Forgetting to Be Afraid: A Memoir

by Wendy Davis

  That was the day I took Amber in my arms, went to my mother’s house, and never returned to that mobile home. After a year and a half of our marriage, and a year and a half of living removed from the safety net of the community I’d grown up in while in that trailer, I was determined to put that part of my life behind me. Frank and I were now officially on the path to a divorce. Though we had lived apart, we both knew this was really the end. Neither of us looked back or ever second-guessed our decision. I think for both of us it felt easier to be responsible only for ourselves, not each other.

  I filed for divorce from Frank in December of 1983. In the divorce, which would become final about six months later, in May of 1984, Frank got the trailer. I, believe it or not, was given possession of the 1971 Pontiac Trans Am and the other dead car that Frank was always fixing. I can’t imagine what I would have done with either of them, so I left them behind.

  The only real asset I cared about—the most precious one of all—Amber—I took with me.

  —

  With the benefit of hindsight, I can see that history was repeating itself: I was moving home after my separation from Frank the same way my mother had moved home to Muleshoe after she divorced my dad. With two jobs and a very young child, I was unable to make it completely on my own. Though the circumstances of our situations were very different, the broad strokes were the same. I, too, was a single mother with a one-step plan. But I had a port in the storm: my mom, who took Amber and me into her home until I could get on my feet again. Which I did, though those feet were wobbly, the following spring.

  Plans are hard to make when you’re struggling, and there wasn’t a time in my life after my parents’ divorce and after my dad left his job when I wasn’t struggling. That just seemed to be where I was. Stuck—paycheck to paycheck. If I had a flat tire, there was never an extra twenty dollars to fix it. During our marriage and while I was living in the trailer on my own, I’d made several visits to pawnshops, first with my clarinet from high school and later with some of Frank’s car parts, just to turn the phone or electricity back on. I struggled to pay my bills, without any help. Neither my mom nor my dad had resources, not even in the most basic way of being able to slip you twenty bucks every now and then just to help you get through the month—they simply did not have the means.

  It took me a while, but eventually, working two jobs as I always had—as a receptionist at the pediatricians’ office during the day and waiting tables at my dad’s theater at night—I scraped together enough money to get an apartment for Amber and me, and we moved out of my mother’s. Once again, my plan started with a single step, but it was a step toward a new beginning.

  And sometimes one step is all you need.

  TEN

  Nothing will work unless you do.

  —MAYA ANGELOU

  WHEN I WAS ON MY OWN with Amber after my separation from Frank, all my energy was focused on trying to stay ahead of our bills, and a deep disappointment settled in. To say that I felt a sense of shame would not be an overstatement. I knew I was possessed with the blessing of a good intellect. And I was angry and frustrated at myself for allowing my life to get so off track.

  Since high school my dream had been to become a doctor—a pediatrician. It’s why I’d gone to work in the doctors’ office through my high school’s vocational program, and it’s why I’d enrolled at UTA. I’d had a plan. I was going to go to college for four years, and then I was going to go to medical school. And even though a chemistry course I took in my one semester at UTA made it clear that I probably wasn’t cut out for that particular career, I still had a dream for myself: to get an education and to do something meaningful with my life.

  Most people from my high-school class didn’t go on to college—Richland Hills was a middle-income town, and while some families had a generational history of college, many more did not. My family didn’t have that history, but I still thought I was going to be one of the people who went to college. I thought I was going to excel. I’d grown accustomed to achieving in school and had come to expect something of myself because of it.

  Part of the confidence I had about learning is something I can trace to my earliest years in elementary school. When I was reading through the color-coded boxes of materials in that experimental school in Chula Vista, I began to understand for the first time that I was smart. Self-motivation was clearly part of the purposeful design of the box—working your way up through the colors meant you were advancing to higher-level reading material. But it also showed each child his or her reading progress as it compared to that of others; some kids were back in the yellow category while other kids were up in the red, or the purple, or the olive category. We all knew, if only subtly, who was going forward and who was falling behind. That was my first experience of comparing myself to others, but when we moved to Texas, the schools did that in a much more formal way. Students were put into tracked math and reading groups, always organized by color or by letter in a halfhearted attempt to disguise the true meaning of the divisions.

  Because I was always in the top groups, I was learning, in those very formative years, something even more important than academics: that I was a person who had abilities and potential. It never occurred to me until years later that the children in the Orange Group or the C Group were learning a very different lesson: that they weren’t as academically capable. I began to see that a system that was labeling me as smart or gifted was also one that was labeling other kids as below par. And as I realized that, I became concerned about a system that locked kids into categories at such an early age, categories we would probably view ourselves through forever, whether the categorization was fair or not. For every child who grew self-confident about his or her capacities in such a system, there was another child who was being told that he or she wasn’t making the cut. This “tracking” of students, I believe, is one of the greatest challenges we face in a public-school system. And it is furthered by the road to ruin that high-stakes tests put our children on. It seems such an ineffective way of helping all children reach their potential. Labels can be powerful. But they can be damaging as well. Having been on the upside of that labeling, I am grateful for the benefit of growing up believing that I was smart. And I am committed to making sure all children have the benefit of seeing that potential in themselves.

