Ten minutes after Tziporah went down for her nap, there was an urgent pounding on my front door, along with several consecutive doorbell rings. I opened the door to find a broad smile, laughing eyes and an affable demeanor, all attached to a beaming black woman who was, not surprisingly, selling magazines. I didn't want any magazines, and she knew that. Her sales pitch was pitch perfect. She explained how this job had gotten her out of a bad situation at home, and how she was two months pregnant with her first child, how she was pulling herself up by her bootstraps, and how I could donate a small amount of money toward a magazine subscription for a homeless shelter. She won me over with her charm, and I promised her $20, but first she should come in and have a glass of juice and sit down. She was more than eager to take me up on my offer.
Once we were both sitting on the couch, visiting like Relief Society buddies, her veneer cracked. This girl was tired. Bone weary and pregnant. She wanted to go home. She had encountered 4 or 5 people right here in Kaysville who had said flat-out, "I don't help people like you." I was ashamed of my community for the first time ever, and I wondered who those people were who could say things like that to a 19-year-old girl with a smile as broad as the sunrise. This girl, Montonya is her name, obviously didn't want to go back out and ring doorbells. Her feet were swollen and she was afraid of the people. She talked and talked, and began to paint a picture of her life, and also of how these magazine schemes work. She and her fellow employees were living in a seedy hotel, traveling from place to place, getting dropped off in neighborhoods with a quota to meet, much of which was turned in to the boss at the end of the day. She couldn't simply quit and go home to Minnesota because she didn't have the money to get there. A modern-day indentured servant.
And along the way, she got pregnant. I remember how profoundly tired I was during that first trimester, and I asked Montonya if she would like to lie down and take a nap. She gratefully flopped down on my bed and literally did not move for an hour, one leg still hanging off the side of the bed. While she slept, I perused her Facebook page, because of course by this time, we had become "friends." I learned that the father of her baby is not a nice guy. I learned that she has had run-ins with her roommate in this magazine-selling enterprise, but that she is well-liked by many friends. This community of Montonya's friends, all of them black, they live in a reality that is completely and utterly foreign to me, from the slang they use to the things they do to the way they interact with each other. Montonya and I, we could not be more different. Black and white are not just skin colors in this country. There are two separate cultural realities, granted with a lot of grey area in between. We have so far to go in terms of understanding each other. I won't even tell you about Montonya's background, because it will sound like a cliche. And I don't want to dehumanize this girl. She, even with her determination and drive, had noplace to go, except to escape into a miserable job in an environment that is, frankly, as rife with problems as where she came from.
When Golda came home from school and was talking with Montonya about baby names, I wanted to cry. These two girls, almost the same age, living in the same great country, are as different as a fish and a bird. One is worried about the AP test and getting to ballet on time. One is a pregnant, homesick door-to-door salesperson who spent yesterday trying to get an ultrasound of her baby at a free clinic, just to make sure everything is OK. One could hardly claim that either girl has had enough control over her life to this point to take the blame - or credit - for her situation. Golda couldn't have ended up much different, given her environment, than Montonya could have in hers.
The travesty of race relations in this country, and how little real progress we have made as a society, can't be summed up in a sound byte. It can't be dismissed by assigning blame. I have read dozens of book by and about immigrants, people of color, and race, I don't even know how to have the discussion. All I know today is that my girls are safe, and someone else's girls are not, and it's because I have been given every opportunity to protect mine, and other mothers have not. Other mothers, Montonya soon to be included in this group, don't know of the safety, the security, the respect they deserve, or that their children deserve, because they have never seen it. I wanted to say to Montonya, "Stay in Utah! Join the LDS church and just start giving. You have so much to give, with your beautiful smile and your quick mind! Give, and people will give back, and soon you'll have a safe community for your child." And then I remembered some of the people she had encountered here, and the remarks they made when they thought Montonya was the only one who could hear them. She is not safe here, either.
When Montonya woke up, we walked over to the elementary school together. We hugged, and I walked inside to help with a ballroom dance project. I looked back to wave. In the rain, Montonya pulled out her umbrella to keep the rain off her paperwork. And she waited for her ride, back to the Budget Motel.
Once we were both sitting on the couch, visiting like Relief Society buddies, her veneer cracked. This girl was tired. Bone weary and pregnant. She wanted to go home. She had encountered 4 or 5 people right here in Kaysville who had said flat-out, "I don't help people like you." I was ashamed of my community for the first time ever, and I wondered who those people were who could say things like that to a 19-year-old girl with a smile as broad as the sunrise. This girl, Montonya is her name, obviously didn't want to go back out and ring doorbells. Her feet were swollen and she was afraid of the people. She talked and talked, and began to paint a picture of her life, and also of how these magazine schemes work. She and her fellow employees were living in a seedy hotel, traveling from place to place, getting dropped off in neighborhoods with a quota to meet, much of which was turned in to the boss at the end of the day. She couldn't simply quit and go home to Minnesota because she didn't have the money to get there. A modern-day indentured servant.
