I was swimming one day with some friends when I looked at my breast and I just knew. I was pregnant. I cried. I was afraid to tell my grandparents. I was twenty-three at the time, but I wasn’t married. I knew they would be disappointed. They were heavy into Jesus, and I couldn’t imagine seeing their faces when telling them the news. How could I be so reckless? To make matters worse, I only had only known the father of my child for all of three months. Fantasy over, situation was officially getting real. Why wasn’t I on birth control? Why wasn’t I prepared? I know, God? What am I doing? I knew I was keeping my baby. I had already gone through two abortions from Kenya, and I had promised myself I would not make that decision a third time. I was full of shame, disappointment, frustrations.
I told the distant stranger, and his words said he would stay and support me in any decision I made. However, when my stomach began to show and reality sunk in, he faded out. For months I didn’t hear from him, phone calls went unanswered. I found out that he had a woman who was six months pregnant at the same time I had just conceived. I wasn’t upset: I mean, after all, he was a stranger, and I was naïve, but never stupid. That truth helped me wake up. It took time, but I emotionally detached from my stranger prior to giving birth. I had swallowed my pride and understood my choices, my role, and accepted that I would be raising my child alone. I asked God to forgive me, and I spent hours talking it through with Him, admitting my faults and asking Him for His help.
He never left me.
I’ve heard old folks say, “He’s always on time,” when speaking about the Lord. I had been at the dealership a little over two years and was pretty comfortable. I was excelling in my department and had pretty much hit my peak. I was familiar with the job and knew it well. My son was born and I quickly began to see that his needs would require much more than my current twelve-dollar-an- hour salary. I was transitioning inside. I couldn’t really put my finger on it, but a change was happening. I wasn’t satisfied with my current state—I sensed that there was more in store for my life. I began to separate from the things I was most comfortable with: from friends, to places. I got a phone call from Blossom, my college roommate from Xavier. We kept in touch throughout the years, but there was always an issue with me switching phones or losing contact. Blossom would always find me, though. She switched gears also regarding degrees, and ended up in community college the last time I spoke with her.
This time she filled me in that she had finally graduated with a degree in social work and that she was working on her master’s degree in Christian counseling. She would send me books about grieving and the battles that take place in the mind of the believer. She was my lifeline at the time. Seeing my friend defy the odds meant something to me. It meant I could do it, too, that I should do it. She was celibate. Didn’t smoke, drink, or curse, but she wasn’t religious with her nose in the air. She was free. She had peace and she was progressing in life. That inspired me; it made me so proud, so hopeful. I thought God must be trying to tell me something through Blossom. He was reminding me of my time, to be aware how I was spending it. If I wanted a change, I would have to make a conscious effort and decision to act. So I prayed a few weeks and came up with a plan to ask my manager for other opportunities within the company, or make a petition to go back to school. All my superiors where white men. The head of the dealership was a man named Chuck. He loved money, and would shamelessly make his professions with pride. I remember before meeting with him in his office I went into the bathroom stall and began praying for courage. I asked the Holy Spirit to go with me into the office and give me the courage to make my request. Two weeks prior, I made the request to my direct supervisor who checked with Chuck who shut the idea down with little explanation; besides, if he made special provisions for me regarding scheduling, he would have to do it for everyone. I was terrified. This was my first real request or fight in business setting. I just remember thanking the Lord over and over in my head for being with me while I spoke.
At that time, no one had ever attempted to request two consecutive days off during the week. I explained that I had spoken with my coworkers in my department and that they were willing to accomodate the two days. I even volunteered to work every Saturday and Sunday. Chuck denied my request. Next, I requested a pay raise or some type of incentive. We were working in a dealership where salespeople would take home thousands of dollars in commission while we got five or ten bucks for each person we brought into the dealer. Chuck denied that request also, but he agreed to put together an incentive plan. His proposal was a five-hundred-dollar bonus for each employee who could meet a certain amount of calls for the month. The catch was each call had to result in a specific average at the end of the month. It was an extremely difficult challenge on top of the other duties we had in the department. I decided I would exceed the expectation and, after meeting it, put in my two weeks. That’s exactly what I did. Chuck revisited the idea of allowing me the set off days to attend class, as long as I would sign on to close up shop every Saturday and Sunday evening.
At this point, I had given birth to Kenya and was already having a difficult time with childcare. I was over the dealership and decided that any place of employment where I gave my all and in turn management gave me a hard time regarding growing in the company, or in my educational goals, was not somewhere I wanted to be. I declined his offer, took my five-hundred-dollar bonus, and used in to enroll in community college. This wasn’t my first crack at college courses. After Hurricane Katrina, I ended up taking classes at Merritt Community College. I remember the college campuses were opening up to all “refugees,” and I was able to enroll mid-semester for most of my classes. I recall this one English professor I had, in particular. He was an African American male. I’ll never forget the look he gave me the day I tried to add his class. He explained that it would be extremely difficult to catch up. My nonchalant attitude toward his speech seemed to get under his skin. I’ve never been one to fold under pressure or intimidation. I’m not saying I’ve never been afraid or intimidated, just that I’m not fazed by the giants. That’s the thing about going through a lot of trauma: it prepares you for the realities of life, the fight.
I ended up getting an A in that class. The professor confessed that he was impressed with my determination and wished me well in the future. That victory was short-lived, however, because the next English course I took was the complete opposite. The professor hated my writing, which brought my pride to ground zero, because I always saw writing as a strong attribute of mine. I ended up dropping out of her course. It became a habit: I would enroll in a course and if I didn’t like the professor or ended up struggling halfway through, I would withdraw from the classes. I ended up with withdrawals on my transcripts and my 3.5 college GPA slowly turned into a 1.7. Life is a series of victories and challenges. The key is to never get so comfortable in the victories that you aren’t prepared for the next challenge up ahead. Life is about process, progression, gaining wisdom through experiences, and applying what was gained. We were not designed to stay stuck.
About a year after I left the dealership, I went back to get an oil change. I spoke with my old coworker and she told me about two young women who worked part-time hours because they went to school.