Lessons I Learned from the Men Who Tried to Love Me

Lesson #3: It May Be All They Have, But That Doesn't Mean It's Enough

Meet Michael

It all started with Michael. When I say "it", I mean love, and when I say "love", I mean our perception of what love was. See, neither one of us had any examples of healthy, loving relationships, so we were like children playing "doctor", dressing ourselves up in the roles we'd seen played out in front of us through our families, the media, our own hallucinations of what it looked like to love another person. And so we loved each other the best we knew how. Michael taught me that someone could love you with everything they have and it still may not be enough to heal the broken parts of you.

When I was 16, I got pregnant with my oldest son. I had been kicking it with this dude from around the way named Patrick. By the time I found out I was pregnant, I had already decided to break things off with Pat. So, even though I was pregnant with his child, I didn't expect him to take care of my child. Though the players may change, the game stays the same: Momma's baby, Daddy's maybe. 

The morning after I learned that I was pregnant, I called Steve to ask for my old job at Pete's. He told me to come in to talk. "Talk" essentially meant beg him for my job as well as for forgiveness for quitting in the first place. We had gotten into an argument on the floor of the restaurant. He had given me a directive and told me that if I didn't like it, I could punch out and go home. I was furious. He was pulling the manager card in front of everyone after he had just had his hands down my pants the night before. I visited each of my tables, recovered my tips, stomped over to the time clock, and did exactly as he had instructed.

When I arrived at the restaurant, I explained my situation to Steve and he handed me a stack of papers to fill out. I would be working as a cashier on the night shift. We were meeting in the back room of the restaurant usually reserved for private parties. The door, positioned near the front counter, was opened and a guy walked past to look inside. I could tell he only wanted to be nosey, but I remember experiencing an eerie feeling when we locked eyes. Almost magical, in a sense. He was about 5,10, dark-skinned, with black curly hair braided in cornrows reaching almost to the middle of his back. He had full lips and a dark mustache. Considering the position I had gotten myself into, a man was the last thing I wanted to see, but if I had to look at one, he wasn't bad eye candy.

To say that Michael was a "Ladies Man" is an understatement. All the girls were crazy about him. The customers, the employees, everyone. The constant attention he received created in him a level of arrogance which I despised. The more girls talked about him, the more I gagged. The more they batted their eyes, the more I rolled mine. Each day, I made a deliberate effort to increase the amount of my visible disgust for him. Of course, this only caused him to fight harder to get my attention. For weeks, he sweet-talked me, complimented me, attempted to coax a smile from me, which I denied him. It killed him that I was unimpressed with what seemed to be so impressive to everyone else.

As my belly began to grow, his attention became more genuine and his care for me seemed authentic. My attitude toward him began to soften and a friendship bloomed where there was once friction. He looked out for me in a way that no one had ever done before. When we weren't working together, he called often to check on me and my child. He wanted to know that I was safe and that my needs were met. He made me feel special and cared for. I didn't know it at the time, but I was already falling for him.

One night, in particular, my mother did not show up to pick me up from work. I had worked the second shift, on the crew responsible for closing up. Typically, I rode the bus an hour or so home, but this particular night, the buses would be done running by the time I finished. Before I headed out for work, I confirmed with my mom that someone, either she or her boyfriend, would be there to pick me up. When my shift was over, no one had come for me. I called my mother several times, but her boyfriend had not yet returned her truck, and there was nothing she could do for me. My manager waited anxiously with me, either unwilling to leave me alone or unable to do so due to company policies. Regardless of his motivation, I felt bad for his having to stay with me. I asked him to take me to the Denny's across the street from where we worked while I figured out what I would do next.

I slipped into a corner booth tucked away near the back of the restaurant and ordered the cheapest item on the menu: a bowl of grits and a glass of water. I had no money, so I wondered how long I could linger before the staff realized I had nowhere else to go. Anger toward my mother swelled up in my throat, but I pushed it back down with a swallow of grits. I had learned to survive by lowering my expectations. I had been disappointed so often, it had become too painful to expect people to love me well. So, I stopped. Instead of being upset at her, I turned that anger inward at putting myself in a position to be disappointed in the first place.

About 45 minutes later, the hostess walked over to the table. "Are you Journi?" she asked.

"Yes", I replied nervously wondering who in the world could have known my name in that place.

"There's a call for you. The phone is behind the counter," she said.

I couldn't understand who could have been calling considering that no one knew where I was, but I thanked God anyway for his divine intervention.

"Hello?" I asked into the receiver.

"Hey, are you okay? Why aren't you at home?" I immediately recognized the worried voice on the other end belonged to Michael.

"I didn't have a ride and the buses have stopped running", I explained. "How did you know that I was here?"

"I kept calling your house to see if you had made it home. Your mom finally told me that you were stuck at work. I figured you probably went across the street, so I called and described you to the hostess. What kind of mother would leave their pregnant daughter stranded?" Michael was fuming.  "You're a girl. That's not cool." He did not have the same amount of grace for my mom as I had.

He picked me up and took me back to his apartment, about 10 minutes from where we worked. I was so grateful. He had rescued me and had shown a love for me that my own mother refused to show. It was hard not to love him, not to want him, but I was still pregnant with another man's child.  

Against my better judgment, we began a dating relationship. At the time, he had a girlfriend, a much older woman who served more as a way to help him get back on his feet after serving a four-year bid in the state penitentiary for a couple of drug charges than an actual partner in life. She was 40ish; I didn't know her, but I pitied her. This pity allowed me to devalue the relationship she had with Michael, and I agreed to be the other woman in his life. "Other", however, never meant "second", Michael lavished me with attention, eventually, the woman in his life, who I will call "Angela", began to suspect something was up. She would call his phone when we were together and left angry voicemail messages when he didn't answer. One night she popped up over his house while I was there. She laid heavy on the buzzer that served as his doorbell. "BUUUUUZZZZZZ!" the doorbell screamed. His car was parked outside, so she knew he was there. She sobbed into the intercom and begged him to open the door. This was the first time I felt guilty about what we were doing. I told him he had to break it off with Angela. Michael agreed to tell Angela the truth about us. I was pleased, and even felt triumphant, in a sense, but what I would painfully learn five years later is the way you get them is often the way you lose them. 

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