In My Shoes

by Brenda Hampton

  When that day came, the room was filled with a bunch of women who were trying to get their lives in order, just like I was. We sat around a huge square table, listening to the instructor as she prepared us for a test. I was never a good test-taker, so I found myself getting stuck on questions I knew I should have known. The instructor paced the room, making me more nervous; I felt like she was watching my every move. Finally, the time clock went off and the test was over. I turned mine in, feeling like a complete idiot. She told us the test would not affect us, but knowing I did badly didn’t make me feel good. According to her, the test was supposed to let them know our strengths and our weaknesses.

  She advised the class that she would be in touch within the next couple of weeks to give us our training schedule. The classes were designed to show us how to prepare a resume, how to dress appropriately for an interview, how to type, how to use a computer, and to prepare us for what she called, “Corporate America.”

  I left feeling somewhat confused about the program. It seemed like something that would take forever to complete and would also take up a lot of my time. Most of the jobs they mentioned paid minimum wage. You had to be really lucky to get one that paid higher than that. Hell, I thought, I could sell some clothes and make hundreds…thousands, rather than bust my ass at a nine-to-five job making minimum wage. To me, it really didn’t make much sense to enroll in such a program, but I was willing to give it a try.

  Later, I stopped at the twins’ school, Marvin Elementary, because I was scheduled for parent-teacher conference. I sat outside one of the twins’ classroom, until the teacher was ready to see me. “Miss Hampton, come right in and have a seat,” she said with a big smile.

  I sat in the chair waiting to hear how good or bad the first twin was doing. “Thank you for coming,” the teacher said. “I just wanted to tell you, personally, that you have a wonderful daughter. She is my best student and I want to thank you for making my job a lot easier. I have no problems out of her and she plays so well with the other students. Now, here is her report card, and I must tell you, there is no room for improvement. It doesn’t get any better than this.”

  I smiled, while looking down at the report card. It was excellent and the teacher had not one complaint. Then she showed me drawings my daughter had done in class, and for a first grader, I was stunned. Now, why hadn’t I noticed this before? I thought. I had gotten the twins’ report cards before, but barely paid much attention to them. I had seen drawings in their bedroom, but could count on one hand how many times I’d picked them up to even look at them. These teachers knew more about my children than I did.

  The teacher interrupted my thoughts. “Miss Hampton, from speaking with your other daughter’s teacher, you will get the same result. Your children are exceptionally good with art, and if you’d allow them to explore a bit more at home, you never know what their gifts can lead to. Also, I would like to get your permission to challenge her more. She is way above average and I don’t want her to get bored.”

  “Sure, that would be fine with me, Ms. Jeffries. I’d like to see her being challenged as well. You’re right,” I said, not knowing what else to say.

  “Well, I won’t keep you any longer. I’m sure you have to get back to work. In the meantime, pat yourself on the back for raising such beautiful, well-mannered children. We don’t have these results all the time, and we’re always pleased when we do.”

  “Thank you,” I said. I shook her hand and went to the other twins’ classroom. Different teacher, but same story. I was happy with the news, but deep inside, I could in no way take credit.

  When I got home, I sat at the kitchen table, looking through folders the teachers had given me with all of the twins’ work. They had mostly all A’s on their assignments and their art work was beautiful. How did they do so well on their assignments? I hadn’t taught them anything, except nothing but how to let a man disrespect you and shoplift. They had been in the dressing rooms with me plenty of times, watching as I stuffed clothes into my purse.

  “What you doing, Mama,” they would ask. “Why you putting that stuff in your purse?”

  “I’m going to buy it later. I need to take it home first, just to make sure it fits.”

  As smart as they were, I’m sure they didn’t believe me. And as I dressed them in the finest brand-name clothes there were, materialistic bullshit is not what they needed. They needed me to be there for them. They needed a mother who gave all of her time to them, instead of to her relationships. I felt awful, but it was good to know my stupidity was not affecting them at school. I was so glad they were in a decent school, where the teachers gave a care about the students. Little did the teachers know, though, I wasn’t much help at home.

