Chicken Soup for the African American Woman's Soul Page 10

  After his swift departure, I immediately took up the cross of being a young, unwed mother and carried it around like a martyr, accepting my impending doom in silence. Though her father and I both shared in the blame of doing what we did to bring the child into the world, I bore the burden for both of us. Because he was no longer around, there was no one else to blame but me. I felt like

  Hester Prynne in The Scarlet Letter , except instead of a bold red letter emblazoned across my chest, my mark of shame was my huge belly that was increasingly hard to ignore with each passing day.

  Ironically, everyone else had already forgiven me. I just could never manage to forgive myself. I asked the Lord for forgiveness as sincerely as I could muster. Even my mother, who was so disappointed that she didn’t speak to me for four months, finally came around, flying all the way to California from North Carolina to support me while I brought my baby into the world. But I still felt the need to inflict myself with pain as punishment, almost as if to attempt to purge my sins for the evil I had committed. I wouldn’t socialize with my friends or engage in any activities that remotely resembled having a good time. All of your good times will be spent worrying about somebody else now , I thought. I wouldn’t even afford myself the luxury of screaming out to express my pain during childbirth.

  When she finally came into the world six hours and one minute later, my temporary feeling of relief was invaded by more permanent feelings of anxiety and fear. I lacked a significant amount of maternal instincts. And I had no clue what to do with a baby, anyway, especially a girl baby.

  Heck, I didn’t even know how to cornrow. For that matter, I couldn’t even do my own hair. I went to the hairdresser every two weeks. Oh well, I guess that forty bucks would be going to something else now.

  I was genuinely disappointed that she had not been a boy. There goes my easy ride, I thought. Now, on top of everything else, I’ve got to worry about her doing the same thing I did.

  I felt guilty because I couldn’t pick up my cross and bear it happily like other mothers, single and married alike. So I begrudgingly began my new life as a young mom with no prospects of being married and no hopes of ever having any fun. With my spirit officially broken I reluctantly settled into single motherhood. My heart was not in it, and I felt like a monster for secretly viewing my child as a burden.

  My daughter was always a good baby. She had a serious demeanor and didn’t cry much. She became more jovial as she got older and cried even less. She didn’t teethe like most babies who run a fever and are cranky when they start to cut teeth. I just happened to notice six little pegs in her mouth one day as I tickled her belly and she threw her head back to laugh. She settled into daycare without so much as a whimper. And she was a breeze to potty train. It was almost like she did everything with minimal supervision because, even as a baby, she was somehow able to sense that my heart really wasn’t into raising her, and was afraid that I would leave her, too, if she gave me any trouble. And I felt guilty about that, too.

  Oddly enough, with all the guilt, resentment and anxiety I held in my heart, along with the inadequacies I felt about myself as a mom, my daughter either didn’t appear to notice all my shortcomings or she didn’t care. She actually seemed to like the mom that had been handpicked especially for her. From a baby, she greeted me every morning with a smile when I woke her. And she was always excited to see me when I picked her up from daycare. It seemed that she preferred my company to everyone else’s.

  And if that wasn’t a major ego stroke in itself, as she got older she followed me around imitating my every move. She clomped around in my high heels and mimicked my telephone conversations on an old cell phone that she liked to play with. The funniest thing of all was that she actually liked the way I combed her hair, and to this day she contradicts my story when I tell anyone how much I suck at braiding, even after being parent to a little girl for the last twelve years.

  And the fun that I had been so determined to rob myself of has actually been a big hit with my daughter and all her friends. As a younger mom, the music that my daughter likes is not noise to me. In fact, we like many of the same performers, and together we enjoy older groups that I listened to at her age. As a younger mother, I’m able to show her some of the dances we did in the eighties, many of which have come back in style. Just seeing her mouth drop in amazement and admiration at some of the moves I can still pull off is worth the misery I went through to get her here in the first place. We go skating, hang out at the mall together, and even make late night runs to Krispy Kreme on Friday nights to take advantage of the “hot light.” I eventually found my maternal instincts and discovered that having my daughter as a companion to share my life experiences has proved to be the best way to live life.

  Becoming a mother at the beginning of my twenty-first year did not signify the end of my life, as I had thought, but rather the beginning of a new life for both of us that is rich with fun, opportunity and adventure. And so, twelve years later, I celebrate the realization that I am not stuck raising a child all by myself, but simply savoring every moment of being a parent without having to share.

  Evelyn K. Lemar

  3

  BEAUTIFUL–

  JUST THE

  WAY I AM

  O, ye daughters of Africa, Awake! Arise!

  No longer sleep nor slumber, but distinguish

  yourselves. Show forth to the world that ye

  are endowed with noble and exalted

  faculties.

  Maria W. Stewart

  Discovering Me

  If you’re not feeling good about you, what you’re wearing outside doesn’t mean a thing.

  Leontyne Price

  I fly a lot but had never flown on a plane looking like such a bum. I wore faded sweat pants and a workout T-shirt that I had torn down the front so that it would not choke me. I was not glamorous, but I was comfortable.

