If ever these kids could pull their heads out long enough to look around and gain some life perspective, they would realize that there are several people in their lives who work for them, day after wretched day, to help them better adjust to society. Among these fine people, all operating at various levels of competence, are social workers, probation officers, program supervisors, clinicians, nurses, the house counselors of course, and the all-important agency therapist.
Now who am I to question the effectiveness or integrity of the agency therapist? After all, they are the ones who have spent years studying for their advanced degrees, while I did not. They are the ones who spend an hour a week playing sandbox in their office with the kids, while I do not.
But let me just assert my opinion that if I were an up and coming therapist, perhaps the star of the psych department at school, a real go-getter with plenty of ambition, I am not sure that this agency, with its low wages, shrinking benefit package, low rate of success and an assured chance of being assaulted on the job would be my first choice of employers. Or my second, or even my tenth for that matter. The sad fact is, the agency struggles to recruit and employ just about anyone with an MFCC next to his or her name.
At any rate, each kid is assigned a fine therapist with whom they can talk about their feelings, discuss goals or just generally trash the office while the therapist mumbles something about, "Oh, are you trying to tell me you're angry? Here, try digging in the sandbox."
One of my favorite therapists is Sam. At 70, Sam is flamboyant, wears turquoise earrings, bracelets and rings, smells of amber oil, wears rainbow suspenders and socks with his Birkenstocks. He is also very sensitive. Remember Freddy, the kid who likes to straddle doorknobs in search of sexual pleasure? Well, he was one of Sam's clients and Sam's response when he heard about Freddie's doorknob abuse, "What's wrong with the way he masturbates? You know, not everyone gets off in the missionary position."
When you've been working here as long as I have, you can't help but pick up some of the kids' lingo, and using it yourself. Your English becomes spiced up and dumbed down with ghetto street-talk. "Original Gangsters be rollin' on dey dubs," "fools ain't got no hops," and, "you bes' back off 'fo' you git slapped in yo mouf!" The stuff of idiots, I know, but we all wind up with a phrase or two.
As I happened to be helping two of Sam's clients with their homework, Sam walked in the house to pick up one of them for his weekly therapy session. As he strode up, I said, "Check it out, it's a O. G. hangin' with his posse."
Sam's eyes widened and his face got red.
"How dare you be so rude to your elders?"
"Well, it's really just a sign of respect, Sam."
Sam was indignant. "I think not. I think it's up to the person to give you permission to call them an Old Geezer."
With that, he turned on his heels, and stomped out as loudly as his Birkenstocks could slap the floor.
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