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Adventures and accomplishments at work
The job, as it was first described to me, was to take our folks out into the community and support them there. They had some set classes and activities (of their choosing), and some unstructured "free choice" times. It was apparent that people had very limited ideas of their options for free choice activities. I immediately uploaded my list of local walks and hikes to my website, and sent out the link. Within a couple of weeks, someone mentioned that seeking new opportunities for the folks also fell within the purview of the job. My eyes went wide. Long before I was cleared to support folks on my own, I was regularly emailing lists of community activities (filtered by time, distance, and accessibility to our folks) to the staff, and posting printouts in the common room for the folks to see. At a reptile show that I brought someone to, I spotted another staff member supporting one of our folks, thanks to my announcements. People from other departments have asked to be put on my list.
One team leader took me up on the offer to determine the best walking spots for any given set of constraints. The constraints in this case depended on the facilities available. I spent quite a while calling park supervisors for information, then compiled a list with extensive details (mostly from my own knowledge). (I felt some impostor syndrome the first several times I made a phone call starting with, "Hi, this is Joseph Levy with [organization]. I'm looking for some information on...") The team leader and the person supported were blown away by the document (they said it was like having a tour guide), and very grateful for the effort.
I took a pair of guys out for free choice. "What do you want to do?" They chose to go to the mall. I knew that this typically meant wandering around and browsing stores, after which the staff would put it down as exercise or something else related to their goals, while they were really just killing time. Okay, I thought, I can work with this.
I came up with the idea of having "practice conversations". I instructed them on finding people who looked receptive to conversation, and making eye contact first. We obtained consent from two different strangers to have practice conversations, with introductions, questions, discussions of their interests, finding common ground, and reading nonverbal cues about wrapping up. I explained about not doing certain intimidating things, like outnumbering women, or discussing martial arts early on. Afterward, they gushed about how awesome our outing had been.
None of this was familiar to me. Addressing strangers like that was well outside of my comfort zone! I had never given conscious thought to most of the instruction that I provided. It gave me an appreciation for how much unexamined knowledge I must have about social interactions. Getting all that stuff out into the conscious domain would enable me to be much more helpful. (Yes, Unwritten Rules of Social Relationships is on my to-read list, but my to-read list spends its nights sad and lonely, pining for my attention.)
I had an unexpected realization that one of our severely impaired folks could benefit from aikido classes. Once I persuaded their dubious team leader, I got in touch with a local sensei, had a meeting, and discussed schedules and pricing. Sadly, the funding for this turned out not to be available without sacrificing a favorite activity.
"What would you like to work on?" I asked.
"Are you good at math?" he suggested.
"I'm the best. Why?"
He told me that he could add, but needed to work on subtraction.
"What's six plus three?"
"... ... ... Nine."
"Wait, were you counting in your head?"
"Yes."
"Okay, we need to work on your addition skills first." I wrote an addition table, and showed him how to use it. I then tore a page into squares, wrote digits on them, placed them face-down, and shuffled them around. "Pick two squares at random. Add them using the table. Then say the results to yourself at least five times in a row, like this: 'Two plus five equals seven. Two plus five equals seven...' That will help you memorize the addition table. Once you have that down, it'll make everything else in math much easier."
Later, on the way to the car, I asked, "What's six plus eight? Off the top of your head, without counting." (That sum had come up about a third of the way into his practice.)
"Fourteen."
"Dude! That was awesome! You have no idea how happy you just made me."
Since then, he's also been memorizing multiplication tables with a tutor.
"Wait, your mom has never given you 'the talk' about staying safe around the police?'"
"No."
"We'll go over that next week. Safety is one of your goals, and this is important."
[I go home, research extensively, and take notes, because I'm not black, so nobody has had to give me 'the talk'.]
[Next week.] "First off, avoid being around the police whenever possible. But don't run away from them; just walk normally. Don't talk to them unless they're directly asking you a question. If they attack you, you *cannot* raise your hands to defend yourself: That'll cause them to escalate, and possibly shoot you. This is the position you get into, to protect your head and your front..."
The person's house staff invited me in to wait for them. I saw a cat, so I did the slow blink, looked slightly away, crouched, and wiggled my hand. The cat immediately trotted over, tail up, to accept lots of scritches and to mark me.
