Chicken Soup for the African American Soul

by Jack Canfield

  I had to address the class and notify them of my situation. I let them know that I was a kidney patient and had to do dialysis every Friday morning. At the break, several participants asked me about dialysis and kidney failure. When I explained my condition to them, they were astonished because they said that I did not look sick. My reply to them was that, “Sickness is a state of mind.”

  During the next few days, people in the class continued to inquire about kidney disease and my condition. On the last day of the class, a student named Patricia Abdullah asked me if I was on the donor list.

  I told her, “Yes, because no one in my family was a match, I have been searching for five years to find a donor.”

  She said to me, “Wouldn’t it be great if our class found you a kidney?”

  I said, “Sure it would,” but I heard that all the time. I knew that she was just being sentimental but that her heart was in the right place. I often heard similar remarks from concerned people who did not necessarily know what to say because they did not know what I was experiencing. I knew that Patricia was like these people—kind and cordial. So I left it at that.

  On that last day, we each had to address the class and attempt to explain who we really were and what we stood for as individuals. After I had my turn to speak, I proceeded to leave the class. About two minutes later, one of the assistants in the class yelled at me to come back because Patricia was getting the class involved in finding me a kidney.

  I rushed back to hear Patricia say to the class, “Before I speak, I would like to get the class involved in the possibility of helping Mike Jones find a kidney.”

  The class applauded in agreement, and the course leader said that could be the project for our third class of the series. I could not believe what had happened! I felt elated as I was sent back up to the front of the room to address the class. All I could do was just stand there and cry. It was hard to believe that three days prior we did not even know each other, and now this class of ninety-five people was coming together to help me find a kidney donor. The power and the love in that room just overwhelmed me. The class gave me a standing ovation as I broke down. It was truly an amazing moment.

  The next session was the final class in the self-development course. All ninety-five participants showed up on that first day eager to fulfill our project. But there was a problem. Our new instructor said that we could not do that assignment as our main project. He said that everyone had to create their own individual project and work solely on that. I was extremely upset because that was not what we were told in the previous class. Some of the other classmates felt the same way. I was livid and ready to drop out of the class altogether because I felt that I was misled to take this class.

  Again, something told me to stay in the class and fulfill my commitment to this group of individuals. You see, I have a thing about keeping my word and having integrity. If I say I am going to do something, then I have to honor that commitment. Since we had to pick our own project, I chose to make folks aware of what it takes to be an organ donor—how they can affect the lives of other people, whether it is by giving the gift of life by being an organ donor, donating blood to help save lives, or being a bone marrow donor so the platelets in your blood can help save a child who may be in need.

  Another one of our assignments was learning how to make unreasonable requests. I admitted that I rarely asked for things because it becomes a pride issue for me.

  One of my classmates responded by saying, “But Mike, if you had asked for a kidney, maybe you would have one right now.”

  I said, “True, all they can tell me is no.” I explained to him and another classmate that because of my “O” positive blood type a donor and I had to be a perfect match.

  As the class came to a close that day, Patricia Abdullah approached me and said, “Mike, I am ‘O’ positive.”

  I looked at her and said, “That’s nice, so am I.”

  She looked at me again and said to me, “Mike, I am ‘O’ positive. Make an unreasonable request of me.”

  And then it hit me; I was speechless for a moment because I felt that the Lord was saying something to me through Patricia. I then walked up to her, put my hand on her side and said, “Patricia, may I have one of your kidneys?”

  She looked at me and said, “Sure, what do I need to do?”

  The next morning while I was at dialysis, I received a phone call from Patricia. She told me that she had contacted UCLA and was on her way to get tested. I just prayed that it would be successful.

  We did not hear anything about her tests for several weeks. Figuring that was a bad sign, I was disappointed but thanked Patricia anyway for the thought and told her that I would not forget what she had attempted to do. However, UCLA did finally call on Friday of that fifth week and ask her to come back in for more tests. Patricia was confused because we had assumed that we were not a match. The nurse at UCLA said that was not the case. She said that they needed to run more tests to verify their results because the initial test results said that we were a PERFECT match!

  A “perfect match” means that the donor and the patient are an exact match in every test that is run—blood-type testing, tissue-type testing and antibody testing. Our test compatibility was six for six, which is perfect. The only thing better is an identical twin from the same cell.

  Here is another miracle that shows how the Lord works in mysterious ways. After all the testing was complete and the results were confirmed, the surgery was set for September 11, 2001—the day of the attacks in New York, Washington and Pennsylvania—and our story just happened to be timely with the events.

  Ms. Patricia Abdullah is Irish, Scottish, German, Italian, Welsh, Hawaiian and Arab. She is also a converted Muslim. I am African American, Irish and Creole. Our story gained media attention because the September 11 attacks had raised the profile of the Muslim faith. Fox Television even contacted Patricia for an exclusive interview.

  The media was drawn to our story because there was so much diversity surrounding the surgery. We had a white Muslim woman donating a kidney to an African American Christian in a Jewish hospital with a German, South African and Jewish surgical team performing the operation. Talk about a rainbow coalition of people coming together to give the gift of life!

