize that it is a far cry from being unnatural. Grinker cited the 1-2% of human births that qualify as intersex and the great reverance the Navajo have for intersex individuals in their own culture. Gender nonconformity is common among the hijras in India and the mahu in Polynesia. The author argues that, at the end of the day, the DSM is “a product of culture that reflects the values of its authors.” Per Alix Speigel’s story, it makes me wonder what might happen if current APA members actually sat down to engage in meaningful dialogue with transgender mental health professionals.

I can’t lay any claim to transgender identity or pretend that I know what it is like to navigate America as a gay man, but I can share how these stories connect to my own experiences and observations of society as a bisexual woman. Medical diagnoses that label non-normative sexual identities as deviancies or illnesses actively harm members of the LGBTQ community every day. I remember suppressing, hiding, and denying my bisexual identity through my mid to late twenties, because society – and medical professionals – had preconceived notions about bisexuals. We were, and in many spaces (both external and internal to the LGBTQ community) still are, labeled as “promiscuous,” “confused,” and “attention-seeking.” For years, I did not receive optimal medical care, because I knew that some spaces were not safe for me to be entirely honest with my doctors. It wasn’t until I found an independent, LGBTQ-affirming medical clinic that I could openly speak with an OBGYN about my sexual history, and it wasn’t until I could accurately gauge that my therapist was an ally to LGBTQ people that I felt comfortable sharing the struggles I faced growing up closeted in conservative, small town, Iowa. A lack of respect for human diversity, and pervasive stigmas tied to LGBTQ identities, affect individuals’ access to quality healthcare services.

The medical field still has a long way to go, in my personal opinion, when it comes to putting people first. It is my hope that with continued advocacy, and continued dialogue between underrepresented groups and those in power, we can work toward crafting a more just healthcare system in the U.S.

[thoughts-of-a-social-worker]

Writing to Change the World: My Journey to Address Sexual Violence (Part 1)

I have devoted a decade of my life to social service work. This work occurred across many agencies and included many different roles. When people ask what initially drew me to this field, I usually say, “I’ve always wanted to help people.” I must admit that this answer feels like a bit of a cop-out, because I know how much my own life experiences have influenced the decision to pursue social work as a career path. When I joined AmeriCorps in 2014 to work with teen moms who were trying to build stable lives for themselves and their children, it was in part because I was the child of a teen mom. When I became a dating violence prevention educator, it was because I remembered what it was like to be victimized by past partners. When I entered the Master of Social Work program at the University of Iowa and had to choose a placement agency for my field experience, I already knew what my dream placement was: the Rape Victim Advocacy Program (RVAP). As a survivor of multiple assaults, who had benefited from services RVAP provided, I knew in my heart that I had to be a part of their team.

RVAP’s mission is to “provide free, confidential, trauma-informed advocacy to people affected by sexual violence and [to] promote social change through prevention education.” One of my favorite things about the agency is that they use a two-pronged approach in their work: direct services to support survivors in the here and now and prevention education work to spread the knowledge necessary to end sexual violence. As a multi-time survivor with several marginalized identities, which put me at increased risk to experience sexual violence, it was this latter prong that most interested me. If I could contribute to the creation of a culture that would eventually eliminate sexual violence, I was all in. This is where I chose to focus my energies.

Like most community nonprofits in the United States, agencies like RVAP are often understaffed and underfunded. Funders like to see tangible results and hard numbers, which makes it difficult to secure funding for things like prevention education programming. An agency can easily list how many clients they served, how many therapeutic sessions were provided, or how many bus passes were utilized for direct services in a year, but it’s harder to tangibly show how violence prevention education is chipping away at the systems that perpetuate sexual violence in the first place. Funders would rather see present-day problems fixed than address the root causes of an issue which would prevent the problem from repeating into the future. This is akin to putting band-aids on gaping wounds – and it’s not enough.

As a part of my coursework, I have decided to explore the question of how we can shift our societal focus from being one centered primarily on crisis intervention to an integrated approach that addresses the root causes of sexual violence (as well as providing the services present-day survivors need). Starting with my own community, I will examine what a comprehensive violence prevention program looks like and why it is an effective solution worth investing in. No one wants their loved ones to experience this type of traumatic event in their lifetimes. We can do better than 1 in 3 women. 1 in 6 men. 1 in 2 transgender and gender nonconforming individuals. We can do better than an American being sexually assaulted every 68 seconds. Together, with sufficient investment in comprehensive violence prevention programming, we can start to shift the reality of what sexual violence in America looks like.

[thoughts-of-a-social-worker]

Modern-Day Segregation in U.S. Schools

Segregation still exists, and it is impacting our children. This is the argument that Nikole Hannah-Jones, American investigative reporter for the New York Times Magazine, makes in her story “Choosing a School for My Daughter in a Segregated City.” Hannah-Jones wrote this piece in the summer of 2016 – about three years before her prize-winning 1619 Project addressing the history of racial injustice in the U.S. was published. Centering her experience as the mother of a Black child, Hannah-Jones sheds light on the fact that New York City, despite being one of the most diverse cities in America, has one of the nation’s most segregated school systems.

