Chicken Soup for the African American Woman's Soul by Jack Canfield Page A

brown-skinned angel had arrived. But wait! The worker was carrying a small, chubby child with big blue eyes and curly blond hair. She had puffy cheeks and appeared to be very frightened. I was scared, too. I felt her pain deep in my heart but I was still confused. I thought that the child being brought to me was supposed to be African American.
    Her social worker explained that although there was some doubt about her paternity, both parents were listed as being African American. Before paternity tests could be run, the father listed died of a heart attack at the age of thirty-eight. What was I going to do? This child would not blend into my existing family. I could not teach this child about a culture that I was unsure of myself. Yet, when I knelt down and looked deep into her piercing blue eyes, my heart told me that none of that should matter. If I turned her away, who would love and care for Faith? Who would encourage, support and be by her side when life got tough? Who would patiently sit with her, night after night, as she learned to read and write? Where would she build her memories? Who would be her “forever family”?
    Maybe it was not meant for me to just raise an African American child to be proud of her culture. Perhaps I was to teach this child, who blended into many cultures, how to love herself and others. Perhaps all she required of me was constant love and stability. Then, out of the blue, Faith made the decision for me by saying, “Hi, Mama.”
    The first few days were hard for Faith. Every night she cried uncontrollably and had violent temper tantrums. I understood her frustration because I am sure that she was afraid of what the next day might bring. In fact, every time we left the house she ran to get her yellow toothbrush, just in case she didn’t come back. Her only possessions had been the clothes on her back, a pair of small shoes and the yellow toothbrush.
    I began to purchase new things for her. How she treasured the new pink house shoes that made her feel special!
    She loved the Barbie pillowcase she rested so peacefully on. And she adored the little purple stroller, which allowed her to lavish the affection on her dolls that she had been denied in infancy. One day she came to me and said that she needed more dolls. “Ridiculous,” I told her.
    â€œYou have so many dolls.” My three-year-old then explained to me that none of her dolls had social workers.
    I knew then that it was time for me to move forward and make this adorable little child a legal and permanent member of my family. Until then, she would not be able to move on with her life. Faith had done nothing to deserve being uprooted whenever it was no longer convenient for her to live with a family. I would be sure that she would never have to move again. Instead of getting a child that I thought I could teach about life, she came into my life and taught me many things about myself, my family and what is really important. Yes, this would be her forever home.
    What would she be? She would be my daughter.
    Tracy Clausell-Alexander

Handpicked to Nurture
    C hallenges make you discover things about yourself that you never really knew. They’re what make the instrument stretch—what make you go beyond the norm.
    Cicely Tyson
    The fight was on. I was determined to win—determined to hear what the masked figure standing over me had to say. As my eyes focused, my brain connected the dots with what I saw. Bright lights . . . blue scrubs . . . glasses— ah, yes! My doctor.
    â€œWorse case I’ve ever seen. Stage four.”
    Too late . . . it won. Without warning I sank back into the hole of unconsciousness I’d fought so hard to leave. I didn’t return to the land of the living until the next day when the anesthesia from my exploratory surgery wore off. It was then that I learned my fate—a fate that would make me feel like less than a woman for many years to come.
    â€œEndo