Growing up Seasoned and Sautéed

 

Being a child of the seventies and growing up in Cajun country, I was seasoned and marinated with the perfect ingredients for a well-rounded and virtuous social worker. So, any bland or mediocre job performances throughout the years falls solely on my shoulders. If there is anything that my generation and culture gifted me, it was the ability to draw on the strength of every person that I encounter, and not dwell on their shortcomings.  I learned at an early age that there was far more to the quality of living than just material things. This guided my belief that child welfare families are often much stronger than they appear, and their stories if listened to, can give us the capacity to see their strength, understand their struggles, and hopefully rally them to recondition both, their minds and hearts. In other words, help them find their Joie de vivre, joy of life again.

 

I grew up in a time where most kids had the luxury of getting new clothes only once a year. So, judging people by appearance had no relevancy, since most people I knew had a very limited and modest wardrobe. Even if I chose to do so, this made it literally impossible to distinguish between my impoverished and wealthy counterparts.  Instead, our culture was aligned more with faith and values, than it was with Nike or Louis Vuitton. That is not to say that I cannot still spot a vintage pair of Toughskin jeans, brown leather Dingo boots, or a thick corduroy jacket from a mile away. My heritage taught me to focus my attention on a person’s interior because that’s where their value lied along with their identity and self- worth.

Growing up in the seventies made it easy for me to show up unannounced at a home.  In my day it was the only way to see if my friends were home and wanted to hang out.  That was decades before cellphones, FaceTime, gaming systems, and even pagers; not that my parents would have bought me or allowed me to have those things anyway. I learned to knock on doors, ask politely for someone, and say thank you and yes ma’am long before I had any inkling that I would be doing it for a living. And I learned to make them habits, not to train for a future vocation, but because of the wrath I feared if my parents discovered that I was not consistent in doing them.

 I learned to be resourceful. It is in my nature to work endlessly to find useful and creative solutions even in the most challenging situations. Often times to the point that it bordered on obsession. I learned this about myself at a very young age, when I managed to ride my banana bike with a broken foot for two miles down a dirt road. I was so consumed by the thought of messing up my colorfully decorated and signature-filled foot cast to allow myself to even think about falling.  Not to mention, there was a friend’s house to get to, and I was the only ride I had.  In those days, there was no such thing as child safety and many times our parents just chose to turn a blind eye to our hijinks.

 In our culture, we were raised to be kind to others and pay genuine attention to what people had to say. So, I can literally have a conversation about anything with basically anyone (just ask my kids). This trait has served me well over the years. But in my line of work, I’ve had learn to temper that quality quite a bit. Because in child welfare, familiarity requires caution and balance in order to maintain a professional and ethical work relationship. It’s a line that I have struggled to tow throughout my career. It just feels unnatural to me. And it doesn’t help any that I come from a small rural parish where everyone knows your sister, cousin, paran, daddy, and mawmaw.  So it is hard not to ask or be asked, “How’s ya mama an them?

 It just goes to show that many of our personal attributes are seasoned by the times and places that cultivated us along the way. I was grateful to have been born in a generation flavored with both tradition and humility and, as lagniappe, in a culture where everyone you meet is treated like part of the family; a place where there is always an extra spot at the supper table, and we are always more than happy to help you find your Joie de vivre.

 

8 Attributes of Growing Up in the Seventies in South Louisiana:

 We learned to accept fate. At one time or another we all fell prey to a “home job” haircut that was most likely performed by our mom or one of her friends.  It was typically just to trim our bangs or shape up the overgrowth that covered our brother’s ears and neck. And more often than not, a salad bowl or a twelve-inch ruler served as her guide.  This calamity was often performed in order to hold us over until our official visit to a licensed hair care professional came at the beginning of the school year.

 We learned how to meditate. Nobody does meditation like a bored kid on an eight-hour road trip attempting to block out blaring country music on the AM radio station.  Remember, we  lived in a world without iPhones and  tablets, so we had to make up our own games quietly, or just stare out the window in a trance until we reached our destination.

 We learned to be creative. Long before the days of Tinder, Bumble, or FarmersOnly.com, we made our own fortune-telling origami with loose leaf paper to predict our wedding mate simply by choosing a number and a color. Our biggest worry back then, wasn’t saying, “Yes to the dress,” it was that hoping our teacher wouldn’t catch us and take our paper soothsayer away.

 We learned patience. We waited all week long for Saturday morning cartoons.  We sat there with our eyes glued to the likes of Bugs Bunny, Scooby Do, and the Roadrunner. And who can forget Schoolhouse Rock with its brilliant catchy lyrics about grammar, math, politics and science that taught us facts that we can still recall today. There was nothing we looked forward to more than those 3 hours we got to spend on our dad’s recliner, eating breakfast cereal out of a plastic margarine bowl.

 We learned to improvise.  Summers were hot. The majority of our time was spent locked outside of our houses or in humidity saturated classrooms, with no air conditioning. Sticking our faces in the water cooler in the school hallway or in the nozzle of a sun baked garden hose to cool off wasn’t ideal but did the trick.

We learned to figure out shit for ourselves. There was no Google and YouTube.  If we couldn’t grasp it on our own, we hopped on our bikes and headed to the public library. Nothing says determination like looking through a three-foot wooden card catalog or mastering the Dewey decimal system.

We learned to explore. We would set off in the morning with our friends for an adventure through the drainage tunnels in our neighborhoods. It was usually a search expedition for glass coke bottles, which we could redeem to buy little brown bags of penny candy at the mom and pop neighborhood store.

We learned to make personal connections that would last a lifetime.    We knew the milkman, Avon lady, Swann truck driver, mailman, and the life insurance salesman by name, and we knew exactly which day of the week to expect them. It was like kinfolk coming in from out of town. The kids always ran up to the vehicle, and your momma always had a fresh pot of coffee waiting on the stove.

C'était le bon vieux temps, Mes amies