An Essay

Why Social Work?

“What a long, strange trip it’s been...” -- Jerry Garcia

Upon reflection in preparation for this essay, whose submission may change the course of my life, much has come to light in my own biography. I am encouraged to enter this field as much from sources within my own life as from my friends and family, many of whom (much to my wife’s dismay) are homeless or struggling with some combination of psychological disorder and substance abuse. Whether this is also my own case I feel is a matter of interpretation and remains to be seen.
My first extended conversation with a social worker was at a hospital. I had traveled to Morocco, a beautiful but harsh land. No medical regimen had been established to deal with my diagnosis there with MS while I was teaching English for a French company, and I was quite ignorant of what was in store for me. With a paucity of medication, I inevitably triggered an exacerbation, or flare-up, of symptoms mimicking inebriation: distorted balance, staggering gait, profound vertigo. This shockingly disrespectful departure from local custom of a country tolerant of little alcohol! I made my way from Meknes to the American embassy in Casablanca, who arranged with my family for my repatriation. I was admitted to Cayuga Medical from the airplane, and there I healed greatly, as much from physical rehabilitation as from plentiful rich food.
What should a social worker do with such a character? I had nowhere to go, especially as all my friends thought I was still in North Africa. Clearly I was in desperate straits, having indulged in a certain amount of Russian roulette not only with my subsistence, but with my entire health. My love for this peaceful desert kingdom notwithstanding, how would I tackle my new challenges in a way that did not endanger my future prospects?
At this point, I benefited from a stroke of great fortune: I missed my judicial disability hearing because I was hospitalized for precisely the reason I had filed for SSI in the first place. I imagine that open and shut cases like this are a boon for a judge whose desk must be scarred from a thicket of moral ambiguity, but this official’s decision was firm. Citing information of my situation he received personally (outside the hearing process), the judge directed my public subsidy to begin immediately. Apparently my illness was sufficient to merit aid that was established for this particular purpose, and I began to stabilize myself. In October of 2009 I returned to Morocco, taking a ring to an amazing young woman, and in July 2010 we were married.
Other stories must not be excluded. My buddy Kro (Timothy) paid for his house in North Carolina entirely from the drug trade, suffered the slings and arrows of predictably poor personal association, returned to New York, and his house burned from an utter lack of maintenance. He now follows a dark path of professional couch-surfing. Another, Starlight (???), spent 4 months in a corner of my old apartment, under a Moroccan blanket with a 40 of Labatt’s. Lacking any identification did not keep him from busking with his guitar on the Commons (the pedestrian mall of Ithaca); but how to approach this sort of existential myopia? Is it yet clear to him that he can no longer gamble on his propitious discovery by some errant musical agent, stranded in upstate New York?
What will he do instead? What of Tattoo (Brian), who drifted to Ithaca from northern New Jersey, found and lost a job, and re-drifted there and back again?
Two of these men are physically stable, and would happily work in construction. The last appears so paralyzed by paranoia that he is frozen, a poor joke in this snowy land. He counts himself lucky to have followed the epiphany that led him out of heroin in Boston to a bottle in Ithaca, but clearly he is deserving of closer attention: last I heard from Starlight, he was about to obtain the first ID he’d held in years. Another, Drummer John, purchases a fraction of the alcohol he imbibes, and spends much of his food stamps at the local co-op on catnip and sushi, which he lovingly distributes to every cat crossing his path. I have known these men for long enough to become familiar with their predilections, their talents, and their self-destructive neurotic flaws. A winning lottery ticket will not aid their situation if they cannot imagine a better life.
Sarah is another example. She sings with her guitar on the Commons, channeling Joni Mitchell, skeptical of serious relations and darting from any authority who may offer helpful structure. She has lived elsewhere, but like Starlight, I fear for her survival in a less hospitable atmosphere.
I imagine that Ithaca is not the only isolated town to hold this Nietzshean myth of inevitable return, but I long for a strong counter-example: if a wanderlust-stricken soul drinks the water of my town, or swims in the numerous waterfalls, s/he will always come back. What informs the surrender to a deterministic philosophy? How should such a decision not have gravely deleterious effects?
I hold deep faith that the only answers are not found solely at the Department of Social Services, though they may have considerable resources. Surely as a community we possess the ability to manage seemingly intractable problems as chronic homelessness and alcoholism, or at least cause to abandon these issues is not evident. I mean to investigate and expand upon programs that offer solutions without insult or condemnation, as I feel that as a culture we have outgrown much of the brittle Social Darwinism of the 19th century, exemplified in Dickens and Sinclair. There are more compassionate programs than the starchy dreck served at the Salvation Army; what is a lone plate of noodles stubbornly presented twice a week meant to achieve? Does the teleology of this approach have any long-term purchase on the problems I describe? If not, what would?
To enter this field is an ample choice, but given the moral underpinnings that drove my study of original study of philosophy, it is more of a Hobson’s Choice. My intelligence and eloquence drive me to pursue a field guaranteeing me the opportunity for lasting and positive impact; I can accept no less given what I now understand. Life is a brief game of chess (oxymoron intentional), and one must arrange one’s pieces in an artful fashion. I can no longer sustain an individual, boots-on-the-ground approach to every homeless man I know, though the impulse will surely remain.
It seems to me that elimination of homelessness in toto is not a realistic goal. Many such individuals have been treated so unfairly in the past that their trust in conventional social institutions has been entirely eroded, and will not even stand in line to receive a fair meal. So how should such people be approached? What long-term options are available that both preserve their autonomy and also provide a solution for society as a whole? It has been academically observed that the overall problem of food and housing are not those of poverty, but distribution. There will always be lease scofflaws, as much as those who seek to capitalize upon welfare out of unmitigated laziness. Nonetheless, they must all find traction.
I cannot embrace a purely Marxist view that if the dominant, market-heavy paradigm were subverted, all would (eventually) be well, nor can I defend the Thatcherite wooly-eyed view of society at large. The needs of people as a group do not drastically change, regardless of health and wealth. All must be met, if not by the state, then by the smaller community of one’s locale.
I seek further education in what I do naturally. I want to know how to help the people I refuse to reject. I embrace a sort of hard-line egalitarianism, equally impatient with both trickle-down self-congratulation and blind optimism borne of solipsistic Cold War elitism. With this in mind, I hope to pursue a fulfilling and vibrant career in social work. Thank you.