  I closed my eyes, knowing right then and there that the Future’s Program was just the beginning for me. I didn’t care if it took me years to complete it, I would hang in there to get a job. Besides, I was tired of sitting around my apartment all day, being down because somebody had pissed me off. My attitude reflected on my kids. When I cried, they cried. When I laughed, they laughed. When I smiled, they smiled. Being on welfare was not the answer to having a fulfilling life. I was fooling myself if I thought it was. One day at a time, I thought. I could only get through this one day at a time.

  When the twins got home from school, I cooked us a delicious dinner. They loved lasagna with garlic cheese bread, so I whipped it up and set the table. They didn’t know what the big fuss was about, but as long as I knew, that’s all that mattered. I rented a movie and we stayed up late watching it. As they watched TV, I started writing down steps I needed to take in order to make my world a better place. I started with myself, then my children, and last my relationships. My relationships are what I struggled with; it was important to have a positive person in my life, if I was going to have one at all. He had to be someone who respected me and my children, one who had a job, and one who wasn’t afraid of preparing for the future. Me first, though, I wrote. In order to find someone with those qualifications, I had to correct myself. I couldn’t demand something from someone else, that I didn’t have myself. So, definitely, me first.

  ***

  My training schedule had finally come in the mail. All I had to do was sign the registration form, mail it back in, and call the office to confirm. Believe it or not, I hesitated, but deep down I knew it was now or never. I completed the paperwork and called the office to confirm. The lady on the phone told me to bring two black pens, a number two pencil, and a notebook.

  “We’ll supply the rest and don’t forget to mail the form back in. I must have that before you start or else you will not be able to.”

  I held the form in my hand. It already had a stamp on it. “I’ll mail it off today. Thanks and I’m looking forward to starting.”

  “That’s good. Have a nice day and good luck with the program.”

  After I hung up the phone, I laid the form on the table so I could mail it off later. I was starting to feel really good about signing up for the training class. So good, I wanted to make sure I was nicely dressed for the occasion. I drove to the mall to get some clothes and found some laid out things to wear: multi-colored silk blouses and a couple pairs of linen pants made by Ralph Lauren for a hundred and eighty dollars apiece. On my way out, I swiped up three polo shirts for casual days on Friday.

  When I got back to my apartment complex, a chick that lived close by approached me as I got out the car.

  “You got any cigarettes for sale?” she asked.

  I stole cartons of cigarettes from the Shop-n-Save down the street, but didn’t have any on me. “No, I don’t have any, but I can get some.”

  “No matter how many you get, I’ll pay you for them. Just knock on my door when you get back.”

  I told her I would, and since I was low on money, I planned to get about ten cartoons. I drove to the grocery store, stuffing cartons of cigarettes everywhere I could. You could see one of the cartons sticking out of my jacket, and as I tried to
secure it, the carton slipped out and fell to the floor. I was right at the door, when the white-haired manager with a thick mustache came up from behind to stop me. His wrinkled face was scrunched even more, and when he grabbed my arm, squeezing it, I snatched away.

  “You don’t have to pull on me like that,” I snapped.

  “I’ll do what I want to do, now, move it,” he said, walking closely behind me as we went into his office. At least I was offered a seat.

  He folded his arms, while leaning against the wall. “We’ve been watching you every time you come in here. The last time you were in here, I almost caught you, but when I went out to the parking lot, you were gone. I don’t understand why you people just don’t get a job and stop expecting society to take care of you. It’s ridiculous and you’re one of the reasons why we have to drive up our prices to stay in business.”

  Save the drama for yo mama, I thought. At times, I was still a bit thick headed, especially when people’s choices of words didn’t sit right with me. “Sir, why don’t you go ahead and do what you gotta do so I can get out of here,” I said. “And by the way, we people aren’t the only ones who steal. Maybe you need to visit the courthouse in Clayton. It be full of honkies who steal, so get it right.”

