REACHING FOR AMBITION
AUSTIN CHANNING BROWN
was my introduction to theater. I held tight to my mother’s hand as we weaved around excited teenagers and proud parents to find our seats. Music that had been bursting from the speakers suddenly stopped. The lights lowered in the high school gymnasium. Plastic folding chairs scraped across the floor as the audience settled in. Spotlights circled before landing on the center of the stage where a Black Peter Pan stood, hands on hips, green hat tilted to the side. For an hour and a half, I sat entranced at the spectacle: props, costumes, and the prettiest Tinker Bell I’d ever seen. I was just a small kid, easily dropped into the story unfolding before me.
At the end of the play, my mother and I leapt up, moving toward the stage, hoping to congratulate my grandmother. She was a home economics teacher at the high school, and she’d been responsible for the costumes. My grandmother was always working on paintings or other artistic projects, but I couldn’t believe how much she’d created for this play, from the giant props to the intricate costumes for all the main characters. Once we found her and exchanged hugs, she said there was something special she wanted me to see. Suddenly the crocodile from the play came slithering down the middle of the aisle right toward me. My heart beat fast. “What do you think?” she asked. I giggled, not taking my eyes off it. I knew it was pretend. I knew my grandmother had created this green monster. But it was so realistic. My eyes widened as I heard the tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock from the belly of the beast before me. I wanted to reach out and touch it, but, caught between wonder and suspicion, my fear screamed, “Do not get too close to the crocodile. You saw what happened to Hook!”
The sensation was thrilling: knowing in my head that I was safe, while being unable to turn off the unique mix of excitement and fear coursing through my body. I was utterly intrigued by this feeling of riskiness, where there seemed to be the potential for something exhilarating on the other side. It’s the first time I remember feeling this, the tension between the two sides of risk and reward seemingly echoed by the tick-tock of the crocodile’s belly, but it’s far from the last. As a writer, I know I’m safe when I sit down in front of a blank page, but I feel a thrill run through me as I consider my task: hoping my words will challenge and inspire readers, while knowing that will require vulnerability and courage on my end first.
All I knew at that moment was that the next time someone asked me “What do you want to be when you grow up?” artist would be at the top of my list.
And I had a list. I was going to be a teacher and artist, like my grandmother. I was going to adopt all kids without a home. On the side, I would sing like my pretend auntie Whitney Houston. As I grew older, it became increasingly clear that I was not in fact going to sing like Whitney, and my inability to sew, paint, or draw meant my options for artistry were far more limited than my grandmother’s, but I was consistently intrigued by the idea of helping others as a career. By high school, my list included becoming a minister and working in the nonprofit sector on behalf of kids in foster care.
Despite my grand plans to change the world, I had one problem: myself. I was absolutely incapable of finishing a project. I did great in school with its deadlines and grades and clear finish lines. But entering adulthood was…different. While completing a degree program in Detroit, I fell in love with the city. It bothered me that though so few people understood the history of Detroit, everyone had an opinion about its decline and potential for recovery. I planned an entire curriculum on Detroit history and what it means to be a good citizen, but I never taught it. I didn’t have a plan for where I would teach it. I hadn’t been hired anywhere. I just felt compelled to create the curriculum and figure out the rest later.
I filled out applications for organizing and activism, but I never turned them in to the folks running the organization. I believed in the cause of racial justice but was terrified I didn’t have the skills it takes to organize people. I would join a church in order to start my ministry and then would have to move following jobs wherever they landed, leaving all my plans behind. I was filled with great ideas. So many ideas. It got so bad that my husband would laugh every time I asked him excitedly, “Want to hear about my new project?” He knew I meant well. He knew it would be a good idea. And he also knew it was highly unlikely that I would follow through. I was a chronic idea generator, but once the thrill of the new idea disappeared, so did my follow-through.
I figured there must be something wrong with me. I was like my grandmother in so many ways. I wanted to create. I wanted to teach. I wanted to inspire. But unlike her, something in me must have been broken. Because she figured out how to do all of those things. I was like a chicken, flapping my wings but never flying. In my early twenties, I began to question all my childlike wonder about careers and changing the world. Maybe those were just the dreams of a kid. Maybe it was time to grow up, bury my sense of idealism, and find contentment in whatever job was paying.