House staff: "Wow, that's weird! She doesn't like anyone, unless she's known them forever."
"Oh, I speak cat. The slow blink is the key..."
While I was still shadowing other staff members (before supporting people on my own), we brought one of our folks out for coffee and limited conversation: Their favorite outing. I recognized this as the archetype of the pointless community activity, though I had not yet read the works citing it as such.
Once I started supporting them, I was determined that we would find something else to do. (This, despite the fact that the decision is ultimately in their hands: The folks are the royalty, and staff are the viziers. If we think we know better, we can only achieve it by prompts and suggestions.) We are now in a routine of finding books for me to read to them in the children's section of the library. They then check out their favorite one, for house staff to reread to them later. (Doing funny voices for the characters helps a lot.) The library staff know us.
Respect goes a long way with most of the folks I support.
One of them told me about a park that I had never been to. The next week, I enthusiastically thanked them for that, and gushed about how much my wife and I had enjoyed it. I heard shortly that they told their team leader that they really liked me. (I read later about Social Role Valorization. I had provided appreciation for their having filled a valuable social role, which is among the most lacking and wanted experiences for the folks we support. Also, sincere thanking is a sign of real respect. I make sure to thank the folks frequently.)
One guy I supported was talking about the possibility of finding a girlfriend, in a longing, despairing, and passive way that reminded me of the first *mumble* years of my own life. I asked his permission to send him a link to my essay on some errors of thought that keep shy people lonely. He greatly appreciated it. (He's doing better now, though I don't know whether my help mattered. He was touched by the gesture, in any case.)
Shortly after I was cleared to work alone, a team leader asked me to bring one of the folks out for coffee for a half-hour. This was an elderly woman who didn't do much. Over coffee, I made small talk with her about our respective weekends, and about her favorite TV shows. Her TV shows meant nothing to me, but I treated it as though I were fulfilling a social obligation to my grandmother. Afterward, she told the team leader that she had had a really good time with me. I was glad that I could please her so easily, but also sad that the bar was so low. How lonely, or empty, does most of your time have to be, for a bit of small talk to be the highlight of your day? (But it's not just "a bit of small talk," is it? It's someone showing enough interest to ask questions, and to listen to the answers. This echoes a dichotomy I feel about many of our less engaged folks: They need *so* much more in their lives than we're giving them, that it makes me feel like we're not succeeding at our mission to improve their lives. But then I think of what their lives would be like without our services, and it reminds me that yes, we really are providing value for them.)
One of the folks got increasingly upset with another one for giving them the silent treatment, until the second one had a violent meltdown at me for suggesting that it was rude. I realized afterward that the silent treatment hadn't been intentional: They had gone involuntarily nonverbal as a symptom of an underlying issue, and had become increasingly frustrated with being asked to respond when they couldn't. I made a paper sign for them to keep in their bag: "Please don't speak to me. I need seclusion. Thanks!" I checked in a few days later, and they reported that they had used it successfully.
Our department was hemorrhaging money. One identified source was a supplemental writing class: Two of the folks from the big writing class worked independently with the writing teacher on a different day. By an arrangement set up by a former manager, our department was paying for this, but because no staff were supporting the folks, we couldn't get compensated. Management was talking about stopping the class. Having been to the bigger writing class, I knew that this teacher provided immense value. I looked into the supplemental class: The teacher informed me that it was where these folks got help with their personal projects. Without it, one of them never would have published his book of poetry, and the other never would have set up his poetry open mic nights. They both had more projects in the works, and it would be very helpful to have staff present, to give additional individual help. Losing these sessions would have been a great blow to our folks, so I brought this information to management and personally offered to provide the support there. Everyone was happy with my proactive meddling, and I've been pleased to help with fiction, poetry, cover design, and board game design.