Hannah-Jones and her husband had both benefited from attending integrated schools as children. She was enrolled into a voluntary desegregation program in 1982, allowing her to leave her family’s Black neighborhood to attend a whiter, more affluent school. Clearly, segregation is not an issue of the distant past. This happened only six years before I was born, though it was nearly three decades after the Supreme Court ruled that separate schools for black and white children were unconstitutional in Brown v. Board of Education. Hannah-Jones admits that attending an integrated school likely impacted her ability to get where she is today. Statistics show that, at the height of school integration in 1988, the achievement gap between Black and white students was at the lowest point ever documented by the federal government. Interestingly, both Black and white students’ test scores had improved. The benefits of school integration extended beyond the classroom though. A 2015 longitudinal study by economist Rucker Johnson showed that the benefits to Black adults who had attended desegregated schools included a lower likelihood of being poor or going to jail, better health outcomes, an increased likelihood to go to college, and longer lifespans than their counterparts who attended segregated schools. In addition, these benefits were found to be passed onto their children. Despite the many benefits of integrated schools, discriminatory policies and practices and backlash from white parents ensured segregation in schools would persist.

There are historic and present-day ties between housing segregation and school segregation. Openly discriminatory policies ensured that Black and integrated neighborhoods were rated by the Federal Housing Administration (FHA) as “uninsurable,” making it extremely difficult for Black individuals to get federally insured home loans. In fact, housing discrimination was still legal on paper until 1968 – years after President Lyndon B. Johnson’s Civil Rights Act of 1964 was signed. In America, where home ownership is the key to building generational wealth for many people, these discriminatory policies ensured the wealth gap between Black and white residents would grow. The result was a de facto segregation of Black and white families based upon income and wealth. Because public schools are funded with taxpayer dollars – and because, oftentimes, that money comes from property taxes – the “high-performing schools” were almost exclusively located in white neighborhoods. Hannah-Jones argues that, though New York had no laws requiring segregation, it was still intentionally segregating students by race and justifying it by talking about poverty levels and low test scores. 

A 2014 report released by the Civil Rights Project at the University of California, Los Angeles, showed that New York City’s public schools are among the most segregated in the country. This report prompted city leaders to introduce the School Diversity Accountability Act. Unfortunately, the act only mandated the reporting of segregation numbers – not that anything be done about them. When Mayor De Blasio was asked why the city did not try to address the problem by redrawing zoning lines for schools, he defended parents’ choice to buy properties near their schools of preference. He also said there was little he could do because the school segregation was a reflection of the city’s housing segregation – “This is the history of America.”

Despite having developed integration plans, despite demonstrations by Black parents and students, despite commissions being created to address the issue of segregation in schools, this issue persists – so what can we do about it? Hannah-Jones was confronted with this question when she and her husband had to choose a school for their daughter. Initially, they both wanted to enroll her in the high-performing integrated schools mentioned earlier, where their daughter would be a racial minority. Ultimately, Hannah-Jones changed her mind, and her husband’s, enrolling their daughter in a low-income, segregated school. “Saying my child deserved access to ‘good’ public schools felt like implying that children in ‘bad’ school deserved the schools they got, too.” They couldn’t change the system as one family, but they could make an intentional choice to be a part of the change they hoped to see in New York City. By enrolling their daughter in a segregated school, they helped integrate it economically as a middle-income family.

Hannah-Jones’ makes a thoughtful analysis of school segregation as a structural issue resulting from discriminatory laws and policies, political pushback, and the funding structures for our public schools. Her integrated approach, citing statistics and studies to support the facts and leveraging her personal experiences to humanize the issue of school segregation in New York City, only strengthens her argument. While there is a strong structural component to this issue, I appreciated how Hannah-Jones also addressed the individual decisions that perpetuate school segregation today and how she chose not to be one of the individuals contributing to this: “... it is the choices of individual parents that uphold the system, and I was determined not to do what I’d seen so many others do when their values about integration collided with the reality of where to send their own children to school.” Her recognition of this inner conflict, and the intentionality of her choice to do the hard thing – taking the first step to be a part of the solution to combat school segregation – is something I think many of us can relate to. Doing the “right” thing is rarely easy, but I believe it is something worth doing. Even if school integration is the hardest choice for many parents – Black or white – I hope this piece will at least spur some introspection among community members. At the end of the day, I think we can all agree that we want to see the next generation flourish.

