Keeping the Faith

by Tavis Smiley

  Will grew up in Bent Creek Apartments, an upscale all-adult community. Since Will was the first child born there, we were allowed to stay. But the rent was soon past due. I was in a panic and paralyzed with indecision about what to do. Cynthia, the apartment manager, knocked at the door to say she had located where I could go to apply for welfare if I needed to keep a roof over our heads. Cynthia also enlisted the services of another neighbor to drive me to the welfare office.

  Through Cynthia’s kind initiative and act of friendship, I applied, got on and off welfare in three months, secured a job, and remained in Bent Creek Apartments for eight more years. Throughout the entire time, our neighbors accepted, mentored, and favored Will and me in a multitude of ways, the way a family does for its members.

  Will was five when I put our sanctuary at Bent Creek in jeopardy for something I passionately believed in then and still do today—freedom of speech. I lost my job for publishing an article in the employee newsletter. It took four years to reach a legal conclusion. During this time, many wonderful people rescued us from starving.

  Granny and Mr. Ralph Strong fed us every Sunday for nearly two years during my unemployed periods. Granny is an all-star cook. The word chef is too boorish to describe her culinary expertise. She tried to teach me to cook, but there is nothing about a kitchen or pots and pans that thrills me.

  Theresa Stanford, Will’s godmother, picked up the weekday meal slack. We had met earlier, when Will was ten months old. She learned that I was from Chicago and didn’t have a support group in Atlanta. Periodically, she would send her husband over to my place with a bag of groceries. What woman do you know who would send her husband to a single woman’s house in a time of crisis? But Theresa had nothing to fear from me. I would have walked through hell with a gasoline dress on before violating her trust. At Bill’s funeral, Theresa and her husband, Charlie, flanked me.

  Yvonne Page, whose friendship spans thirty-plus years, encouraged me to abandon self-pity when my car was repossessed. Her solution was for me to get up and buy another car by asking eight friends to loan me one hundred dollars each. My protest that I couldn’t do it was ignored and she sent me the first check that day. All seven other friends said yes. A ninth friend, Jannie Kinnebrew, was upset that I didn’t ask for her help. She literally forced me to take an additional hundred from her for insurance. Her only stipulation was that the money be not a loan but a gift. In time, I was able to repay every loan, and nine years later I remain at the job secured with the car and their help.

  An account of friendships nurturing me would be incomplete without mentioning the wonderful African American men who assisted in my and Will’s growth. Some were intimate friends, and others were men whose character simply prompted them to help. Imagine that! Black men who mentored a child that was not even their own, just because!

  Michael Tyler and Brian Poe emphasized to Will the importance of going to college, and their actions demonstrated the benefits of earning multiple degrees. Michael Tyler is a former neighbor from Bent Creek Apartments. He and his wife, Cathy, have three boys of their own. Michael exposed Will to events and experiences far beyond what my wallet would allow. I am grateful Cathy allowed him to include Will.

  Brian entered our lives from Big Brothers Big Sisters when Will was seven. He taught Will how to establish and maintain his own circle of male friends. As a reward for his all-A report card, Brian bought Will a pair of hundred-dollar Air Jordan sneakers I couldn’t afford, and had enough home training to ask me if it was okay before doing so.

  Brian stated in the beginning that he could only mentor Will for a year because he was going away to law school. Yet every spring break, Brian would fly Will to the campus of the University of Virginia, and he did the same for every city he clerked in during the summers. Fourteen years later, their relationship is like a blood-brother bond.

  The tears of appreciation I shed the night of Will’s graduation were a reaction to the incredible support he had received from our friends then, and earlier. A year after Will left for college, I returned to college; I graduated at age fifty.

  None of the people in this account is a blood relative. Not a single one. Each was a stranger until we shared a history together. Each one embraced us nonetheless. Because Linda Freeman, Mary Washington, Pam Walker, and my son’s father, Bill Tolbert, are no longer with us, on occasion I regret I didn’t figure it all out in time to thank them for the pivotal role each played in my life. But I feel obliged to return their kindness by being kind to other strangers I meet along the way.

  In a recent article in Newsweek, “Twelve Things You Must Know to Survive and Thrive in America,” Ellis Cose speaks of the “rope of destiny” pulling us along. With a little help from my friends, the rope helped to pull me to safety!

  THE GIFT

  Benjamin A. Dashiell

  Tuesday, December 10, 1991, began like any other workday, fighting traffic to work. As I approached my desk, one of my coworkers said, “Ben, call home immediately!” My wife advised me to come home right away, although she would not say what was wrong.

  If you’ve ever received this type of phone call, you have some idea what I was going through. Driving home, I tried to imagine what could have happened.

  When I arrived at home, my wife informed me that my father had died. My mother had phoned the news. For a moment, I stood there frozen, as memories of my life with him flashed through my mind. My entire body felt numb. I picked up the phone to call my mother. She explained that dad had passed away in his sleep that morning. I told her that I would call the rest of the family, and that I would be home as soon as I could.

