Why I Want to go Into Social Work

Many factors have influenced my decision to study social work in college, which draws closer as each quarter passes.  One of the most important components that went into the choice of social work as my future career is the adversity I have observed, and how truly blessed my life has been.

            After leaving the quintessential southern town I was born in my family lived for five years in a diverse area only ten minutes from where we currently reside in stereotypical suburbia.  It was an eye-opening experience for me.  Yes, there were students who had more than me, and who lived in nicer houses and had more toys, but the other end of the spectrum was also well-represented.  As a kindergartener I didn’t fully understand why my mom, dad, sister, and I lived in a nice house with big windows, a large playroom, and a much-loved swingset in the backyard, while other kids my age lived in such widely different circumstances.  My school bus each morning passed run-down homes and squalid apartment buildings, and even at five years old it made me appreciate my home a little more each day.

            As a first grader I would often observe the other students, and I one time had the realization that the pants’ of the little boy who sat in front of me were an inch above his ankles.  As I scanned the other kids I became hyperaware of the new clothes I wore, that had just arrived by the boxful from Land’s End.  Some of the other kids wore what could only be hand-me-downs from many years ago.  Before the day I noticed the difference between my clothes and some of my other classmates’ I had never known what the Salvation Army was, and I had no idea what happened to the clothes you donated to Good Will.  After school as I stood leaning against my closet door and looking in at my wardrobe it again brought to mind just how blessed I was.  That night when I prayed I made sure I thanked God for taking care of my family so well.      

            When I was in the second grade I helped my mother mass-produce my favorite dinner, ham-and-noodles, to take to our church that evening.  As I stood and stirred the simple white sauce I had been taught to make my mom explained who the church was feeding that evening.  It was a group of homeless families who, to stay off the streets, traveled and slept in churches for a week at a time, where they were fed and cared for by the ministry.  I was slightly shocked. 

            We carried the meal into the gym of the church, where there were families lined up and waiting to eat.  I couldn’t help but look at the people as I helped get all the food into the shining industrial kitchen.  In the line there were plenty of moms, dads, and other adults, but what really got me was the kids.  Waiting in the line for a meal were dozens of babies and toddlers and second-graders like me.  One girl in particular caught my eye, simply because she looked exactly like me.  As I ate my dinner that night in my dining room I couldn’t get that girl out of my mind.  I pondered the unfairness of it all, that I had so much and the other little girl had so little.  I lay in bed that night and gazed around at my belongings.  I carefully appraised the large pile of stuffed animals that graced the corner of the room.  It saddened me to think that not every kid had a stuffed animal.  Even at age seven I wanted to do something to help just that one girl that I had seen that day.

            Christmas is my favorite time of year.  It’s magical, the lights and the carolers, they all come together for just a few days a year.  One thing that has always really impacted me when it comes to Christmas is the Giving Tree.  Every year our church has two trees covered in slips of paper, with a large box sitting beside them holding even more as they await their turn to be placed on the tree.  These brightly-colored papers hold the Christmas wishes of people who are not going to receive any gifts for the holiday.  Looking at the tags is always saddening.  There are hundreds at our church alone, and this doesn’t even begin to cover out community.  Reading them simply makes it more apparent that many of the people receiving presents from the giving tree are children, and teenagers like me. The adult requests are just as heart wrenching, most comprising of socks, underwear, and blankets.  These are the things I would throw into the cart while out shopping, not ask for for Christmas.  As I stand in front of the Giving Tree each year I am thankful for all that I have.