Cracked Roots & Roses 12: But That Was Okay

After I became pregnant, I decided to go all in with Jeremy. I wanted my child to have both parents active and involved in their life. Jeremy was nice enough, and I knew he was safe. We got along for the most part. He wasn’t a big talker, but that was okay—I talked enough for the both of us. He went to parties a little more than I liked, but that was okay too. No matter what, I wasn’t going to let something petty cause us to split and me end up raising this child without a father. When you’re 19, you’re not thinking about the future. Unfortunately, I was void of wisdom in every area.

An incident when my daughter was just a few months old confirmed that I needed to leave the hood. At the time, I was working in downtown Chicago. One day after work, I got off the bus and began the two-and-a-half-block walk home. Halfway there, a candy-apple red box Chevy jumped the curb at a stop sign and started chasing a man standing on the corner—a drug dealer. Hearing the screech of tires, the man ran directly toward me.

I froze. In grand fashion, I just stood there, staring blankly as the car and the man being chased came straight at me. The car abruptly stopped near a building, and the driver put one foot out, aimed a gun, and shot at the man. I was in the direct line of fire. As I heard the shot, I instinctively closed my eyes and covered my ears. Within seconds, it was over. The man being chased ran down an alley and disappeared. The shooter calmly got back into his car and drove away.

I remained frozen for a moment. The people on the porch next to my mom’s house just stared at me—they didn’t go inside or even move to protect their children playing outside. This was common where I grew up! I was disgusted. Two people could have been killed right in front of them, yet they didn’t even flinch. This was the spirit of apathy that hung over the inner city. Even though I wasn’t saved at the time, I knew something was wrong with this way of life.

I never wanted to become numb to this foolishness. What if I had my daughter with me? What if the man had kept running straight? What if there hadn’t been a building to block the car? Or worse, what if the shooter had kept firing? I’d had too many close calls, and this was the last one.

This incident only added to the fear of being outside that I had been developing over time. Just a month earlier, I’d been on a bus headed home. At a stoplight on Pulaski and 14th, I stood to exit. Suddenly, I saw a boy run up to a car in a driveway and shoot into the driver’s side window several times. The driver returned fire. The boy ran about 20 feet before collapsing in a vacant lot across from the bus. Both shooters died of their injuries on the scene.

When the bus driver stopped just a few feet away, a handful of us got off. We stood for a moment, then simply walked away as though nothing had happened. The car was still running, and the other guy lay dead in the weeds. I’d seen the whole thing. This was a typical day. I hated that I had grown numb to this kind of violence. By the time I got home, I’d completely forgotten about it.

After yet another brush with death, I slowly made my way up the stairs. I sat for a moment, still shaking, trying to compose myself before tending to my infant daughter. As I changed her diaper, the tears fell. It was all too much. I couldn’t live here any longer. I was born and raised here, but I couldn’t die here. It was all I knew, but I had to see what life was like without death looming over me.

I told Jeremy what had happened and that I needed to move. He didn’t argue—he never argued. Jeremy was agreeable in every way. Still, I told him out of courtesy because I had already made up my mind. I was leaving whether he agreed or not.

I started buying the Sunday paper every week, searching for my first apartment. With no credit or rental history, it was challenging, but eventually, I found a place with no stipulations. It was on Chicago Avenue and Austin. The building was old—pedestal sinks, penny bathroom tile, radiators, and cherry oak built-ins. It was still in the hood but directly across from Oak Park, a quiet suburb that required “a few coins” to live there. Being suburb-adjacent gave me a sense of security with the increased police presence.

I furnished the apartment little by little with items from garage sales and Goodwill. Working at Marshall Fields at the time, I would shop the clearance section in the housewares department. I worked part-time in the linens department and was the only Black person on the entire floor, as well as the youngest at just 19. At first, I worried because I’d only ever been around Black people. Chicago is so segregated that I’d never gone to school with or lived near people of other races.

One woman, Sue, stood out to me. She was a widow in her 50s with daughters around my age away at college. We often worked together and would close the store a few times a week. One day, as I stood at the bus stop after work, she asked why I didn’t have a car. I told her I’d never thought about it. She asked if my boyfriend had one, and when I said no, she looked at me incredulously.

The next day, she handed me two small GM keys. “I’m giving you my dad’s car,” she said firmly. “You need it more than he does, and I’m not taking no for an answer.” I protested, but she insisted. “It’s not safe for you to be on the train late at night.” She was right.

Sue’s act of kindness was the first time God used someone to dispel the lies I’d grown up believing. I’d always been taught that other races hated me, but this woman—someone I was told to fear—gave me my first car.

We went to get the car the next day. Sue insisted the title be in my name, even though Jeremy would be the primary driver. At first, Jeremy drove the car most of the time because I didn’t have a license yet. I would drive short distances occasionally, but overall, I didn’t want to drive because, in Chicago, you had to parallel park—a skill I wasn’t confident in yet.

After I got the car, Jeremy seemed angrier. It was as if he thought I didn’t see him as a man because I had gotten a car before him. He expressed this by driving me home, then getting out and telling me to park the car myself—after all, it was “my car”. One day, his friend pulled up and saw me struggling in the street with the car still running. Thankfully, his friend got out and parked the car for me. After that, I stopped letting Jeremy drive me to work. I took side streets the entire way and forced myself to parallel park to avoid needing his help. What Jeremy did ultimately forced me to learn how to drive for good, so in a way, it worked out.

I decided I wanted to buy a living room set. I was tired of sitting on fold-up chairs while watching TV. So, I told Jeremy we should go look for furniture and either get it on credit or put it on layaway. He agreed, of course. We went to a store in Berwyn and looked at a couch and loveseat. Since it was out of my price range, I applied for credit. I didn’t have any credit history, so I needed a co-signer.

Since we lived together and the furniture would benefit him as well, I asked if he would co-sign. He said no. That was not okay. In front of the salesperson, he said, “I’m not co-signing for anyone. If she wants the couch, she needs to figure it out.” Then, he walked out of the store, leaving me standing there.

I didn’t say a word. I quietly went to the car. On the way home, he yelled at me the entire time. He accused me of thinking I was better than him, moving him away from his family, making new friends (coworkers), getting a car, and now wanting a couch. I didn’t respond. He had a habit of speeding and weaving through traffic when he was mad, trying to scare me. When I didn’t say anything, he accelerated until I was forced to respond. That behavior was not okay either.

The problem was his mentality. His mom’s house was furnished with milk crates and fold-up chairs. We were poor, but my mom always tried to have real furniture. Jeremy had no vision, and I realized that early on. Still, I thought I could help him aspire to something better for his life.

I was thankful for Sue. She taught me how to properly wash and fold sheets and towels, and she introduced me to the idea of quality—Charisma towels, pure down pillows, cable-knit throws, and Wamsutta Pima cotton sheets. I loved all of it! No more bed in bags for me..lol. I was all for having nice things and grateful for her upgrading me.

Jeremy, on the other hand, resisted all of it. He couldn’t stand it when I brought home something “expensive” from Fields, even though I used my employee discount and shopped the clearance racks. But it was deeper than just money. I thought we wanted the same things. I was wrong.

Some people are content living in courtyard buildings with roaches and the smell of urine greeting them every day. They’re fine hearing gunshots daily and not knowing who might die next. I wasn’t. I wanted something better.

I soon learned that Jeremy never wanted to work security because he was content at McDonald’s with his friends. His resentment toward me for pushing him to do more was beginning to show.