  I believe this is proof that we are all God’s children. We are all the same on the inside, just different shades on the outside. How else can two people from totally different backgrounds be the perfect match where the only thing closer is an identical twin sibling from the same cell?

  I hope that this miracle will help raise awareness worldwide and encourage others to make a difference in someone’s life by giving the gift of life—by being a blood, organ or bone marrow donor.

  I have been truly blessed to receive this ultimate gift of life. I truly thank Ms. Patricia Abdullah for giving me the ultimate gift that a person can give. Patricia is my sister, and I will love her and cherish her forever. We are taking a dual family photo to show how life has affected two families, two races, two religions and one God.

  Mike Jones

  Freedom

  One of the first questions to be resolved was where I would spend my first night of freedom. My inclination was to spend the night in the Cape Flats, the bustling black and colored townships of Cape Town, in order to show my solidarity with the people. But my colleagues and, later, my wife argued that for security reasons I should stay with Archbishop Desmond Tutu in Bishop’s Court, a plush residence in a white suburb. It was not an area where I would have been permitted to live before I went to prison, and I thought it would send the wrong signal to spend my first night of freedom in a posh white area. But the members of the committee explained that Bishop’s Court had become multiracial under Tutu’s tenure, and symbolized an open, generous non-racialism.

  The prison service supplied me with boxes and crates for packing. During my first twenty or so years in prison, I accumulated very few possessions, but in the last few years I had amassed enough prop
erty—mainly books and papers—to make up for previous decades. I filled over a dozen crates and boxes.

  My actual release time was set for 3 P.M., but Winnie and Walter and the other passengers from the chartered flight from Johannesburg did not arrive until after 2. There were already dozens of people at the house, and the entire scene took on the aspect of a celebration. Warrant Officer Swart prepared a final meal for all of us, and I thanked him not only for the food he had provided for the last two years but the companionship. Warrant Officer James Gregory was also there at the house, and I embraced him warmly. In the years that he had looked after me from Pollsmoor through Victor Verster, we had never discussed politics, but our bond was an unspoken one and I would miss his soothing presence. Men like Swart, Gregory and Warrant Officer Brand reinforced my belief in the essential humanity even of those who had kept me behind bars for the previous twenty-seven and a half years.

  There was little time for lengthy farewells. The plan was that Winnie and I would be driven in a car to the front gate of the prison. I had told the authorities that I wanted to be able to say good-bye to the guards and warders who had looked after me and I asked that they and their families wait for me at the front gate, where I would be able to thank them individually.

  At a few minutes after three, I was telephoned by a well-known SABC presenter who requested that I get out of the car a few hundred feet before the gate so that they could film me walking toward freedom. This seemed reasonable, and I agreed to do it. This was my first inkling that things might not go as calmly as I had imagined.

  By 3:30, I began to get restless, as we were already behind schedule. I told the members of the reception committee that my people had been waiting for me for twenty-seven years and I did not want to keep them waiting any longer. Shortly before 4, we left in a small motorcade from the cottage. About a quarter of a mile in front of the gate, the car slowed to a stop, and Winnie and I got out and began to walk toward the prison gate.

  At first, I could not really make out what was going on in front of us, but when I was within 150 feet or so, I saw a tremendous commotion and a great crowd of people: hundreds of photographers and television cameras and news-people as well as several thousand well-wishers. I was astounded and a little bit alarmed. I had truly not expected such a scene; at most, I had imagined that there would be several dozen people, mainly the warders and their families. But this proved to be only the beginning; I realized we had not thoroughly prepared for all that was about to happen.

  Within 20 feet or so of the gate, the cameras started clicking, a noise that sounded like some great herd of metallic beasts. Reporters started shouting questions; television crews began crowding in; ANC supporters were yelling and cheering. It was a happy, if slightly disorienting chaos. When a television crew thrust a long, dark, furry object at me, I recoiled slightly, wondering if it were some newfangled weapon developed while I was in prison. Winnie informed me that it was a microphone.

  When I was among the crowd I raised my right fist and there was a roar. I had not been able to do that for twenty-seven years, and it gave me a surge of strength and joy. We stayed among the crowd for only a few minutes before jumping back into the car for the drive to Cape Town. Although I was pleased to have such a reception, I was greatly vexed by the fact that I did not have a chance to say good-bye to the prison staff. As I finally walked through those gates to enter a car on the other side, I felt even at the age of seventy-one that my life was beginning anew. My 10,000 days of imprisonment were over.

  Nelson Mandela

  And the Walls Came Tumbling Down

  The bedrock of individual success in life is securing the friendship, the confidence, the respect of your next-door neighbor in your little community in which you live.

  Booker T. Washington

  When I saw the new house in Flatbush, I had a hard time believing it was ours.

  The three-story brownstone was a far cry from the four-bedroom, one-bath frame house we’d left behind in the Brooklyn ghetto. Our large, three-generation family— there were about twenty of us—needed the extra space.

  But, only nine years old, I froze as still as a mannequin when I saw our new neighbors. The men and boys wore long, black coats and round caps the size of small dinner plates perched on their heads, locks of curls peeking out the sides. The women and girls wore short coats over their long dresses. Their white stockings were as stark, cold and grim as their stares.

