Chicken Soup for the African American Woman's Soul by Jack Canfield
Quickly my cafeteria meal plan was replaced with restaurant dinners where I happily paid for my “friends” to order to their hungry hearts’ delight. When I wasn’t at the mall or eating out, I was hitting the books, juggling an insane course load and holding fast to my dream of moving to New York one day soon.
I got good grades and was even awarded two internships— at a radio station and a newspaper. My professors were impressed with my determination and hard work. In the fall of 1994, just three and a half years after coming to N.S.U., I got what I’d been waiting for; word that I was approved to graduate.
So, less than a month before my twenty-second birthday, I boarded an airplane to New York with a one-way ticket, a high GPA and a very low credit score.
I walked into the human resources office ten minutes early for my face-to-face meeting after having been invited by the account manager, whom I’d impressed during a phone interview just two weeks before.
I was interviewed by several people before being shown around the office and even introduced to someone as the “bright young lady we’re looking to add to our team.” The day was going incredibly well, and I was confident that this was my date with destiny.
I waited in the reception area in anxious anticipation for the job offer I assumed was coming next. When my name was called, I quickly jumped to attention and walked into the office of the human resources director.
I tried to remain calm as she looked over the papers on her desk for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, she looked at me and said, “Sanyika, everyone here has been really impressed with you.” I nodded, trying to seem more confident than arrogant. In a calm tone she continued, “You’re the best candidate for this position. . . .”
I know , I thought to myself.
“We want to hire you for this position. . . .” The anticipation was killing me. Get on with it then , I thought, a little annoyed at the delayed delivery.
Again she spoke, “In considering you as the final candidate for this position. . . .” My insides were screaming. I was hanging on her every word. “We had to review your credit report. In doing so we realized that you haven’t been responsible with your personal finances, therefore we cannot assume that you will be responsible on our behalf either. I’m very sorry.”
If she said anything after “I’m very sorry,” I couldn’t tell you what it was. My senses were short-circuiting all at once. I fought a fierce battle within, as every emotion I had threatened to overtake me. I bit my lip to choke back the tears that were threatening to come pouring down my face as I swallowed back the biggest lump my throat had ever produced.
I watched her slowly rise from her chair and extend her hand toward me, which I took more to stop the room from spinning than anything else. I managed to say, “Thank you for your time.” But the battle over my emotions left me numb and incoherent.
The life lesson I learned that day was more valuable than all the book smarts I’d worked so hard to acquire.
Actually the lyrics from India Arie’s song, “Slow Down” summed it up best. I was moving too fast and ignoring all the warnings along the way.
I was certain that I was the only one in the world to mess things up so bad. I was embarrassed, frustrated and honestly didn’t know what I didn’t know. All I knew was that I needed more education, and I became passionate about finding solutions for my credit problems.
Soon it became apparent that there was no one book, program, pill or potion that would magically make my troubles disappear. I couldn’t rush this process, like I had before; it would require a lifetime commitment to learning and applying the money lessons that I was never taught in school to repay my debt and reclaim my life.
I was determined to stay in New York, and while I pursued my original dream a new one began to form. By talking to others about their money challenges I learned that whenever you think you’re “the only one” who’s made a big mistake; there are thousands more people thinking the same thing.
I realized that the absence of financial literacy lessons in school wasn’t something to be angry about , but rather an oversight to do something about . What seemed like a cruel twist of fate became an awesome opportunity. Now I put my gift for gab to full use by teaching and writing about money management, debt prevention and savvy saving tips to teens, college students and even parents so that they won’t make the same mistakes I did and can successfully land their dream jobs.
My mess has become my message. How’s that for a dream come true?!
Sanyika Calloway Boyce
The Graduation
Education is the jewel casting brilliance into the future.
The year was 1945, and Ruth Alston was about to embark on a journey that would forever change her life and affect the lives of her descendants, just as the plight of Sojourner Truth and Harriet Tubman had affected the next generation of young black women born into freedom because of their determination. Ruth had waged a battle despite having to walk three miles alone in the early morning hours through dirt roads full of haunts. She would then stand and wait for the bus to come and transport her the remaining ten miles to the only colored high school in the area.
It was during Ruth’s sophomore year that Elsie Louise Smith had moved a mile from her on the old Jordan farm. Elsie shared her desire to obtain her high school diploma. Each morning Ruth would strike out on that one-mile journey and Elsie would watch for her from the window to round the bend, then she would head out to meet her.
Together they had endured the scorn and laughter of their peers, those who had dropped out, stating that it was “too difficult.”
Too difficult! Ruth would often repeat to herself. Her generation had no real idea of what difficult was. Difficult was what her ancestors had to endure: not being allowed to attend school, or learn how to read and write, and seeing one’s family ripped apart at the whim of someone else. No, she did not see the task before her as difficult, more like a torch of hope that she was more than willing to carry.
It was an extremely warm Carolina morning as Ruth pushed the burlap curtain back so that she could look out the window. Today was the culmination of all her dreams, and despite her best efforts it looked like the moment might pass her by.
