I've been reflecting a little lately on the heart of what it is that we do.
By this, I mean, the fundamental values that shape what we choose to 'do' (as in, how we spend much of our time, generally work but not necessarily paid) and what we in fact end up becoming.
And when the gulf between the two becomes obvious, the question is why and how did this come to be? How is it that a deeply valued worker can end up, over time, as just another bureaucrat? Another manager exemplar. Incremental creep? Or perhaps idealism meets realism.
There is something, however, about being a social worker (or, more correctly, one in training) that causes me to reflect on this topic perhaps harder than I otherwise have in the past.
After all, social work is actually quite a fiery passion. It sounds terribly 'do-goodish' and tree-huggy, but in fact it's underpinned by a deep and abiding commitment to social justice.
When I first started studying social work, I was a little suspicious of where all that bubbling, barely contained fervour for social justice might exactly be expected to take me. I'd spent many years in the Commonwealth public service responding to public scrutiny processes of the Human Rights and Equal Opportunity Commission. I'd become more than a touch jaded and cynical about that organisation, especially with its symbiotic relationship to the media.
All that cynicism had, however, rather clouded my vision on a much more important matter.
The simplicity of meaning in 'human rights'. What that much used, but little examined, term means in day to day life. The way it infuses our everyday existence and interactions, at work, at home, socially. Our relationship to human rights exemplifies our values in a way perhaps nothing else does. Human rights at an individual level (treating others with respect, dignity, inherent worth), socially and culturally (access, equity) and collectively (acknowleding our shared humanity and the collective rights of Indigenous people).
I've now come around to the view that without a fiery commitment to human rights, a conscious focus on human rights in everyday practice, I can't really call myself a social worker. I don't want to be the kind of social worker that claims the name, but acts like a bureaucrat. That thinks more like a manager. That calculates on efficiency dividends and drives forward on critical performance measures.
I want to be the worker that goes to the heart of it, first.
Monday, February 27, 2012
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Where it all starts
It's been a bit of a busy time lately. Eleanor started Kindy last week. She's a little too young for it, age-wise, but definitely not socially or intellectually. She's taken a keen interest in learning to read (her request), and has been working through all the fun alphabet-related resources she can find. Reading Eggs. Apps. Signs. I could be overstating things a little, as you'd expect, but she's a smart kid!
I spent the first week of Kindy mostly sitting in the class. It was an interesting experience for me on a number of levels. Interesting to see the ebb and flow of kids into and out of the classroom, the changing faces, the small numbers in attendance, the teasing and tears, the process of teaching kids at different ages in the one classroom. I am endlessly admiring of school teachers - it's a very hard job. Made even harder in a remote community, where school socialisation skills are the starting point for Kindy class, not an introduction to the alphabet and correct pen holding.
A lot of people are engaged with the idea of Indigenous education. Yet what is little understood is the many, layered ways in which children from Western background are subtly and gently prepared for the experience of Western schooling before they even arrive at the gates in their oversized, overly cute little uniforms. When I see the enormous differences between Eleanor and the other kids at school, and reflect on what we are doing at home that creates this gap, the long road ahead to Indigenous literacy seems a little clearer.
For one, we have a bookshelf of kids books that is, quite literally, overflowing in the lounge room. Plus various kids books are scattered throughout the house, lost under the couch, buried in the boot of her little car, tucked in the midst of toys, sitting next to the bed. There are magnet letters all over the fridge and freezer, which Eleanor plays with and rearranges and redeposits all over the house at various points. She has (and I'm sad to say this, but it's true) three separate App folders in Fred's iPad called Eleanor, School and Colouring. The school apps are dedicated to learning and recognising letters, shapes, colours and numbers, replete with fun ways to encourage and maintain interest like stickers and dancing monkeys.
More importantly, perhaps, she has two parents who not only make reading a daily part of the structure of the day, but also regularly point out letters. For the past year, Eleanor has been able to identify 'her' letter, 'my' letter and Fred's letter. At various points, we add new capital letters to the mix - Cassie's, Rosalie's, Donnie's, etc. Building an alphabet in her mind through social relationships, which came about organically and was built on over time.
Just last week, walking home from school, I called into the clinic. On the way in, at about Eleanor's level, there was an old wooden sign with the clinic name, the letters carved into the wood and painted in rainbow colours. Eleanor took an interest in the C (after all, it's Cassie's letter!) and so we stopped and worked our way through each of the letters, as she traced her finger over them. It took about 5 minutes.
