Sledding, anyone?

We got more than a foot of snow this weekend in Bedford—well across Virginia, it seems. It’s the beautiful kind of snow that began to stick with the first flake. It’s soft and packs together well enough to make a decent snow-person. It’s good and deep and kept people trapped in their homes all weekend. Stuck with me was an almost-two-year old little boy. We did a lot of reading, cookie-baking, soup-stirring, cartoon-watching and playing. We tried to ward off boredom by changing scenery--moving from room to room every so often, but our house is small and we ran out of rooms pretty quickly. We went outside some, but he did not enjoy the snow. He walked on it like it was some kind of poison. He tried to escape back into the house by going through the doggie door. So much for the ‘baby’s first snow’ photo op.

The babysitter called Sunday night to remind me about good strategies for getting in and out of her long, windy, gravel, snow-covered driveway and to tell me to bring extra clothes for Owen on Monday morning—they’d be going sledding down the big hill in her front yard. After getting stuck and unstuck in her driveway I happily (HUGE smile) dropped him off at her house with all the sledding attire a toddler would need. I also told her good luck—that he didn’t seem to be the biggest fan of the snow. She was sure that once he saw the other kids having fun in it he’d join in. She’s also big on giving kids choices and let me know about his other option if he did indeed refuse to play: There was a big bucket that he could just stand in and watch while the other kids had fun. It would keep him out of the snow, but in a safe enough place for her to keep an eye on him. I could just imagine pulling into her driveway later today and seeing him standing in a big bucket, thumb in mouth, watching everyone else scream in delight. It’s pitiful, isn’t it? (I also imagined it would be quite funny for some kid to go up behind him and sort of tap him down a hill, turning the safe bucket into a very fun sled.)

I just got back from a conference celebrating the success of work in Virginia that has been called “The Transformation.” (Learn more at www.vafamilyconnections.org.) It’s the name given to efforts to improve the child welfare and mental health systems, focused mainly around the primary value that kids should grow up in families in their own communities. The data was telling us that we weren’t doing a great job living up to this value as we’ve had too many kids put in too many places that don’t look anything like families or communities—all in the name of treatment.

I think lots of folks in the field would say that this transformation work has been good stuff so far—the majority of professionals agree with the reasons for it and with the values it embraces. There is less agreement the further down the strategic planning table you go: we don’t agree on all of its goals and certainly on its specific strategies. There is much grumbling underneath the polite clapping in the fancy hotel ballroom as awards are given to the works’ heroes.

Here’s the thing, though: Enough people are in it—they’re all decked out in their snowsuits, boots on, sleds in hand. Enough of the right people are heading down the hill together that anyone who doesn’t go is kind of like Owen standing at the top of the hill in the grungy bucket—unsure that the risk of stepping out will really be worth the reward of having gone.

I’m one of the folks on a sled heading downhill. I am, as they say, “on board” with the efforts happening statewide. I also recognize the barriers from multiple perspectives and understand the hesitation of many to jump in. This work, like sledding, is a make-the-path-as-you-go kind of work that has us only so prepared when we start it. There are lots of trees and rocks and other folks to watch out for on the way. The cool thing about sledding in groups is that those who go first make a path for the others—a path that ices overnight when left vacant too long, some would say making it more fun. I'm incredibly thankful for the work done by so many before me and hope that my work will make a nice path for another coming soon behind.

Here’s hoping your ride down the path comes at the right time and pace for you and that the rewards will leave you forgetting that old bucket. Happy holidays.

Gobble, Gobble: Lessons on Cultural Competency from Lane Stadium

I am a Hokie—sort of. For those of you unfamiliar with public colleges in Virginia, this means I graduated from Virginia Tech. It is difficult to attend VT without becoming a football fan but for the two years I spent working on my graduate degree in Sociology, I never stepped foot into Lane Stadium to watch the guys play ball. I did watch them play from a downtown bar with a beer in my hand from time to time. Apparently this does not “count.” So this year, two years after my graduation, I bought two tickets from my brother-in-law for the Boston College game.

I did not fit in and here’s why:

1. I did not look like a Hokie. I do not own any Hokie or VT clothing. I had on a tan t-shirt that I thought coordinated well with the maroon and orange. Apparently, simply coordinating is not enough. The dress code is simple: maroon or orange (or both). Two of my friends who also attended the game spent a great deal of time trying to convince me to go to the bookstore that day to purchase something—anything with the team colors.

