Finding my hope in our broken times

I wonder if humankind will lay hold of what is just and good while there is still time? Sometimes I am consumed by such thoughts, which lead me to feeling anxious and fearful.

As a means of temporary escape, I reflect on a time that was relatively innocent and carefree from my college days at Prairie View A&M University. These days the school is called an HBCU for Historically Black College or University, however at the time we did not use that reference. We were doing what we thought was necessary to prepare for our futures as other schools were only beginning to open to Black people in the late 1960s and early ’70s.

I have come to know something that I never thought about at the time. Many people are placed in our lives for only a season. They unknowingly assist us to another level of life.

Resources were quite scarce for many of us, and I was fortunate enough to receive a small Social Security benefit from my deceased father. Even that wasn’t sufficient to stay afloat. I had also been hired at the age of 16 through the job fair held at the Sam Houston Coliseum. The company was Weingarten’s, a grocery store chain. I was a proud grocery checker, and management was kind enough to allow me to work on the weekends when I returned home.

It was the fall of 1972, my junior year in college, when my dorm mates, Mary Beth and Linda Hutchinson, introduced me to some elder gentlemen who lived off campus in Prairie View. Both of the ladies were familiar with the men, said they were very nice and asked me if I wanted to come along for the ride.

The men appeared to be in their 50s and somewhat disheveled, living in a small house. There was a pot of corn on the cob boiling on the stove top that they readily offered to us. We were always hungry, because the dining hall cuisine was not palatable. However, I didn’t understand why there was nothing else.

We gladly joined in with the one course meal. There were two people that stood out in this group. Mr. LaSands, being average height, very fair skinned with squinted eyes; and Mr. Doug was a tall, dark complexioned man with a very deep voice. They were kind, but I somehow knew that these were educated men regardless of their current circumstances. There was never a time that we visited them that a pot of corn on the cob wasn’t boiling.

I discovered that the common denominator in that little house was that they were all alcoholics. That never interfered with them helping us with our personal needs. Mr. LaSands transported us to and from wherever we needed to go, having nothing more than his meager means to sustain himself.

In September of 1973, I returned to Prairie View with a little more independence, having purchased a 1968 white-andblack top Chevy Impala from Uncle Buddy’s used car lot on Washington Avenue. I referred to that car as the “Ghost.” We drove up and down Texas 290 without a care in the world. One day I was stranded off campus near Prairie View as the car would not start, and I called my only hope. Mr. Doug answered the phone. He said I’m on my way, but I didn’t understand because he had no transportation. How would he jump-start my car? I looked up at some point, and he was walking toward me with cables in his hand. I was really confused. I embarrass so easily and as he began to flag cars, I dropped my head. Finally someone stopped, cables were connected, the engine started and I was on my way. Mr. Doug walked to help me, and it wasn’t a short distance. I was so thankful and took him home.

Mr. LaSands came to my home in Houston once after I graduated, and I never saw him again. I wish I could have expressed to all those men how much they meant to me. A close friend, Drucilla Bolden, was taking graduate classes, and I asked her if she could ask around about those guys. She said she was able to find information on Mr. LaSands. He was a senior fellow at Fuller Hall, a men’s dormitory. I was so elated because that meant he had risen up from whatever path that led him to alcoholism.

I have learned some powerful lessons walking out this precious thing called life. We don’t have the right to ever count anyone out as hopeless or a lost cause while they yet live. Life’s journey is filled with surprising twists, turns and outcomes.

Sometimes when I am alone with nothing but my thoughts, I have wondered why is it that I have come into close relationships with so many broken vessels? Could it be that my own brokenness has helped me to identify and empathize?

I often think about those men. They didn’t have very much, but they shared everything they had. Our brief encounter impacted my life in a positive way. Thoughts of helping others is always on the forefront of my mind and for that, I am grateful.