[thoughts-of-a-social-worker]

“By Virtue of our Bondage” – Why The 1619 Project Matters

There are several lessons I learned as an undergraduate student in the University of Iowa’s Journalism and Mass Communication program. I learned that journalism, at its heart, is about telling stories. Oftentimes, these are local, state, or national news stories, but journalism can also include feature articles spotlighting people and places and investigative pieces that shed light on the facts – even when they might be ugly. I learned that the First Amendment guarantees journalists protection from restraint or censorship by the government. This freedom of the press allows journalists to function in a watchdog capacity, investigating what is happening in our country, increasing transparency and accountability among those in power, and informing our citizens of the facts without fear of retribution. I was thankful to have professors who stressed the importance of the watchdog press and who encouraged us as students to pursue investigative stories. Investigative journalism is hard and often thankless work, but it is also crucial work. When looking at Nikole Hannah-Jones’ 1619 Project, I see many hours of research, collated data, writing, editing, and re-editing. I hold immense respect for her as a journalist and as an activist in the fight for social justice.

Hannah-Jones and I were raised in the same geographic region. I grew up in a small, and very white, town about ten minutes south of her hometown of Waterloo. As a child, I could count the number of Black people in my town on one hand (with fingers to spare) – most of the area’s Black population lived in Waterloo. I remember hearing stories when I was young about the “good” and “bad” sides of town. There were areas where people who looked like me (white) were warned not to go. With this as my context, I was unsurprised when Hannah-Jones wrote about her grandmother’s revelation upon arriving in the North: “She got off the Illinois Central Railroad in Waterloo, Iowa, only to have her hopes of the mythical Promised Land shattered when she learned that Jim Crow did not end at the Mason-Dixon line.” 

Like Hannah-Jones, my childhood was filled with cultural indoctrination of how white people and people of color were valued in our nation. Small, repeated micro-lessons were driven into my brain that promoted the “great American melting pot.” These lessons, while perhaps well-intentioned, lacked any sort of cultural competency and shared few perspectives outside of the white norm. It was not until reading Hannah-Jones’ 1619 Project that I knew the importance of the year 1619. I was not taught that this was the year that slavery began in what would become the United States. I was not taught about the hypocrisy of the founding fathers’ ideas on liberty and freedom. Even Abraham Lincoln, who is still enshrined in grade school textbooks as the man who ended slavery, wanted to ship freed Black people to Africa – a place most of them had never been. Yet, despite being beaten, broken, and abused, despite having every part of their culture and identity stripped away from them, despite being denied every basic human right, Black people fought to make America the land it claimed to be – the land of the free. 

The 1619 Project showcases the resilience and grit of Black Americans as they fought back against systemic oppression in America. It talks about their many gains during Reconstruction and the white backlash that followed during what is known as the “Great Nadir,” or second slavery. Hannah-Jones wrote, “No one cherishes freedom more than those who have not had it.” Black people in America believed in the American Dream, and they fought ��� and are still fighting – to make it real. Though systemic racism and oppression still exist, the culture formed by a disparate group of peoples brought together via the bonds of slavery permeates American culture today. Hannah-Jones talks about the influence of Black hairstyles and fashion, art and music, and Black naming practices. These things are the tangible results of a culture created by Black slaves hundreds of years ago. Even Black activism, fighting for rights that extend far beyond just those that serve themselves, has continued to the present day. 

Hannah-Jones closed her essay on democracy’s founding ideals with the following quote: “We were told once, by virtue of our bondage, that we could never be American. But it was by virtue of our bondage that we became the most American of all.” Armed with so much more than my once limited knowledge as a school girl in rural Iowa, I believe her statement rings true. According to the founding fathers’ own words, what is more American than fighting for life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness? As Hannah-Jones’ reporting shows, the fact of the matter is that none of those things were ever initially afforded to Black people (or women, or LGBTQ folks, or people with disabilities – I could go on). 

While controversial, I believe her 1619 Project showcases the very best of American journalism. The watchdog press has always been important, and it is this ability to share facts transparently and to hold those in power to account for their actions – without censorship or restriction from the government – that sets us apart. Hannah-Jones was right. Our founding ideals were false at the time they were written, and Black people have fought to make them true. Works like the 1619 Project enable us to have more informed conversations about problematic aspects of our nation. I hope to see more Nikole Hannah-Jones’ in the future who strive to amplify marginalized voices and engage in the work of the watchdog press – because America as we know it would not exist without all of these marginalized groups. Their stories, their experiences, deserve to be heard.

[thoughts-of-a-social-worker]

Roe, Blackmun, and Abortion: A Reflection on the Interpretation of U.S. Law

As a woman, and as a human rights advocate, I was surprised to learn how little I knew about Roe v. Wade and the process by which the original Supreme Court decision was decided upon in 1973. This is unsurprising, since I was born more than 10 year post-Roe. My life was one where the protections afforded by Roe simply were – up until this summer anyway. I never learned about Supreme Court Justice Harry Blackmun and knew only sparse details about the case itself.

