What a Sista Should Do (6 page)

“But why? I worked there for five years. Shouldn’t I get something?”

“From the documentation they have provided, they have just cause for firing you. There are several instances of gross negligence listed in the past year alone.”

Okay, so I’d missed a deadline or two, but I was a good employee. I came to work on time every day. I was honest. As a matter of fact, I think I was the only honest person in that entire office. This is nothing but an attack from the devil.

“So am I allowed to appeal?”

“Ms. Johnson, you may appeal if you wish, although I don’t see much promise in it. Your best bet is to start your job search. We can assist you with that, but you need to register.”

Oh no, Mrs. Eckhart did not just hand me another stack of ten thousand sheets to fill out. She has got to be joking. By the time I finish all this paperwork, me and Joshua will be starving.

“Well, what are me and my son supposed to do in the meantime?”

“If you are a single mother, I suggest that you apply at Ohio Job and Family Services for emergency benefits.”

“Welfare, huh?”

“There’s nothing wrong with it, Ms. Johnson, if you need it. Don’t think of your pride. Think of your son.”

Now, I’m not a racist or anything, but it seems real odd that Mrs. Eckhart immediately threw welfare out there as an option. I wonder, if she was looking at a white girl that could have been her daughter or niece, would she be so quick to recommend the poisonous crutch of government money? I’m not too proud to get help, but how about giving me a list of jobs to apply for, or something like that? I think that black women are sometimes steered toward welfare just the way our fathers, husbands and sons often become permanent fixtures in the justice system.

“Mrs. Eckhart, I’ll take the forms and fill them out. When can I see someone about employment?”

“The Employment Services center is open on Wednesdays from noon until three. Call for an appointment.”

Before I can even gather my things and leave, Mrs. Eckhart is calling her next client over. She has a half-smile on her face, so maybe there is good news for the new client. I’m trying to keep from bursting into tears before I make it out of the building.

Okay, so I have to find another job. That shouldn’t be too hard. I’m a highly skilled office professional. I’ve got computer and collections experience, and an associate’s degree in administrative assisting. I’m better at what I do than most.

Lord, please don’t let me have to go to the county
. I don’t know if I could take it. If I didn’t have Joshua, I’d get a job at McDonald’s or anywhere! But I do have Joshua, and I need something with medical benefits and stable hours. I guess all I can do right about now is trust God and let him do what he does. I hope he doesn’t take long, though, ’cause I could use a miracle quick, fast and in a hurry.

On the way to my car my lips are moving in a silent prayer.
Jesus, please, Lord, don’t forget about me and Joshua. I know You said You’d never leave me or forsake me, but right now I feel so alone. Please, Lord, bless me with a job that pays enough to take care of my little boy. Lord, Your Word says that the righteous are never forsaken or searching for bread. I may not be pure, but You said that You would be my righteousness. Lord, I love You and I need You, and I thank You in advance. In Jesus’ name.

Chapter 8

Pam

I
think I’ve figured out why I’ve been feeling like I do toward Troy. And guess what? A lot of it doesn’t even have anything to do with him. My husband is only part of my problem.

Don’t get me wrong, I cannot stand the fact that Troy is not working a regular job. Not because of money, though, because we’re making ends meet on just my income. It angers me that he’s pursuing his dream and he loves what he’s doing. He’s not waking up every morning and going to a place that he detests, working for people that don’t care about him. So while he’s short on dollars, Troy is real long on contentment.

I used to have a dream myself. I was chasing that dream when I met Troy. Ever since I could put a pencil to paper, I’ve enjoyed writing. When I learned to read, books became my passion. All I did as a child was curl up anywhere and read. I didn’t have the best homelife, but who did? I would pretend that I was a character in the book and live a fantasy as I turned the pages.

I looked to my novels for solace. My mother never monitored what I was reading, which was a huge mistake. I was raised by authors I never knew and influenced by their sometimes jaded views of the world. I drank everything in, and when there was no adult on hand, my books were my guide. I wasn’t picky about what I checked out from the library, either. I read science fiction, horror, romance, literary fiction . . . whatever looked interesting.

