Chicken Soup for the African American Woman's Soul (33 page)

I was also surprised by the bitterly cold subzero days and the necessity of driving in snow that accumulated in feet rather than in inches. But I was scandalized at the fact that the town's black population was less than 3 percent.

And right from the beginning, I was aghast at the fact that out of one hundred students in my program, I was the only African American. The workshop, it seemed, had an unwritten rule that only one African American student be admitted at a time, and this had long been an issue: One of the last black students to go through the program had been so miserable he'd arranged to complete his degree in three semesters instead of the requisite four. Like the African American alums before me, I began to feel the pain and isolation of being the program's lone black writer. My characters, a fellow student insisted, didn't “talk like black people really would.” An entire workshop of people averred that they didn't understand the significance of my protagonist's Afro. And an overheard discussion about Toni Morrison ended with, “I know she won the affirmative action Nobel, but is she really any good?” I began to avoid the campus, insuring that the only day I spent there was the Tuesday I had workshop. According to tradition, each workshop group went to a bar afterwards. I never went with mine.

Every couple of months I'd drive to Chicago, where I'd get my hair braided and eat at a soul food restaurant. Every black person I saw on the street was a jewel, proof that I wasn't crazy, that I didn't have to live by the script my classmates wanted to write for me, that I was more than a figment of some white writer's imagination. But then I'd recross the Illinois-Iowa border, and the black radio stations would fade out, and I'd return to feeling terribly alone.

Every few days in Iowa City, I'd see another black person on the street. I would strike up frantic conversations—I'm sure some of them thought I was crazy. But others lingered and stayed in touch, no doubt as lonely as I was.

By Thanksgiving, my sense of isolation had peaked. My sister had given me a kinara for Christmas the year before, and I had looked forward to celebrating Kwanzaa with the friends I'd make in my new city. But as the weeks wore on, I realized I'd probably just be taking my kinara home to celebrate with my family. Meanwhile, school churned forward: I went to speak to the department secretary about my fellowship application for the following year. At the end of our conversation, she gave me a jolt. “How do you like it here?” she asked.

“I love it,” I lied. But the tears were hot in my eyes, the lump rising in my throat.

“We don't see you around much,” she said, continuing to prod.

“Well, it's just that . . . I feel so . . .” I had never been one to let myself cry in front of strangers, but as I choked out the word “alone,” I couldn't help myself.

She handed me a tissue and watched me try, unsuccessfully, to regain my composure. Then she spoke. “It must be difficult,” she said.

But how could she understand? Having been the only black child in my school for many years, I still smarted at the painful memories of the teasing and exclusion I endured, and I'd promised myself that as an adult I'd never put myself back into the “pioneer” situation. But there I was, a pioneer again by accident, trapped for two long years on the prairie. Knowing I could never fully explain, I bit my lip and left her office. I decided to go grocery shopping because it always put me in a better mood. As soon as I walked through the automatic door I saw a black woman with a full head of gorgeous braids. “Where did you get those done?” I gasped.

“Sylvia. She lives near campus.”

“Really? Wow. And here I've been going to Chicago.”

The woman chuckled. “Did you just move here?”

“A few months ago.”

She held out her hand. “Irene.”

“Jacinda.”

It turned out Irene was also doing her M.F.A., in drama, and she also felt isolated. Irene gave me not only Sylvia's number but her own, and insisted that we get together for dinner.

“Cool. I'll call you soon,” I said, “and hey . . . why don't you come to my Kwanzaa party?” I didn't know where the idea had come from, but Irene nodded vigorously.

“A Kwanzaa party? I've never been to one. Neat!”

I said good-bye to Irene and finished my shopping. I rushed home and called some of the black people I'd met on the street over the past few months. The following day, I called the minority graduate students' office and tracked down all the black students who were doing M.F.A.s at the university. There were about fifteen of us in all—more than I'd thought—and they were all glad to hear from me.

The following Tuesday was a workshop day, but I was overjoyed that it had come, because it was also the day of my Kwanzaa party. I bought new red, green and black candles for my kinara, cooked up some greens and okra, and baked cornbread. I decorated my apartment with symbols of the harvest. And that evening, when workshop was over, I rushed home to finish my eggnog.

My classmates were no doubt out drinking after workshop, but I was partying into the night with my new friends. I will never forget how we boogied to my mother's old James Brown albums, or how, as we lit the seven candles, we each read the principle ours stood for and said what we'd do in the coming year to live that principle. I'll never forget how much we smiled at one another's jokes that night, or how the unattended kinara candles melted onto the hardwood floor. Eventually, someone looked out the window and noticed that it had snowed about five inches since the party started. Folks began to pile out my door into the coming blizzard, but they still looked warm from the friendships they'd forged. “Thank you so much for doing this,” Irene said. “I've been here two years, and no one has ever gotten us all together like this.” I was glad for everyone, and glad for myself, because the only thing that was lonely that night was the streetlamp outside my window that illuminated a perfect winter snow.

Having spent the night in the company of my black brothers and sisters, I felt as strong as that steel pole, as unburdened as the lightest flake of snow falling from its cloud. Spending an evening with folks who looked like me, joked likeme, and understoodme deeply had givenme the strength and the calm to reenter a world I had formerly shunned. The following evening, I went to workshop. And I went out to the bar afterwards with my classmates, for the first of many Tuesdays.

Jacinda Townsend

The Bus Stop

M
emories of our lives, of our works and our
deeds will continue in others.

Rosa Parks

This particular day began as usual. I got up, got dressed and headed for work.

I walked the usual four long blocks to the bus stop.