  After all, this was the red-eye flight, and everything else in my bag was too dressy. I needed to be as comfortable as possible because this flight was all the sleep I was going to get before the big presentation and book signing the next day.

  As I boarded the plane, advice given long ago popped into my head to always take a spare pair of black pants, black flats and solid blouse on board a plane just in case my bags got lost. I wondered why that entered my head at that particular moment. While I had not followed that advice, I had traveled to forty-seven cities in ten months and, “knock on wood,” I had received my bags just fine each time. I reasoned I was just a little nervous because my plane landed at 9:00 A.M., and I needed to be at Christ Universal Temple by 9:40 A.M. for the 10 o’clock service to deliver the guest message for more than five thousand people. Well, too late now; I am on the plane and seated. I’m sure it will all be okay—like always.

  “Please fasten your seat belts. We are landing in Chicago, where the local time is 8:54 A.M.”

  As I waited for my bags, this eerie feeling came over me again. What if. . . . What if nothing! I did not have time for issues! There are several thousand people expecting me to speak at one of my favorite places to visit, and I must be dressed for the occasion. After all, everyone who knows me knows that fashion and celebrating my unique style of dress are very important to me.

  It is 9:12 A.M. Where are my bags?! There are only two people left looking for their luggage, and I am one of them. Now there is only one person looking—me!

  It is now 9:20 A.M. and my heart is beating more rapidly than normal as I enter the luggage office. “My bags did not come out; can someone please check outside?” I could hear the urgency in my own voice as my cell phone began ringing.

  “Good morning, this is your limo driver. I am outside and we must get going to arrive at services on time.”

  I explained that my luggage had not arrived. There was a hushed silence on the other end of the line. Her lengthy pause elevated my anxiety. Then she said in a very calm and assuring voice, “It will be fine; let me call the church.”

/>   As I hung up the phone, the clerk began his sentence with those dreadful words, “I’m sorry, ma’am, but your luggage did not arrive on this flight.” I could feel the pit of my stomach tighten up; my mind was racing as I glanced at the clock.

  It is now 9:26 A.M. “I normally dress fashionably casual when flying. What was I thinking? Look at me!” To my own surprise I was speaking out loud, and everyone had heard my thoughts, and they were looking at me. In a frantic voice I continued. “You don’t understand; in thirty minutes I am supposed to be in front of thousands of people speaking. I cannot go looking like this. Pleeeease check again,” I begged.

  My head was swimming. I looked down at myself again trying to see how creative I could be with my outfit. Torn T-shirt, faded sweats and a pair of well-used tennis shoes—even Michelangelo needed something to work with.

  My heart sank, and I began to pray out loud, “Lord, you said that if I work for you that you will never make a fool of me. I need you to show me how we are going to get through this. I need you now, Lord, to give me peace of mind and show me a way out.” Everyone was now staring at me, some people obviously uncomfortable with me praying out loud. I didn’t care. I had no other choice.

  My phone rang again, “Hello, it is your limo driver again.”

  Without thinking, I blurted out, “Let’s find a store and I will pick something up quickly.” I seemed to have found a flicker of hope in a dismal situation which the limo driver immediately doused. She informed me that it would be impossible to find a clothing store open at 9:30 A.M. on a Sunday morning, and that the church leaders wanted me to arrive as close to 10:00 A.M. as possible. She went on to say that since it was Youth Sunday, the church had requested that I speak in whatever clothes I arrived in.

  They clearly had not seen my attire.

  As we neared the church in the limo, my chest began to tighten. I initially fought back the tears, then they became overwhelming. Tears streamed freely down my face as I surrendered to my fear over what was about to happen. I began wondering why I was so uncomfortable, what was freaking me out this much. I closed my eyes and asked for my concerns and fears to be revealed to me. I stilled myself to hear God, and the answer came barreling down on me like a boulder in an avalanche. I realized in that moment that I have always made a concerted effort to look polished, unique and impeccable. My clothes, my jewelry, my style had become more than optional in my life; they had become my identity.With mocha skin, round hips and full lips—not what society saw as beautiful when I was growing up—I quickly learned to polish my personality and to create a unique dress style as my survival tool. And now, on this day, in just a few minutes I was going out in front of thousands of people without my shield, my safeguard, my protection—or was it now my crutch?

  In my stillness came something amazing. “It’s time you get comfortable with who I have created you to be,” God softly whispered in my heart. “Your luggage not arriving was no accident; I needed to get your attention. I know about your mocha skin and your round hips and your full lips. I knew what I was creating when I made you and all of your sisters who look like you. I also knew that no one could wear it quite like you, blended with the character, the love and the humility I gave you. You need to know that you are just fine—even in sweat pants. Wear you today— after all, that’swho I’ve been trying to share with the world, anyway.”

  I was now sobbing uncontrollably, a mixture of thankfulness, conviction, surrender and yes, still some fear. I was hiding my face behind a folder so the limo driver began to speak to me not knowing that I was already in a conversation with God. I was thankful for the interruption.

  “There is too much traffic on this route. I am going to have to let you out in the front of the church.”

  I mumble, “Okay God, you now have my full, undivided, broken-down, surrendered attention, now what?”