The podcast Slow Burn dedicated significant time and energy to research this in their episode “Roe Against Wade.” It details the journey of Justice Harry Blackmun – a centrist who came from extreme poverty and was “ludicrously modest” according to those who knew him. The story follows him from his initial hesitance to accept President Nixon’s nomination all the way to the present day where he has only grown more resolute about his opinion on Roe. In his work for the Court, Justice Blackmun identified as a strict constitutionalist, someone who believes the Constitution must be interpreted in the context of today’s problems. His life-long friend, Chief Justice Burger, assigned him to write the Roe opinion with the hope that it would be a narrow ruling. But, Blackmun wanted to be recognized as an independent thinker – not as a political pawn or a copy of Burger – so he set to work to learn as much about abortion history as he could in an attempt to discover whether or not abortion was a constitutional right. His research was extensive, ranging from ancient Greek and Roman perspectives on abortion to the medical profession’s ethics (informed by the Hippocratic Oath) to common law and English law. I was fascinated by how much of this knowledge he rolled into his opinion on the case. Most Court opinions are not so lengthy, but Blackmun’s arguments provided a strong enough case of support for Roe that an astounding seven out of nine Justices assented to the opinion – resulting in the legal right to abortion.

One thing that Blackmun (and other judges in the U.S.) struggled with was the fact that many laws are written vaguely. If you have read my blog post about the Declaration of Independence, Ibram X. Kendi, and the importance of language in our founding documents, you’ll notice a connection here. Like in Jefferson’s declaration where “all men” were said to be created equal – who did he mean by “all men” in that statement? Who was deserving of freedom, and what rights came with that freedom? It is difficult to prove with certainty that any law was ever created with the specific intent to be vague, but it does seem as though vague laws allow flexibility to interpret the law in ways that can be exploited to the benefit of one group or another. Individuals, groups, and our own leaders can then act in ways that they feel the law allows them to until they are legally challenged and a decision must be made by the courts to decide what is lawful and what is unlawful. The outcomes may be different depending on who is judging the case. This phenomenon of “legislating from the bench” is decried by some and lauded by others. I have to wonder if those who laud this act – sometimes called “judicial activism” – are correct. 

For those who are less familiar with American law and are wondering why “legislating from the bench” or “judicial activism” might be a good thing, I will provide some foundational knowledge. American law is rooted in the United States Constitution, a document that was signed by 39 of 55 delegates in 1787 and was ratified by all of the existing states by 1790. The Bill of Rights, a separate document originally proposing 12 amendments to the Constitution that was ultimately reduced down to ten, was ratified in 1791. These ten amendments provided the foundation for American freedoms. It is important to note that these amendments provided no protection from slavery, no right to due process of law or equal protection under the law, and no protection of the right to vote (on account of race, color, previous condition of servitude, sex, or age). It was not until 1920 that women were granted the right to vote with the passage of the 19th Amendment. Despite the protection of these rights being written into constitutional law, there are many human rights issues that have not been given legislative protection – in part, due to the issue of vagueness Blackmun noted in his own opinion with Roe. For example, in June 2020, the U.S. Supreme Court dealt with a case of employment discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation and gender identity. Because the language of the Civil Rights Act of 1964 only used the language “sex” the Court had to decide if the same law protected sexual orientation and gender identity. Justices on the bench had to decide what the intent of that law was and how to apply it to the current case. They chose to legislate from the bench, interpreting that if the original law was created “because of sex” then it necessarily included sexual orientation and gender identity. This was a major victory for the LGBTQ community, giving those who have experienced employer discrimination the right to file a complaint with the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission (EEOC). However, as our recent experience with the overturning of Roe has shown us, any of these rights which are not written into constitutionally-protected laws are at risk of being lost.

As a woman, a parent, a human rights advocate, and a social worker, I wish more people knew about the history behind the case of Roe v. Wade and were able to learn about the amount of research and contemplation that informed Blackmun’s final decision. A year before the decision was made, Gallup released poll results that showed 2 out of 3 of Americans believed abortion should be a matter settled between a woman* and her doctor. According to Pew Research Center survey results from July of this year, 62% of Americans say abortion should be legal in all or most cases, and these numbers are higher among young adults and those aged 30 to 49. Despite having majority support, the issue of abortion and reproductive rights remains a contentious and politicized one. 

Blackmun and his colleagues hoped to settle the issue of abortion rights once and for all with their decision in 1973. Now that I have read the opinion in its entirety, I cannot say that I agree with everything Blackmun said. I do agree, however, that there should be a guaranteed right to privacy which includes liberty from being forced to complete an unwanted pregnancy. Until Congress can pass a law explicitly stating a person’s right to bodily autonomy and reproductive rights, our nation will continue to see cases like this brought before the courts. Laws are made by legislators, and we have the power to decide which legislators represent us. I encourage all eligible voters to leverage their voting power in this fight. Show up to the polls in November – or submit an absentee ballot – and do not forget to research your candidates at the local, state, and federal level. I also highly encourage you to check out Slow Burn’s podcast episode on this topic. Whether you are for or against abortion, the background and history on this issue may help further inform your opinion and impact how you choose to advocate on the topic moving forward. 