  Recognizing that reality, I fortunately had always believed I would make something of my life. But when my dream of getting a higher education and becoming a doctor was interrupted, I’d very quickly gotten to a place where I didn’t see how I was going to put it back on track. Responsible for a child and so strapped for money, it was all I could do to just work the hours I was working and take care of the duties of a young parent. The idea of somehow fitting school into the existing mix of work and child care was unfathomable.

  —

  But one fateful day during 1984, after I had moved out of my mom’s house and into my own apartment, a nurse in the doctors’ office where I worked came in with a brochure from Tarrant County Junior College (now called Tarrant County College). She’d stopped by there on her way to work because she was thinking about taking a few business classes and had picked up some information about the vocational programs they offered. She just happened to put the brochure down on my desk, and, curious, I began to read it. I took it home with me that night. And back to the office with me the next day. And I began to let myself dream of college once again. The two-year paralegal degree program offered there seemed like a good fit for me. I loved English, was fairly decent at written communication, and a job in that field would pay twice what I was currently making.

  Ever since that neighbor knocked on the door when my mother put us all in the trunk of her car in the garage in Rhode Island, I’ve believed in angels. That first angel saved my brothers and my mom and me, a second one made sure I had health care during my pregnancy with Amber, and now a third angel had placed that brochure on my desk. I honestly do
not believe I ever would have taken the initiative myself to stop by the school and inquire about vocational classes. And I often wonder how different my life would be today had it not been for that one moment. Ironically, the nurse who had gone by the campus to pick up the brochure never signed up to take any classes. But her action led to a dramatic change in my life. Having left UTA after only one semester when I became pregnant with Amber, I didn’t think I’d ever get a second chance. I didn’t think it was ever going to happen for me. More than that, I had lost something that I’d always had. No matter how hard things had been, and through all the ups and downs, I’d always possessed my dad’s optimism and a belief in myself. I believed in my potential. But that self-assuredness had turned to defeatism. And that brochure was a light breaking through.

  Fear is a great motivator, and the intense desperation I felt as a young single parent who couldn’t pay my bills—who sometimes couldn’t keep the electricity turned on despite not spending a dime on anything that wasn’t an absolute necessity—turned my fear from something that had frozen me in place to something that propelled me into action. The mere act of picking up that brochure was all the impetus I needed to find my way back to my dream.

  —

  There were many times I had pushed through fear prior to my reentry into the college arena, many times when I knew there was no easy escape hatch and that I would have to just put my head down against the wind and push through. I couldn’t afford to let myself fail again. My fear was met with a newfound resoluteness that I had not possessed before. I knew it would be really challenging to keep working two jobs and also take on the responsibility of school, but I was bound and determined. And once I enrolled in the paralegal program at TCC’s Northeast Campus in Hurst, all I had to do was push myself harder than I’d ever pushed before. And from the moment I resolved to do that, I didn’t look up again until I had fully forged that path.

  I am forever grateful to the doctors I worked for—Dr. Julian Haber and Dr. Barry Bzostek—who allowed me to come in a bit later so that I could take early-morning classes several days a week and who let me off early enough to take evening classes as well. With my new school schedule, I was still able to wait tables three nights a week at my dad’s theater.

  But it was the logistics of child care for Amber that made the schedule truly grueling for both of us. Lisa, one of the nurses I’d become friends with at the office, had just started staying home with her little boy. To earn money she began caring for a few children in her home, and she agreed to keep Amber for me during the day. Knowing that Amber was in the care of someone loving and kind was a huge relief and help. But Lisa lived in the neighboring town of Watauga, and it was a haul to get there each morning. More difficult was the fact that I also had to find child care in the evenings when I was at school or waiting tables at Stage West. I had no consistent help in that regard. I still feel the pangs of guilt that came from shuffling Amber from place to place. Each evening as I would finish my daytime job, I would make the drive back to Watauga to collect Amber, drop her off around 6:30 p.m. at her second sitter for the day (which sometimes, thankfully, was my mom). Then it was on to school or to Stage West, which was downtown. And often it was ten o’clock at night before I could pick her up, bathe her, and put her to bed. After which I would try to focus on studying until I fell asleep, exhausted. Only to start the whole thing over again the next day.

  I think about it now and don’t know how I did it. I honestly don’t. There was never a moment to rest, for either of us, and the worst part of it for me by far—even more than the exhaustion and stress—was feeling such guilt about what that kind of schedule was doing to Amber. I wish more than anything that I could have spared her such a difficult infancy, prevented her from being flung here and there every day. There was no downtime for the two of us, no quiet mornings or evenings when we could hang out with each other, or do things together, or just relax. We were always moving. Always, always, always on the go. Always driving in my little red Mazda pickup truck (by then I’d traded in my Grand Prix for something more affordable). Occasionally we’d have a little quiet time on the weekends, but I was still waiting tables every Saturday night, so even those days weren’t sacred.

  Amber deserved something so much better than I was able to provide for her back then, and I will forever wish that I could have given it to her. But I did the best I could. The only way for the two of us to make it out of the quicksand we were in was to move directly through it to the other side.