And along the way, she got pregnant. I remember how profoundly tired I was during that first trimester, and I asked Montonya if she would like to lie down and take a nap. She gratefully flopped down on my bed and literally did not move for an hour, one leg still hanging off the side of the bed. While she slept, I perused her Facebook page, because of course by this time, we had become "friends." I learned that the father of her baby is not a nice guy. I learned that she has had run-ins with her roommate in this magazine-selling enterprise, but that she is well-liked by many friends. This community of Montonya's friends, all of them black, they live in a reality that is completely and utterly foreign to me, from the slang they use to the things they do to the way they interact with each other. Montonya and I, we could not be more different. Black and white are not just skin colors in this country. There are two separate cultural realities, granted with a lot of grey area in between. We have so far to go in terms of understanding each other. I won't even tell you about Montonya's background, because it will sound like a cliche. And I don't want to dehumanize this girl. She, even with her determination and drive, had noplace to go, except to escape into a miserable job in an environment that is, frankly, as rife with problems as where she came from.
When Golda came home from school and was talking with Montonya about baby names, I wanted to cry. These two girls, almost the same age, living in the same great country, are as different as a fish and a bird. One is worried about the AP test and getting to ballet on time. One is a pregnant, homesick door-to-door salesperson who spent yesterday trying to get an ultrasound of her baby at a free clinic, just to make sure everything is OK. One could hardly claim that either girl has had enough control over her life to this point to take the blame - or credit - for her situation. Golda couldn't have ended up much different, given her environment, than Montonya could have in hers.
The travesty of race relations in this country, and how little real progress we have made as a society, can't be summed up in a sound byte. It can't be dismissed by assigning blame. I have read dozens of book by and about immigrants, people of color, and race, I don't even know how to have the discussion. All I know today is that my girls are safe, and someone else's girls are not, and it's because I have been given every opportunity to protect mine, and other mothers have not. Other mothers, Montonya soon to be included in this group, don't know of the safety, the security, the respect they deserve, or that their children deserve, because they have never seen it. I wanted to say to Montonya, "Stay in Utah! Join the LDS church and just start giving. You have so much to give, with your beautiful smile and your quick mind! Give, and people will give back, and soon you'll have a safe community for your child." And then I remembered some of the people she had encountered here, and the remarks they made when they thought Montonya was the only one who could hear them. She is not safe here, either.
When Montonya woke up, we walked over to the elementary school together. We hugged, and I walked inside to help with a ballroom dance project. I looked back to wave. In the rain, Montonya pulled out her umbrella to keep the rain off her paperwork. And she waited for her ride, back to the Budget Motel.
5 comments:
This is heartbreaking! I wish I had answers. I think my reaction would be the same, stay, join us! But you are right she hadn't been treated kindly here either. And more so I wonder if I would have been as kind as you were taking her into your home. The next time a similar salesperson comes to my door I am going to remember this post and be better. I can at least do that.
Circe, you are one of those remarkable people who takes time for people. How many of us would have said no thanks and been anxious to get this person off our porch so that we could get on with our busy lives. We need a few more Circes in this world, then perhaps some of the problems you spoke of would just fix themselves.
I can't click any of your options on this post. I don't get it (why we still have so many problems in this world), it isn't funny (so sad!), and I certainly don't like it. However, I do LOVE that you have such a huge heart, that you can see the spirit rather than a body and the outward shell. Thank you for teaching through example.
Circe, this story has been my companion all weekend, thank you. I have thought about every time I’ve had the opportunity to answer the door to these “magazine” sales people. I have bought magazines, donated subscriptions, refused to buy, the whole gamut. I think the most generous thing I’ve done was give someone a bottle of water. I have always sat on the front porch, never even thinking of letting anyone into my home!
You made time for this woman, you empathized with her and let her sleep in your bed! You are amazing and so generous. You embody the spirit of people belonging to each other. Thank you so much for sharing your story.
I have thought about this all weekend. I, too, am saddened but the remarks of "I don't help people like you" that Montonya encountered at Kaysville doorsteps. Did she say it was because she was black? Were the remarks pointed that way? I've tried to come up with another scenario like, say, "I don't help salespeople like you," but that still doesn't mitigate much. You are a kind soul for giving her refuge. I don't know whether her environment, and the inherent opportunities or lack of them, all boil down to race, but your words have given me much to think about.
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