WEDDING OF MATTHEW AND JALILA

http://kathymorris.zenfolio.com/ashford

Password: ashford

love,
m&j

Untouched News

This strikes me as a little strange... West Virginia notwithstanding, but no mention of this one..?

More Reflection

The Project has been hitherto accomplished with remarkable alacrity, considering the potential pitfalls.. It has been an object lesson in immigration law, a suitably anonymous introduction to various functions of governance, and a sort of pithy lecture on the vagaries of public finance. Lord knows I did not leave for Morocco 5 years ago in search of my wife! I was looking for an escape from heartless New York, for something that suited me better, and I found it! Within a few weeks of my arrival in Meknes, I could read the writing on the wall. More comfortable in a very foreign country than I'd ever been in my own (or any other, for that matter), the question was open: what would ever take me back to the US? I came up with only two answers, either I come down with some weird disease or someone dies. Thank God, no one died.
The idea of applying for a fiancee visa was given to me by my friend, Luke Johnson. Eventually, SSI came through, and I had sufficient funding to work the levers of power. Lila's visa application was completed in December, and a red, white, and blue sticker was put in her green passport in May. She has been legal to enter the United States since then, and we expect her arrival next month.
My family (my mother and stepfather) have been crucially helpful during this time. I write this on her laptop, seated in the kitchen of the house he renovated. My gimlet attitude towards Danny's bourgeois predominance notwithstanding, this would have been far more difficult (if not impossible) without their assistance. As I've noted several times before, the dominant social institution in the US is the State, whereas this position in Morocco is held by the Family.
Being American, nothing withholds me from reaping benefit of both, each strong in their own domain. The US pays me every month, no matter what I spend it on, and I enjoy the unique American privilege of extending my own benefits to another (one) as I see fit. To put this another way: was there ever as well prepared an immigrant as Mlle. Jalila Benlali? Guaranteed income and subsidized rent: no Moroccan has had it so good. Me neither!

At this point, the psychological stress of the Project has become reached a sort of crescendo. In noh theater, one understands the intensity of emotion, choking these players beyond their elocution... We are ALMOST there. I plan to see her next month, here in distant Ithaca. Stay tuned; marriage follows.

Betrothed

When I was a kid, learning French, I found the word fiancee expressed the past tense; as in "fianceed".. So then what did it mean to BE a fiance? (I resent the difficulty of including the proper accent notations, aigu and grave.. But it's OK.) The approximate equal would be betrothed: There does exist one for whom I have expressed devotion, one to whom I will always be true! Hence be-truthed. But that is just between her and me. We established this a few years ago in Meknes. Now for everyone else...