* The term “woman” was used in this context because this was the language utilized in the Gallup poll and is not a reflection of my own personal beliefs. I know that the issue of abortion is one that affects many more people than just women and want to express my continued support for pregnant persons of all identities, as well as those who are continuing to fight for the right to bodily autonomy and reproductive freedom.

[thoughts-of-a-social-worker]

American History and “Freedom”

When we think about where freedom began in the United States, many people point to the Declaration of Independence. Why wouldn’t they? This document, drafted by Thomas Jefferson, was where the thirteen American colonies threw down the gauntlet, unequivocally stating that they would no longer suffer abuse and mistreatment from the British Crown. This unanimous declaration expressed the delegates’ belief in the undeniable truths that “all men are created equal” and that they have the God-given right to “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.” Jefferson stated that the British government’s continued attempts to limit, undermine, and remove these rights justified the colonies’ decision to remove themselves from Britain’s power. Noting his, and the delegates’ recognition of the magnitude of their decision, he closed with the following statement: “... with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor.” On the surface, this document does appear to be the perfect example of the American philosophy of freedom. Its passage was certainly a pivotal moment in the fight for States’ independence. But did this document actually help promote freedom and the supposed right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness?

Historian and antiracist scholar Ibram X. Kendi analyzed the history of racism in the U.S. in his book Stamped from the Beginning. In the book, he made an argument for self-interest being the driver of racial discrimination. Kendi noted that history has repeatedly debunked the myth of discrimination being rooted in ignorance or hate and has rather proved the opposite: racial discrimination promotes racist ideas which promote ignorance and hate. But how does this relate to the Declaration of Independence? When looking at Jefferson’s writing in the document, Kendi first examined the context in which it was written. At the time, Europeans of note were projecting Americans – and all things in America – as inferior to those of Europe, and this was something Thomas Jefferson was very aware of when he wrote the declaration. This begs the question: when Jefferson wrote that “all men” were created equal, did this include his slaves – or even women – or was he trying to address the idea that White Americans should be perceived as equal to the English? It seems that even his colleagues weren’t sure. A subset of states in the south made sure to clarify in their own state constitutions “all freemen are created equal.” The deeper Kendi dove into Jefferson’s writing, the more hypocritical his calls for freedom became. How is it that liberty is a God-given right when Jefferson himself owned approximately 200 slaves? Why was it that Jefferson emphasized the economic abuse the States were subjected to, which primarily prohibited them from buying or selling African people from non-British entities? Kendi eventually noted, “For these rich men, freedom was not the power to make choices; freedom was the power to create choices.” The freedom spoken of in this historic and revered document was only meant for the privileged few of that time: wealthy, White men stirring up a revolution. By being freed from Britain and by continuing to exploit slave labor, these individuals continued to benefit politically and economically. It was all in their own self-interest. Knowing this, why do people still hold so much reverence for this document? That can be answered with a more careful examination of the American public school system.

I attended public school in a rural Iowa community of about 2,000 people from kindergarten through 12th grade. It is important to note that this community was more than 99% White. In my time there, I recall many facts being presented that I now know to be common American myths or, at best, half-truths. Each of my lessons was presented in a way that either blunted or completely dismissed the realities faced by Black people in America. In elementary and middle school, social studies lessons generally avoided addressing the period of time between the creation of the American colonies and the civil war. Lessons that did address that period were entirely whitewashed narratives where European settlers provided Native Americans with a “better” way to live and Black people were given valuable skill-building work as a part of America’s early economy. Harriet Tubman and the underground railroad were discussed, but we never engaged in meaningful dialogue about what the slaves were escaping from. By the time I reached high school, my teachers’ lessons described Black slaves more like indentured servants who were often treated poorly; we never delved into the horrific violence that slaves suffered. Our textbooks stated that the signing of the Declaration of Independence was a momentous event promoting freedom and that it led to the eventual creation of America, land of the free. As an impressionable young adult, I assumed that meant freedom for everyone. 

When I entered college, I got my first taste of a true American history lesson. I learned about the massive mortality rates on the voyages across the sea to bring slaves to America. I learned about slaves who were literally worked to death in cotton fields. I saw historical images of auction signs describing Black slaves in the same way Iowa farmers have described their cattle, hogs, and horses. I learned that Thomas Jefferson, a founding father of this nation and writer of the Declaration of Independence, not only kept slaves but repeatedly sexually assaulted a 14-year-old Black girl who birthed several children by him. The new facts I learned challenged almost all of my prior education. College showed me that the majority of my K-12 lessons in American history essentially amounted to historical fiction. 

