by Tavis Smiley
It was 5 A.M. The Asian man’s eyes behind the counter met mine as he put two doughnuts into a bag. They were still warm, fresh from the oil. My stomach grumbled. The dollar bill in my outstretched fingers suddenly looked overly crumpled and worn, like an old friend.
I could feel the man’s eyes on my back as I shuffled back to a bus bench by the road. I gave one to my mother, for the baby, and the other to my little brother, half asleep against the duffel bag containing everything we had left in the world. I could not stop my fingers from reaching into the bag to catch the warm crumbs at the bottom and bring them to my lips.
A few minutes later the Asian man from behind the counter appeared, holding a bulging bag emitting the same fresh, delicious sugar aroma. I watched my mother’s exhausted eyes fill with tears as he held it out to her. She sat rock still, hesitating, head held high with dignity even as my pleading eyes were trying desperately to catch hers.
The man stood his ground. “You don’t take, I throw away.”
In broken English, he offered to let us sit in his ragged yellow Volkswagen to wait for the buses to begin their morning run. Warm and full, our little family gratefully slept until the fierce California sun and the rumble of the morning traffic awakened us. Waving a rushed good-bye to the man, my mother ushered us quickly back to the bus stop. To my brother and me, we were merely on to the next adventure. To my mother, this generous stranger seemed to give her the strength she needed to face another day, her faith in humanity refueled by his immeasurable act of kindness.
Today, at age twenty-one, this memory stands out among all others from that nomadic visit in California. My mother went back to her native New Jersey after my sister was born, and took the steps to rebuild our lives. A few years later, at fourteen, I found within myself a deep love for music, handed down from my grandfather, Oscar Pettiford, the great jazz bassist. An honor student at the oldest historically Black college in the country, I look forward to preparing myself to help other children of single parents as they struggle to find their own place in the world.
HAVING THE COURAGE TO DREAM
Vonda Paige
In 1981, I was a junior at Stonewall Jackson Senior High School in Manassas, Virginia, a small suburban town about thirty minutes outside of Washington, D.C. One day while I was walking through the library, one of the business teachers stopped me. I didn’t know her name, but I knew from other friends that she taught stenography and bookkeeping.
“You’re Vonda Paige. I haven’t seen you in the business classes. You should take stenography,” she said from behind a pair of cat eyeglasses.
“Why?” I responded. “I don’t need it. The only business class I’m taking is typing, because I’m going to be a reporter and I will need to learn to type before I get to college.”
“Well, you should consider some business classes and take them just in case,” she continued.
While the teacher in the library did not come right out and say it, the look on her face and the tone of her voice conveyed her underlying message: Black girls do not go to college, they become clerks or secretaries. By the time I got to my typing class later that day I had a really bad attitude; I didn’t want to be there learning to set margins and tabs.
I didn’t think less of anyone who chose clerical or secretarial fields. I really had no opinion about it. I just knew that I was a writer, and I was annoyed that someone who didn’t even know me would try to step on my dream.
At Stonewall Jackson I was one of a handful of Black students pursuing an academic track. I was part of that group of students that I know exists in schools around the country and which I like to call “the only Blacks.” I was the only Black writer for the Jackson Journal, the only Black in the National Honor Society and the Model United Nations and It’s Academic clubs. I was the only Black in advanced orchestra playing the violin. My brother, Reggie, played cello for a while, but he bailed on me, preferring the drums in the marching band. Fans cheered for the band at football games, but few kids showed up for orchestra concerts.
If you’re smart and Black in a predominantly white school, you’re subject to grief from other Black kids who think you’re trying to be white. If you stand out too much, you get grief from some white kids who are surprised you’re that smart. My saving grace was my mother, who believed in me.
I was still fuming when I came home from school that day. “You don’t have to take stenography if you don’t want to,” she said. “In fact, you can drop typing if you want. I always hated it too. You need more important classes to get into college.” Relieved and encouraged, I set about working on my goal.
By the middle of the year, I had landed my first job as a school correspondent for my hometown newspaper, the Potomac News. The first year I covered only my school, but because the other student correspondents from the four neighboring high schools usually failed to meet the deadlines, I was given their columns to write as well.
“You’re really blessed,” my mother exclaimed, beaming at me. “Few people get a job right away in the field they want, and you haven’t even started college yet!”
By my senior year I was appointed editor of my school’s newspaper, the Jackson Journal. Some of my well-meaning relatives figured I could get into college, but they wondered out loud how in the world my mother would pay for it.
“We’re not worried about that,” she told them. “It’s going to work out.” And she was right—it did!
At the graduation ceremony in 1982, I received several scholarships, as well as the prestigious Charles Colgan Citizenship Award for a report I had written about a Black woman who founded a school for Blacks in Manassas. (My name was called repeatedly during the ceremony, and a classmate told me afterward that an audience member remarked, “Who was that n——winning everything?” My classmate told him I was his sister, which shut him right up!)
