Everybody Hates a Tourist

When I graduated from college, I had the very un-unique experience of identity diffusion - I had all sorts of feelings and ideas about myself and about the world, and wanted to transmit them in a way that demonstrated just how crucial! and important! and innovative! they were. I chose to do this by disavowing myself of every privilege I had grown up with, and committing to a "spiritual" lifestyle free of material goods and desires. I moved in to a house in Upper Darby with several close friends, gave all but a couple of shirts and pants away, stopped shaving anything and stopped wearing shoes (I don't know what prompted the no-shoe decision). This adventure lasted about 1.5 years, some of the best and worst years of my life.

But I think we all know how this story ended - eventually, my spiritual period culminated in a spectacular nervous breakdown and a slow climb back to the very vain and material-loving human I am today.

In class this week we discussed the origins of social work and learned that the majority of early "Friendly Visitors" were wealthy White women who were scratching their collective philanthropic itches by reaching out to provide moral guidance to people they considered below them - in economic class and in social propriety. I think this description turned the stomach of many of us - me included - and pushed us to ask....."is that who WE are? Is that who I am?"

                                                   A Friendly Visitor comes knocking...

Where does compassion end and condescension begin? I have long known that I have my very own place in the mental health community, being a consumer of mental health services and recognizing my own struggles with phobias, anxiety, depression, moodiness, and profound moments of self-doubt. I take solace in having my own story; there's something reassuring in knowing that if many of my clients knew my personal history, they might embrace me as their own. I am a broken and reinvented and re-broken person.

That said, there are a million ways I am unlike my clients. I am a person of extreme privilege - aside from gender, I find myself at an advantage in every way - socioeconomic status, race, education - I err on the side of privilege in all of these areas. It is undeniably part of who I am, and can be changed no more easily than turning my skin green or making my eyes blue. These are all my parts.

I am not a bored, rich woman looking to fill up my empty spaces by saving the world. I will not worry that this is the case. But I'm not a poor, marginalized person in need of a great deal of help, either (at least not right this minute). Being aware of the privileges I have but never earned keeps me honest and aware in my practice, and in my life. I will have to do this each day, every day, if I presume to have anything to offer to others.

 I could never go back to Upper Darby and pretend to belong. I don't, and another nervous breakdown would render me useless to everybody (and I'd prefer not to have another for a good long while). So I take a hot shower and I buy expensive chocolate and I wear clothes I like and I watch some television and I use the air conditioning. And I am grateful, and I don't have a nervous breakdown, and I am okay. And all of this is, mostly, just fine.