But just as I was about to begin the program, I got a call from the university administration saying that it would be almost impossible to continue unless I got a scholarship. I cried my way back to my small apartment after hearing the news. I was overwhelmed with the news and felt lost and rejected. My only option was to pack my belongings and go back to my country.
As I fretted about how I would go about moving our lives back home, grieving and desperately trying to hold on to any small shred of hope that this setback wouldn’t be the end of my dream journey, I got a letter in the mail from the American Association of University Women (AAUW). I had been awarded a scholarship! Just a few months before, with the help of the vice president for student affairs, Dr. Ron Beer, I had submitted my application for a scholarship but never gave it much thought. I had struggled in vain to get scholarships before as an international student.
Tears of joy now streaming down my cheeks, I walked to the office to pay my tuition, overwhelmed by the reality that an organization founded in 1881 to promote equity and education for women and girls had just saved me, as did Dr. Beer, a man who stood with me through many challenges. You see, at each and every step of the way, there were heroines and heroes who helped me cross that dark and treacherous invisible road in my life. As I continue to hear, read, and speak about women’s invisible stretch of road and the sacred sisters who come to our aid, I find my own inspiration to extend my hand. I’m no Mother Teresa, all I know is I stand on the shoulders of many individuals.
Our ability to effectively navigate the invisible stretch of road is improved if we look to those who have gone before us, pioneering leaders and everyday heroines, for inspiration and guidance. My home is full of notes to these women. Sometimes they become emails or letters that I send out, and many times, if I don’t get their contact information, the note remains in my own space as a silent prayer and a testimony to how they inspire me. It is one of my monthly rituals to honor my heroines.
I was twenty-two, already an adult woman, and a mother of five, when I buried my dreams. It was not easy to remain steadfast. It was not easy to keep walking the path. I had plenty of social barriers to overcome. I was overwhelmed with poverty and an abusive relationship. I was desperately worried about the resources needed for child care if I was to pursue my dream of an education, and equally worried about where to get tuition for my children’s education as I was to find money for my own. Like many women, my own inner voice became my worst enemy: What if I was not meant to achieve my dreams? Why spend the little money I had on myself instead of investing in my children’s future? What if I fail after many years of trying to achieve my dreams?
Yet the most difficult time during the pursuit of my dreams was when I was just about to achieve them. I almost gave up until I listened and learned from some mighty women who helped me to navigate my own invisible stretch of road.
Many times since the blessed day on which I achieved my five dreams, and even still in my humanitarian work around the globe, I ask myself: Was it luck or smarts that made all my dreams come true? Was it a coincidence that I met Jo Luck, who encouraged me to dream, or that my community gathered pennies, sold chickens, guavas, and mangoes to raise my airfare to go to America?
Accepting how, why, and what had happened for me to achieve my dreams was not easy, because my ego kept clinging to the belief that the achievement of my dreams was due to my sheer hard work. It took many years for me to understand the true key to my success. My sisters, I began to hear the ancient wisdom in my mother’s words. When she encouraged me to make my dreams sacred by adding the fifth dream of giving back to my community, she was trying to help me see that there is something hallowed—communal, spiritual, and holy—about achieving our dreams. I could no longer view what had happened to me through my ego filters.
I recognized my life’s achievements as something inconceivably simple and yet deeply profound: at the most difficult points in my life, I had superhuman strength because of other people who gave me opportunity.
Without a shadow of doubt, I have come to realize that the chances of achieving our dreams are greater when our hunger for them collides with opportunity; once we have laid the foundation by establishing strong roots, cultivating imagination, and finding our voices, developing strong sisterhood support and putting our trust in something bigger than ourselves, we are ready to meet opportunity when it arises. It came to me in the form of a stranger sitting down on bare ground, simply telling me that my dreams are achievable. My sacred sisters, each of us can be a source of opportunity, a fertile ground that nurtures, inspires, and enables others’ growth.
Let me share with you a story that illustrates the many unexpected ways we can receive and be sources of opportunity. I arrived in America late in 1998, prepared to commence my studies for a bachelor’s degree at Oklahoma State University in January 1999. The school is situated in Stillwater, a small city in the north central part of the state. My possessions consisted of five new dresses, one pair of sandals, a knitted jersey, and a modest sum of cash wrapped in a pair of stockings tied to my waist. My children were to join me after I was settled, and so for a few months I was alone in a new country, poor and foreign, brimming with optimism and determination but also with sadness and uncertainty.
But it wasn’t easy to bring my children.
In preparing to leave for America, I counted all my savings from my job at the NGO, including the money I had given my relatives for safekeeping. With the help of a friend who looked into the costs of plane tickets to America, I realized I had most of the money I needed, but was short six hundred and forty dollars. As I figured out a way to make up the difference, I continued with my plans, making my way to the visa office to get my passport.