I feel the natural state of a fiance (me) is in tension, like an unrequited letter.. Now that the visa petition has been sent off, the bureaucratic wheels are in motion! I have chased my pathetic bank balance into a corner, whimpering, to get things this far, and there's MORE... But as with any honest fiancee, a tension is held tight within me, nervous and excited, one I don't care to resolve at the moment. I am becoming a connoisseur of tension: I know the permanent resolution I desire!

She may be seen here, in August 2007.

anyone want a trilingual teacher??

http://www.seriousteachers.com/TEFL/TeflSchool.asp?idteflschool=10027124

I wonder if this works....

Bother All That Noise

Found me a new house...

And Yet It Keeps Moving

Gazing pensively out the window, a sun-dappled morning in the spring, shadows of new leaves spread generously… Krusty has a Deep Thought.
“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever hit anybody—“
I stare at him incredulously. His shoulders are three times the width of mine.
“Twice.”
“Oh.”
Falstaff, strongly reminiscent, a big character, roaring with passion and life-be-damned enthusiasm for any number of colorful chemicals, a man pigmented by the hues of his fierce appetite for such things.
-- So what, are you packing that thing?
-- I found something.
-- What’s the story with the heat in this house? It’s roasting in my room.
-- We made some nachos. Knock yourself out.
What did the magic number mean, we only smoked twice a day, if we were awake in the middle of the night? No, there was a different stripe of ideology to resist. You never wanted to hear about a crystal again as long as you lived. Remembering the Drainbow.
-- It’s about the comfortability.

I remembered in time not to cover myself. I had no need of self-protection, any thought of vulnerability was an illusion. I am not a hijabia. So, I understood, you stand where you know you are right, and you don’t give an inch. However, Real Life may not call for such a combative outlook at every moment, and this may alienate fragile people. Besides, when you do give your inch and feel bad about it, you must have some capacity for self-apology or some such. Because, yes, you will sustain through this moment, and you should have enough room for yourself the next day. Embarrassing as it is to express. But I will be back on that couch at some point. Lord, you can see that it’s true…

I am so tired.

Why do you say you left your heart there?
Truth seemed to be clearer there. It was closer to the Source.

What do you mean by that?
It seemed that there was less fragmentation between the Source from which all things originate and their eventual destination in the sand. The things which were good were extraordinarily so, the tastes, aromas, appearances of the place would sear themselves on your experience. The honey was of some transcendent substance, a smear of simple magic collected safely in a small glass jar, provided in accommodation with cakes for breakfast.
…
The word of the evening will be reification. By this the process of distinction is highlighted; the transiently, vague border separating the belief from the superstition is made distinct. So we abandon our comfortable wishes, we cease our stubborn disregard of what is plainly incontrovertible, and we gather familiar stones and make a fire pit.
Repetition of closely held values is typical; in case there was any doubt. It’s all about the comfortability.

More Mumbling

I can almost hear my eyes creak, opening to blue slices of pale sunshine through the thin blanket. The pattern on the couch is familiar, still glimmering darkly from last night’s festivities. Growling, I pull myself to my feet and look around the room. Empty beers, something cheap, crowd the table and cluster by the feet of chairs, ashtrays overflowing.
-- What happened last night?
-- Ambushed by lysergic storm troopers.
Of course. Why I still feel bubbly, wobbly as a Jello salad. We observed the table as some distant coral reef.. And giggling we recalled when, with unreliable gait, I found myself stranded on a glacier, which was really an icy driveway.
-- Any of that crummy dust left?
-- Some, but you can’t both sneer and smoke.. Pick one or the other.
-- Jeez, won’t you have some coffee first?
We saw the edges glistening in shy suggestion of another realm, we saw the pinpricks of the cosmic light that gleamed through the wispy substance of this veil, we laughed at the massive cosmic joke. Then one character began speaking only in gibberish.

Some sniffingly disdain such people as those who resist growth, who seek to maintain their youth in the perpetual Now. There may be some purchase to this analysis, but my own idealist pragmatism stays unchanged. What good does such a conclusion do me? Am I to avoid the very people who offered me their shelter and shared with me their food? Such is the burden of the informed: what do I do now?

I don't go to those parties anymore

They always get out of hand... Bonne Année...

Jingle Bulls...