There is a saying that history is written by the victors, and it has taken antiracist historians like Kendi to start correcting the narrative of American history. I would argue that freedom, too, is something reserved for the victors – or whoever holds power in the current moment. I agree with Kendi’s statement that, for the rich and powerful, freedom is the power to create choices. While the scales in our nation are starting to tip away from the heavily weighted side of power being reserved only for affluent, White men, it is a slow shift. More marginalized groups have a seat at the table of power now. As Martin Luther King, Jr. stated, “The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.” As we continue to unlearn the American mythos and learn the true history of freedom, I believe America will continue to move toward justice and real freedom.

[thoughts-of-a-social-worker]

Language and Reading – The Privileges We Don’t Think About

On the whole, many internet readers would consider the ability to speak a language and to read text on a page as something that “just is”. It makes sense that we might take these things for granted in a technological age where many folks have near instantaneous access to information at their fingertips – including instructions for how to make the latest Starbucks secret menu item and the ability to play and replay at will the latest viral TikTok dance. But, without the ability to understand language or to read, we would not be able to engage in these activities, nor the many others that allow us to be connected to and participate in our larger world. Language and the ability to read help us to better communicate with one another. But, it is important to remember that – depending on where we live and who we are – we all learn how to “do” language a bit differently. Not everyone will agree with our own self-assessments of proficiency or even mastery of a language, even when we share the same one.

I have lived in Iowa my entire life, and it wasn’t until I met with a group of Wisconsin and New York students that I had any awareness of how different my language was from theirs. Yes, we all spoke American English, but each group spoke its own dialect. We were traveling together as student ambassadors to Japan, and I remember one student from New York asking me to say the word “coffee” again because “It was just so funny.” Don’t even get me started on what happened when I said “ope” for the first time. For those existing outside of the Midwest region of the United States, “ope” is generally thought to be a combination of the words “oh” and “whoops” and is usually said as an exclamation of surprise or as a way to signal that the speaker has made a small mistake or accident. For instance, I may say “ope” if I drop a piece of paper while trying to hand it to someone. Regardless of its quirks, Midwestern American English is still English language, and is recognized as such by other Americans (though some may look down upon the dialect as being a bit “country” and associate it with “uneducated” farm folk – that is a can of worms I may dive into later).

Guardian writer David Shariatmadari wrote about a similar issue in his article “The Limits of Standard English” in January 2020. He spoke on the stigma tied to the dialect of American English spoken by Black individuals and how many people still deemed it as “bad” English, not unlike the word “ope”. Perhaps strangest of all, however, was when Shariatmadari wrote about the paradox of the treatment of African American Vernacular English (AAVE) where most people know what it is – and can recognize and even appreciate it when used in popular culture, such as hip hop music and movies– but at the same time dismiss it as slang that has less value than more accepted dialects of English. The funny thing is, Shariatmadari laid out a compelling argument for why AAVE makes sense, not only as a geographic dialect – due to the historic and continued segregation of Black individuals from white individuals in our country – but also as a “rule-bound and systematic” language. The things that most people take issue with in AAVE, including the use of double-negatives, may not be common in American English but they are common in other respected languages like French and Italian. Why, if we view the latter as romantic and sophisticated languages, can’t we view AAVE the same way? Part of the answer to that question is stigma. When we think about who makes the decisions, past and present, in the U.S. about what is “acceptable” and “normal,” the picture becomes more clear. This leads me to address the issue of learning to read English.

In an article written by Jaime Saavedra about learning poverty, he wrote about reading as a milestone in every child’s life that would set the course for them to be active participants in larger society. Learning to read is the first step to learning about all sorts of other subjects, and it allows us to express ourselves and communicate with others. He stated that all children have the ability to learn to read (though I would argue they may not, depending on where they live in the world and whether or not they have the capacity or resources to do so), but Saavedra also addressed the particular difficulty of learning to read in English due to its complex system of rules. Let’s look at the sound “f”. Saavedra mentions how the letter “f” can signal this sound, but that combinations of letters such as “gh” in the word “cough” or “ph” in the word “phone” make the same sound – even though none of these letters individually make anything close to the “f” sound. What about words like “there,” “their,” and “they’re”? I know very well-educated, native English-speaking adults who still struggle with using these words correctly 100% of the time. It’s no wonder that English is one of the hardest languages in the world to master. And how is mastery of this language decided? You guessed it: by those who have historically decided what is “right” and “wrong” – the same people who decided which way of speaking English was the “correct” one. 

