As some of you know, I've been a social worker in this great state for about eight years now. Just don't tell that to the men I date. They'd have a hard time figuring out how I've been working a real job with a master's since I was 15. (Hey, every woman has her secrets.)
Over the course of this career full of frustration and … frustration, I often spend large amounts of time with other people's children—broken children, burned children, sad children, ill children—but all beautiful children. Kids that make me smile with joy on bad hair days because their mother just got out of jail. Kids that make me cry when I realize that there is nothing in my life as significant as the fact that they choose to breathe every day.
During this career, I drive my multi-colored children to different places. One of the best moments of my life was a 15-year-old African American teenager hanging off my 23-year-old white arm and screaming "Mama" at me in the middle of Wal-Mart. I was bemused with the looks from the other shoppers. It just doesn't get much better than that. Because, hell, I've earned it. Not just for vaginal birth rights, but because the child believes that I treat her the way a "mother" would treat her.
I'll never get over this honor. It is one that means trust and love.
One thing this career has taught this little Delta girl is that what other people think about me is never as important as what I teach "my children." And that is always, and will always be, love. I say "my children" when I should probably say "our children." They are all our children. They are beautiful, smart and often confused children. But they are still Mississippi's legacy. Often forgotten, they refuse to let me forget them. They call me every week. They ask about their mamas and court dates. They wonder about the elusive "home," something the rest of us take for granted. But they still smile. Then they ask for McDonald's because they know I'm a pushover.
Last week I was required to transport two large African American teenage boys from one place in this state to another. I picked them up very early in the morning so we could bypass rush-hour traffic. Once we were loaded up, I turned the car due south after stopping at McDonald's and throwing four sausage biscuits at the boys. Nothing tames the horrible male teenage beast like sausage biscuits. It's my secret weapon.
After being fortified with saturated fats and Sprite, we headed down the highway. One boy was napping in the front seat while his brother sat in back. I was grateful for the quiet drive. As much as I love a defiant teen, I try not to listen to booty music at 7 a.m. If I do, I automatically start wishing for some gin and a pair of four-inch heels.
About halfway through the trip, I noticed a Chevy SUV following me closely. When it finally pulled alongside my little Jetta, I observed two older white men in the Chevy staring at my car
I automatically believed I had a flat tire. I guess I should have assumed that they were checking me out because I'm beautiful and blonde, but the tires come first. It wasn't until about three minutes later that I finally realized what concerned the guys. The Chevy pulled up beside the car on my side and one of the men mimed, "Are you OK?"
I was at a loss for words. "Am I OK?"
Well, no. I'm totally freaking out about this new job I have. One of my cats is sick and needs to go to the vet. The other one desperately needs his balls removed so he'll leave the couch pillows alone. I haven't been able to get my roots done in three months because I work 80 hours a week, and I probably need new back tires on the Jetta. I would also like some new boobs. How do you mime "tires" and "new boobs" to men in a totally different automobile while going 70 down the interstate?
Then, it hit me. They thought I was being kidnapped. I was a white woman in a car with two African American teens. They thought something was "wrong." They wanted to know if I was "OK." Like, I wasn't being raped. That kind of OK.
To those men I would ask, based upon your presumption of what was going on in my car, "Are you OK?" Are your ideas about the world "OK"? Is how you are judging me and the children in my car OK? These boys have been through hell and are living their lives the best they possibly can. Hopefully the worst thing that happened to them that day was a social worker waking them up at 6 a.m. to transport them to a doctor's appointment instead of a mother beating them or neglecting them. Other than those top two, there are probably a myriad of reasons they are not doing OK. And those reasons include your presumption of their commission of a felony.
Other than that, we are all doing pretty great. We're enjoying our sausage biscuits, and we're all really worried and wanted to know ... Are you OK?
Because we certainly thought you guys were not-OK dillholes for the remainder of the trip.
Ali Greggs is a columnist for the JFP. We welcome her back after a short hiatus to adjust to her latest 80-hour-a-week gig.
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