2. I did not act like a Hokie. Sign #1? I jumped and looked around nervously every time the cannon went off. I did not know that a cannon would go off every time the home team scored points of any kind. Our seats were entirely too close to the cannon and the Hokies scored about 600 points that day, it seemed. While I was holding my breath looking around for missles, the people around me (in maroon shirts) were waving their arms around and screaming with delight. It wasn’t until the last quarter that I stopped being scared that we were under some sort of attack when this thing went off. Sign #2? I did not know the appropriate times to gobble like a turkey or really even how to gobble like a turkey. From time to time throughout the game, people would pull their keys out, shake them and gobble like turkeys. Maybe it was when we were on defense and we were trying to distract the other team? Either way, by the time I got my keys out and opened my mouth to attempt it, it was over.

3. I do not know the players or the team’s circumstances. While others around me were yelling out specific commands to specific players, I had no idea the names, numbers, positions, strengths or weaknesses of anyone on the team. They were a group of guys (very big guys) who all had on the same color—that’s about all I could figure out. Folks around me knew who they needed to beat in order to remain in their standing in their conference. They knew which teams would be difficult, which wins would be easy, and the history with each opponent. I was content to know the current score. Thankfully I was only a spectator and not the coach or trainer or even a reporter—I would have been useless in any decision-making capacity because I was culturally incompetent.

Sometimes in our work we mistakenly think of culture as a wide-lens matter: race, gender, social class and country of origin. Certainly there exist large-scale cultural norms—to use more sports analogy, football players all wear helmets and pads, regardless of their team. But the real richness lies in expressions of micro-cultures—things we eat, say, and wear, if and how we seek help, if and when we talk about our illness, and when it’s okay to let an outsider in.

Cultural expressions are like finger prints—a culturally-competent assessment is one that I can read and immediately identify the individual about whom you are writing. Let’s head back to football season for an example: If you lined up football fans in a row wearing team stuff, eating team food, chanting team sayings—you’d know which team they were pulling for fairly easily. You’d never call a lady in a navy blue sweater and orange chinos with pearls on screaming “Wahoo!” a Hokie, would you? (Google “Wahoo” if you do not watch football or do not live in VA).

Cultural competence in a system of care is about knowing your client’s own cultural norms—not just the demographic and diagnostic stuff that earns a place on service plans and assessments. In other words, providing culturally competent services means you provide individualized services, recognizing and building on what is normal for your client in their micro-culture.

Being culturally competent in your practice will take time. It also means you might have to change your sense of ‘normal’ (I certainly would not gobble like a turkey in any other setting) and accept the position of an outsider.

I stuck out like a sore thumb at the VT game. I got harassed and made fun of because I was a picture of cultural incompetence. But I totally made an effort. And you know what? I got invited back for the last home game of the season on one condition: I wear an orange shirt and learn how to gobble. I’m totally game.

Kicking the Bucket: How I do training

I was walking by our local middle school a few weeks ago and noticed the sign out front.  It said: "Education is not the filling of a bucket, but the lighting of a fire."  I guess they mean that school is less about obtaining knowledge and more about inspiring minds to learn.  At first I really thought that sounded great.  Then I decided I did not fully agree: certainly when I send my child to school I want him to have some energy and spirit about him--but I also really hope he learns how to multiply numbers, the history and heroes of the civil rights movement, and what makes the earth go around and around. 

Part of my job as a consultant is to provide training to staff and volunteers who work in the field of human services.  When people attend a workshop that I do, I want three things to happen.  And seeing that sign at my old middle school just gave me some fun ways of talking about it:

Fill the bucket:  No one should pay me money or attention if they attend one of my workshops and walk away knowing nothing more or different than before.  Generally people come into a particular training thinking of a set of concepts or skills they want to know (the bucket) and hoping that when they leave, they'll know them (fill it).  How do I create a strengths-based service plan for a family in this much trouble?  How can I help a family identify their own informal resources when they've burned so many bridges?  How do I supervise my staff in a way that supports the systems of care principles?  What does a good outcome report look like? 