  And ultimately we did, because I knew I couldn’t not try to go to school and get that done, and I also knew I couldn’t afford not to wait tables or work at the doctors’ office. Once I’d fought back the initial fear of taking those first classes, I don’t remember feeling afraid. In fact, I became pretty fearless. I was tired and overwhelmed from time to time, but my drive was strong, and I pushed through the stress every day: getting up to study at four o’clock in the morning on the days I had exams and sometimes not getting into bed until well after midnight.

  Worrying about money would often keep me awake into the wee hours. I had a car payment, I had my rent payment, and I had child-care costs, and on my little ledger there was not a dime to spare. I had to be so disciplined about what I could buy at the grocery store. And like many people in a tough financial spot, I came to know the embarrassment of standing at the checkout counter, realizing there wasn’t enough money to pay for what I had in my cart and the humiliation of selecting items to put back so that I could pay the cashier and leave. I had to be disciplined about everything, from how high I set the thermostat to rationing gasoline and driving only for absolute necessity. Every dollar was sacred, every dollar spent a choice between priorities. Never a choice between luxuries, like a new top for me or a new toy for Amber.

  By this time Frank’s presence in our lives had slowly but surely receded. Occasionally he would make a child-support payment. And he tried to help take care of Amber on his designated visitation days. But ultimately, and especially after I started dating Jeff Davis, who would become my second husband, Frank disappeared from Amber’s life altogether for a while. His parents, however, continued to consistently be there for us, and they were a real stabilizing force for me and for Amber. At least twice a month, they would keep her overnight on a Saturday night when I was waiting tables. It was a great comfort to know she was with them. They were and still are kind and loving grandparents who cared for her and who showed me tenderness as well. I vividly recall Stan (Frank’s father) slipping a twenty-dollar bill into my jacket pocket as I left their house one Sunday morning when I came to collect Amber. Reaching into my pocket after getting into my truck and discovering the money there literally brought me to tears. I sat there crying, so grateful for the gesture and so appreciative of the gift of money that I desperately needed. To this day, every Thanksgiving and Christmas, Amber spends time with her paternal grandparents, and through them she has rekindled a relationship with Frank as well. He loves and is proud of her; they have forged a special bond.

  These periods in my life helped me become the person I am today. I wouldn’t trade a moment of them, even the hardest of hard days. I know my story is not unique. It’s the story of millions of women who know the strength it takes as young single mothers to survive and improve their circumstances. Like so many other women, I knew I was going to have to work to get us out of where we’d been stuck if I was to give my daughter a better future.

  And through the grace of God and a few angels along the way, I was on the path to do it.

  ELEVEN

  A single rose can be my garden . . . a single friend, my world.

  —ATTRIBUTED TO LEO BUSCAGLIA

  IT WASN’T EASY going back to school while working two jobs and always making sure I had child care for Amber, but once I enrolled and got into a routine and started advancing through the paralegal program, my confidence grew. College wasn’t only for other people anymore, and in tim
e I allowed myself the luxury of believing that I could become a lawyer, rather than a lawyer’s assistant. That important turning point set me on a path that changed my life in ways so profound I could not have possibly anticipated it at the time. Education would come to make all the difference in my life.

  I was about to start my second semester at TCC when I met Jeff Davis. I had dated a couple of guys following my separation and divorce from Frank, but no one who made much of an impression on me. Jeff was different. Not only was he one of the patrons of Stage West, my father’s theater, he was also on its board of directors, and I’d seen him there on many occasions, either attending a play or attending a board meeting. He was significantly older than me and well established in his career. He was a lawyer, and when he was twenty-seven he’d been the youngest person ever elected to the city council in Fort Worth, a record he still holds. He was self-confident and self-possessed, and whenever I’d waited on him at my dad’s theater, he’d always treated me with kindness and respect. That, plus his support of the theater as a board member, was something that made a significant impression on me, made me want to get to know him better. Shy as always, I’d asked my father to make an introduction, and before I knew it, he’d cast himself in the role of the least subtle matchmaker imaginable:

  “How do you feel about younger women, Jeff? Because my daughter would really like to go out with you.”

  I suppose he felt okay about younger women—I was just twenty-one, and he was thirty-five—because eventually he called and asked me out. Jeff wasn’t like anyone I’d ever dated before. He was worldly, sophisticated, and college-educated. And he hadn’t gone to just any college—he’d gone to Princeton. Princeton University. He’d majored in religion and played three sports there, then gone on to law school at Southern Methodist University. He had a stable life—he was well-educated and had a reliable income—and was in the process of buying an actual house with an actual yard in a neighborhood near downtown Fort Worth, called Mistletoe Heights. One of the things that struck me about him was that he owned two cars—one a showy red Porsche, the other an old two-door Mustang. It was the Mustang he preferred to drive, and I thought that said a great deal about him. He liked to have fun, but there was something so centered, so grounded about him, too. I was impressed by him, not by what he owned but by the confidence he portrayed and the commitment he gave to things he believed in, my dad’s theater being one of those things. Anyone who supported and believed in helping advance my dad’s dream of delivering quality live theater to our community immediately scored a checkmark in the “pro” column of my book.