Four years later I earned a bachelor’s degree in communications from Virginia Tech. When I entered college some of my classmates told me I was wasting my time at the student newspaper because I would never get a chance to write there. When I graduated, I was the paper’s first Black news editor.
After internships at the Roanoke Times and World News and the Richmond-Times Dispatch, I landed my first full-time professional job as a general assignment reporter and columnist at the Progress-Index in Petersburg, Virginia. From there I worked at the News-Leader in Springfield, Missouri, where I won writing awards for features and news reporting. In 1989, the Associated Press offered me a job in its Philadelphia bureau. Today, I am a freelance writer and public relations consultant.
Biographers often recount that Harriet Tubman rarely told her passengers the route to freedom. If they wanted to leave the plantation, they had to meet her at a certain time and do exactly as she instructed. Since she was often chased by bounty hunters, she needed to be careful about those she trusted.
But I also think she knew that not all slaves had the faith to see that they could be free. If they were fearful, they would not follow her instructions; they could lose their lives, and risk hers as well. She knew the purpose God had for her life, and she followed it.
While in the tenth grade I wrote a list of goals for myself. They included writing for newspapers. I didn’t know when it would happen, but faith told me it would. That’s why my spirit flared when that business teacher suggested I change course.
In Romans 12:6, Paul urges believers to walk in the talents and gifts God has given us. God’s design for our lives is perfect. He has it all figured out. If you’re a leader, you should govern well. If you’re a teacher, you should teach well. If you are a giver, you should give generously. But never, ever tell a writer she should take stenography!
FROM WELFARE TO FAREWELL
Ken Brown
I am a thirty-five-year-old African American owner of two McDonald’s restaurants, and people often ask how I got so lucky. My response to them is always the same: “It has nothing to do with luck. It’s all about faith!”
/> Growing up, we did not always have enough food, but “Mudear,” as we affectionately called my mother, always had enough faith for everyone. There were times when we did not have a house to call our own, but my parents always provided us with hope for a better tomorrow. Our dollars were in very short supply, but our dreams were always in abundance.
I was born to teenage parents who by the age of twenty had five children under the age of eight. They stressed to us while growing up, however, that we not let ourselves get into the same situation, and they constantly emphasized that we should make education our top priority. I tried to remain focused on my education, especially during my high school years. We were evicted from three different houses during this period, but I refused to let this deter me.
Growing up, we were able to subsist on welfare benefits. My father used to say, however, that even though welfare was our means of subsistence, we never possessed a welfare mentality. At some point, we recognized that welfare was simply a bridge to help us get through the tough times we had to endure. At no point in our lives did we become dependent on welfare as a way of life. My parents always encouraged us to keep a good attitude about our situation and not to become discouraged about life and the hand it had dealt us. Both my mother and father would constantly remind us that God had something bigger and better planned for us and that the Lord would not give us more than we could handle. “If you can conceive it,” they said, “then you can achieve it!”
They were correct. All five of their children graduated from high school and went on to college. Three of the five children went on to earn master’s degrees, and I became the proud owner of two McDonald’s restaurants. Because of the faith and determination my parents instilled in us, they were able to change our thoughts, and ultimately change our worlds.
NOT HIRING
Dawne J. Harris
Having a preacher for a dad afforded me an above-average belief in miracles—at least for others. I had yet to see my own faith accomplish anything extraordinary. That is, until the summer of 1986.
I was in my first year of college and sweating it out in a low-paying job at a convenience store. I despised the getup I wore to work every day, and the hours weren’t the best either. I was certain to miss all the summer fun with my nighttime and holiday work schedule. But because I wanted to purchase a car, I kept on working.
One day, my sister Beth and I heard that Chrysler was hiring. They were looking to hire about 105 employees and pay them $14 an hour! We made plans the very next day to go to the local employment agency and put in our applications.
On the way to the employment agency, we purposely took a longer route and drove by the job site. We were perplexed when we saw a big black-and-white sign on the lawn that read Not Hiring. Our hearts momentarily sank. Suddenly, Beth said, “You know what? We’re going to have faith and go on down to the employment agency to put in our applications anyway!”
When we arrived at the agency, there were long lines of people there who had also heard that Chrysler was hiring. When I saw the long lines, I said to my sister, “What’s the use going through with this? We couldn’t possibly have a chance.” There were at least 150 people waiting in that line already.
Beth, who was a few feet in front of me, said, “Hey, sis, remember we said we were going to keep the faith?” We stood in that line for over an hour before we finally reached the front. The tired clerk hadn’t so much as looked at us when we saw her point to a bank of file cabinets with five drawers full of applications. Sounding like a robot that needed a tune-up, she informed us that there were yet other file cabinets full of applications from other job hunters who were after the same jobs we wanted. She looked at us and asked, “Still want to apply?”
