(no subject)

May 18, 2007 00:45

Mr. S, the oldest in the group of ten or so, was 71. The youngest, D., was my age, give or take a year. I was observing from an olive-colored plastic chair that squeaked whenever I crossed or uncrossed my legs. In the middle row, a heavy black woman squinted into a compact mirror as she painstakingly applied mascara and red lipstick. A William & Mary alumna in the back row read passages from the handout aloud. The man in front of her her rolled up the leg of his pants and scratched his shin.

The lesson for the day, bisected to accommodate a fifteen minute coffee and cigarette break, focused on the relation between creativity and brain plasticity; trying new things yields all sorts of fun new neural connections, which leads to new skills, higher cognition, and whatever else. While the handout was used as a guideline, the discussion branched significantly. Creativity, it was decided in discussion, could be used as a tool both in establishing "self concept" (which was written on the board in blue dry erase marker) and treating mental illness.

The "students" in the classroom were the mentally ill.

I had my orientation today at the mental health organization I'll be volunteering at over the summer. I'm working with the day program, which provides therapy for the mentally ill as well as training in literacy, social skills, and basic life skills.

I guess I'm one of an embarrassingly small number of people who gets excited about meeting her very first disorganized-category schizophrenic. It happens.

The next few months will be interesting, I think.
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