The clerk at the visa office asked if anyone would accompany me to the United States. When I mentioned my children, an embassy staff member asked me to bring their passports. I never saw this coming. Passports for minors in Zimbabwe require the father’s permission. Even if the Great Spirit is indeed female, in my village, there is no doubt that it is man who reigns. Although this presented a great challenge, I was determined to get my estranged husband, Zuda, to sign the applications.
I began by begging, repeatedly, at his workplace until he instructed the security guards to block my entry into the complex. Feeling desperate, I prayed as I never had before and begged God to help me. I made all kinds of promises to God: I will be a good person; I will help my community. If God melts this man’s heart enough to sign the forms, I will educate my children and, in turn, bring education back to my community.
After everything else failed to move Zuda, I went back to my mother. We brainstormed together. She said, “Every family has someone who stands with the Nyadenga, the Great One-God and who knows right from wrong. Have you searched within your husband’s family?” I had not. Zuda’s cousin, Mai Machacha, agreed to talk to my husband, but even after we approached Zuda together, he continued to refuse me. When we left, she suggested that we needed the support of all the angels in heaven to resolve this difficult situation.
Mai Machacha belonged to the Pentecostal church. She rallied church members to pray for me and asked me to join her in a ten-day fast. I agreed—and found the experience to be one of the most difficult of my life. By the end of that time, I was still determined but quite physically weak. After the fast, I paid a visit to one of Zuda’s uncles. The old man lived in a rural village with his three wives. Opposed to the idea of educating women, he initially tried to talk me out of my plan. The more I looked at his wives and children, particularly his meek first wife, the more I resolved to never give up on my dreams.
As I was about to leave his home, the old man said something that changed everything: “I do not know anyone from this village, let alone this country, who does not want to go to America. If you go there and your husband continues his abuse, I hear that the American system is not like ours. Here, a woman may report abuse to a policeman who himself abuses his wives. In Americ
a, abuse can get a man deported.” I made my way home, shocked but reenergized. To this very day I have no idea why this old man shared this insight with me. Maybe he felt pity for me or perhaps he knew that I was not going to rest until I got what I wanted.
I approached Zuda again, this time buoyed by his uncle’s insight and indirect support. It did not take long for my husband to sign the children’s passport applications with the condition that I also bring him to America.
My estranged husband told me he wanted to tie up some loose ends before leaving Zimbabwe and suggested that he bring the children to America a few months after I was scheduled to arrive. I reluctantly agreed because I had no choice, and I told myself that Zuda’s absence would allow me time to form my own social network. Even so, I was not totally willing to trust, so I decided to buy tickets for Zuda and the children in advance, well before I purchased my own. I did so for my own peace of mind.
During the negotiation with Zuda, I also made it clear that his decision to join me in the States did not mean we were going to be intimate. Zuda said he did not care; he believed he would come to America to find employment and be on his own.
I readied myself to leave for America with not only Zuda’s permission but also with support from my entire birth village, for they had all contributed whatever they could to make my journey to America possible. Women and men had sold chickens, mangoes, and groundnuts for me. The headman told my mother and me that everyone in the village contributed, including the poorest, who gave pennies as a symbol of their love and good wishes. My community had ensured that I would move forward with my plans.
A Dream Come True
On my first morning in America, I woke up on the fourth floor of Bennett Hall, the Oklahoma State University dorm to which I had been temporarily assigned. I had no idea what time it was, but I felt tired and sick, which I later learned was jet leg from the long flight from Zimbabwe. While the cold was unexpected, and I felt it deep in my bones, the joy I felt was indescribable.
I heard young people talking outside my door, and I assumed they were students like me. They spoke so quickly that I could hardly understand what they were saying. I was overwhelmed and confused, but also excited about the new journey that I was about to take.
I then heard the sounds of a church bell, and I edged to the nearest window to determine where it was coming from. I wanted to follow the sound, as I was already yearning for some human contact. The young people on my floor were intimidating to me at the moment—at first glance, they struck me as too fast, too busy, or too into themselves. I was beginning to feel a bit lonely as I looked out my window and then noticed a tall building with a sign in front bearing a big red wineglass with a cross in an X-shape through the middle of it. It looked inviting and my room suddenly felt stuffed and small.
I wondered if I should dare venture out. The problem was that I didn’t quite remember how I had gotten myself into the dorm in the first place. Plus, my money remained tightly tied to my waist. The mere thought of losing it scared me. On the plane I even dreamed of someone frisking me and grabbing my cash, so I remained wide-awake for the remainder of the flight.
I decided there was no point in being here if I wasn’t willing to take some chances. After freshening myself and taking note of the room number, I stepped outside into the hall. I saw a young man going down the stairs and followed him. Once on the first floor, I saw a door leading outside, and I marched through it. The unexpected cold hit my face and I felt my ears and fingers sting. I did it! But I could no longer see the tall building with the cross.
I decided to follow a paved path and told myself to take note of key points that I may need in order to find my way back. There was no one around, except for a few cars on the road. Where were the people? Feeling terribly isolated, I exhaled into the cold air and was shocked when a thick smokelike fog came out of my mouth. I had never experienced this before, and it fascinated me.