Beth gave me a signal with her eyes that suggested we keep the faith. Breathing deeply, we filled out the little cards and watched as the clerk filed them away in the sea of others.
A few weeks passed, and I was discouraged, thinking that Chrysler would never call. Then the unexpected happened—Chrysler called my sister to come in for an interview! I was happy for Beth but disappointed for myself. I imagined my sister buying new clothes and a new car from her wages, while I still took the bus and slaved away at low-paying jobs.
On the morning of Beth’s interview, I was still asleep when my father burst into my room and boomed, “Get up, get dressed, and go down there with your sister and ask those folks for a job!” I thought he was crazy! I figured those old-time tactics where you walk straight up to someone and ask for a job might have worked forty years ago, but things were more organized and sophisticated now. I imagined marching down there with Beth and being publicly humiliated. I tried to convince my dad to leave me alone, but my father would not listen. He said to me, “How about exercising a little bit of faith?”—my sister’s words again.
So I got up, got dressed, and got in the car with Beth. I worried myself sick, however, all the way there.
As I went into the personnel office with Beth, my knees were knocking and my mouth was dry. I gave the gentleman at the window my name, and I sat down and waited, with sweaty palms and cold feet, as Beth was called in for her interview. A short while later she emerged from the glassed-in area with a big smile and a new job!
As I waited, I heard my name called. I got up and approached the stern-looking gentleman who stood behind the window. He looked at me over his glasses and said loudly, “We don’t have your name listed for an appointment.” My heart sank, and I became embarrassed and frightened as the man stared at me in anticipation of a response. Just as I was about to reply, the gentleman’s face softened and he continued, “But maybe we made a mistake. Come on in and take a seat.” I regained my composure and stepped into the glassed-in area. Still in shock, I almost bumped into the door a few minutes later as I exited the office that day, work ID in hand and a new job at Chrysler!
A few days later, I drove past the location where I would be working. The black-and-white sign reading Not Hiring was still there. I laughed to myself and said, “Oh, yes, you are hiring; it just takes a little faith!”
WITH THE GRACE OF GOD, I SURVIVED
Denise Bride-Frazier
In 1993, I was working for Guy Carpenter in the World Trade Center, on the fifty-third floor. On February 26, a bomb went off in the basement of the World Trade Center complex. It took me an hour and a half to get out of the building. Shortly after we were allowed to return to our office in May 1993, my entire department was laid off. My family from all over the United States called and advised me never to work in the World Trade Center again.
In 1999, after being laid off from another job six months earlier, I was hired by Morgan Stanley Dean Witter. I was working in the World Trade Center again, in the same building, Two World Trade Center, on the sixty-seventh floor.
Two years later, on September 11, 2001, when One World Trade Center was hit by a jet plane, our building, 2 WTC, shook. A coworker told us to look out of the window (our window faced the Hudson River). We saw debris and fireballs falling from the sky. I told my colleague, “Let’s get out of here.” As we started down the steps, I don’t remember all that I said, but later my coworkers told me I was telling people not to panic and that we would be all right. I do know I was praying as I went down the stairs. Then our building was hit by the second jet. “Dear Lord, please get those who can hear my prayers to you out safely,” I prayed. But I never once thought that I would not get out alive. I had faith the Lord would carry me through.
Although I was hurt, I was blessed to be able to be reunited with my family and my two-year-old daughter. Many of my former coworkers from Guy Carpenter were lost. With the grace of God, I survived. I guess my work here on earth is not yet done. I offer my prayers to all the families that lost loved ones and friends.
WHAT IF GOD SAID NO?
LaShanna R. Price
It was December 10, 2001, my last day working with the kids at Cornerstone Schools of Alabama. I had been helping the seventh-grade class poli
sh up their performance of James Weldon Johnson’s The Creation for their Christmas program. I was doing a favor for a friend I attend church with, since acting and directing are my field of expertise. I’m always excited at an opportunity to do theater in my own backyard. Besides, who was I to turn God down? I knew He was calling on me to use my talents to help those kids, so I gladly accepted the request to help.
For two weeks, I spent an hour a day working with some of the most amazing and funniest kids in the world. The “troublesome” kids in the class had been pulled from the program by the administration, but I quickly reinstated them and made them work. I discovered that they were some of the more talented students in the class. They just needed an outlet and someone to give them encouragement.
All the children were inquisitive and wanted more responsibility than I could give them. I soon found myself looking forward to those daily sessions as much as they did! And on that last rainy day, they proved even further how grateful they were for my help by giving me a beautiful watch and earring set with a homemade card.
I laughed at the meaning implied by their gift: that time is valuable. It was a message I tried to impart to them every day, particularly when they tried to goof off or argue with one another instead of focusing on their performance.
