Steamed

about their physical health, socioeconomic status, and family trees. I might even have been able to entice Eric’s parents into revealing the details of their history with Eric, their parenting experiences, and their mental complexities. My thought processes momentarily halted. Did a couple so exceedingly boring actually have mental complexities? I nonetheless resolved to take my educational endeavors more seriously than I’d been doing.
    With that resolution in mind, I headed off the next morning to face Naomi, the minioffice, and harassment of employers about sexual harassment. On the T ride downtown, I even tried to convince myself that I enjoyed being packed like a smiling sardine among cranky commuters.
    Naomi was barely visible behind her desk, the top of which held about six thousand manila folders. “Is that you, Chloe? How are you?” Braided as ever, she emerged, walked toward me with open arms, and embraced me. Energized as I was about learning what social work school had to teach— and not knowing what else to do—I hugged her back.
    “I’m fine. How are you?”
    “Wonderful. I think we should start each day with a hug and a short staff meeting about our inner goals for the day. This is a stressful line of work, and we need to begin with all our emotional ducks in a row, don't you think?”
    I suppressed the impulse to quack.
    Naomi smiled broadly and pulled two chairs together so that they faced each other with little space in between. “Okay, now grab a seat, and we’ll get started.”
    Braids, I thought, must have taken too many antidepressants. Empathic social worker that I was becoming, I played along. We took our seats, our knees practically pressing together.
    “Now,” Braids began, “I myself am not a terribly religious person.” She brought her hand to her chest. “But I still take the time every morning to thank a higher power for giving me the strength to rise to the challenges I face every day here at this organization.” She took my hands in hers and closed her eyes. “I’m so grateful for the opportunity to work with Chloe. I welcome her today, and every day, as we share in our determination to protect the women of Boston from hostile work environments. I will work hard to be the best possible supervisor I can be, and I will put aside my own troubles while I help women whose needs are greater than mine.”
    She opened her eyes and pursed her lips as if to contain overwhelming emotion. Were those tears in her eyes? She squeezed my hands and let out an enormous breath. “Okay. Now, your turn. If you’re religious, you’re free to say a prayer if you’d like.”
    “Oh, no thanks. Um,” I stammered. There were probably thousands of traditional thank-you prayers and asking-for-strength prayers out there, not one of which I knew. I closed my eyes and did my best. “I, as well, am grateful for the opportunity to work with you. And I, as well, want to have my emotional ducks nicely aligned so that I may perform to my full capacity as a social worker.” I opened one eye to see Naomi swell with pride at my willingness to expose my inner self.
    “Wonderful!” she leaned over and gave me another hug.
    Now, on with our day!”
    I spent a good part of the morning pretending to organize the filing cabinets and reviewing procedures for answering the hotline calls I had so far avoided.
    Naomi was on the phone when-the dreaded hotline phone rang. I glanced over at my supervisor, who was in the middle of informing a caller that the practice of referring to female employees as “babes” was outrageous and unacceptable, and needed to be stopped immediately. It belatedly occurred to me that when I’d been invited to pray, I should’ve asked God to divert Naomi’s attention from comparatively minor deviations from feminist ideals and toward the existence of genital mutilation and other truly horrifying crimes against women. She looked up at me and signaled me to pick up the call.
    I lifted the receiver from the ancient-looking phone. “Hello? Boston Organization Against Sexual Harassment and Other... Things.” What the hell were we called?
    “Hi, this is Ellen,” a young-sounding voice told me. “I spoke with Naomi a few weeks ago about my problems at work, but I wanted to see if I could talk to her again.”
    “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said with relief. “She’s busy right now. Can I take a message?”
    “No, Chloe,” Naomi called from her desk. “You take it. You can do