In the midst of all this questioning came the Great Recession. One year into marriage and having just completed my degree, we were broke. Broke broke. So many of my grand ideas died a terrible death during the recession. But it wasn’t just the ideas that took a nosedive. It was my belief that I could impact anything, let alone the world. My whole world became about survival: How would we pay our rent? Did we need to move in with our parents? Where could we find jobs? Everything felt uncertain, and that uncertainty bled into my bones. I was no longer sure about my path or purpose. Everything became about the next paycheck.
With assistance from our parents, we moved to a larger city. Secured new jobs. Did our best to ride out the remainder of the recession. But all was not well with the world. The racial tensions in America were starting to heat up again and soon boiled into an era known as Black Lives Matter.
“You must start writing,” my friends encouraged me. But I shrugged it off. Working at a church, I had a small but mighty community of people who were engaged in conversations about racial justice, and I thought that was enough. We were having fun discussing the news, reading books together, and talking through justice issues with anyone who would listen. We even started a little class for congregation members to come learn about racial justice. As they watched my whole body light up while teaching, they insisted I could do more. But my hope had already died. This was enough, I told them. I’d only just gotten some stability. Why would I take a risk now, of all times? Especially knowing I probably wouldn’t even follow through? But no matter what I told myself, I couldn’t completely silence the tick-tock of the croc. Could they be right? I asked myself. Could there be more for me?
Eventually my friends had had enough of my avoidance. They believed when I was too scared to believe. But they did more than believe. Jenny found a website for my blog, gave me a theme, and told me she expected my first post to be up by MLK weekend. Becky scolded me for not having a social media account so that she could share what I was writing. Brenda took me to her publishing house, let me meet with her editor. When I lost my job, instead of expecting me to find another right away, my husband told me to just focus on writing for a while. And I did. I fell in love with writing. For the first time, I followed through on a project, and it felt so natural to keep going.
I have little doubt that the missing ingredient from all my projects before was community. I wanted to teach, but didn’t have a classroom. I wanted to be a part of an organization, but never took the final step to join. I wanted to belong to a worship community, but became discouraged when I had to move. Every time I tried to start a new project, I had the emotional support of those around me, but I never invested in the community it takes to make dreams a reality. Turned out that even though writing is considered very isolating—just me and the page—this was the first time I was starting a project with people. I needed conversation partners and editors. I needed friends who would critique my sentences and make them better. I needed mentors to walk me through the writing process and people who would remind me of tiny details from our shared history. I suddenly had resources, guidance, advice, and my little community of readers. I had poked the crocodile. I was on my way.
Before I knew it, I had been writing consistently for four years—the most follow-through I had ever displayed on a project. I had no expectation that my blog would lead anywhere. The blog was the whole project. So when it led to a book deal, I couldn’t believe it.
“I know I have more project ideas than a caterpillar has legs,” I told my husband. “Thank you for supporting me in this.”
“Of course, babe,” he replied. “I have always known and loved how ambitious you are.”
Record scratch.
Ambitious?
Was I ambitious?
I had never thought of myself as ambitious. Wasn’t that the word to describe my brother, the software engineer? Wasn’t that the word to describe my husband, the attorney? That was not the word to describe a Black woman who has a degree in social justice, was it?
Creative. Energetic. Spunky. These were all words I was familiar with—words that I’d heard used to describe women who wanted to make an impact on society, like me.
But ambition? As with the green crocodile crawling toward me as a child, I wasn’t sure I could fully embrace it, but I liked the thrill of it.
I kept writing even as life continued to unfold. Packing. Moving. New jobs. Big decisions. Writing was my constant. On the blog. On social media. On the first draft of my book. Writing kept me company. But I was carefully managing my own expectations. Don’t hope for too much. Let yourself be surprised if something nice happens. This right here is great. Let’s not rock the boat by wanting more.
I wonder if you’ve sometimes felt that way. Girl meets dream. Life crushes dream. Friends revive dream. Girl holds on for dear life. That was me. I was proud of myself and grateful to my community for helping me follow through. But this word, ambition, felt like a truth I wasn’t ready to own. I was still being revived. I loved writing. I was proud of what I had written. But I did want more. I wanted to write not just one book but as many as the publishing industry would allow. I loved teaching my little class, but was it safe to dream about bigger classrooms or larger audiences? Was it safe to hope for more beyond what I had already achieved? Or was it better to hold this close and not let go? I wasn’t sure.