  “You’re a smart nigger with a smart mouth? Let’s see how smart you’re going to be when the police get here. If I can help it, you won’t be going home any time soon.” He called the police, smiling when he knew they were on the way.

  I was a little scared, thinking about what the police were going to do to me, but I didn’t let it show. What if the manager was serious about trying to put me away? The twins had to be picked up from school in an hour and my car outside was full of merchandise from the mall. If they looked in there, I was going down.

  I could hear the officer’s loud walkie-talkie heading my way. He walked into the room with the manager, asking me to stand up. “Do you have any weapons on you,” he asked, patting me down.

  “No,” I said. The grumpy old-ass manager was still standing there with his arms folded, displaying a mean mug. The officer took my purse and started going through it to make sure I didn’t have any weapons in it. It was pretty much empty because I cleared it out, just in case I needed to put some cigarettes inside.

  “Is this your ID, Ms. Hampton?” The officer asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Have you ever been arrested before for shoplifting?”

  “No.” I hadn’t been arrested, but had been summons to court three times before for shoplifting. I had even been to shoplifting classes that were supposed to help with my so-called addiction.

  The officer and the manager left the room. Whew, I thought. Maybe he wasn’t going to arrest me. If he were, he would have done it by now. I sat in the office for about ten more minutes, before they returned. “I knew she was a damn liar,” the manager said, entering the room. “That girl’s been in here at least twice a week stealing from our store. You’d better arrest her and I mean now!”

  The officer reached for his handcuffs. “Stand up and put your hands behind your back.”

  “Stand up for what?” I shouted.

  “What do you mean for what? I’m arresting you for shoplifting.” He pulled my arms behind my back.

  “You gotta be so rough,” I hissed and frowned. “I can do this on my own.” Without resisting, I let the officer put cuffs on me, while the manager stood with a wide grin.

  “You…you get a kick out of this, don’t you?” I said, turning my head to the side and looking at the officer. “He’s been in here disrespecting me and you haven’t said one word.”

  “And you’ve been disrespecting him by coming into this store stealing. He’s exercising his rights to the first amendment of the constitution. If he wants to call you a lying thieving nigger, he can do so.”

  I shrugged and snatched my cuffed hands away from the officer. “Well, okay, you stupid, dumb red-neck mutha—both of you can kiss this nigger’s ass.”

  The officer got in my face. “Close your freaking mouth or I will charge you with disorderly conduct and resisting arrest. One more word and I will do it.”

  I guess those first amendment rights didn’t apply to me, so I tightened my lip. After all, I already had a resisting arrest charge on my police record from when I’d gotten into a dispute with a police officer who was harassing me while I was parked in front of my apartment. He wondered what I was doing sitting in the car, alone, and I told him none of his damn business. One thing led to another, and when all was said and done, I was handcuffed and thrown into the back of the police car. Called a fat bitch, too—all for just minding my own business. The police in my jurisdiction were known for tripping with Blacks, and they often came into the complex where I lived, causing trouble. In this case, I knew I was wrong, but they didn’t have to talk to me like I was a piece of dirt.

  As the officer escorted me through the store, all eyes were on me. Again, I felt humiliated. Noticing one of the teachers at the twins’ school, I dropped my head, turning it in another direction. I hoped like hell that she didn’t recognize me.

  While at the police station, the officer rubbed my fingers in black ink, taking my fingerprints. He made me stand up so he could take my mug-shot. As the bright light flashed, my whole future flashed before me. The plan was to get my life together, not to be in a police station getting booked for shoplifting. “Young lady, you’re headed down the wrong path,” the officer warned. “I probably wouldn’t have arrested you, if you didn’t already have any prior convictions. Seems like you’ve made this shoplifting thing a career for yourself.”