Anyway, I started honing my craft in high school. I wrote short stories and poems and journaled my entire life. I was such a good poet that some of my male friends encouraged me to become a rapper. I was the best female MC in our school. I could’ve hung with the likes of MC Lyte and Queen Latifah. There was one problem, though. I suffered from horrible stage fright. They couldn’t get me onstage to save my life, and talent shows were completely out of the question. So I just kept writing things down.

In college I studied journalism and thought of being an English teacher. These would just be choices for a day job, of course, because I was planning on being a successful novelist. There was nothing else that I wanted more.

It took me a few months to complete my first novel. It was my masterpiece. Too bad, not one publisher in America agreed with me. I was discouraged but yet undaunted. Most of my favorite authors had a hard time breaking into the publishing arena. I just needed to find my niche.

Enter Troy. I know it sounds cliché, but I met him at a poetry reading. I finally got up enough nerve to get in front of some people with my work. He liked my poem and decided that I was cute enough to get to know better. I was young enough to still believe that artistry was much more important than cash on hand. I’m not going to teach my daughters to be gold diggers, but rest assured they will know how to spot a provider.

Troy and I fell in love hard and fast. That’s the only way to do it at age twenty-one. Nobody could talk me out of being with him, though lots of relatively wise people tried. My grandmother called him a singing player, and my mother said he’d never have a pot to pee in. I scoffed at my grandmother, who was herself married to a self-professed pimp, and my mother’s choice in men was laughable.

We got married on a whim and lived carefree for a few years. If we didn’t have the rent money, we moved. If the utilities were shut off, it was an adventure, and we camped out in our living room. We ate potted meat out of cans and washed our clothes in the bathtub.

For me, everything changed when I got pregnant with our first child. Cicely was born, and I grew up right away. In some ways Troy grew up too. He landed a real job at a tire warehouse, and even though it only paid seven dollars an hour, it was better than nothing. I put my dreams of becoming a novelist on a shelf and entered corporate America, on the strength of a bachelor’s degree.

It was also around this time that I gave my life to Christ. So on top of Troy’s cash flow issues, he was also classified as “worldly.” We began to grow apart in the slightest of ways. I didn’t notice it at first, but the closer I got to God, the further I was from Troy.

I fully intended on revisiting my dream. As soon as Troy’s music took off, I wouldn’t have to work. That was the carrot that kept me going to work every day. It was just supposed to get us by.

A funny thing happened after Gretchen was born. My dream started to disintegrate. There was so much dust on the shelf along with my unfinished second novel that I couldn’t even visualize it anymore. I stopped believing Troy’s dream too. The only thing I cared about was that paycheck every two weeks, and making sure that it kept coming.

Something, however, has torched a revival in my spirit. I can’t say that I’m sure what it is. Maybe it’s because I’ll be thirty this year, and I have yet to accomplish any of the goals I had at twenty. It could be the fact that I just read a novel and it was the most horrible piece of garbage I’ve ever laid eyes on.

At any rate, I’ve started writing again. Well, I’ve begun the preparations for writing. It all starts with a mind-set and an idea. Ideas are not a problem for me. I can see a book idea in anything. Getting the mind-set is where I run into trouble. I can be in a writing mood and have words flowing out of me like a river. Then Troy will ask me something stupid, and then the inspiration is gone, just as easily as it came.

But I’m not going to give up on my dream. I remember a publisher telling me to come back to writing after I’ve lived a little. Well, I’ve lived. Now I’m back.

Chapter 9

Taylor

S
o I thought that getting fired was my lowest moment. That’s what I get for thinking.

I’m sitting here, where I said I’d never sit, at the Ohio Job and Family Services office. I spent the last of my savings last week, and that was just to keep Joshua and me in our apartment for another month. Don’t even talk about food or utility bills. We’ve been eating macaroni and cheese out of the blue box and drinking Kool-Aid.

