Chicken Soup for the African American Soul

by Jack Canfield

  “Church family?” The pastor echoed my words, “Did you hear that? This young mother is looking for a church family!”

  The congregation clapped and smiled, shouting, “Amen!”

  We felt so loved and received. We knew this was right where we were supposed to be.

  During the next few months we attended service every Sunday. On Saturdays, we would be home studying and playing. Every once in a while, we would be surprised by a church member’s visit. He or she would ring the bell, usually with a fruit basket or some other goodies in hand. “Melanie, I was just thinking about you and thought you would like this. God bless you.” During finals week, I would receive calls of encouragement, “Sister Melanie, God is just blessing you. You hang in there. We are all praying for you.” And I would get the motivation I needed to keep on studying. There were many offers for babysitting. Going to church was often just the reminder I needed to be grateful, especially for the opportunity to be a single mom pursuing a medical career.

  During my next year of school, I had difficulty getting money for textbooks. I went to church and prayed on it, meanwhile trying to think of using the money I did have to copy the pages I needed from my classmates.

  During one Sunday service, the pastor announced that there was a family that was in need. He said that he wasn’t quite sure what the need was, but God had placed it on his heart to say that he felt we needed to collect money for this family, that those who could contribute should. His words touched my heart. I imagined a family that must be struggling, perhaps barely making ends meet.

  I looked into my purse and saw two dollar bills. It was all I had in my purse, but I placed it in the tray praying for God to take care of that family in need. When the offering was collected, I felt so good to give to someone who really needed it. I didn’t worry about trying to buy my textbooks; I felt blessed with all I had—my health, my son, the opportunity to be in school and the wonderful, loving, giving church family I had. If any of these people were in need, I wanted to help them.

  After the money was collected, the pastor said, “Church, I know you all will probably agree on this. We have a family right here in this church that could really use this money. Melanie, would you and Jonathan come up front and get the blessing God has provided for you?”

  My eyes welled with tears as Jonathan and I walked from the back pew all the way up towards the front. My pride almost didn’t allow me to take the money, but our need was stronger. The church members applauded and smiled at us, nodding their heads and praising God for our family and the ability to help us.

  When we got home, Jonathan and I counted the money. Over two hundred dollars, it was enough to cover my textbooks just fine. I didn’t know the blessing would be for me, but I learned that when we try to be a blessing for others, we can’t help but be blessed by the process. Amen!

  Melanie M. Watkins

  Life After Death

  I used to hurt so badly that I’d ask God “Why, what have I done to deserve any of this?” I feel now He was preparing me for this, for the future.

  That’s the way I see it.

  Janet Jackson

  Pregnant and sixteen seemed to be the norm in the inner city of Cleveland, Ohio. After all, everybody was doing it— getting pregnant, that is. Why should I be any different? Because I was a straight-A student with anticipations of traveling the world! My head was always stuck in a book, dreaming of the day that I would cross over into the life that was so eloquently described on the pages of Dick and Jane. How was I to know that other individuals had the capability to shatter dreams? Coming from a family of ten children, six boys and four girls, my parental time was limited. So the majority of my counseling and advice came from those who had already surrendered, unbeknownst to me, to mediocrity.

  “Girl, you ain’t going to ever get to Alaska to see the ice-blue glaciers so quit your dreaming, not to mention that there aren’t any black folks in Alaska.”

  “The Great Wall of China, you’re joking, right?”

  “Girl, you had better get your head out of them books.”

  “But why?” I would always ask, only to hear the same response.

  “Girls like you get pregnant, drop out of school, get on welfare and die. That’s the extent of the life and times of an inner-city ghetto girl like you. So put your hopes and dreams away and take a sip of this Wild Irish Rose. It will help you to forget all about your dreams.” And that it did.

  Pregnant, out of school and following the path most traveled, I found myself living without a dream. Gloria Pointer came kicking and screaming into the world on February 28, 1970. Yellow as a rose with three different shades of hair: blonde, red and brown.

  “Girl, where in the world did you come from?”

  Inquisitive from birth, she seemed to have eyes of great expectations even from behind the glass that temporarily separated us in the maternity wing of University Hospital.

  Gloria and I were more than mother and daughter. Because we were assigned the task of growing up together, we were more like friends. She seemed to think much more highly of me than I did of myself. I struggled constantly with dreams forsaken, early motherhood and walking through the dark path of the dreams of another. It was Gloria’s love and belief in me, even as a child, that always seemed to be the glue that held it all together. Maybe it was her eyes of expectancy that always seemed to pierce my soul, eyes that encouraged me to strive, if not for me, then for her.

  Before long, though, I was swinging from the chandelier of destruction. Drugs, violence and a life of crime seemed to grip my conscience like a hangman’s noose around my neck. Life was sucking me under, and it was pulling Gloria along with me. How could I save her when I couldn’t seem to save myself? In the midst of everything else, I was pregnant again with my second child, Raymon. He narrowly escaped death at birth because of my lifestyle consumed with street life and neglect. Twenty years old with two kids, and one with those wide eyes of expectancy that continued to pierce my soul even when it was filled with mind-altering chemicals. How is this possible? How had such big dreams dissolved in the twinkling of an eye? Is there anyone out there who could possibly hear my pleas—“Save me”—before total destruction consumes not only my dreams but also the dreams of those who look at me with eyes of expectancy?