Then came Jo.
I knew Jo Saxton only through social media and her book, given to me by a colleague when I first started writing. It was called More Than Enchanting: Breaking Through Barriers to Influence Your World. Through that book, perhaps without knowing it, Jo had become one of my mentors. So when I discovered she was coming to town for an event, I took a chance and asked her if we could meet for just a second. She graciously agreed, and for half an hour over coffee I told her about all my inner barriers. I told her about my dreams as a child and how those dreams had been dashed in adulthood. I told her about my love for writing but confessed that it was the only thing I had done consistently. Could I even trust myself? And then there was this word: ambition. If I embraced this word, if I reached out and touched it, what would that mean? What if I could no longer contain myself?
Jo listened (and reacted audibly) as I poured out my heart. Then it was her turn. She sat straight up in her chair, set her coffee down, and looked me in the eyes as she said, “Austin, I am an ambitious woman.” I swear there were more words that came after that, but I couldn’t hear them over the sound of the chains falling off my own heart. What freedom to hear another Black woman so calmly and passionately lay claim to her own ambition. I interrupted, asking her to repeat that sentence again. She laughed and obliged, then launched into the story of her own journey. She told me about what ambitions she had next. And then she gave me an assignment.
“I want you to release survival, scarcity, and shame.”
Well, damn. Thirty minutes and this gorgeous Black woman had named all the chains that I had picked up as I tried to tame my own ambitions. We had survived the recession, but I was still holding on to the notion that I could not dream because survival was priority. I had believed the lie of scarcity—that there was only so much room in the world for me, only a handful of opportunities, only a little space for my voice, only a tiny slice of success that could be mine. And so much shame. Even though my writing had led to an amazing opportunity, I still carried a great deal of shame about my inability to complete past projects. That shame made me afraid to try new things, but it also made me wonder if I could finish the opportunity right in front of me: a book. Hell, could I finish a draft of a book? I wasn’t sure. My track record wasn’t great. Survival. Scarcity. Shame.
After having a chance to take in Jo’s words, I wrote out all the reasons why I was still holding on to smallness and safety: “My independence is of comfort to me; I find it hard to need community….For my entire life, I’ve been taught that women should be humble. Can I be both ambitious and humble?…What if I try this and fail? What if my voice isn’t good enough? What if my dreams have been crushed for a reason, to keep me in this tiny, safe box?” I wrote and wrote and wrote. When I had filled up the page, I took out a black Sharpie and over the top of those words wrote myself a letter:
I am leaving behind survival, scarcity, and shame. I am embracing my call. I will walk in strength, sustainability, and strategy. I will remind myself that God delights in me, that God gave me this ambition. I will remember all that I want to do in the world. I will not wait for someone else’s permission to be who God created me to be. I have things to say, and I will be excited for every opportunity I have to share.
It was the first time I used the word ambition to describe myself with pride. I had finally reached out for the crocodile.
Sometimes I’m still afraid of my ambition, if I am honest. My ambition and I are in a constant dance with each other. I try hard to remember that I am the lead; she is following me. My ambition makes me hopeful for things that have not yet come into being, and this feels like an invitation to disappointment. An invitation to return to those years of uncertainty and smallness. But my ambition has also helped me discover that I can survive disappointment. Turns out that when I add my community to the mix, my ambition recovers from disappointment pretty quickly, actually. She’s resilient, and relentless in her creativity, flexibility, and determination.
The problem was never that I wasn’t good enough for my own ambitious dreams. It was that my dreams require community in order to become possible. I was never meant to try to reach my goals alone, just as I was never meant to try to impact the world alone. My mother and grandmother were standing right there next to me when the crocodile came slithering up the aisle. All I had to do was to look up at them and ask, “Will you help me do this? And if it doesn’t go well, will you still be there?” It’s vulnerable and scary, and it’s taken me a lifetime of practice. But I’ve found it’s worth it. To believe in myself—and others—enough to say: “I want this. I’m worthy of this. I need help getting there. And I believe you will be there for me whatever happens next.”