  Our new home stood next door to a Jewish synagogue. The first morning, we awoke to a surprise. Garbage littered our front steps—our welcoming present. Neighbors stood outside pointing and talking. For the first time, I saw them smile.

  My grandparents, called Daddy and Mama by all of us, appeared with brooms to begin the arduous chore of cleaning the mess. As I began to help put the garbage in bags, I spotted a little dark-haired girl peeking at me from behind a woman’s skirt. She smiled; I waved—but the woman scolded her in a foreign tongue.

  The next evening, a gray-bearded man appeared wearing a round hat trimmed in fur and a white shawl around his shoulders. The same little girl hugged his leg and played peek-a-boo with me and my cousin Naomi while he spoke in broken English to Daddy.

  “I don’t know what we will do if we don’t get help.” The rabbi nodded toward the synagogue. “Our maid is suddenly hospitalized and Sabbath services begin in fifteen minutes.”

  I wasn’t sure whether his cheeks reddened from the cold or the embarrassment of asking for assistance. But all of us knew what was coming next because we knew Daddy and Mama.

  We spent the evening serving and cleaning in the rabbi’s antiquated kitchen. Rebecca—who, we discovered, was mute—stuck to us like glue, crying until she was allowed to dine near us and laughing at our antics. Once, I caught her mother beaming from the shadows. She quickly turned away, but not before I saw the tears in her eyes.

  When we were done, the rabbi and his wife, the woman who had at first shooed the little girl away, thanked us profusely. They offered us money that we refused. Without being asked we volunteered to come back the next morning to turn on the lights, which they were prohibited from doing during their Sabbath. Someone else would be there to help later. They stood speechless holding hands as we departed.

  In the morning we didn’t need an alarm clock. The blaring horn from the synagogue awakened us. We dragged ourselves next door and entered the unlocked back door, turned on the lights and went back home.

  An amazing thing happened when we stepped out of the door on Sunday morning. From top to bottom, flowerpots and baskets of breads, cakes and fruit lined the sides of our porch steps. Some of our neighbors, the rabbi and his wife stood at the bottom of the stairs with a sign, “Welcome to the Neighborhood.” Rebecca scampered up the stairs and gave Naomi and me flowers and a hug. Because of a good deed and the blind love of a child, at least for that day, there were no walls standing between the Johnson family and our new neighbors. Flatbush felt like home.

  Cheryl Dash

  A Story of the South Bronx

  All work is honorable. Always do your best because someone is watching.

  Colin L. Powell

  Unlike today’s vista of decrepit buildings, dilapidated housing and rusting junked cars, the South Bronx in 1950 was the home of a large and thriving community, one that was predominantly Jewish. Today a mere remnant of this once-vibrant community survives, but in the 1950s the Bronx offered synagogues, Mikvas, kosher bakeries and kosher butchers—all the comforts one would expect from an observant Orthodox Jewish community.

  The baby boom of the postwar years happily resulted in many new young parents. As a matter of course, the South Bronx had its own baby equipment store. Sickser’s was located on the corner of Westchester and Fox, and specialized in “everything for the baby,” as its slogan ran. The inventory began with cribs, baby carriages, playpens, high chairs, changing tables and toys. It went way beyond these to everything a baby could want or need. Mr. Sickser, assisted by his s
on-in-law Lou Kirshner, ran a profitable business serving the needs of the rapidly expanding child population. The language of the store was primarily Yiddish, but Sickser’s was a place where not only Jewish families but also many non-Jewish ones could acquire the necessary paraphernalia for their newly arrived bundles of joy.

  Business was particularly busy one spring day, so much so that Mr. Sickser and his son-in-law could not handle the unexpected throng of customers. Desperate for help, Mr. Sickser ran out of the store and stopped the first youth he spotted on the street.

  “Young man,” he panted, “how would you like to make a little extra money? I need some help in the store. You want to work a little?”

  The tall, lanky African American boy flashed a toothy smile back. “Yes, sir, I’d like some work.”

  “Well then, let’s get started.” The boy followed his new employer into the store.

  Mr. Sickser was immediately impressed with the boy’s good manners and demeanor. As the days went by and he came again and again to lend his help, Mr. Sickser and Lou both became increasingly impressed with the youth’s diligence, punctuality and readiness to learn. Eventually Mr. Sickser made him a regular employee at the store. It was gratifying to find an employee with an almost soldier like willingness to perform even the most menial of tasks, and to perform them well.

  From the age of thirteen until his sophomore year in college, the young man put in from twelve to fifteen hours a week, at fifty to seventy-five cents an hour. Mostly, he performed general labor: assembling merchandise, unloading trucks and preparing items for shipments. He seemed, in his quiet way, to appreciate not only the steady employment but also the friendly atmosphere Mr. Sickser’s store offered. Mr. Sickser and Lou learned in time about their helper’s Jamaican origins, and the helper in turn picked up a good deal of Yiddish. In time young Colin was able to converse fairly well with his employers, and more importantly, with a number of the Jewish customers whose English was not fluent.