“Come on away from that window. I told you to go ahead and get yourself dressed. Your papa wouldn’t let you down on your special day. He’ll be here any moment.”
Ruth knew there was no need to argue with her mama.
Hattie thought that the sun rose and set on Papa’s head.
In truth, Papa was no saint. He swore a little too much and liked to have himself a shot of corn whisky too often for anyone to mistake him for a saint.
“Yes, Mama,” she reluctantly replied as she turned away from the window and walked down the dimly lit hallway to her small bedroom. There she looked at the lovely yellow and white dress that Mama had spent the last two weeks making. It was the prettiest thing that she had ever seen. The collar and sleeves were trimmed in a yellow silklike material, and the dress had little white flowers interwoven into the fabric. Slowly Ruth began to unbutton her old work dress as a thousand memories came rushing back to her.
There had never been a doubt in her mind that she would graduate from high school. She remembered when her older sister, who had gotten pregnant and married instead of going to school, yelled at her, “What you wasting your time on trying to get an education? In the end it won’t matter. I need your help with Junior. Your homework can wait!”
Ruth looked at her sister, and for the first time she realized that they were nothing alike. “You know, Retta, I am going to graduate because that’s my dream. You’re going to have to take care of your own child.” Ruth walked out as her sister screamed names at her departing back.
Later that evening as expected, Loretta and her husband, Bobby, had brought Bobby Jr. over to visit his grandparents. Papa and Mama had listened to them explain why Loretta needed her sister’s help. Papa stood, lit his pipe and walked over to the window.<
“I reckon that helping or not helping the two of you is Ruth’s decision. Bobby, you married one of my daughters, not both. Getting married and starting a family is a big responsibility. One that the two of you said you were ready for.”
“But, Mama . . .” Loretta began in her typical whining voice.
Hattie looked at her husband and the set of his mouth did not lend itself to any further discussion. “Papa has spoken.”
The noise of the old Model T coming down the road brought Ruth out of her reverie and back to the present. She raced down the hallway yelling, “Mama, he’s here!”
Hattie wiped her hands on her apron before pulling it over her head. “I reckon you better run and slip your shoes on.” Before Ruth could move, the door swung open.
There stood Papa. He stepped into the hallway and with that gravelly voice of his stated, “I didn’t forget, Babyray.” He walked hurriedly down the hallway and stepped into the room that he shared with Mama. After splashing some water from the wash basin on his face and changing out of his blue overalls, he dressed in his Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes that consisted of a white cotton shirt that had seen too many washings and a pair of black pants. Papa combed his long gray hair back and picked up his keys.
Papa had driven that old Model T as fast as it would go, not slowing down until he needed to make the turn into the dirt field by the school. Ruth saw her class marching from the schoolhouse to the building that served as the gym. She hurriedly climbed out of the vehicle before it came to a complete stop, nearly tripping in the process.
Elsie turned her head at the sound of the commotion and yelled, “There’s Ruth!” As she approached her friend, Elsie stated softly, “It just wouldn’t have been the same without you.” The two friends embraced as Mrs. Davis instructed the class to halt their progression. With the help of Ms. Davis and Elsie, Ruth quickly donned her cap and gown and took her place in line.
The sound of the organist at her daughter’s college graduation brought Ruth out of that memorable passage she had journeyed some thirty years ago. It was the adversity of those times, and all she had endured, that brought her to this moment in her life. Ruth stood and applauded loudly as her daughter, Elizabeth Hattie Jacobs, walked across the stage to receive her baccalaureate degree in English. Turning, Ruth looked at her husband, then she embraced her mother.
“Wemade it,Mama.We changed the rules.” Ruth held on to her mother as tears rolled freely down her cheeks. Her only wish was that her father had lived long enough to see this moment. He had drifted off to sleep when Elizabeth was five years old and had not awakened, the result of a heart attack. As Ruth looked around the large stadium full of the hope for the future, she felt Papa’s presence in the formof awarmcaress against her cheek. Smiling she turned back to her mother, “Papa knows.”
“My child, your Papa always knew that this is where your dreams would lead you. And Elizabeth’s dreams will lead her even further.”
Under the bright sunlight of a beautiful May afternoon and miles away from the hardships of a sharecropper’s life, Ruth reflected on her journey. Each generation had a responsibility to open doors and remove obstacles for the next generation. Ruth, through her determination to graduate from high school, had begun to build a foundation for the future.
Bernetta Thorne-Williams
More Than a Dream
There is a spirit and a need and a man at the beginning of every great human advance. Every one of these must be right for that particular moment of history, or nothing happens.
Coretta Scott King
I was only ten years old when Martin Luther King, Jr., was assassinated and do not remember experiencing overt discrimination. I did not drink from colored water fountains or sit in the balcony at movies. I have heard horrendous stories from relatives, seen movies and read books about the civil rights struggle, but I grew up in a Northern city, attended integrated schools and counted my white classmates as friends. I recognize that I have benefited from the civil rights movement, but outside of paying NAACP dues, making a conscious effort to be aware of black history and instilling a sense of pride in my children, I did not feel there was much I could do to advance Dr. King’s dream. I am not an attorney, politician or religious leader, and while I have run into an occasional bigot, the overwhelming majority of my interactions with whites has been positive. What impact could I, a “regular person,” have? That question was answered when I visited the museum.