  One day, my father—who had watched through eyes of devastation the rise and fall of his fourth child—assigned a friend to me whose task was to hold me and not let go, to snatch me back from the gates of hell. He found this task to be tedious because, even though I wanted help, I was not coming along willingly. After all, “they” said this was my destiny, right? One day, after I had hit bottom, he told me about someone who could help me to get free and walk on a path full of light. His name was Jesus.

  Reluctant at first, I resisted with the mini-might I had left within my dying soul. But one day I said, “Yes.” The brightness that followed my conversion was blinding; a world once full of darkness, despair and hopelessness looked new. Yes, life was good again. I began to grow as a Christian, the first to walk through the doors of the church when they swung open to welcome weary travelers such as myself. My questions were finally beginning to be answered. God was the answer that I was looking for, and he was the missing link. He was the one who could show me the way out.

  We were on our way to the land of milk and honey, a land where dreams do come true. Yes, life was good. My endless tears seemed to dry up, and Gloria, who was always there for me, filled my ears with her dreams. But her dreams did not include the Eiffel Tower or the Great Wall of China. Her dream was simple: a better life for her mother, a life that wasn’t filled with tears or worry over bills.

  Her plan was to marry a rich basketball player and have enough money to make my life better. She was going to repair our home, fill it with new carpeting, new furniture and everything that would make my life happy. “Don’t worry, Momma, I’m going to make it alright.”

  How could one child love someone like me so much?<
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  Yes, everything was going to be okay. I had followed all of the rules and was next in line for a miracle. Then came a knock at the door of my heart: an early morning telephone call informing me that Gloria was missing.

  “Missing.” The word seemed to echo throughout the room. “What do you mean, missing?”

  “Well, Ms. Pointer, Gloria was to receive a perfect attendance award this morning in a special assembly and she has not arrived at school,” I was told.

  “What? Well, I suggest that you get off the phone and go find her!” was my shocked response.

  Moments later the phone rang again. It was the principal of the high school informing me to call the police.

  Call the police for what? I was thinking. When I see Gloria later she is going to have hell to pay for giving us all such a scare! Nevertheless, I dialed 911.

  After a short while, police officers were knocking at the door advising me to sit down.

  “We found a body,” is the last thing I remember hearing. In a fetal position, curled on the floor, I seemed to be floating between consciousness and false reality.

  Chastising myself for lying there helplessly when they hadn’t said that the dead body was Gloria Pointer, the girl with eyes of expectancy, I forced myself up from the floor. But the punch came again, fiercer this time, because with it came the news that indeed it was Gloria. Raped, murdered and discarded like an animal beneath rickety stairs of steel, surrounded by piles of filth.

  A child isn’t supposed to be left lying in such filth, not a child with eyes of expectancy. A child is not supposed to be murdered at the age of fourteen—not an innocent child, minding her own business, walking to school to receive an award. Didn’t those eyes expect me to protect her as the final blow was laid to her head rendering her lifeless? Once again, as a mother I had failed.

  Plunged into an unexpected reality, catapulted into an arena for which there was no script, life became a fight for existence. All of my reasons for living were gone.

  Okay, whoever you are, I believe you now, ain’t no ice-blue glaciers nor snow-capped mountains in my future. I agree that I am destined to be just what they said, “An inner-city single parent on welfare without a dream.”

  However, I had forgotten something—something that seemed to shine even through the darkness of despair. That something, that someone, was Jesus. When Gloria’s body was finally ready for viewing, I went alone to the funeral home. I wanted to ask for her forgiveness in private. I wanted to let her know that her murder would not, by the grace of God, be in vain. How could someone just kill a child and walk away? Once again, I was back to asking questions. Once again an injustice occupied my entire view. No longer did I see her lying neatly dressed surrounded by the satin of a mahogany coffin. The only thing I could see was the injustice of it all. That injustice forced me to ask the question, why? From that point, grief took a backseat and a new dream slid behind the wheel— the dream of a better world, a safer world for children.

  Could this dream become a reality? It could, according to Philippians 4:13, which states, “I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me.”

  So, I began a letter-writing campaign under the guidance of the Holy Spirit in search of a well-known celebrity who would grace our inner-city ghetto with his or her presence and cry aloud for an end to the violence against innocent children. Each letter described in detail exactly what they should do upon arrival. They should use the status that God had given them to persuade folks to leave our children alone. Time passed without positive response, but the delay of the arrival of such a celebrity only fueled me to occupy their role until they showed up. I wanted them to visit schools, do television shows, radio shows, anything and everything that would get the message across. So, off I went to all of their appointments, proclaiming that I was just the voice “crying in the wilderness,” the real person would come after a while. In the meantime, hear me. I know that I am nobody but a mother with a murdered child, but listen as I describe firsthand the agony of it all. Listen as I proclaim the devastation of dreams delayed. Look as I describe Gloria’s eyes of expectancy that no longer look to me as her mother. Can anyone please tell me how to wake up from such a horrendous nightmare? No you can’t, so until the answer to that question arrives I must continue walking toward the light, which is the only thing that can offer me hope.