I guess everyone in the church has heard of my misfortune. Sister Yvonne brought two bags of hand-me-downs to my house. I couldn’t even think of anything to say. All that went through my head was my mother accepting ragged castoffs for me and my sisters. Even though I felt tears spring to my eyes, Yvonne seemed pleased. Maybe I acted humble enough for her approval. I really wanted to vomit right in her pious lap.

I look around the crowded waiting area. I’m not like the other women here. But now, I am a single mother with no other choice. All of the women here look tired and beat down. Why does the welfare office have to look like a cattle call? There are lines of women here, crowds of children here . . . I mean, can we at least have a little dignity?
Lord, how did I get here?

I’m glad that I have a sitter for Joshua, because I’d hate to have to deal with his antics all morning. One poor mother sitting across from me has five children, and the oldest one can’t be more than five years old. One of the babies is in a car seat, and she has another baby in a stroller. I wonder if she had to ride the bus here. All of her children look clean and well kept. She’s obviously doing the best that she can. Without even thinking about it, I pray for her.

A little boy keeps running down the aisle where I’m sitting, and he has already crushed my toes four times. I usually don’t say anything to anybody else’s kids, because I don’t really want anyone trying to chastise my son. But this child’s mother is in a daze, and she acts like she doesn’t see him or his sister, who keeps banging on the front of the vending machine, trying to get herself a free bag of potato chips.

The little boy flies past my seat again, and I say, “Little man, why don’t you go sit down by your mother?”

The little heathen replies, “You don’t tell me what to do! You ain’t my mama.”

Out of nowhere his dazed mother yells, “You leave my son alone. He ain’t doing nothin’ to you.”

“Well, your son keeps stepping on my feet. You need to be watching him.”

The woman stands up and walks down the aisle. I’m not afraid at all, but I do feel sorry for her. She has dusty-looking cornrows that definitely need to be redone, her jeans are two sizes too small and she has obviously given up on finding a bra that fits. I don’t want trouble, but I’m not backing down either.

She sizes me up, squints her eyes and grabs her son around the neck. “Come on, Man-Man. Sit yo’ black behind down.”

This place depresses me. Contrary to what the upper crust of society says, I don’t think any woman would choose to be on public assistance if she could do better. Living month-to-month on a three-hundred-dollar check and some food stamps is not what I call “getting over.” They aren’t using the system. My guess is that they’re slaves to it.

For me, it’s only temporary. I have to keep reminding myself of that.

The social worker finally calls my name. She doesn’t have a nameplate on her desk, so I guess she doesn’t want me to address her by anything other than “ma’am.” Something about her reminds me of my grandmother. It could be her brown, round face, or maybe it’s her three double chins. There’s a small basket of chocolates on her desk. I wonder if they’re for herself or for her clients.

“Ms. Johnson, I’ve looked over your application for assistance, but there are a few glaring omissions that we need to look over.”

“Glaring omissions?”

“Yes. You state that you are unmarried. Are you divorced?”

“No. I’ve never been married.”

“All right. What about your son? Do you have any idea who his father is?”

“I know exactly who his father is.”

Ms. So-and-So is flipping through the application and squinting.

“I don’t see his information listed on your application. Is he providing any type of support?”

“He has nothing to do with my son.”

“Mmm-hmm. Well, that is not acceptable.”

I can’t help but laugh. “Ma’am, I completely agree with you.”

“Ms. Johnson, this is not a funny issue. The county will provide assistance to you, but if the father is known, we will pursue child support from him.”

“Well, he has asked me not to reveal his identity.”

“It is required, by law, that you give the names of all potential fathers before we process any benefits.”

“But . . .”

“But what, Ms. Johnson? I don’t have a lot of time on my hands. Are we going to be able to get this application completed today?”

“Well, I guess so.”

“Father’s name?”

I feel the name rolling off my lips. “Luke Hastings.” I’m amazed at how easy it is to say it. I haven’t uttered my son’s father’s name since the last time we spoke. That was when I told him I was keeping our baby.

“Do you have any contact information for him? Address? Phone number? Social Security number?”