Soon, I found myself within sight of the tall building again. It had a sign that read “First Christian (Disciples of Christ),” and I heard beautiful music coming from inside. I stood by the church door, freezing and unsure if I should knock. If someone opened the door, what would I tell them?
I was about to retrace my steps to the dormitory when suddenly the church door swung open. A man said, “Come in, come in, it’s cold out there!” as he welcomed me into a room full of people drinking coffee and eating cookies. The group was getting ready for the morning church service. Too worried about what these strangers thought of me to feel interested in food, I politely refused the offer to try some of the biscuits. I remained transfixed as I took in my surroundings. The food, the people, and the elegant attire were a far cry from the village life I was used to.
I was brought back to reality when the man who first invited me inside introduced himself and his wife. His name was Ron Beer, the man who would later help me find the American Association of University Women (AAUW) to fund my graduate education, and his wife was called Cara. They were delighted to hear that I was from Zimbabwe—they had traveled to my country, and they did work in Mozambique from time to time.
Ron and Cara quickly became surrogate parents to me. Cara, especially, was a welcome addition to my American life. She is so loving; in fact, her demeanor and wisdom remind me very much of my own mother. My first impression of the Beers was indelible and in the years I’ve known them, they’ve continued to prove themselves to be as nurturing, encouraging, and compassionate as they were on the day we met.
In those first weeks at OSU, the only thing that seemed certain was that my life would never be the same. I had trouble understanding American English, which added to the stress of getting acclimated to a new country, a colder climate, and the demands of studying in a very different kind of school system. To make matters worse, I thought of my children constantly. My mind swung to them when I should have been concentrating on school. I tried to feel encouraged that four of them would soon join me in Oklahoma. Unfortunately, my other two children remained behind in Zimbabwe to finish high school.
As the day neared for my four youngest children and Zuda to arrive in America, I prepared for them. The university had allocated a small two-bedroom apartment to me, and I expended a great deal of effort trying to make it as cozy as possible so that the children would feel at home. I was lucky to find some useful furniture, including three beds and two old sofas, by the dumpster outside my building. A new church friend contributed an old microwave and plenty of bedsheets. I scrubbed the apartment until it sparkled and squeezed a bunk bed and a single bed into one of the tiny bedrooms. Everything looked crammed in with a shoehorn, but I was so happy that the children would soon be there that I barely noticed.
New acquaintances introduced me to secondhand shops such as the Salvation Army, where I purchased pots, dishes, and blankets. Since we came from a much warmer climate, I worried that the children would freeze when they arrived in Oklahoma in the middle of winter. We needed extra-warm jackets, which were hard to find for an affordable price. A Nigerian friend told me about St. Andrew’s Thrift Shop. Here, in a small thrift shop in Stillwater, Oklahoma, I met yet another unlikely source of opportunity: a stranger and a Winnie the Pooh toy.
The first time I walked into this downtown store, I saw a huge teddy bear with a shiny nose. The bear looked so appealing and real! His red shirt covered bright yellow fur, leaving a big, soft belly exposed. Looking vulnerable and mischievous at the same time, this was the biggest stuffed animal I had ever seen. I picked it up, hugged it, and returned it to the shelf before anyone saw me. As I searched for clothes, my eyes repeatedly returned to the bear. Something about it reminded me of my childhood and my children. I resolved to buy the teddy bear for my two youngest children, Sibusisiwe, “Cici,” and Thembinkosi, “Thembi.”
At the counter, I realized that I did not have enough money for the jackets, let alone a ten-dollar teddy bear. I held several jobs within walking distance of campus, primarily as a dishwasher, and m
y next paycheck would not arrive for two weeks, so I bought what I could afford and headed home. That night, I prayed that the teddy bear waited for me until my next paycheck.
Two weeks later, I returned to St. Andrew’s and headed toward the shelf where I’d left the bear. It was gone! I had no idea where to find a replacement that would bring me as much joy. My eyes filled with tears and all of a sudden, I felt the intensity of the past year—the transitions, the cold weather, the homesickness, and the impending reunion with my children. I saw my own childhood, the challenges of being a mother when I was still a child myself. I could feel the lost little girl in me, filled with doubt and longing for love and connection in this foreign place. It was an emotional moment.
As I was about to leave, an elderly salesperson asked me if I was looking for Winnie the Pooh. I had no idea what she was talking about so I shook my head, indicating that she had made a mistake. She told me that she remembered my visit of two weeks ago. At the time, she’d guessed that I was a foreign student new to town.
The woman asked if I could wait while she answered a call. Closing a door behind her, she soon reappeared with the teddy bear. Placing it in my hands, she told me that she had kept Winnie in the back, knowing that I would return. Hallelujah! What were the odds of a stranger reading my heart and saving the teddy bear for me? She must have noticed me returning to it several times, and she probably watched me count my money before setting it back on the shelf.
This good soul would not let me pay for the bear. I did not know what to say. Do I thank her or hug her? Doing both, I began to cry as I left the shop.
The Awakened Woman Page 16