Our department needed to reorganize and reinstate the team structure. The problem was that there was too much information for humans to handle: Who did and did not work well together (staff and folks, folks and folks, staff and staff) and to what degree; keeping staff who were cleared to work at particular sites teamed up with folks who volunteered there; teaming up folks who shared activities, to make efficient use of staff time; and more. This attempt at optimized reorganization was an "np-hard" problem: Difficult for a computer, and practically impossible for a human. Indeed, despite working hard at the problem, the management's attempt to create coherent teams included enough problematic pairings (or separations) to create a lot of grumbling among the staff. I heard a few staff remark that they planned to put in their two weeks' notice when the new teams went live. We were already badly strained from understaffing, and an exodus would have been devastating to the remaining department's functionality and morale. So I offered to write an optimizing program, using all of the information we had so far, and collecting a great deal more. Management okayed it. To shorten what would otherwise be a very long story, it was a ton of work, but it functioned remarkably well, and we wound up with a great set of teams. A lot of people (staff and folks) have told me that they're very happy with their new teams. (I didn't get half of what I told the optimizer I wanted, and I still wound up with a team with whom I can work well and happily!)
I took one of the writing students for a gorgeous walk on the secret trail above Cohoes Falls. We planned to work on poetry over coffee at Dunkin' Donuts afterward, as we had before. As we walked, we discussed his plans for his next book, and strategies to save money for it. We figured that he spent over $325 annually on coffee; I mentioned cheaper places to get coffee, but proposed that he instead brew a pot of coffee, have some with breakfast, and take the rest in a travel mug for later. I discussed ways to resist temptations to spend money: Consider how long it took to save that money (much longer than it took to earn it); also consider what big things are being saved for, and whether one would prefer the immediate purchase or progress toward the long-term goal. The conversation then turned to book publishing and distribution.
When we got back into the car, I said, "I have a question for you, and it's a test. But I don't judge your answer to the test. Only you judge your answer. Here's the question. Dunkin' Donuts?"
"What are the other choices?" he asked.
"You could get coffee at Cumberland Farms. Or we could work on poetry at the library."
"The library."
We started toward the library. "You know that's the answer that I wanted to hear, but how do you feel about it?"
"I feel great! I'm saving money, and I can have coffee at home."
(I felt triumphant about this, of course. Readers of Influence: Science and Practice may note that I invoked consistency pressure by asking him to judge his own answer. Having declared, himself, that it was a good choice, he's more likely to behave consistently with that decision in the future.)
Since he had loved my double dactyls at writing class, he asked me to help him with those at the library. Never mind that it was by far the hardest type of poetry he'd tried. This guy has gumption. With a great deal of help on the meter, a web search for six syllable words, and some suggested word substitutions, he finished one. I gave him homework to write some iambic pentameter, as easier practice heeding accented syllables.
One team leader took me up on the offer to determine the best walking spots for any given set of constraints. The constraints in this case depended on the facilities available. I spent quite a while calling park supervisors for information, then compiled a list with extensive details (mostly from my own knowledge). (I felt some impostor syndrome the first several times I made a phone call starting with, "Hi, this is Joseph Levy with [organization]. I'm looking for some information on...") The team leader and the person supported were blown away by the document (they said it was like having a tour guide), and very grateful for the effort.
I took a pair of guys out for free choice. "What do you want to do?" They chose to go to the mall. I knew that this typically meant wandering around and browsing stores, after which the staff would put it down as exercise or something else related to their goals, while they were really just killing time. Okay, I thought, I can work with this.
I came up with the idea of having "practice conversations". I instructed them on finding people who looked receptive to conversation, and making eye contact first. We obtained consent from two different strangers to have practice conversations, with introductions, questions, discussions of their interests, finding common ground, and reading nonverbal cues about wrapping up. I explained about not doing certain intimidating things, like outnumbering women, or discussing martial arts early on. Afterward, they gushed about how awesome our outing had been.
None of this was familiar to me. Addressing strangers like that was well outside of my comfort zone! I had never given conscious thought to most of the instruction that I provided. It gave me an appreciation for how much unexamined knowledge I must have about social interactions. Getting all that stuff out into the conscious domain would enable me to be much more helpful. (Yes, Unwritten Rules of Social Relationships is on my to-read list, but my to-read list spends its nights sad and lonely, pining for my attention.)
I had an unexpected realization that one of our severely impaired folks could benefit from aikido classes. Once I persuaded their dubious team leader, I got in touch with a local sensei, had a meeting, and discussed schedules and pricing. Sadly, the funding for this turned out not to be available without sacrificing a favorite activity.