So, if it is those with privilege and power who get to set the standard for what qualifies as “good” English and “bad” English, we have to consider which groups may have been historically favored as speaking English well. Looking at those who have long held positions of power in the United States throughout history, it is easy to see a common theme: white, male, affluent, and older (when taking into account the average life expectancy for each time period). These individuals often had easy access to quality education and generally moved in social circles with people who looked like themselves. That is not to say that those individuals did not accomplish great things, nor is it to say that they weren’t capable of recognizing their privilege – to a degree. But, when we realize that the norms and standards for our language are rooted in power and privilege, it should cause us to pause. We know more now, and we can do better. If a Midwestern “ope” can be accepted as a dialect of English and can be popularized by a internet personality (check out comedian Charlie Berens, if you aren’t familiar with him), if AAVE can be accepted as an edgy part of pop culture, what’s to stop those things from being accepted as normative – as a different way of doing English well? When we view our abilities to read text on a page and to speak a language through a lens of privilege, the world can start to look a lot different – and space for change can be made.

[thoughts-of-a-social-worker]

The Way We Write

Does the way we are taught to write matter? Many would argue that it does, but those same individuals may not be in agreement about what the “right” way to teach writing is. Today, I’m reflecting on two critiques of how writing is taught and am comparing them with my own personal experiences.

Lisa Delpit, a self-identified progressive Black educator, shared how graduate school showed her a new way to teach writing that initially excited her. This method shifted students away from learning writing “skills” and toward writing “fluency” with the goal of helping students flourish through a more holistic education. She eventually discovered that this methodology disregarded Black students’ unique versions of fluent writing and took away valuable skill-building opportunities which helped them overcome barriers in an educational system that disproportionately benefited their white peers. Delpit encouraged her readers to critically examine so-called “progressive” elements in education that ultimately did more harm than good for students of color.

While Delpit’s program attempted to address inequities – misguided as the attempt may have been – some systems refused to even acknowledge them. Junot Diaz almost joined the ranks of other students of color who quit Cornell University’s MFA fiction writing program due to the harmful, and sometimes hostile, environment it created for them. Diaz, who is now a published writer and co-founder of the Voices of Our Nation Workshop, noted that his program, like many others, had little diversity among its faculty, a lack of awareness among students about race, and an overarching silence on the topic of race in many courses. The repeated message he heard throughout his coursework was: Our workshop is about writing, not political correctness. Though he was able to hold on until graduation, he still mourns the lost people and the amazing works that could have been created had the program had even one sympathetic faculty member. Diaz hopes he can reduce the number of lost voices with his workshop where the experiences of those who are marginalized are privileged and their stories are encouraged to be shared.

As a white woman speaking on this topic, I want to recognize the privilege my ethnicity grants me. No one has tried to erase my expertise when I share stories of my experience as a white person. However, I can relate to Delpit and Diaz in that I have shared similar struggles when navigating writing at the university level that are tied to the marginalized facets of my identity. Like Delpit, my brain has been intentionally shaped during graduate school to give preference to new, innovative techniques which may cause inadvertent harm to marginalized groups. Like Diaz, I noticed that some teachings in my master’s program minimized or even disregarded aspects of my own identity and experiences.

Let’s start with Delpit. The innovative, well-meaning teaching technique she learned had a lot of promise. It failed because the dominant group who formulated the technique failed to hear and address the concerns of non-dominant group members who knew it would disproportionately harm students of color. Similarly, I have participated in a program that was looking for an innovative way to build awareness of, and compassion for, marginalized identities. Most of the program’s participants were not obviously members of marginalized groups, and one portion of the program required participants to write a paper explicitly laying out their identities and how those identities impacted the way the participant saw and moved through the world. This might have been a fantastic writing project for someone who possessed few to no marginalized identities. However, for someone like myself who possesses several invisible marginalized identities – identities that are easy to hide and that I do not always wish to discuss – the writing project was immensely harmful. Not only did it force me to confront parts of myself that I was not ready to face, but I had to do so knowing that this vulnerable piece of writing would be critiqued and graded by the instructor for a large portion of my grade. It is very possible that, like in Delpit’s situation, this writing project was created without the concerns of those with invisible marginalized identities being either considered or addressed. What could have been a fantastic writing project that built connections among those with diverse identities ended up causing immense harm to individuals like me. I remember speaking with several peers in the program after the writing project concluded and nervously laughing about the “trauma p*rn” we had just turned in. Not all progressive ideas are good ones. 

On the opposite end of the spectrum, like Diaz, I have encountered times in my educational journey where a lack of progressive ideas has left me, or some of my loved ones, completely out of the picture. Let’s examine typical academic writing. Because the English language has historically been focused on “correctness” of writing, especially in academia, many examples in academic texts use binary gender terms. For example: When a social worker meets with his supervisor, he should ensure he is honoring the confidentiality of his clients. Some texts are improving upon this language by using “s/he” to denote that the social worker could be male or female, but how does this provide representation to gender non-conforming social workers? A simple solution would be to utilize the singular “they” in the literature, something that has existed for centuries but that academic institutions and publishing houses continue to shun for the sake of linguistic “correctness”. This is particularly problematic in social work when considering the National Association of Social Workers’ Code of Ethics, which now emphasizes social justice components. Use of the singular “they” would allow readers of all gender identities to see themselves in these books as they begin their social work journeys. “He” does not allow me to see myself represented in my texts, and “she” doesn’t allow my nonbinary friend to see themselves represented. This is only one example of many in academic writing that can create harm – intentional or otherwise – by not representing or giving voice to marginalized groups. For diversity and equity to thrive in our programs, it must also be represented in the texts we are reading from and in the things we are writing about. 