It is this kind of gentle, subtle reinforcement of the significance of letters, the relationship between letters and things that interest her, that lays the foundation for literacy. It is the way in which I sometimes ignore Eleanor in preference for my latest book that shows there is much more to this reading thing to know and learn. It is my interest in letters, and my encouragement of her interest, that gets her ready for that moment in the classroom when the teacher says 'today we're learning about the letter A'.
This is not a commentary about the parenting of Indigenous kids; rather it's a commentary about the multiple ways in which reading and literacy are woven into the lives of non-Indigenous kids without their parents even realising what's going on (particularly) as they prepare their kids for school.
Closing the gap. It's about so much more than just improving attendance. In fact, it's almost unrelated to attendance. It's about all the things that make up a life. A life rich in social relationships, rich in connectedness and family. But not necessarily rich in the alphabet and the meaningfulness of that to everyday important things. The more that social connectedness is related to literacy (through useful tools like Facebook, music, and games) and there are more interesting things available to read, only then perhaps will we start to see the gap close!
I spent the first week of Kindy mostly sitting in the class. It was an interesting experience for me on a number of levels. Interesting to see the ebb and flow of kids into and out of the classroom, the changing faces, the small numbers in attendance, the teasing and tears, the process of teaching kids at different ages in the one classroom. I am endlessly admiring of school teachers - it's a very hard job. Made even harder in a remote community, where school socialisation skills are the starting point for Kindy class, not an introduction to the alphabet and correct pen holding.
A lot of people are engaged with the idea of Indigenous education. Yet what is little understood is the many, layered ways in which children from Western background are subtly and gently prepared for the experience of Western schooling before they even arrive at the gates in their oversized, overly cute little uniforms. When I see the enormous differences between Eleanor and the other kids at school, and reflect on what we are doing at home that creates this gap, the long road ahead to Indigenous literacy seems a little clearer.
For one, we have a bookshelf of kids books that is, quite literally, overflowing in the lounge room. Plus various kids books are scattered throughout the house, lost under the couch, buried in the boot of her little car, tucked in the midst of toys, sitting next to the bed. There are magnet letters all over the fridge and freezer, which Eleanor plays with and rearranges and redeposits all over the house at various points. She has (and I'm sad to say this, but it's true) three separate App folders in Fred's iPad called Eleanor, School and Colouring. The school apps are dedicated to learning and recognising letters, shapes, colours and numbers, replete with fun ways to encourage and maintain interest like stickers and dancing monkeys.
More importantly, perhaps, she has two parents who not only make reading a daily part of the structure of the day, but also regularly point out letters. For the past year, Eleanor has been able to identify 'her' letter, 'my' letter and Fred's letter. At various points, we add new capital letters to the mix - Cassie's, Rosalie's, Donnie's, etc. Building an alphabet in her mind through social relationships, which came about organically and was built on over time.
Just last week, walking home from school, I called into the clinic. On the way in, at about Eleanor's level, there was an old wooden sign with the clinic name, the letters carved into the wood and painted in rainbow colours. Eleanor took an interest in the C (after all, it's Cassie's letter!) and so we stopped and worked our way through each of the letters, as she traced her finger over them. It took about 5 minutes.
It is this kind of gentle, subtle reinforcement of the significance of letters, the relationship between letters and things that interest her, that lays the foundation for literacy. It is the way in which I sometimes ignore Eleanor in preference for my latest book that shows there is much more to this reading thing to know and learn. It is my interest in letters, and my encouragement of her interest, that gets her ready for that moment in the classroom when the teacher says 'today we're learning about the letter A'.
This is not a commentary about the parenting of Indigenous kids; rather it's a commentary about the multiple ways in which reading and literacy are woven into the lives of non-Indigenous kids without their parents even realising what's going on (particularly) as they prepare their kids for school.
Closing the gap. It's about so much more than just improving attendance. In fact, it's almost unrelated to attendance. It's about all the things that make up a life. A life rich in social relationships, rich in connectedness and family. But not necessarily rich in the alphabet and the meaningfulness of that to everyday important things. The more that social connectedness is related to literacy (through useful tools like Facebook, music, and games) and there are more interesting things available to read, only then perhaps will we start to see the gap close!
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