Scattered Notes of a Social Work Student

Last week, I hauled massive boxes and overstuffed suitcases through the streets of New York City, desperately hoping my cram-packed belongings would not spill out onto the Manhattan pavement as I began the hectic process of moving into a new dorm building. After a year spent in the freshmen residence halls of NYU, I was more than happy to expand into an upperclassmen apartment-style living situation and found myself absolutely floored at the niceties of my latest accommodations. However, amidst all of the stainless steel appliances and ample living space so rare this side of the Brooklyn Bridge, the loveliness of my brand-new apartment found itself a terribly unforgiving reminder of the reasons why I was at New York University in the first place as "Halah, A Baghdad Teenager" stared at me through the screens of both her burqah and my blinds.

An advertisement posted by an anti-war non-profit, the enormous billboard that overlooks my building looms with the photograph of Halah, a university student in Iraq who has lost several family members as well as her chances for a decent future in the chaos that is her home country. Her eyes blacked out and the printed words seeming to stem from her voice allow the images to become much more than just a poster; the idea of Halah and her story form their own very strong identity. So each morning as I fumble with my curtains to keep the bright sun out for a few more minutes of slumber and every evening as I shut the blinds to hide from the city streets, Halah remains, her photo and words moving some part of my conscience around quite a lot for someone who is stuck as a picture on a billboard.

Last semester as a first-year undergrad, I spent a significant amount of time volunteering at an agency very nearby my new apartment. The organization, which treated immigrant and refugees who had been deeply affected by conflicts, seemingly carries close ties to the message that Halah's image is trying to create. So somehow, in this slice of New York City that holds both my social life, academic career, and daily situations, I still find myself surrounded with the faces of those I seek to one day assist after graduating from Silver School of Social Work.

Not many people would choose to wake up to the foreboding stare of Halah and the harrowing graphicness of the story that accompanies the advert. But as I made a slight complaint to a roommate recently about the sadness of the sight, I startled myself as I remembered that I am sure Halah did not choose to become a victim of battle and a bombed-out house. So while I do not know Halah, nor do I even know if she is a real girl barely surviving in the crisis zone that is Baghdad, I do know that together our lives are tied solely because her face happens to line the outside of my Manhattan window view. A reminder of the outside world, I suppose, but even more, a symbol of the Social Work connection.

Eight hours in the same chair, an air conditioning unit obviously unadapted to New York's latest temperature drop, and a half-empty cup of peanut M&M's eaten out of sheer boredom as the clock's hands seemed close to as frozen still as the chilly room.

The terms that resonate, the phrases that repeat: English Language Learners. Asylees, Refugees, Immigrants. Deported, green cards. Hijabs, Ramadan. Mandatory reporters, must use an acute version of common sense. My ears feel slightly immune to much more sociological and cultural jargon and I find my eyes wandering out the very small window that looks out over a very foggy and rainy 72nd Street.

It is training day at my latest volunteer placement, which is at a small non-profit that provides full social services to a group of immigrant girls with extreme cultural differences or immigration traumas. After a 10 AM-5 PM demonstration and discussion about the ins-and-out of issues, my mind could not help but scan through the to-do list that wouldn't stop plaguing my thoughts: Arabic handwriting quiz! Buy that textbook! Mailing that package home! Study abroad application! Advisor meeting!

But after I reached for yet another handful of peanut M&Ms and wondered if that clock was still stuck on 4:55 PM, the flatness of the training manual in front of me and the dry black ink on my notebook burst with a sense of brightness as the chatter of young voices entered the room, breaking up the monotony that always comes with PowerPoint Presentations that are over 60 slides long. A small sea of teenage girls swept through the door, bringing with them a warmth to counteract the chilliness of the meeting. A dark, slender face with slighted green eyes and flipped out hair pointed a finger in my direction: "I want her!" she cooed in a heavily-accented English.

I suddenly stopped caring about how I'd spent my Saturday or where I would make dinner reservations that evening as the young voice popped over in my direction, sticking out an excited hand and introducing herself in a bubbly voice. Fatima*, she said, and we spent the next few minutes trying to properly pronounce my name.

Fatima, a young girl from a West African nation who recently came to the United States, is a high school student struggling to both adapt and survive in the new home she was plunked into, pulled away from her parents and siblings to be pushed into a Brooklyn apartment with an unknown aunt and uncle. We chatted for a bit and we agreed to meet- as Fatima's mentor, I hold the responsibility of communicating with her school counselors, family members, and coordinating social events for us to enjoy together as well as ensuring homework is properly done.

We met for a short time before she insisted that I come meet her aunt and uncle this week for dinner and I informed her she could visit my apartment in upcoming weeks as well. As we exchanged information and I began to leave, she called out to me as I stepped out the door: "Teacher! You almost forget your book!". She waved my training manual in her hands, and as I saw that book I had considered the basis of all things boredom just a few hours before, I realized how much I almost forgot about social work and why I sat through the 8 hour training in the first place.

Some years ago, a term that surrounded the idea of women in the workplace was deemed the "glass ceiling".

Some days ago, that phrase became "the glass wall" as I started my new internship by slamming through the window panels of my new boss's office as I did not recognize that what I saw as an open space was actually floor-to-ceiling glass.

I was in heels carrying a messenger back laden down with a laptop and mounds of textbooks. Some terrible law of physics saw me toppling backwards my face smacked against the now not-so-invisible wall and my new boss's face stared in half hilarity and half horror as I tripped off my shoes and tried to find some balance on the bookshelf nearby.

My boss, as cordially professional as one can be when their new employee crashes into their desk walls thinking it was an open door, informed me that she could "see how I was mistaken" in my minor entry mishap. Embarrassment muddled up any sane sentence and I muttered some apologies with whatever drop of courage that hadn't been crushed as I crashed into the door.

Sometimes little life lessons tap us on the shoulder and we turn around to find some glorious bit of wisdom waiting for our absorption. At other moments, we just smack into them and hope whatever knowledge smashes its way inside of us.

This was one of those crash-and-learn times. And with only somewhat of a pun intended, I believe my lesson was somewhere along the lines that what we think we see is certainly not what is going to be there.

I am taking a social work class this semester that centers along the different mechanisms and mannerisms used in relationships, whether in friendship, romance, business, strangers passing on the street, or between clients-and-caseworkers. My professor speaks in detail about the various layers of communication and the importance of first impressions. As I basically body -checked the door in the beautiful office on my initial day of interning there, I was bombarded with the real-life implications of my social work curriculum.

I am working at an international NGO that focuses on the re-development and immediate aid of a war-torn Middle Eastern nation in an effort to gain some policy experience within the confines of my social work career. However, I suppose I went into the project with the idea that my time there would merely be marked by paperwork, making copies, and grabbing coffee as several of my other internships have been. But after I recollected myself and sat down at my new desk (on the other side of the glass wall), I realized that my paper filling and copy-machine moments actually did have some connection to my future job plans. The countries that the organization was serving were a far cry from the New York office, but the passion and care of the staff seemed limitless amidst distance and physical boundaries.

When I smacked into the glass wall of their office, perhaps I was also smashing through the misconceptions of what I thought my internship would achieve. My first impression was not exactly the classiest and most elegant in my repertoire, but I am somewhat grateful for the glass wall as I found that sometimes it is what we do not see from which we learn the most.