The following guest post was contributed by Cornerstone teacher and assistant professor of Social Work, Dr. Stephen Baldridge.

My first job out of college was working as a case manager for Medicaid. What the job basically entailed was me going into homes that had sick kids, and helping them find resources. Sounds easy, right?

Being the only guy at the agency, I was immediately assigned the areas of Dallas that the female case workers did not feel comfortable going into, which ended up being Oak Cliff and Pleasant Grove. I am white, upper-middle class, and went to private school the majority of my life. After high school I attended Lubbock Christian University, which is mostly made up of white, upper-middle class people. Oak Cliff and Pleasant Grove were not something I was used to. Most 22 year-old white guys cruising the streets of Oak Cliff in a Honda Accord were in the market for drugs, so my leather organizer and social work business card soon became my best friends, easily identifying me to the local business men as well as the police that often stopped me to ask me why I was there. I felt kind of like a poor-man’s FBI agent, flashing my business cards to anyone questioning me, saying “I’m a social worker,” like that gave me free access to the neighborhood. I soon realized that I didn’t want free access to the neighborhood.

This realization came around 8:30 PM on a Tuesday night in late August. I was finishing up my work for the day and had one more client to see. This family of eight lived in a two bedroom apartment in the projects of east Dallas. It was getting dark, but I figured this would only take a minute. As I turned into the parking lot, I noticed a group of African American men standing on the corner of one of the buildings. There were probably 10 of them, all about my age. They looked to see me turning in, and all began to walk beside my car until I parked. The men circled around my door and waited for me to get out. I don’t remember ever wanting to curl up and suck my thumb while my mom told me everything was going to be ok more than I did at that exact time. I had no idea what to do. I swallowed hard, said a quick prayer, and opened the door with a goofy smile on my face as if I was part of this community and had every right to be there. One of the men said to me “what’s up, what can we do for you?” I froze, and stood there with a stupid blank look on my face trying not to wet my pants. Thanks to my sheltered life and prejudice stereotypes I knew that right then and there was the time I was going to be robbed and murdered. Just as I was bracing myself for the end, my client stepped out of her apartment and said “he’s ok.” They all smiled at me and went back to what they were doing.

That night changed me. I realized that I was an outsider, that I was alone in this job, this community. I looked differently, talked differently, ate differently, smelled differently, and lived differently than everyone I was around during the day. It took me 22 years to realize that there are actually people in this world that don’t live as a white, spoiled, church kid growing up in west Texas. I began hating my job, dreading going to work every day.

Today Dr. Campos spoke about “walking a mile in someone else’s shoes.” As much as I believed I was a good social worker, I didn’t want to walk a mile in my clients’ shoes. I didn’t want to think about what it was like living in a two bedroom apartment with six kids and 1,500 roaches. I didn’t want to see what it felt like to shop at the discount supermarkets and eat the cheap foods, the food that only food stamps could buy. I wanted to go to work, “help” these people (without getting too close to them), then go home to my apartment and forget about them while I ate my white people food and watched reality TV (re-read that sentence and look for irony). I was not willing to walk a mile in their shoes. Why? Because it hurt. Walking a mile in their shoes meant I would have to take my shoes off, and wear their shoes . . . shoes that probably didn’t come from the same store where I shopped. I had never been an alien before, and it rocked my world. I had a hard time reconciling my job and my life . . . how could I be a good social worker when I couldn’t even relate to my clients?

When I look back on it, that was the best job in the world for me. As miserable as I was, as much as I hated it, God put me in that job for a reason. He forced me to spend time with some of his children that I was not used to or comfortable with. The more I worked in that job, the more I began to understand what these families were going through. I became part of their routine, part of their lives, and they began to accept and welcome me. They became hospitable to me. They forced me to walk a mile in their shoes, even though I wasn’t ready to. I went to the social services office with them to help them apply. I went to the shelters with them to help them find food. I went to job interviews with them to help them find the office. I saw what they went through. I had to be baptized by fire that Tuesday night in August for God to open my ignorant, stubborn eyes to a world that needs help.

I still struggle to this day. I am comfortable in my nice office, my nice things, my nice family. I like my shoes, and want to keep them on. That is the problem. In the episode of 30 Days Frank says “I want millions of Americans to get up and do something about this before our nation is gone.” I have to say that I agree with Frank. Millions of Americans, specifically me, need to get out and do something to help this nation, to become aliens. The problem is, I have to be willing to take off my shoes. I am comfortable in my life, I need to be willing to be uncomfortable.

What is it that is keeping you from taking off your shoes? Is it money, shyness, fear of embarrassment? The first step in learning any truth is to recognize our shortcomings, admit them, and be willing to take off our shoes. I hope I will be able to take off mine.