Words are powerful and the way we are taught to convey them on the page matters. If you are one of the privileged folks in a position to create a new educational technique for writing or to organize or teach in a writing program, I urge you to consider the experiences Delpit and Diaz wrote about. Remember the importance of listening to and addressing the concerns of marginalized groups as you craft teaching techniques to improve equity. Remember that representation matters – always – when creating safe spaces for marginalized groups. With these things in mind, you will be better equipped to craft truly innovative programs that increase equity and advance social justice in our world.

[thoughts-of-a-social-worker]

Stories Shape How We See the World

Today I listened to a 2009 TED Talk where Nigerian novelist Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie spoke on what she called the danger of a “single story”. The central point of her message was that when we have a single story about a person or a place, it tends to become the only story. She argued that the single story creates stereotypes – when a group of people has the same story centered on them and shared repeatedly over time, that is what they become in the minds of others. Stories have power over us, and it is easy to fall into the single story trap.

When Adichie spoke about how the single story influenced her through books as she grew up, I started to consider how stories in books impacted me as a child. My family was poor and lived in a small Iowa town, but my mother was an avid reader who would not let a lack of money keep us from reading. We went on regular walks to the library, and I still remember the excitement of scouring the shelves in the children’s books section. It wasn’t until I was older that I realized how many stories were missing from those bookshelves. It’s true that there were many books filled with girls who shared my skin color, but most of the similarities ended there. The books I read had happy, middle-class families living in a house with a mom and a dad. They depicted girls with crushes on boys and boys who crushed on girls. Normative identities were placed in the spotlight and marginalized identities were left in the wings. 

Up until the age of 9, my view of the world was quite limited. I had no idea how much the stories I read, and the stories I heard told around me, contributed to my deep shame and embarrassment in childhood. As the daughter of a young, single mom, I actively avoided conversations about fathers. I was excited to attend friends’ sleepover parties, but when asked by friends about sleeping over at my house I made excuses. It embarrassed me to think about my friends seeing our small apartment, and I feared they would judge me. When I noticed myself having strange feelings for some of the girls in my class, I immediately shoved those feelings down as far as I could. Every story I had ever been told was about boys and girls, men and women, dating and getting married. In our predominantly conservative Christian community, a story was told that the way I felt was wrong. It was a sin. At such a tender age, I bought into every one of those stories, and I hated myself. I thought I had been built “wrong”. 

I think it was the advent of modern-day internet, and a little bit of cable TV, that helped me expand my horizons past age 9. I heard new stories – stories that blossomed out of Japanese popular culture  – and I learned that there was more to the world than the stories told in this small Iowa town. Anime and Japanese music, history, and traditions captivated me. Ultimately, these new stories led me to save up funds through high school so I could travel to Japan for two weeks as a student ambassador. So much of what I learned about myself in those two weeks built the foundation for who I am today. 

Right now, I am completing my final year of graduate school to become a master-level social worker. I actively seek new stories. Like Adichie, I have learned to recognize the power – or what she called nkali, which roughly translates to “being greater than another” – in stories. Who tells a story, how they tell it, when they tell it, and how often they tell it matters. A single story is only one piece in the larger puzzle. If we are to truly understand ourselves and each other, we need to be voracious story seekers. I took a course this summer that focused on the concept of wonder as a way of navigating conflict. The goal was to look beyond a harmful statement, or story, and to internally process the “why” behind how the statement harmed us and why the person may have said it in the first place. When we use wonder to approach situations that trigger strong emotions within us, it allows time to pause and process – to seek additional stories. This helps us move outside of ourselves to see the larger picture of what is actually happening and helps us begin connecting with others rather than conflicting with them. Adichie spoke of this rejection of the single story as something that helped us reach a place of paradise. 

I don’t believe that there is any set number of stories to collect that will make us experts in this art. However, I do think continual dedication to the pursuit of new stories is vital to creating deeper and more meaningful connections with others. Individually, we only exist in a small space on this planet, and there is so much out there that is foreign to us. Many of us are taught to demonize and fear the “other” but, by learning others’ stories, these same individuals can be humanized in our eyes. Personally, I believe the world would be a better place if we could simply 1.) recognize that single stories are not the only stories and 2.) promote and seek more opportunities to hear new stories. That’s how we create connection, build bridges, and work toward creating a more equitable and just world.