Light the fire:  This is sometimes difficult to do when the participants are tired, under-appreciated social workers who, after the training, will return to a mile-high pile of paperwork on their desk that includes some of the worst stories of  child abuse and neglect you'll ever hear.  But doing that work better means having the energy and the spark to go back and think differently about it.  I have been to many a training where I was inspired while I was in the room and then all the steam ran out as soon as I got back to my car.  Which brings me to my third goal...

Stock up on tools:  This is an over-used figure of speech, this filling of the toolbox.  It makes sense, though.  I can know how to plant a garden, be inspired and motivated to plant a garden, but if I don't have a shovel, tiller, gloves and some seeds, then I won't get very far.  I want to give people the tools they need to sustain what they learn (the bucket) and their interest (the fire), helping them actually do what they're hearing about in the lecture hall or conference room.  I want to go with them after the training and work alongside them to help make it real every day.  I want the full bucket and the lit fire to linger in real life. 

 A bucket, a fire, a set of tools.  Training, anyone?

 

 

Hills are always hard: supporting families in the work.

I have been running more these days. I create these little routes through Bedford and memorize the path as I run it: BPC parking lot to Bridge St. to Peaks St., right on Whitfield, through hospital lot, right on Oakwood, right on Longwood, left on North, etc. When I’m running I hope that people who drive by in their air-conditioned cars will see what a great human being I am for exercising early in the morning on a rainy day. (I also speed up a little and pretend it isn’t hard as they drive by.) Then, after the run, I go back over the course with my car to see how far I went that time.

Some insights come up as I run--insights I'll use in a book or workshop or training some day. For now, I will summarize some of my thoughts into five running principles that I think are useful in human services work too:

1. I work on my form when the trail is flat and easy. Good form for me means I'm relaxed, my shoulders are down and not tense, my feet softly hit the pavement, my breath is rhythmic--1 more breath out than in so my strong breath hits on a different leg each time, my arms are low and loose, pushing through but not in a forced way. It is a waste of time to try to work on form when I'm going up a steep hill in the rain with one of my shoes untied. Which brings me to #2:

2. While my basic movements are the same for the duration of the run, my form and pace are altered by my environment. Pick up one foot, the other, swing the arms, breathe in, breathe out, look ahead. That's all the same. When it's raining, I keep my head lower. When it's down-hill, I sit back a little and shorten my stride. When it's up-hill, I lean forward and remember to let my arms help boost me up. When it's flat, I'm loose and rhythmic and readjust everything. If I'm ever chased by some sort of axe murderer, I'm sure my form would be wildly different.

3. Hills are always hard. There is a particular hill that I keep encountering every time I run. I have run it over and over and over. I never walk it. I refuse to walk it. It's long and steep and I always run it. (Some of this is about me being a determined person, some of it is about vanity--I certainly don't want someone driving by while I’m walking up the hill.) There are some things in life that get easier the more you practice: skateboarding, shooting a foul shot, playing the drums on Rockband for Playstation3, remembering the words to a poem. But this hill is always hard. It's not just hard going up--it's also hard when I finish. I struggle for a few minutes after I'm done every time. Maybe after I run that hill for another month it will not be so bad--but it will always be a hill and hills are always harder than flats.

4. Others don't know where I've been (or where I've yet to go). There's this loop of sidewalk in Bedford that is 2.8 miles long. This Sunday I ran about 2 miles before I got to the loop and then ran another couple of miles after it. As I was finishing it up, I met a man I used to work with--a 60-something attorney for social services, now retired. He looked very fresh and swift. I looked…well, not fresh and swift. Without looking in a mirror I knew that my hair was disheveled, my face was red as a beet, and my shirt soaked through. I’m sure he thought I was weak for looking this tired after just running a little bit. But he did not know where I began or how far I had come. He could only see my sweaty, tired self and think that he might outrun someone 30 years younger.

5. It's worth doing: For the air, for the movement, for the sweat that leaves my body, for the strength that is building in my legs, for the calm that comes from rhythmic breathing, and for the moments in my car afterwards when I see how far I went that time.

These concepts are good reminders of how we might approach our work in human services with clients who are struggling in front of others who do not know where they've been or how far they have run. How many times have they had to run up that same hill that does not get easier? How many times have we tried to make them change--right in the middle of something so difficult? Do we recognize that the way they look now may not be the way they are when parts of their life are different--and that some of those parts are outside their control? We’d do well to remember that their path is worth the running, that their work won't be wasted and that it is in fact their work, not ours, that gets them safely to the finish line.