I must admit I lived in Memphis almost two years before I visited the National Civil Rights Museum. We have a tendency to undervalue things in our own backyard. As a newcomer to Memphis, the Beale Street clubs were first on my list of things to see and do. I saw Graceland and Elvis’s plane, the Lisa Marie . I went to one of the biggest events in the city, the annual Southern Heritage Classic between Jackson State University and Tennessee State University. The football game and concerts give the city a festive spirit all weekend. I had even found flea markets I liked to scour for hidden treasures.
And, I’ll confess, I visited the nearby casinos in Tunica more than once. I did all of these things before I visited the National Civil Rights Museum. But once I went, I couldn’t believe it had taken me so long to tour this important landmark.
Images of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., permeate our society. More Americans can recite his “I Have a Dream” speech than the Constitution.We commemorate his life on the third Monday in January. But in all of this celebration, Dr. King has been placed on a pedestal, and we tend to forget he was a real person. He was a great, anointed man.
Yet still a man. A visit to the National Civil Rights Museum reminds me of his humanity and reveals how important the actions of “regular people” can be.
The first thing that strikes me about the museum is the neighborhood. When I first turned onto the street the museum is on, I thought, This is it? The National Civil Rights Museum is not housed in a fancy edifice with columns and marbled halls. The museum is located at the Lorraine Motel, the site of Dr. King’s assassination. It is not on a major street and is not in the best part of town. The neighborhood is now being revitalized, but even in 1968, I am sure more prestigious accommodations were available. Segregation downtown had ended, and there are hotels with scenic views of the mighty Mississippi River that would have been more worthy. This man had dined with kings and presidents. He had won a Nobel Peace Prize and was revered by millions. Yet he stayed in a two-story motel in a working–class area of town. It is reported that he stayed in this motel to be closer to the working people—the “regular people” he had come to help. This neighborhood is tangible evidence of his humility.
The next thing I notice is the vehicle parked in front of the museum. It is a white 1967 Cadillac Coupe de Ville. This is the vehicle he was driven in when he came to Memphis. We often think of him as the “dreamer.” We see him marching in Selma, giving a speech in the nation’s capital and being heckled in Chicago. His image is associated with pivotal moments in history, and it’s as if he floated from place to place. He did not float. He needed transportation to get to all these places. That Cadillac reminds me of his humanity.
Inside the museum, we climb a flight of stairs and walk single file into 1968. We speak in hushed tones, as if we have entered a church sanctuary. Mahalia Jackson’s stirring contralto is in the background and seems to waft down from heaven. We are on hallowed ground. Even children, who have been antsy in other parts of the tour, quiet down.
The tour guide has ushered us just steps away from where Dr. King had his last meal. The bed is unmade. A coffee cup and ashtray sit next to his room service tray. The room looks as though its resident has just stepped out for a moment. But this is Room 306 of the Lorraine Motel, in Memphis, Tennessee, the last place Dr. King slept.
Room 306 is a sparse room with modest furniture. After the speeches, interviews and crowds, he returned to a room like this, rather than to his home and family. He not only sacrificed his life, he sacrificed precious time with his wi
Room 306 is also evidence of his honesty and commitment to his calling. Dr. King and Reverend Ralph Abernathy shared a room. In these days when so many religious leaders are viewed with suspicion regarding their financial motives, and scandals plague so many charitable organizations, it is refreshing to know that Dr.
King’s motives were genuine. He stayed in a modest motel and shared a room to save money. He had an honorable calling and did not try to profit from it.
This hotel also demonstrates to me that Dr. King understood economics. We have gone from fighting for the right to sit on the bus, to the right to drive the bus, to the right to own the bus company. Legal obstacles to black entrepreneurship have been removed. The Lorraine Motel was black-owned and during segregation offered blacks a nice place to stay. Dr. King demonstrated that just because we had the right to stay where we wanted, we should not forsake businesses in our own neighborhoods. The “Mountaintop” and “I Have a Dream” speeches are his most quoted, but Dr. King preached black economic empowerment long before it was fashionable. Not only did he preach it, his stay at the Lorraine Motel shows me he lived it.
Although Room 306 is the centerpiece of the museum, there are many other exhibits ranging from the slave trade to a chronicle of lynching. I learn something new each time I visit. On one visit I looked closely at some pictures and saw a woman hanging from a tree. I never knew women were lynched, and her picture haunts me. I feel a kinship with this black woman and wonder about her life. There is a replica of the Montgomery bus where Rosa Parks was arrested. I knew black people had to sit in the back, but I didn’t know that blacks had to pay their money, then get off the bus and go to the back door to get on. I get mad just thinking about it. Maybe this is why I took so long to visit the museum. I didn’t want to get all stirred up, then have to go to work and smile at white folks.