  Most of the rest of my siblings lived out of town. Although Ray lived in Salisbury, he was with my mother already. Kenny and our sister Medenia both lived in Delaware. Wendell, who was in the Air Force, was at Maxwell AFB, and Nate was in Virginia Beach. I lived in District Heights, Maryland. We all made plans to make the long ride home.

  It was only two days before Dad’s birthday, December 12. On the evening of the twelfth, one of Dad’s cousins came to the house to speak to me and my brothers. Only three of us were there at the time; we went out to our cousin’s car to talk. He told us that my father had another son, Russell. We were shocked. As the initial shock wore off, he explained how he had learned this information.

  One day, while Russell was visiting in another town, he met my cousin’s mother, who was visiting as well. Striking up a conversation, she mentioned to Russell that she had just come up from Salisbury, Maryland. Russell responded by saying that his father was from Salisbury. When asked what his father’s name was, he gave her the name of our father. She looked at him in disbelief. Russell explained that my father had met his mother while he was in the military. Russell’s mother worked on the base. Russell had been the product of their relationship. Although Russell had never met my father, he had the birth certificate papers with Dad’s name on them, as well as a picture of Dad.

  Later, my cousin’s mother came to see my father to talk with him about what she had found out. My father, however, became very upset; he didn’t want to discuss it. My father was very protective of us, and felt that this would only cause trouble for the family. This is how we came to be sitting in a car learning of what we came to call “the gift.” Once we had heard the story, we realized his relationship with Russell’s mother had occurred before my father had met my mother.

  When my father passed away, Russell was contacted by my cousin and given the news of his death. Russell voiced a wish to be able to see my father and pay his last respects to him. Dad’s cousin had Russell’s phone number, so we gave him a call. By this time, all of my brothers had arrived, and knew the story. Russell told us that all he wanted to do was see his father, and to have some closure to this missing link in his life. He stressed that he did not want to cause us any trouble, and that he didn’t want anything. He said that he would drive down to Salisbury, view the remains, and leave immediately thereafter. We assured him that it
was OK, and that we wanted to meet him.

  The next day, the day of Dad’s funeral, we informed our sister of the news. At this point, everyone in the immediate family knew except our mother. As difficult as my father’s death and making his funeral arrangements were for her, we were not sure how to break the news to her. Collectively, we decided to wait until after the funeral service to tell her. I did, however, share the news with my mother’s sister, Romaine.

  Aunt Romaine had decided that she would usher at the funeral service. She arrived at the church early to ensure that everything was in order. She was informed by the funeral director that there was a man and his family who had arrived at the chapel and were going back and forth to view the body. Each time they would go to view the body, they would return in a very emotional state. The young man had informed the funeral director that he was my father’s son, but because we were from a relatively small town, the funeral director knew my entire family. Aunt Romaine told him that she knew who the gentleman was, and immediately went over to assist him and his family. She introduced herself and reassured them that everything was fine. We later found out that they had planned to leave before the service started, but she had convinced them to stay.

  After the service, Aunt Romaine took Russell and his family to the dining hall, where they waited for us to return from the cemetery. By this time, we were all anxious to get back to the church and meet our “new” brother. Each of us went over to introduce ourselves to Russell individually; by this time, people began to realize that something unusual was going on.

  We decided to break the news to our mother soon, before someone else did. So, in her hour of grief, we gathered around her and told her what we knew. Through her tears, she asked if he was there; she wanted to meet him. When he was pointed out to Mother, she went to him and hugged him! Other family members and friends had no clue as to what was going on, but it didn’t take long for them to figure things out. Soon everyone began approaching him with open arms.

  It’s often said that God moves in mysterious ways. I know it was nothing but divine intervention that led Russell to us on my father’s birthday. What should’ve been a day of grief became one of new beginnings. It has been just over ten years since we lost our father and found Russell. We all maintain a close relationship to this day. We were all the recipients of the gift that could only have come from our father and from above.

  WHAT IF?

  K. M. Ford

  What if Grandma hadn’t come to get me?

  What if Papa hadn’t cared for me as his own?

  What if my family hadn’t been there to support me?

  What if I had let fate be my victor, instead of following my faith in God as my path to victory?

  On May 25, 1968, I was born to a mentally ill woman who had been battered by her husband of three months, days before and again just hours before giving birth. When my mother was asked how she felt after giving birth to a baby girl, she laughed and only responded, “I ain’t had no baby. What are you talking about? I ain’t had no baby.” Certainly, there was no way for me to have a normal life emerging into such a sad environment.

  I was another hopeless case—poor, physically abused, born to a crazy Black woman in Newark, New Jersey, in the 1960s. The best decision the hospital could come up with was to hand me over to the local orphanage. Perhaps I would have a chance there.

  “What? You’d better not give her away before I can get there! You just better not! I’ll be there on the next train coming to Jersey!” yelled my petite but sassy-lipped grandmother when hospital officials called to inform her of my birth and her daughter’s medical status. Almost sixty, she didn’t hesitate about whether to come and get me. She just packed her bags and had my grandfather drive her the thirty miles from their little farmhouse in rural Campbell County, Virginia, to the train station in the next town over.

