This post over at Crass-Pollination inspired me to think aloud on this issue. On my own blog, of course, because why not net a post on the matter, right?
Do YOU remember it?
The Knock.
The first time you went out in the field and had to knock on someone's door as an official, grown up social worker? You received the referral, did what research you could before you left, figured out where the family lived...
And let me just say this: In MY day, GPS and Yahoo! Maps weren't around. We had to take out a REAL map--unfold it an everything--and use the map key to find the street these people lived on. (This was after driving to the local chamber of commerce to acquire said map. Heaven forbid the state actually provide such luxuries.) And then we had to drive there on wits and directional sense alone. And this doesn't even account for the people who lived in rural areas, where "roads" were marked with spray-painted cardboard and nailed to a tree.
I digress.
After you (OK, I'll amend that. After I. ME.) drove around for thrice times the required amount of time it theoretically should have taken to find said abode, you arrived. First order of business: quadruple-check the house number against your paperwork to ensure you were at the right place.
Once confirmed, you took a good look at the house. This is a universal: no matter how modest any home was, it was so intimidating you might as well have been arriving to confront Kim Jong-il.
And the walk to the house felt like a 5K.
You walked. You reached The Door. Hand up.....and.....
Knock. Knock. (Or Ding. Dong. You know, whichever.)
Dogs barked. And barked.
You heard from the bowels "Shut up you mongrels!....Yeah, I'm coming...."
Feet shuffle.
Door creeked open to reveal half a face through the chain.....
You're on! Spotlight!
You: Hi! I'm Beatrice Bleeding-Heart representing We Snatch Your Babies.* We had a referral about your little angel and I need to ensure he doesn't have belt-buckle bruises on his back, cigarette burns on his arms, and a skull fracture. Can I talk to him? Alone? Great! Thanks!
Her (Pulling out the shotgun and sticking it through the door.....): One foot in my house and you'll need a colostomy bag for the remainder of your days.**
If I was an ever an advocate for recreational use of Valium, that was the day. ->
*IRONY! Before you jump all over me. Please. You should know me better by now.
**I may be exaggerating this conversation for comedic effect.
Read the complete post at http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/blogspot/tXCM/~3/535540774/im-not-ephydriad-im-neophyte-social.html
Posted
9 Feb 2009 11:00 AM
by
Trench Warfare
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