  I cut my eyes at him. “It ain’t even like that. I only shoplift to pay the bills. I’m just trying to survive.”

  “Survival is very important, but you can’t survive by shoplifting. The only thing it gets you is a huge fine, a bad police record or possibly imprisonment. Get a job like most of us have to do. I’m not telling you this because I don’t like you; I’m telling you this for your own good. If you don’t give it up, you might find yourself some place you don’t want to be.”

  The officer handed me a summons to appear in court in six weeks. I thought hard about what he’d said, and even though I didn’t like his attitude, he made sense. This had to be the last time I took something that I hadn’t paid for. How many warnings would I get, before they decided to keep me behind bars?

  Once he released me, I walked back to the grocery stores parking lot and got in my car. It was late, and when I got home there was a note on the door from Charlene, letting me know the kids were at her place. I picked them up and explained to her what had happened.

  “I figured it was something, because no matter what, you always be on time picking up your kids. They already ate, and they’ve been playing in the room with my kids.”

  The twins were hugging me around my waist. “Did y’all already do your homework?” I asked.

  They nodded, and we made our way home. As soon as I got inside, I reached for the registration form and walked to the mailbox to drop it in the mail. After what had happened to me today, putting this off wasn’t going to do me any good.

  Chapter Twenty

  The first day in training class was pretty cool. There were about thirty females in the class, all trying to get some skills. The instructors were some of the most classy, educated Black women I had ever seen. They were very professional and had already made a great influence on me. I wore a dark blue and black paisley printed blouse and my Jones of New York wide-leg black cuffed pants. My hair had grown out again, so it was back to my sleek shiny ponytail with curly tresses of hair dangling down the sides of my face. Earlier, I was paid compliments by the instructors, and compliments always made me feel good.

  As the day went on, the class was given a typing test. I’d taken a typing class at Hazelwood East, but all I did was peck at the keys. I wasn’t sure how many words I could type a minute, but once the typing test was over, we were shown how to operate a computer. I didn’t
even know how to turn the thing on, but I didn’t feel bad because most of the other students didn’t either.

  “Anyone in here familiar with WordPerfect?” the instructor asked. Not one person raised their hand. “Well, that’s why you’re here. You need to know how to use a computer, as well as the programs that go along with it. What about Lotus?”

  Everybody shook their heads, implying no. “Then, let’s get started,” the other instructor said. “This is all about obtaining skills to ready you ladies for the workforce. Find a computer and take a seat in front of it.”

  Everyone sat in front of a computer that looked so foreign to me. But by the end of the day, I had learned what WordPerfect was and a little bit more about the computer. And after nearly a month in training class, my typing and computer skills had tremendously improved. I stayed after class, many nights, trying to perfect my skills. Sometimes, I would be the only one left in the room, but I was determined to get this stuff down packed. I asked Charlene if she wouldn’t mind watching the twins for me on certain nights, and she said she didn’t mind as long as I gave her an advance notice.

  With the twins having a sitter, I stuck with the class for another month. The instructors insisted that I had what it took to complete the program, and they always used me as an example when talking to the class.

  “Brenda Hampton is doing a great job,” the instructor Jeanette said. “If you don’t understand what you’re doing, and you don’t feel comfortable talking to us, ask her. She’s very helpful and has caught on quite well.”

  I smiled. Many of the others had already reached out to me for help. I didn’t mind not one bit, because I wanted all of us to make it through the program and succeed. I did, however, feel as though the instructors, Jeanette and Melinda, had put me on a pedestal. I didn’t want to let them down. I felt like I had a long way to go, and there was no telling what was going to happen before then. I had become content being on welfare, and I couldn’t quite get the concept of paying more than ten bucks a month for rent. I knew I had to change my thought process, but there was no denying that it was much easier staying at home collecting a government check. Still, no matter how much I doubted myself, Jeanette and Melinda weren’t giving up on me. They told me that as long as I finished the program, they would help me find a decent job to support my family.