  As time passed, don’t you know, I became the person that I was looking for! Honors and awards began to follow my desire to make the world a safer place for kids. Former President Bush appointed me the 908th Point of Light in the nation’s 1,000 Points of Light; I was inducted by former Governor George Voinvoich into the Ohio Women’s Hall of Fame. Suddenly I became, as some might consider, a celebrity, a voice to be heard.

  My voice cannot save Gloria, but the feelings of failure have diminished through the work that God has given me to do toward saving others. It is as if Gloria is smiling down upon me from heaven, and I can hear her saying to God, “See, I told you my mother could do it.”

  Today, I am a much-sought-after spokesperson regarding violence prevention and safer communities. As the recipient of national awards, including the 2001 Essence Award, and recently appearing in Ebony magazine, I find that my life is filled with national speaking engagements, consolation of families that have been victimized by crime, interviews and tons of traveling. And yes, I finally did go to Anchorage, Alaska, to behold the beauty that was written in the books.

  I was invited recently to speak at a prison in Mansfield, Ohio. At the end of my presentation the inmates were permitted to ask me questions. The crowd numbered around three hundred, so you can imagine my surprise when a hand from the rear was raised high.

  “Ms. Pointer,” he said, “You may not remember me but you made me some Rice Krispie treats when I was in the fifth grade. I was wondering if I could give you a hug?”

  Making a difference to each other, that is what it is all about. Perhaps it was God’s plan all along for Gloria to be the reason I would be pushed to meet His eyes of expectancy and fulfill my real destiny. Isn’t it funny that dreams still do come true—often with an expense, but always to the glory of God?

  Yvonne Pointer

  6

  LESSONS

  LEARNED

  Every experience has a lesson.

  Wally “Famous” Amos

  BOONDOCKS. ©1999 Aaron McGruder. Distributed by UNIVERSAL PRESS SYNDICATE. Reprinted with permission. All rights reserved.

  Confessions of an Ex-Con

  The longer I live, the more deeply I’m convinced that the difference between the successful person and the failure, between the strong and the weak, is a decision.

  Willie E. Gary

  “By the power invested in me by the State of Washington, I hereby sentence you, Dennis R. Mitchell, to two consecutive twenty-year terms with the Department of Corrections.”

  Talking about dissin’ a brother! Without forethought, my immediate instinct was to leap out of my chair and inflict my own pound of justice upside His Honor’s head.

  Fortunately I found myself cut short of my goal and face down on the floor as several sheriff’s officers finally tackled me to the ground and led me out of the courtroom in handcuffs, kicking and screaming obscenities. When the good officers wrestled me into the elevator out of sight, little did I know that they were going to give me something to scream about: wall-to-wall “counseling”! The next day the headline read, “Man Screams and Yells!”

  Much to my dismay this series of events was only the beginning. Soon I would find myself in a holding cell with five thousand skinheads—well, it seemed like five thousand skinheads. Needless to say, my odds of surviving didn’t look too bright, and off to the hospital I went. By the time I was finally able to open my eyes, I would find out that things were going to get worse for a player.

  That bus ride to Shelton Penitentiary was about seven hours long, and although I had a lot of experience being in the back seat of law enforcement’s cars, it
was a totally different experience; my bondsman couldn’t help me now. As we pulled up to my new home and the gates swung open, I looked around and saw barbed wire around the joint. Behind me, the gate closed and locked. Inmate onlookers were watching as the new chain came in, some just to see who they knew and others to see who they wanted to “get to know,” if you get my drift. The gangs are always waiting just like vultures, watching for their next prey.

  That was back in 1979. From then on my life was filled with fighting, partying, drug and alcohol abuse, and denial. Run DMC had just hit the airwaves with rap music and “my song” was, “Don’t push me ’cause I’m close to the edge.”

  I decided 1981 was going to be my year. After all I just knew at most I would spend a couple of years locked up and be back in the hood kicking it live as always. I had stopped getting in trouble or at least not getting caught for it, and I found myself in front of the parole board.

  “Come back and see us again in two years!”

  I was stunned and dazed! It felt like I had just gone fifteen rounds in the ring with the great Muhammad Ali during his prime years. The pain was so intense I wanted to cry, but big boys don’t cry, especially in prison.

  Take it like a man, I thought to myself while my inner child was in tears. In prison, if you get caught crying it’s a sign of weakness and there is always someone watching you, waiting in the trenches, lurking in the darkness behind the cold hard steel, waiting for you to show your weakness.

  I staggered out the door as the parole board almost knocked me out with that left hook. I needed some fresh air to clear my head, so I went to the big yard to walk around the track. “Don’t push me ’cause I’m close to the edge. . . .”

  For the next year, I continued to drift along with no road map or sense of purpose. Then, one Friday night, three days before my birthday, I was lying in my cell watching TV. Suddenly my name boomed over the intercom: “Mitchell, Charlie 3-25, report to the sergeant’s office!”