Social work and me
She was only nineteen, apparently old enough to experience homelessness, single motherhood, domestic violence and the judicial system. As she sat quietly in my cubicle, I tried to obtain some basic information, the colors of her designer handbag echoing louder than any voice in that cold, sterile building. My task: Help her find a job before her welfare benefits expired.
Somebody (poem)
You’re my client
But I don’t know you
I've read your case file
But it’s not your story
I've typed your résumé
But it’s not your identity