Wow... Check this... Thick clouds and snow in the Grand Canyon... The world is crashing. Finally.

Double-Sided Stone

The idea that multiple sclerosis may be caused by some form of
infectious agent is supported by several interesting observations.
On the Faroe Islands prior to 1920, MS was essentially unknown.
Subsequent to the invasion of British troops, the incidence of MS
increased dramatically.

It occurs to you later that the moment of learning is inevitably transformative, intrinsically so, apart from all the other crap you learn later.

Anyway, the logical flaws in the composition of this article are interesting. Never mind the clear conclusion that the only MS was brought by the British. The critical premise regards the desire to be aware. Dismiss the popular urge to prevent, to avoid....Then why this neoPuritanism? Can we not embrace our life in safety and moderation? But I relinquish my stump. I question the fundamental utility of this research. (I am satisfied with my fatalism, though I understand the curiosity. But look! Ain't fuck-all to be done about what has happened to me, what I lost, what was taken. It fucked up a good thing, and I'm still a shade bitter. But things are not bad right now.) Consider these two relatively diametric positions.
This is the first I have heard of symptomatic relief.
Then there is the other one which regards a putative cause of the condition. My question is: what now? Just keep taking your meds and quit whining.

Interstitial Pudding

What stretches on with infinite patience, sprawling between moments, what attenuates to translucent obscurity, though you may try and try to engrave such grasping words, are they not but written in the clouds? What else can possibly sustain you? It is (hopefully) enough to strive for the most meager moment of emotional release, inasmuch as the starving man may be sustained by the thinnest of broth... In the desert the merest drop of water will be an opportunity for celebration, or at least the climate is fierce enough to demand your notice of this.

Now that I've signed over a chunk of my identity, or surely some subtly momentous change has come about...at any rate I feel a shade more peaceful than when I was working there.

I AM SO GLAD I WENT THERE FIRST!

Today has already been productive. All you ever need is one day.

I wonder who reads this... Probably no one.

Profound puzzlement

Of course I have an idea how to overcome this. But I am wasting time doing it regardless, because I am telling you about it now. Anyway...

Grinding Socialization

This is what you can expect from raising the name "living room" to its bracing reality. There are always people around, and one hopes to enjoy the company of as many of them as possible. Feeling well, just typically dizzy and a bit tired. Slept well last night: it's a comfy sofa. Hmm, they're booting me off again... This is no way to get the least shred of work done.

Chocobis?

Hmmm...

Only a Brief Time Ago

Sandy skin, auburn eyes downcast in sad resignation... Behija.

Nta douib, Moussa, and there's nothing can be done about it.

Ana douib? Kifash douib?

Fransawi réynard.

Alesh?

But no answer. My fate was already sealed by an untouchable gorgeous woman. Her friend with the giant dark eyes, wide and solemn, was Awadtef. Feelings, it meant. They were from Beni Mellal.

People Are Impossible

Or, why won't the pretty girl at the pizza place go out with me? Probably because she's intimidated by me, and also not actually interested in spending any more time in my company than is necessary. Bummer. Though I don't want to be reminded of this for the next eternity so, out of whimsical indignation, I will write this in ORANGE. Stay posted for further updates.

Alienation is a Friend of Mine

Not sure where to begin... The hackneyed starving artist quotation "A writer writes!" will do as well as anything. Before, I was broke in another country, but hopeful of a job starting at the end of Ramadan... But my shredded nerves had other plans. (Props to the Foreign Service, and all their bustlingly professional sorts in consulates around the world, specifically one Pamela Hack.) When I arrived in the consulate in Casablanca, I was either embarrassingly drunk or else in need of medical attention. But I don't drink. I was perilously dizzy, perpetually falling, and sometimes hitting the ground. My speech was affected, as one might find in a person recovering from a stroke, slurred and mumbled. Three of my five senses were disrupted. But my family (by which I mean my blood, no one else since I'm not yet married, I'm old-school like that) got the message quickly and helped me out. Surely it was a poorly planned trip, and surely the lack of necessary measures was informed by my urgently felt need to escape from where I'd been. Ironic, then, to end up where I began, but in worse circumstances! Often I have felt ignored, overlooked, neglected, swaddled in a silence ostensibly justified by placing me in a safe location. Safe enough, but psychically draining-- easily bored, the only real entertainment I found was in substances. Given their inherent evanescence, obviously a waste. Only what is created matters, and of that, only NOW.