"What would you like to work on?" I asked.
"Are you good at math?" he suggested.
"I'm the best. Why?"
He told me that he could add, but needed to work on subtraction.
"What's six plus three?"
"... ... ... Nine."
"Wait, were you counting in your head?"
"Yes."
"Okay, we need to work on your addition skills first." I wrote an addition table, and showed him how to use it. I then tore a page into squares, wrote digits on them, placed them face-down, and shuffled them around. "Pick two squares at random. Add them using the table. Then say the results to yourself at least five times in a row, like this: 'Two plus five equals seven. Two plus five equals seven...' That will help you memorize the addition table. Once you have that down, it'll make everything else in math much easier."
Later, on the way to the car, I asked, "What's six plus eight? Off the top of your head, without counting." (That sum had come up about a third of the way into his practice.)
"Fourteen."
"Dude! That was awesome! You have no idea how happy you just made me."
Since then, he's also been memorizing multiplication tables with a tutor.
"Wait, your mom has never given you 'the talk' about staying safe around the police?'"
"No."
"We'll go over that next week. Safety is one of your goals, and this is important."
[I go home, research extensively, and take notes, because I'm not black, so nobody has had to give me 'the talk'.]
[Next week.] "First off, avoid being around the police whenever possible. But don't run away from them; just walk normally. Don't talk to them unless they're directly asking you a question. If they attack you, you *cannot* raise your hands to defend yourself: That'll cause them to escalate, and possibly shoot you. This is the position you get into, to protect your head and your front..."
The person's house staff invited me in to wait for them. I saw a cat, so I did the slow blink, looked slightly away, crouched, and wiggled my hand. The cat immediately trotted over, tail up, to accept lots of scritches and to mark me.
House staff: "Wow, that's weird! She doesn't like anyone, unless she's known them forever."
"Oh, I speak cat. The slow blink is the key..."
While I was still shadowing other staff members (before supporting people on my own), we brought one of our folks out for coffee and limited conversation: Their favorite outing. I recognized this as the archetype of the pointless community activity, though I had not yet read the works citing it as such.
Once I started supporting them, I was determined that we would find something else to do. (This, despite the fact that the decision is ultimately in their hands: The folks are the royalty, and staff are the viziers. If we think we know better, we can only achieve it by prompts and suggestions.) We are now in a routine of finding books for me to read to them in the children's section of the library. They then check out their favorite one, for house staff to reread to them later. (Doing funny voices for the characters helps a lot.) The library staff know us.
Respect goes a long way with most of the folks I support.
One of them told me about a park that I had never been to. The next week, I enthusiastically thanked them for that, and gushed about how much my wife and I had enjoyed it. I heard shortly that they told their team leader that they really liked me. (I read later about Social Role Valorization. I had provided appreciation for their having filled a valuable social role, which is among the most lacking and wanted experiences for the folks we support. Also, sincere thanking is a sign of real respect. I make sure to thank the folks frequently.)
One guy I supported was talking about the possibility of finding a girlfriend, in a longing, despairing, and passive way that reminded me of the first *mumble* years of my own life. I asked his permission to send him a link to my essay on some errors of thought that keep shy people lonely. He greatly appreciated it. (He's doing better now, though I don't know whether my help mattered. He was touched by the gesture, in any case.)
Shortly after I was cleared to work alone, a team leader asked me to bring one of the folks out for coffee for a half-hour. This was an elderly woman who didn't do much. Over coffee, I made small talk with her about our respective weekends, and about her favorite TV shows. Her TV shows meant nothing to me, but I treated it as though I were fulfilling a social obligation to my grandmother. Afterward, she told the team leader that she had had a really good time with me. I was glad that I could please her so easily, but also sad that the bar was so low. How lonely, or empty, does most of your time have to be, for a bit of small talk to be the highlight of your day? (But it's not just "a bit of small talk," is it? It's someone showing enough interest to ask questions, and to listen to the answers. This echoes a dichotomy I feel about many of our less engaged folks: They need *so* much more in their lives than we're giving them, that it makes me feel like we're not succeeding at our mission to improve their lives. But then I think of what their lives would be like without our services, and it reminds me that yes, we really are providing value for them.)
