I graduated from West Chester University with a grade point average of 3.56. I left with mixed emotions, happy I finally achieved my goal, sad to be leaving friends and college life behind.
Taking my very last exam was easier then all the red tape connected with graduating: verifying my credits, the multitude of paperwork, ordering my cap and gown. Almost as tough getting out as it was getting in.
One item I especially took pride in was my college ring. It was a symbol of achievement. I couldn't afford gold, so it was a silver ring, with my topaz birthstone, engraved with my name, degree and year. As my college memories faded in time I wore the ring, proud of what I had accomplished, a motivation for what was to come.
We did celebrate. Itwas an achievement to be proud of. Startung as a volunteer at the Manor, with an idea of making something out of myself, unsure, unproven and with so many doubts, I had a reason to be very proud. But when the pizza got cold and the root beer stopped flowing, a calm feeling came over me on graduation night. I remembered all the classes, term papers, exams, the late nights studying, the frosty early mornings, the blazing summer school classes, the icy, steep sidewalks, and the friends I made.
There were times I felt like giving up. I thought of Willie, who encouraged me to take a chance. Of Mom, who always supported me and drove me back and forth to school in the early days. Of Dad, who would've been so proud.
I thought of the counselor at Penn who said I would regret dropping out there. Of Jill, who gave me a reason to keep pushing forward. Of Lori, and how she hugged me after graduation, tearfully saying, 'We sure came a long way together!"
"I couldn't have done it without you," I said.
Lori had done her final two internships at a local mental hospital and then at a prison. She never took the easy way out. She continued to challenge herself. Now she would have a chance to make a better life for herself and for her kids.
I was so proud of her. Her family was there to see her graduate. After she moved to Vermont I would never see her again. But I would think of her often, and her amazing kindness. She wanted to go on for her Masters Degree. Perhaps someday she would. But, like me, she needed the experience and needed to work to pay off student loans. She also wanted to put her skills to use.
She was more than transportation. She was always a good friend. She guided me in times of trouble, supporting me and bringing me back to reality when I was with Silver Fox, when I started writing to Jill, whenever I needed a friend to confide in. I, would always remember her fondly.
So I was officially a Social Worker. I could say I was on both sides of the fence in life: a patient, a client, aAsocial Worker. Finding a job would make it official.
I promised myself that whatever I lacked in book smarts, I would more than make-up in kindness. I may not be the best Social Worker in the world, but I was determined to be the kindess, always being nice to people, as they were to me.
It took a while adjusting to life after school. It was nice to have weekends and evenings free. My final transcript arrived in the mail. So did my hard-earned diploma. I displayed it proudly. My text books went on a shelf. Another chapter of life closed.
After the holidays it was time to find a job. The Social Work positions at both local nursing homes and the hospital were filled. They were jobs I wanted, jobs I knew I could do well. Now it was a matter of patience, timing and luck.
I continued to work at the Manor on Saturdays. I wanted to keep my foot in the door at the Manor, just in case an opening occured . Plus I loved working with the residents. They were the ones who planted the seed, going from volunteer to professional. It would be hard to leave there when another job came up. The residents showed me what kindness could do. I would always remember those volunteer days- the many room visits, the reading groups, taking time to listen. Whatever I gave the residents gave back to me many times over.
The residents taught me far more than any textbook could. They were the first to treat me as an equal and not look at my disability as a negative or a difference. They saw what I could do, as opposed to what I could not do.
I still had to laugh when a new resident looked at my chair and asked,"What room are you in?" I was one of them, in more ways than one.
Looking for a job is a job in itself. I was starting to see why it was recommended to stay in school and get that a Masters Degree." Not qualified enough" was a common phrase I encountered. Not being able to drive was biting me in the butt again too. One look at my wheelchair and I could see the disappointment on faces. When I didn't tell potential employers about my disability I could see the surprise when I arrived for an interview. The ADA law was still in its infancy back then, so, whether I could do the job or not, people could get away with rejecting me just because I could not walk.
I understood their concerns about transportation, reliability, things like that. Did I have the endurance to handle a full-time job?
I was hoping that my degree would lessen the stereotypes. Just because I couldn't walk didn't mean I couldn't hold down a job. The professor in college who advised me about discrimination and stereotypes was so right. Fair or not it was something I would have to deal with all my life.
It would take a long time until society saw that I wasn't different then most able-bodied folks. All I ever wanted was a chance. Sadly, even my diploma didn't erase all the stereotypes in the world.
As it turned out, hiring someone with a disability was actually a positive for any company. Tax breaks, an employee who may be extra motivative to prove they can work, meeting certain requirements, all looked good for a company.
Since the Social Work jobs were pretty limited I was forced to look yemporarily for work outside of my field. There was a problem with Social Security. The claim was that the peanuts I had made over the years at the Manor, mostly for school supplies and gas money, was too much and I had to repay much of the disability checks. I returned to school to eventually get off disability. now it seemed I was being penalized for wanting to be independent, like the system was saying "you're disabled-stay disabled!"
So, I was back to being client again, trying to straighten out the mess of red tape and bureaucracy, showing up at the Social Security office to "prove I was really disabled." I couldn't wait to finally find a good job and support myself. I was feeling like a criminal. Sometimes the system makes you feel that way.
As equally frustrating as the stereotypes was the lack of accessibility in my job search. Steps to battle when going to interviews. I often had to use the backdoor. One place I vividly remember using a service elevator. Talk about humiliation!
I still saw myself differently then the way society looked back at me. I didn't see myself as "disabled.' Society constantly reminded me that I was.
It took me a full six months before things started breaking my way and I had possibilities for a real job. I tried so hard for so long, then it happened, the break I was looking for all along.
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