It’s Not About Me
“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” Jeremiah 29:11
I fell to my knees at the foot of the hotel room bed, weeping. Lord, why did you bring me here? Why did I spend money to come here knowing my salary has been sliced in half? I do not belong here. These people don’t look like, or understand me.
Silence engulfed me. I inhaled, for God will never leave me. I exhaled, or forsake me. He knows the desires of my heart, and my desire is to please him.
“Lord put the right people in my path today, for I know not what to do.” I got up off my knees, walked to the bathroom, washed my face, reapplied eyeliner and bronzer, and smiled.
I picked up my iPhone and texted my girlfriend, “I’m staying. God didn’t send me all this way without a reason.”
Earlier, I left morning worship, confused and disheartened. While on the elevator, headed back to my room, I sent a text to my girlfriend saying the ACFW conference was the wrong place for me. She replied, “See if you can get an early flight back, and save some money.”
I had this apprehension two days after I purchased my plane ticket, booked my hotel, and paid conference fees. I knew this was a Christian writers conference; however the website did not display photos of people who looked like me. Being the only African American was an issue for me. I had learned, people see color first. People need familiarity; people fear change, even God’s people.
I attended a Catholic High School with 10 black students out of 1,000. Complaints arose about exams on Martin Luther King’s Holiday, while drunken teens were dismissed on St. Patrick’s Day. Years later, attending Sunday service, the pastor said, “Shake your neighbor’s hand.” I turned, extended my hand; the white lady behind me flinched.
At a writing workshop, I shared a novel chapter. One of the attendees said, “Black people didn’t go to college back then.” I flinched. “Black people have been going to college since the 1800’s.”
This is what caused my apprehension about the ACFW conference. When, I strolled the bookstore not one cover appealed to me. My immediate reaction, how can an agent, editor, mentor, publisher or other writers identify with my story if they didn’t understand my culture?
During one workshop, I grew tired of discussing movies featuring cookie cutter images. As an adjunct instructor, I expect a diverse class of students; hence I present a diversity of writers, cultures, and images that represent them. I want them to feel comfortable; after all, for many of those students, I am the first black teacher in their academic careers.
One of the guest speakers made insensitive jokes, like since his daughter adopted African kids did that make him an African American? In addition, a PowerPoint slide illustrated a noose one would place around someone’s neck.
By Friday morning, I was livid, anxious, and unfocused until I prayed and waited for God to show up.
At lunchtime, a young man asked each person at the table to pitch their story. I pitched mine, he said, “Don’t speak before the editor speaks. If she doesn’t like it, do you have another story to pitch?” I did. During a critique, the editor confirmed my novella was a novel, so I practiced pitching that novel. At the actual pitch session, the book editor asked for the novel proposal of the unfinished manuscript.
Later, I bumped into the lady I dined with on Thursday. I described an agent I was looking for, who understood the publishing world of African American writers. She told me the woman was upstairs. I marched upstairs and introduced myself. I didn’t pitch my manuscript but voiced my concerns as a black writer with a white agent. She understood food, hair, culture, and confessed she still had things to learn. Possible relationship.
Another writer from the lunch table approached me. We shared information about a book editor she had met, and I would see. I merged our ideas together for my pitch. The editor requested the one sheet, then more pages; afterwards the full manuscript.
Here’s the amazing thing about God; three ladies crossed my path whom I prayed with and ministered to privately. This conference wasn’t about me; it was about Him. When I think I’m the only one is facing something, I’m never the only one. Then all I can do is look up to Him.
