I walked down the hall of the second floor, coming from the first meeting of classes, about to go back home when a red and white sign caught my attention: “JOIN THE MALCOLM XPRESS, STUDENT NEWSPAPER OF MALCOLM X COLLEGE.”
That was an omen, the sign of all signs. It hit me so hard I stood for a while gazing at the different positions—writers, photographers, artists. I felt an overwhelming sense of joy settle on my heart. I took a deep breath trying to process the moment. I had always believed that I was supposed to be a writer, but felt like my mistakes took me too far from my dreams to recover.
I became optimistic as I continued to look for contact information on the flyer—“See Cynthia-Val Chapman, staff advisor room 2204.” I couldn’t wait to go and speak with her. I walked down the hall past the cafeteria, past the newsroom and straight to her office. The light was on.. I became nervous and anxious. The excitement grew as I knocked on the door. She came to the door smiling, pushing her glasses up on her eyes. Her greeting stayed warm and encouraging all throughout my tenure at the newspaper. Cynthia, she told me to call her, had a light almond complexion and eyes shaped like them. She had a few freckles that seemed to sparkle as she smiled. Her smile and laugh and genuine belief in me restored my confidence in myself—although the first article I wrote didn’t turn out too well. Okay, it was horrible, but she kept on encouraging me. I introduced myself and told her that I was interested in writing for the paper. In turn, she wanted to know how much experience in journalism I had. It was very little, but what I did have was a father who was a journalist and aspirations of becoming like him. We talked about what I would cover and decided on the features section. Cynthia informed me of the next staff meeting and urged me to come.
That was an omen, the sign of all signs. It hit me so hard I stood for a while gazing at the different positions—writers, photographers, artists. I felt an overwhelming sense of joy settle on my heart. I took a deep breath trying to process the moment. I had always believed that I was supposed to be a writer, but felt like my mistakes took me too far from my dreams to recover.
I became optimistic as I continued to look for contact information on the flyer—“See Cynthia-Val Chapman, staff advisor room 2204.” I couldn’t wait to go and speak with her. I walked down the hall past the cafeteria, past the newsroom and straight to her office. The light was on.. I became nervous and anxious. The excitement grew as I knocked on the door. She came to the door smiling, pushing her glasses up on her eyes. Her greeting stayed warm and encouraging all throughout my tenure at the newspaper. Cynthia, she told me to call her, had a light almond complexion and eyes shaped like them. She had a few freckles that seemed to sparkle as she smiled. Her smile and laugh and genuine belief in me restored my confidence in myself—although the first article I wrote didn’t turn out too well. Okay, it was horrible, but she kept on encouraging me. I introduced myself and told her that I was interested in writing for the paper. In turn, she wanted to know how much experience in journalism I had. It was very little, but what I did have was a father who was a journalist and aspirations of becoming like him. We talked about what I would cover and decided on the features section. Cynthia informed me of the next staff meeting and urged me to come.
So, I parted feeling spirited and reassured that I made the right decision to go back to school. I got on the Jackson bus and went west to Cicero Avenue. I arrived at the corner of Chicago Avenue and Lavergne and walked the one block to our street when my cousin Michael approached me. Michael was a drug addict and a drug dealer and most of my life he has been in jail. But he walked up to me and said, “Your father is looking for you.”
“My father?” I asked quite puzzled.
“Where you been?”
“School.”
“Oh. Well, he in front of grandma house”
“Alright, thanks!”
My heart began to pound and I wanted to run. The excitement grew. I picked up the pace and rushed to the house. And there he was, standing in the front of the orange painted-house. I wanted to run and hug him like a little kid, the way I used to in Champaign, but I didn’t. I was 22 and the shame crept up and stopped me. So, he asked where I had been and I told him and he said he was proud of me. I told him about Cynthia and the Malcolm Xpress. His tone seemed different. He seemed really proud. But the truth of the matter was that as proud as he was, I was more proud. I was proud at the fact that him standing there was the signature that made a check valid. I was just thinking and talking about him only about an hour ago. I whispered to myself “Thank God.” Although I would have miles to go and more hardships to endure before I made it to Buddy Guy’s Legends as the editor of the Blueslettter and a graduate of Columbia College Chicago. I believed I received the confirmation I had prayed for on so many lonely nights, being afflicted with the depression of my parent’s divorce. I think he thanked God also. At least he knew that I was attempting to get my life back on track.
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