A Very Famous Social Worker
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It happened in Yokohama, Japan, where I had taken a group of young professionals from West Virginia on a cultural exchange for Rotary International. We were meeting with a local dignitary, sipping green tea around a long conference table and exchanging pleasantries, when Mr. Ishiwata, the grandfatherly soul who was showing us around, decided to explain my occupation to our host. He leaned forward in his chair and addressed him in the rudimentary English he had acquired on a trip to the States. “In Japan social workers very low,” he said, scowling and pointing at the floor like they were cockroaches. He raised his finger to the ceiling and his rubbery, expressive face lit up. “In America social workers very high! Mr. Johnson important man! Very famous social worker!” He sat back and smiled, pleased that he’d managed to confer a little status on his guest. The dignitary nodded solemnly as my young friends struggled to keep straight faces. Tea dribbled from their mouths. I knew I’d never hear the end of it. They still think it’s clever to introduce me this way. Despite the efforts of the National Association of Social Workers to dress the profession in its Sunday best, its hardworking members rarely achieve any fame. According to the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics 600,000 people are in this line of work, but they're a largely invisible corps, engaging in activities vague in the public mind. Google “famous social workers” and you come up with a tiny handful of names from the distant past. Jane Addams, who won the Nobel Peace Prize in 1931. Frances Perkins, FDR's Secretary of Labor who drafted the first minimum wage laws and midwifed the Social Security system. Whitney Young, who captained Lyndon Johnson's War on Poverty. Bright stars in their own galaxies, but not exactly Elvis or Oprah. I traveled the back roads of West Virginia for 25 years in the name of this little-known occupation, encountering all manner of comedy and tragedy. I've often wondered why, with so many interesting stories to tell, so few social workers tell them. Is confidentiality the stumbling block? It didn't stop Sigmund Freud from chronicling his patients' neuroses, or James Herriott from telling the world about the quirky Yorkshire farmers who sought his veterinary help. Circumstances can always be changed and identities protected. Preoccupation seems a more likely culprit. Would-be saviors can always find better things to do than pen their memoirs. Retired saviors are a different story. The events in this book took place in my first year as a young social worker, in the 70’s. Since those days the profession has changed and become more specialized. But the basic people-helping-people-with-everyday-issues model endures. Social workers inevitably encounter epic calamities and heart-rending tragedies, but what I remember best are the ironic, smile-inducing episodes. These are the stories I like to share. Greg Johnson Lewisburg, West Virginia
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About the Book
When Greg Johnson was interviewing for a job at a mental health center his interview was interrupted by a police officer with a naked woman in tow. “I was looking for an adventure,” he says, “and this looked like it.”
In A Very Famous Social Worker the author recounts with insight and humor his experiences as a rookie social worker in West Virginia’s Greenbrier Valley. His unlikely parade of clients include a preacher whose wildly rebellious children are threatening to bring down his ministry, a teenage underwear fetishist, a man obsessed with Dolly Parton, and a schizophrenic poet. He goes the extra mile, often literally, teaching a client to drive, transporting an inebriated musician to rehab, and navigating a winding country road with a three-tiered wedding cake.
Engaging and entertaining, A Very Famous Social Worker sheds light on a profession practiced by 600,000 Americans that remains little known to the general public.
About the Author
GREG JOHNSON holds a master of social work degree from West Virginia University. He is the author of a novel, The Loony Bin Blues, and two stage plays, Mrs. Rawlings’ Mess and Thursday’s Child. He lives in Lewisburg, West Virginia, with his wife Libby.