As I arrived, the same old faces were in the old same places. I kept to myself and attempted to avoid all eye contact. I was determined not to engage any of them in conversation. In the past, nothing any one of them had said was truly of any consequence. So I stood in back of the bus bench and leaned against the wall.

I didn't have to look for the bus because the others each took turns leaning over to look for it.

Late again
, I thought to myself.

So there I was at the bus stop with all those losers who didn't have lives or cars. I justified my place among this particular crowd:
I would have had a car and a better job, if my
dad hadn't run out on us, making it impossible for me to go to
college. If I had gone to college, then I wouldn't be at this bus stop
.

I looked around and noticed the white couple in their early sixties, who dressed alike every day. They sat extremely close together. They were probably afraid of us. They spoke constantly in some foreign language.

I looked over at the man I referred to as the “Dirty Old Man.” He always made dirty remarks. No one paid attention to him. Besides, he still wore leisure suits. I'm sure he was Mr. Personality back in the day. He and the older couple who appeared to be joined at the hip always sat in the exact same seats.

Daily I could count on a variety of strangely dressed, loud, ignorant-acting teenage boys at the bus stop. These teenagers made a point to speak loudly enough for every-onewithin a block to hear everyword of their conversation. I don't know why someone didn't tell them to shut up.

Then there was the “Book Worm,” a girl with thick glasses. Daily she wore an oversized jacket that probably belonged to her brother. She never spoke to anyone, and she never looked up from her book and that was fine with me.

There was the “Music Man,” a man in his early thirties. He wore the largest sunglasses on the planet and some kind of uniform. His earphones appeared to be attached to his head. He would blast the music so loud that you could hear it five feet away.

Lastly, there was an older woman about seventy-five. She wore a purple scarf over her head every day rain or shine. She and I leaned against the wall. She stared at me, but we never spoke. I was sure that she was a domestic worker.

Now on this particular day, I wondered why the bus people couldn't be as well groomed as I was. I wondered if they were Christians like me. I wondered if there was a reason we were always there together.

My thoughts were interrupted by the terrifying screech of skidding tires; the sound appeared to come from out of nowhere. My eyes frantically searched back and forth attempting to determine the source. Suddenly, there was a loud, horrific crash. The impact felt like a bomb, it shook everyone. Right in front of our eyes two cars collided, and one began to spin in a circle, totally out of control. The screeching became louder and louder. Everyone began to scream as the car came out of the spin and headed directly toward the bus bench and all of us.

Within a flash and without a thought for their welfare, the teenage boys, who just moments before I had called ignorant, grabbed the old man and the couple sitting on the bench and pulled them to safety. The Music Man, instead of running to get out of the way of the speeding car himself, risked his life by running over and pulling the girl reading the book out of the path of the oncoming car.

As the car jumped the curb, barely missing the teenage boys, it plowed through the cement bus bench and debris flew into the air. All I could see was a cloud of smoke heading right toward me. I closed my eyes and said, “Lord, please save me.” I felt someone tugging on my right arm; I felt my feet fly off the ground. The back of my head was smashed into the wall, and I lost consciousness for a few moments.

When I finally opened my eyes, all I could see was the hood of a car right in my face, and I could feel the bumper pressing against me. The car was so close that I could see the face of the unconscious driver behind the steering wheel.

One of the teenage boys was holding my arm. He was pinned against the wall by the bumper of the car. He had risked his life to pull me from the fatal path of the car.

Immediately, I looked to my left and I saw a hole in the wall. Then I remembered the old lady who was standing next to me. I looked for her and saw that she had been hit by the car and smashed through the wall. I reached over to touch her. She looked at me and reached for my hand.

She asked, “Are you okay, honey?” as sweetly as if she were my grandmother instead of a familiar stranger at the bus stop. I said, “Yes,” somewhat disbelievingly as I was certainly in shock and had not yet performed an overall assessment of my well-being.

She smiled and said, “Thank God.” This was the first time we had ever spoken, in all our days at the bus stop.

Then, in a soft voice just above a whisper, she said to me, “I have watched you for months, and it made me so proud to see you looking so sharp and going to your important job. I'm so happy that you are safe.”

I told her that help was on the way, but it was too late. She tenderly squeezed my hand, drew her last breath, and I felt her hand slowly slip away from mine. She closed her eyes as her head lowered. She looked so peaceful; I knew she was gone.

A pain shot through my heart. I couldn't breathe. We couldn't have been more than a foot away from each other. Iwas sparedwhile she was taken. I kept askingmyselfwhy I hadn't spoken to her while I had the chance. She was proud of me even though I never even bothered to say hello or wish her a good morning.
What kind of person am I?
What kind of Christian am I? I didn't even know her name.

All the bus people, who just moments before I had called unintelligent and losers in my mind, had all clearly displayed genuine character and heroics. Without giving any thought to their own safety, they all responded, put their lives on the line and helped each other to safety. They literally saved the day.

Since then, I have learned to respect and love people, no matter what their station is in life—or what I may
think
their station is.

I continue to walk the four long blocks to the bus daily.

Only the walk doesn't seem as long because I know when I get there my friends at the bus stop will be waiting for me.

DeAnna Blaylock

Who Is Jack Canfield?

Jack Canfield is the co-creator and editor of the
Chicken Soup for the Soul ® series, which Time magazine has called “the publishing phenomenon of the decade.” The series now has 105 titles with more than 100 million copies in print in forty-one languages. Jack is also the coauthor of eight other bestselling books including The Success Principles : How to Get from Where You Are to Where You Want to Be, Dare to Win, The Aladdin Factor, You've Got to Read This Book and The Power of Focus: How to Hit Your Business, Personal and Financial Targets with Absolute Certainty.