by Linda Graf, MSW, LCSW
Spike Lee turned 62 this year. Barack Obama will be 58. So will Melissa Etheridge. We are all in the same “age group.” When I hear birthday announcements like these on the radio, I can’t help but compare myself. Spike Lee, Barak Obama, Melissa Etheridge—they’ve been on this earth for approximately the same amount of time that I have. At this point in their lives, they’ve each developed an impressive body of work. There are songs, movies, speeches, actions, quotes, there’s OBAMACARE!! They’ve made a mark on the world. They’ve changed lives. They’re loved by millions. They will be remembered. They will have a legacy.
And I wonder...what is my mark on this world. What legacy will I leave behind?
My Legacy
I have been a social worker for more than 30 years. My career has been in direct practice, largely with adolescents and their families. I’ve done a little teaching on the side. I haven’t written a published article (until now) or a book. I haven’t developed any new theories or interventions. I don’t do research. I’ve never been asked to speak at a conference. I’m not an expert witness. Dr. Phil hasn’t asked me to come on his show and advise a troubled young person. I’m sure my graduate school has long forgotten me, and the NASW doesn’t know who I am. I’m not a supervisor or a program or agency manager. I haven’t developed a chess or a dance program for inner-city youth.
What I have done is interact with hundreds, probably thousands, of young people during my career. A few stand out in my mind. A few who were particularly loveable, a few who were especially troubled, and a few I connected with deeply. But most of my clients I’ve already forgotten. Their names and faces are pushed back into a dusty corner of my mind as I make room for the current batch of names, faces, and presenting issues. I imagine that this is what it must be like for teachers, also. They likely remember the spelling bee champ or the class clown or the neglected child who occupies their attention for a semester or for a school year. The next semester or school year brings a new crop of students, new ones to worry about, new ones to encourage, new ones to be proud of.
I often wonder how I am perceived by the young people I have worked with. Another adult thrust into their lives who they didn’t ask to interact with. They never asked for my advice or even my presence. I’m there for six months or a year, asking questions, setting goals, developing plans, teaching skills, encouraging, comforting, cajoling, even sometimes threatening. Sometimes I bring food, or clothes, or bus tokens. Sometimes I give rides or help with homework. I’ve often been that reference necessary for getting that first job. And in six or twelve months, I’m gone. Does it feel like I was ever even really there?
I don’t remember all of the teachers, group leaders, and other adults who passed through my life as a child. But I remember a few. I remember tiny, wizened Sister Gemma (50+ years as a teacher!) who gently shepherded our little flock of first graders through our introduction to Catholic school. I remember my fifth grade teacher (though not his name), the only male teacher in our elementary school, who let us run a little wild and encouraged us to explore and find our own interests. I remember when Sister Barbara burst on the scene during my sixth grade year to take over our guitar folk mass group. She was a nun who wore no habit, listened to the same music we did, and invited us into the convent to eat pizza and watch baseball on TV! And I remember Mrs. Ingalls, the overworked Dean of Girls at our high school, who put up with our teenaged behaviors, our angst, and our dramas with incredible patience, never once carrying through on her threat to call my parents.
There’s no one moment that stands out with any of these people like there is in the movies. There were no heroic deeds or words of wisdom shared that guides or inspires me. Yet, I remember them. I remember them when I have forgotten others. There’s some small piece of them that lives on inside me. There’s something about my relationship with each of them that helped shape me. Even if I can’t articulate what their influence was, it’s there. They may have forgotten me, but they gave something that I don’t forget.
Maybe this is the body of work that I’ll leave behind. A collection of adults (maybe small, maybe large), largely forgotten by me, who look back at their youth and remember that I was a part of it. Who’ll remember that we connected. Who let a part of me become a part of them and shape who they became. Maybe this will be my legacy.
Linda Graf, MSW, LCSW, is a graduate of the Illinois State and University of Wisconsin-Madison Schools of Social Work. She is currently working with youth justice clients in southern Wisconsin.