  I often wonder what the source is of such strength and undying commitment within the Black family. What enables us to keep on going without thinking twice about the sacrifices we give … all in the name of love? What if Grandma hadn’t come to get me?

  My grandparents raised me as their own. I was always referred to as the tenth child. Although we were probably poor by annual income standards, I had practically everything I needed and could reasonably want. My grandfather said many times that he spent more money on me than on all nine of the other children totaled.

  My mother lived in my grandparents’ house too for many years. We were never as close as a mother and daughter should be. Sometimes I feel she thought I really was her sister instead of her daughter. My experiences in the household would range from peace and tranquillity to total chaos and violence. The violent times occurred when my mother was off her medicine and would lose it again. The scene would get so ugly that my grandparents would have to call the police to come get her and take her to the mental institution for another treatment and recovery period. I always hated these nightmarelike scenes; it was another reminder that my family wasn’t normal … that I wasn’t normal.

  At the age of five, I acquired a speech problem and began to stutter. Many times, my stuttering would become so bad that if called upon by the teacher to answer a question, I would just get caught up in a word and repeat the first syllable uncontrollably for what would feel like an eternity. Of course, this made the other children laugh and make fun of me.

  And then at some point, my school decided that I must be a special-education case, because that’s exactly where I went next—straight to the special-needs classes. Thank goodness my grandma lectured my teachers, stating, “This child ain’t no dummy and you’d better put her back in the right class.” The special testing following this episode identified me as gifted and talented, rather than a special-education student. That year, I went from special education to advanced math and reading.

  My speech problem was treated with speech therapy on a regular basis for several years. Over the years I’ve learned techniques to smooth over those anxiety triggers so that my stuttering is more controllable in public. I moved through elementary school to high school and became very active in extracurricular activities and college-prep coursework.

  Despite my shaky beginning, I graduated from high school with honors and attended the prestigious University of Virginia, where I met my wonderful husband. We have been married for eleven years now, have two beautiful and healthy children, and have established a very comfortable life, sharing careers in the financial services industry. Many times I look back and wonder how I became so blessed. What if Grandma hadn’t come to get me? Just what if?

  BEING BLESSED

  Ky’a Jackson

  In 1979, after twelve years of marriage, my father told my mother that he no longer wanted to be married to her. We were living in Okinawa, Japan, at the time and had no idea how we were going to get back to the United States. My mother sat both my brother, Michael, and me down and explained to us that Mommy and Daddy weren’t going to be married anymore and that it wasn’t our fault. She made sure that we felt secure in knowing that we would make it, adding, “We were a four-legged table, and now we are a three-legged table—still strong and able to stand!”

  Once we arrived back in the States, we moved back into our house in Willingboro, New Jersey, which our parents had rented out while we were in Okinawa. Unfortunately, we needed at least two sources of income in order to keep the house; my mother had to start working two jobs.

  My job as big sister was to try to make things easier for my mom, including staying on top of my studies. I was nine years old at the time. I would pick my brother up after school, make sure he did his homework, get his and my clothes ready for school the next day, and start dinner so that when Mom got home she could eat with us, ask about our school day and homework, and then head back out to work.

  We maintained this schedule for about three years. Eventually, however, we lost the house. It was simply too expensive for us to keep. We went through some very hard times for the next year or
so; we had to live with two other families until we found an apartment we would afford. But my mother never let it get her, or us, down!

  On paydays, Mother would have us meet her at the diner across the street from her job after we got out of school. There she would play Ms. Pac-man with us. We would then walk to Gene’s Motel. It was right across the street from the Clover Department Store, where Mom would buy us a new outfit or new pajamas. The nights we slept over in the motel, we would order pizza and soda and talk about all the things that we wanted in life and all the things we needed to do to obtain them. Atop the latter list was always offering a lot of encouragement to each other.

  About a year later, we found a nice little apartment in Pennsauken, New Jersey, on Westfield Avenue, and we thought everything was going well. I was getting pretty decent grades in school, and my brother wasn’t doing badly either. I was involved in just about everything in school. It was while I was in East Camden Middle School that I learned about my love for oratory and singing. I was in the choir and the drama club, and also competed in oratorical contests sponsored by Alpha Kappa Alpha sorority. I won the first oratorical contest they sponsored. But just as things began to look up for us, we were hit with hard times again.

  My mother had been having problems with her legs and her eyesight. She began seeing a variety of doctors to help determine the nature of the problems she was having. No one really knew what was going on! She had always walked everywhere because we didn’t have a car, but now she began to grow tired very quickly. At the same time, Grandmother also became very sick.

  Mother is the youngest of seven children, and as far as I could tell, she was always my grandmother’s favorite. It was hard on my mother to see her mother ill as well. We refer to 1984 as “our tough year” because it was the year my grandmother died and the year my mother was finally diagnosed with multiple sclerosis.