Wednesday, May 15, 1996
Those who survive adversity can help others do the same
What do you do when as a child you’re abused? When you’re
whipped with an extension cord until you bleed. When you bleed so
bad that the bath water turns red. What do you do? What do you do
when your mom breaks your stepsister’s arm because she shook her so
hard. What do you do when you’re beaten because you left lint on
the floor? Do you cry? Do you hide? Is there anywhere you can
hide?
What can you do when your mom acts like she doesn’t love you?
When she puts various men in front of you, attending to their needs
while you’re broke, lonely and struggling. How do you feel when
you’re in jail for two months, and your mom doesn’t send you any
money? How do you feel when you call home collect from jail, but
her boyfriend won’t take your calls? Who can you turn to?
When you turn to weed for solace, smoking it nearly everyday,
making it your god, and then you get kicked out of the Navy because
of it, where do you go? When you’re a little girl who has to steal
clothes to keep yourself from being naked. When you’re a girl who
has to go out on dates in order to have a good meal. What does life
become when it seems no one cares? How do you go on with that
persistent "Why me?" dancing around in your head? How do you
survive when you can’t even call your mother on Mother’s Day
because she wasn’t a real mother?
I don’t know. I don’t know the answers to any of these
questions, because I haven’t lived this life. But I know someone
who has. She recently revealed to me what a pained life she has
experienced. And yet, if she had not told me about it, I wouldn’t
have ever known. She’s always smiling, laughing and getting along
well with everyone. But these are the demons she faces in the
night. These are the enemies she grapples with in dreams and
nightmares. These are her monsters that hide under the bed. Her
shadows that lurk within the closet. As the sun disappears, removed
by night, her tear stained pillow carries the weight of pain.
And yet she survives. She goes on. She’s in college, beginning
to get her life back in order. She recently joined a new church,
where she’s found strength in Jesus. And she’s striving. And I
guess, that’s what you do. When all that pain and anguish trouble
the essence of your being, you keep on striving.
Kind of like that ol’ donkey I heard about. That ol’ donkey was
a greedy donkey. He lived in a small town, and he ate everything
that wasn’t nailed down. If you tasted good, he would have eaten
you, too.
Well, finally the townspeople got tired of that ol’ donkey. They
determined that they needed to take that ol’ donkey somewhere where
he could eat what he wanted, leave everyone else alone and die.
Someone said, "Let’s put him in that old abandoned well in the
center of town. And then we can throw our garbage in there. He’ll
eventually just eat himself to death!" Ahhh. What a good idea it
was, the townspeople thought. Well, they threw that ol’ donkey down
to the bottom of the well. With sad, blinking eyes he looked at how
far he was away from the top, and he went to sleep.
Day after day after day, the townspeople threw their garbage in
there on top of that old donkey. After a while, everyone thought
the donkey had surely perished. Either he ate himself to death, or
he was suffocated by the garbage. Well, when they went to go check
on him, much to their surprise, he was standing outside the
well!
Well, they tell me that ol’ donkey determined he wasn’t about to
die in nobody’s well. So every time somebody threw some garbage on
top of him, he shook it off, patted it down under his feet and rose
a little higher. When they threw more trash in there, he shook it
off, patted it down under his feet and rose a little higher. Those
banana peels, watermelon rinds, turkey bones and corn bread crusts,
he shook them off, patted them down and rose a little higher. And
kept on shaking, patting and rising, until he was out of that
well.
And I guess that’s why I admire my friend. With all the garbage
in her life, she didn’t turn to the barrel of a gun or to sleeping
pills. Surely her mom wasn’t able to care for her, and I’m just
glad she wasn’t aborted (as many children are, who could one day
change this world). But there’s something about her strength. She
was able to shake all that stuff off, pat it down and rise.
Although she’s an African American young lady who was raised in
the hood, the things she went through aren’t reserved for black
folks only. As a matter of fact, her mom is white. But how many
other people do I know from the ghetto with similar circumstances?
How many do you know (only people who know anything about the hood
should answer)? We know so many. Yet, she’s the exception. She’s
one of the ones who made it, and is making it.
But there are still others, who although trying, are not able to
shake, pat and rise. These are the ones that Ward Connerly thinks
should raise themselves up by their bootstraps. These are ones who
are being denied affirmative action. These are the ones who become
prostitutes, drug dealers and criminals.
So what do you do? When your sister was put into foster care,
and you haven’t barely seen her in over 10 years. What do you do
when your mom cries because her husband has the kids, and yet she
would leave them alone in the house when the oldest one was 8 years
old, and the youngest was just a baby? Like my friend, you can
survive. Because survival is our nature. But what about the ones
who aren’t able? The ones who fall. Who will speak for them?
I don’t know the answer to that question. Like the blood seeping
from welts applied by the extension cord, these cases are so
pervasive. But as I stand on the verge of graduating, about to go
on to bigger and better things, I know I will do my part. I am
determined not to get sucked into the greedy mentality that
capitalism produces and reproduces. I am determined not to lose
myself in a selfish life that elects presidents like Reagan and
Bush. I am determined to help, nurture and provide for those less
fortunate than I, who when trapped by adversity, need a helping
hand to pull them out of the well.
I challenge you to make the same determination. A degree from
UCLA doesn’t mean anything unless you use it in the right way. You
may get a Benz, BMW or Lexus, or you may one day have a house in
Malibu, Manhattan Beach and Beverly Hills, but it don’t mean a
thing. It doesn’t mean a thing unless you strive to reach and teach
those who weren’t able to make it to where you are. Granted,
America is a pretty selfish country, but everyone living here ain’t
selfish. Those of us who had to shake off that garbage in our lives
… it’s time we made a difference. Peace.
Howard is a fourth-year anthropology student. His column appears
on alternate Thursdays.