One of the folks got increasingly upset with another one for giving them the silent treatment, until the second one had a violent meltdown at me for suggesting that it was rude. I realized afterward that the silent treatment hadn't been intentional: They had gone involuntarily nonverbal as a symptom of an underlying issue, and had become increasingly frustrated with being asked to respond when they couldn't. I made a paper sign for them to keep in their bag: "Please don't speak to me. I need seclusion. Thanks!" I checked in a few days later, and they reported that they had used it successfully.
Our department was hemorrhaging money. One identified source was a supplemental writing class: Two of the folks from the big writing class worked independently with the writing teacher on a different day. By an arrangement set up by a former manager, our department was paying for this, but because no staff were supporting the folks, we couldn't get compensated. Management was talking about stopping the class. Having been to the bigger writing class, I knew that this teacher provided immense value. I looked into the supplemental class: The teacher informed me that it was where these folks got help with their personal projects. Without it, one of them never would have published his book of poetry, and the other never would have set up his poetry open mic nights. They both had more projects in the works, and it would be very helpful to have staff present, to give additional individual help. Losing these sessions would have been a great blow to our folks, so I brought this information to management and personally offered to provide the support there. Everyone was happy with my proactive meddling, and I've been pleased to help with fiction, poetry, cover design, and board game design.
Our department needed to reorganize and reinstate the team structure. The problem was that there was too much information for humans to handle: Who did and did not work well together (staff and folks, folks and folks, staff and staff) and to what degree; keeping staff who were cleared to work at particular sites teamed up with folks who volunteered there; teaming up folks who shared activities, to make efficient use of staff time; and more. This attempt at optimized reorganization was an "np-hard" problem: Difficult for a computer, and practically impossible for a human. Indeed, despite working hard at the problem, the management's attempt to create coherent teams included enough problematic pairings (or separations) to create a lot of grumbling among the staff. I heard a few staff remark that they planned to put in their two weeks' notice when the new teams went live. We were already badly strained from understaffing, and an exodus would have been devastating to the remaining department's functionality and morale. So I offered to write an optimizing program, using all of the information we had so far, and collecting a great deal more. Management okayed it. To shorten what would otherwise be a very long story, it was a ton of work, but it functioned remarkably well, and we wound up with a great set of teams. A lot of people (staff and folks) have told me that they're very happy with their new teams. (I didn't get half of what I told the optimizer I wanted, and I still wound up with a team with whom I can work well and happily!)
I took one of the writing students for a gorgeous walk on the secret trail above Cohoes Falls. We planned to work on poetry over coffee at Dunkin' Donuts afterward, as we had before. As we walked, we discussed his plans for his next book, and strategies to save money for it. We figured that he spent over $325 annually on coffee; I mentioned cheaper places to get coffee, but proposed that he instead brew a pot of coffee, have some with breakfast, and take the rest in a travel mug for later. I discussed ways to resist temptations to spend money: Consider how long it took to save that money (much longer than it took to earn it); also consider what big things are being saved for, and whether one would prefer the immediate purchase or progress toward the long-term goal. The conversation then turned to book publishing and distribution.
When we got back into the car, I said, "I have a question for you, and it's a test. But I don't judge your answer to the test. Only you judge your answer. Here's the question. Dunkin' Donuts?"
"What are the other choices?" he asked.
"You could get coffee at Cumberland Farms. Or we could work on poetry at the library."
"The library."
We started toward the library. "You know that's the answer that I wanted to hear, but how do you feel about it?"
"I feel great! I'm saving money, and I can have coffee at home."
(I felt triumphant about this, of course. Readers of Influence: Science and Practice may note that I invoked consistency pressure by asking him to judge his own answer. Having declared, himself, that it was a good choice, he's more likely to behave consistently with that decision in the future.)
Since he had loved my double dactyls at writing class, he asked me to help him with those at the library. Never mind that it was by far the hardest type of poetry he'd tried. This guy has gumption. With a great deal of help on the meter, a web search for six syllable words, and some suggested word substitutions, he finished one. I gave him homework to write some iambic pentameter, as easier practice heeding accented syllables.