pair of Jordan’s on.
“Excuse me?” I asked, because I knew that I didn’t hear her right.
She nodded, took one step closer towards me, and asked again, but slower.
“How long do you plan to sit here and waste your life away?”
This woman was batshit crazy.
“As long as I want,” was my retort.
“Okay, then.” She nodded. “I get paid by the hour, so I’ll let your mother know to call me when you’re ready to get off your ass and do some work. I work with those that want to do the work.”
This caused me to stand up with a burst of energy that I did even know I had.
“Who are you?” I asked accusingly.
“Jessica Bains, life coach,” she answered. “Maybe I’ll see you soon, when you’re ready.”
To my surprise, she turned to leave, but a voice spoke from my mouth and the word wait came out. I swear it was beyond me. Sometimes I think it was my father, but that freaks me out some. Yet, she heard it and stopped.
“Yes?” She turned around and looked at me in my eye.
“I am always ready to work,” I told her, which was definitely me this time.
“Well then, let’s do it. From what I hear, there’s a whole world waiting for you out there. Ready for you to conquer it. But that, Zion. That takes hard work.”
It was a challenge. This was familiar to me and I guess I responded.
“I can do it,” I told her those many years ago.
Twenty-three to be exact, and now she’s a celebrity life coach with her own television show, and I still have sessions with her once a month. She often reminds me of that day and shared that she is so glad that I took the challenge because people were waiting for me to get into position. As I look at my engraved name etched on the gold plate outside of my new Washington, D.C. House of Representatives office, I smile, nod, and hold back a tear, sending private thanks to God, my father, and Mom. My constituents, campaign personnel, and supporters. Then I thank Coach Jessica. Finally, I thank myself for stepping up to the plate and give myself a moment to enjoy the victory.
“Feels good, huh?” That moment was interrupted by a male voice.
Turning my head to wipe my face, but not the makeup, I swung back around to look at the person who dared interrupt my time of thanks and smile.
“Yes, hi, my name is Zion Delaroo.”
My eyes landed on a tall man, fit, in shape, handsome, with a clean shave and even cleaner cut. His eyes were a light ocean blue that I’m sure his blue dress shirt and dark navy suit just accented. On his face was a smile, a warm one that didn’t seem pretentious or arrogant. No, this guy actually seemed to be genuine, but time always told.
“Yes, I know.” He smiled and held out his hand. “I was rooting for you to win and boy, did you.”
He was right.
I won with seventy percent of the vote because my incumbent decided to keep running even after he was pulled over for his second DUI and seen outside with someone other than his wife. Some people, well white men, thought they were above the law. Kramer surely did. The people made their choice and came out in droves to say they would not tolerate it any longer. I was proud of them on this day. I planned to make them proud of me.
This brought me to my current conversation, where this random guy said he was rooting for me.
“Why?” I asked.
One of his eyebrows lifted, then he shared, “Isn’t it obvious? We need more people of color and especially women of color at the decision table. It’s grossly inappropriate in favor of white men, and unfortunately, they have not voted in favor of the disadvantaged and underserved.”
I blinked maybe a good two to three slow times to take in what the white man was saying about his white counterparts and himself.
A chuckle escaped me before I asked, “You are white, right?”
“Yes.” He nodded.
“So you’re talking about yourself then too.” I asked.
This time, he was the one that blinked at me before answering. “It pains me to share that I am, but I hate to be categorized in the same boat at some of my counterparts. There’s a movement happening here in small and relevant ways, but yes, I own my privilege. I also know that having you here is about