  As I was escorted to the front door, it swung open and there were three women standing silently, each holding something in her hands. As I neared, Mrs. Helen was holding a dress, another woman was holding a pair of shoes, and the final one was holding a beautiful beaded shawl. Mrs. Helen said, “I’m not sure if this will fit, but it is my dress that has been hanging here for quite some time in case of an emergency.” I glanced at Mrs. Helen, noticing that she must have been at least six inches taller and three sizes smaller than me. I forced a polite smile.

  I looked at the nice lady carrying the shoes. “These sit under my desk in case my feet hurt.” Her feet looked to be about a size seven—a long way from my nine shoe size.

  Again, I smiled politely. They led me to the bathroom to try on their contributions. I thought that out of respect I would at least try the clothes on, but I was fully ready to grace the stage in sweat pants and a T-shirt if that was God’s plan.

  Much to my surprise, as if the elegant, cream-colored dress was tailored only for me—it fit perfectly. I was shocked. I hesitantly tried the shoes, which somehow fit my foot better than Cinderella’s shoe fit hers. How is this happening? My mind began to race. The shawl—which had been on display in the church bookstore the day before— now served as the perfect accent to an amazing outfit, obviously provided by God through his angels.

  As I walked on stage, the choir had just sung “God Will Move Mountains for You.” With tears streaming down my face and looking more stunning than I could have wearing anything packed in my bags, I began by saying, “God moved some mountains today, just so that you could meet the real me. . . .”

  In my heart I knew his even greater intent was for me to meet the real me.

  Lisa Nichols

  Bathed in Love

  A necessary act of liberation in myself was to acknowledge the beauty of the black, black woman.

  Alice Walker

  I was raised in a town called Dix Hills, New York, a town whose borders are formed by Temple Beth Torah to the West and Saint Elizabeth’s Catholic Church to the East.

  The expanse between is filled with wonderful people, my friends, whose ethnic and cultural histories I was delighted to share. My parents taught me the beauty of my own heritage and afforded me the firmament upon which to layer cultural understanding.

  My hunger for cultural discovery carried me past my childhood borders to East Asia. As a teacher in Japan I was privy to the personal lives of my students and soon became friends with many of them. They invited me to their homes, filled my stomach with delicacies and my head with their stories, hopes and fears. In spite of our differences, we connected and enjoyed learning from one another.

  There were some relationships that did not begin this way, however. I was the first black woman most of my students and friends had ever met. Some were quick to reference the stereotypes they held about black people; to this day my students insist that I am a terrific singer and dancer, though I have never demonstrated my ability. (I refrained for fear that I would be a terrible disappointment.) Other innocent misunderstandings were easily corrected and, to some extent, may have paved the way for our ensuing bond.

  Still, while I enjoyed acceptance and kindness from most, there were times when I questioned my pursuit of cultural understanding. The biggest test of my commitment came in Seoul, Korea.

  The spring recess of my second year in Japan, a friend and I put the last of our yen together to buy two tour package tickets to Seoul. The tour group was comprised of eighteen people, seventeen Japanese and me, all crammed onto a bus with our cameras around our necks. I soon bonded with my tour-mates to the extent that all considerations of skin color, tongue and nationality melted away. We were unified in our anticipation of spicy food and good shopping.

  Our tour bus pulled up to a small leather shop and we all poured out. As my friend and I debated blowing our limited budgets on cute jackets, I noticed the owner walking toward me, a frown on his face. My friend and I approached the staircase to the second floor of the shop when we were stopped.

  “Hey, you. Yo. Yo!” An older shopkeeper motioned at me. “Yo. You get out. Yo.
No stealing, yo!” His words showered me instantly in fear and shame, and my tour-mates looked equally embarrassed.

  I blushed a deep purple as my friend explained to the shop owner that I was part of the tour and had a right to be there. The owner sized me up with narrowed eyes and receded to the back of the shop. I put down the jacket I had been considering and went to wait in the tour bus.

  “Don’t let that guy get to you,” my friend said. It was the first time in my experience in Asia that I felt the sting of racism. My mind raced; what if the entire country was filled with people who felt this way about black people?

  With fear, disappointment and two days left on my trip, I planned to board myself into the hotel and wait until the flight out on Sunday. I regretted the trip and questioned my goals.

  The next day my friend convinced me to emerge from the hotel, reminding me that we had already paid for the trip. My frugality thus appealed to, I timidly strapped on my camera and set out into the streets, waiting for the next attack. Souvenir shops and department stores were sure to hold my next offender, so we steered clear. By the early evening we had walked the streets without accomplishing much more than developing stiff backs and necks.

  We walked deep into back alleys and twisted side roads until we stumbled upon a small community spa, and with it the promise of an unparalleled cultural experience. I prayed for the strength to overcome my fear, and entered.

  Wrapped in a towel, I slid open the heavy door to the main bath. Inside, all conversation stopped, as a bath full of twenty ladies held their breath and watched me cross the floor.

  The bath was staffed by an older woman who stood near the massage tables. Again, my mind raced. I feared she would refuse to serve me, that she, too, was tainted by the same racist poison as the shopkeeper. But before I could turn around, she beckoned me over to her table.