Power of the Group

For some time, I've been feeling a shift. It happens to all of us during the truly adult years. (I say truly because let's be real; 18 years old is not an adult. Call me when you've got more bills than fingers.)

It's the shift prompted by the jolt-out-of-bed realization: "Who I am is not working for me anymore." Who I am after a childhood raised with Jim and Ruth and toting along best friends like Cathleen and Naomi. Even Dara and Debbie. And who I am after pleasing, placating and preening friends and associates for three decades. I felt I had to and if they ever saw a bubble of anger or a spritz of honesty well. . . I'd be left in the dust.

I surmise some of it is from being an only child but know that this mode also worked for me for a LONG time. It helped with my career eventually, and certainly got me to a place where I was presented with amazing choices about my future. But now? I know what I want. And I know that saying "no" to something means saying "yes" to something else. And it's just fucking time to take off the helmet, gloves and knee pads and get in the ring; of life, honesty, self, future. Fight for that stuff because it matters.

Naturally, old habits die hard so, next time you see me, you will not see 22-inch biceps and the evaporation of traditionally female physical features. No. I'm still the same person, but the evolution is nigh.

What's tremendously cool about this evolution was watching it unfold in my Group Counseling class last semester. A motley crew of classmates, some fathers, some single ready to mingle and other married and wading in the water. On the surface, we had made judgements about each other; being human this is unavoidable. But toward the fifth week and session of the class well, something shifted. In me.

I spoke up. I told T that he came across as cocky and perhaps that's why his anger spikes.

I told J that he was an ideal boyfriend, so feel good about dating and know that you've got the stuff it takes to be bold.

I told S that I felt I couldn't get close to her because she was showing me a self that she wanted me to see, not her real self.

Now, listen. . . honesty has it's place. I am not about to walk into work and raise a pitchfork and proclaim that a colleague's manner of speaking to me fills me with rage because of how condescending they are. (Shit, maybe I will.)

But there is absolutely nothing like being able to truly be yourself. To shed the skin of preoccupation with others' reactions and know that the honesty you give to others is precisely the fuel for a catharsis. Group counseling is intense(ly rewarding).

I had drinks with my group mates last night. The camaraderie we felt in those 16 weeks was present over beers and burgers too. There's a safety with the group, and a real love that percolates for them. For the first time, maybe ever, I got to really see someone. And that kind of naked experience, with tears and emotions literally at your fingertips, soft and delicate to hold. . . well, it changes you. On a cellular level.

This post is dedicated to my group. I was already picking away at what the next version of myself might feel like. You gave me courage and showed me a bit more how to love myself. I'm glad we can clink glasses and hug each other even outside of the perfect circle. Cheers.

Compulsion

There's a passage in "Letters to a Young Poet," a Rilke favorite, that lauds the experience of passion. That if you are passionate about writing, you must write. Absolutely must. As essential as air.

I love to write, but I don't have this zeal. I do find inspiration and my brain churns with ideas. It's a never ending scroll up there but little makes it to here or elsewhere. And so it is. I've often wanted a microchip that would store these thoughts, sort them, see what I think of most often. Something tells me racism and crime are at the top. Unrelated in my head but related in my purview. Of the four young men I met with today, three had convictions, two were felonies. They are coming to us, to me, in earnest but the truth is there is little to be done. If it can't be expunged, well, life gets shitty quick.

I'm passionate about approaching this issue strategically. About fighting for them, taking on the statistics and turning them on their head. I met with my advisor yesterday, talked about my pondering a teaching certificate, or a Ph.D. I want to be in the thick of it and get dirty, then pull back and pull strings.

I've taken to listening to rap. I've always liked it but not like this. It helps crack the code for motivations, inspirations and a way in to make change. Misogynistic? Truth. Cutting and violent? Indeed. But it's a narrative to explore.

I struggle with how to best apply this passion, for empowering young people, where the most good can be done. I think there's little else I can do but pick and prod and poke around down every hallway that opens until I make progress I can live with. I'm antsy about it, but this education takes time. This, my friends, is something I must do.

Rap and Rapport

I'm no certified counselor but as I establish rapport and relationships with clients at work, we get in a rhythm that might as well be official "sessions." Brandon comes in every week. Thursdays at 2 p.m. We started working on an outlet for his stress, as his nails were down to the quick. He loves hip-hop, like many of the young adults I work with, but beyond Jay-Z there is J Dilla and Wacka Flocka Flame and, as I told him, The Rolling Stones.

Brandon is a lot like many of our clients. He is Black. He is young. He is unemployed. He is hopeful. But unlike many who self-select to the wayside, he's been determined. And so we write.

Because he has a speech impediment, I suggested his command of the language might best be typed. We started working on an essay, about his love of music and goal of being a producer. It's been through edits aplenty but more than that each time we renew it he's there, present and available. It's an opportunity every time he shows up to continue to inspire, engage and interact. We're getting close a final product but it's more than just a blog entry now.

It's a relationship. Close enough now that I can poke fun at him that he can only carry a black folder (he's a Vice Lord, Chicago's number two street gang and black is all there is) and he can tell me about his dad, Supreme Chief of the Vice Lords (that's like CEO) who did eleven years in a combination of Pontiac, Centralia and Rantoul penitentiaries. He gets upset that rappers like Lil' Wayne think they are "street" because they will do time and man up to the sentence but but when you are a celebrity, according to Brandon, you can't be street. It's different where he hails from.

I just listen mostly. He tells his friends about me. I'm not a nosy white girl, he says. I ask tough questions that get him thinking. The reality is many of his peers won't seek counseling but they need it the most. They won't meet with a white counselor because we can't relate to their legacy and heritage and identity. But I think it's moments like we had today, talking about Coltrane and racism, that I get really amped to be a counselor. To find those entry-points, exercises and conversations that really begin to help. Even if it is just listening.