In 1958, I was a sophomore at Pasadena City College in California.  My parents told me I needed to get a job to help with my living expenses since I was 400 miles from home. 

Of all things, I got a job as a cook for a wealthy family in the South Pasadena area.  Now, my cooking skills were limited to asking Mom, “What’s for dinner?”  But the employment office at the college recommended that I try for a job as a domestic with live-in privileges, so off I went to several interviews.

The family that hired me was not concerned by my lack of culinary history stating that they wanted someone they could train in French cuisine.  What did cuisine mean, I wondered?  I signed on for the summer and the coming school year, and then moved into a lovely room with free access to the swimming pool—this job was going to be a snap!

My first cooking assignment was to sauté a nice piece of liver steak (as if there is such a thing as a nice piece of liver steak).  I plunked it into the sizzling skillet.  I could tell it was sizzling because the grease was shooting nearly ceiling high.  Wow!  I was progressing nicely already because I had this unconscious ability to discern that the level of heat in the pan was commensurate with the height of the grease spout.  Anyway, in went the liver.  By the time I finished, it was charcoal black on the outside and raw on the inside.  But the family graciously consumed what they could.  Afterward, the lady of the house offered to watch over my next endeavor more closely.

After that I went on to greater things, beef tongue—man, can tongue throw off a lot of smoke.  From there I moved on to bacon—ever see shrapnel fly when fork is applied to crisply done swine?

Eventually, about 25 cookbooks later, I did become a good cook and grew to love adjusting dishes and truly delighting my employers with meals that earned their pronouncement of excellent.  But a friend of mine never let me forget that my humble beginnings had resulted in burning their livers and scorching their tongues.  Ha, ha, I would respond with an obvious dim view of her teasing.

My freshman year at Pasadena City, I became a Christian.  I was delighted with my newfound life in Christ.  I attended a local church and was active in an Inter Varsity Christian Fellowship Bible study on campus.  I made wonderful friends and loved talking about the things of God-especially the Bible.

Most days when I took the bus to school, I was the only person at the bus stop, but one bright sunny Monday there was another person waiting—a tall, lovely, middle-aged Black woman.  Since she was dressed in a white uniform, I knew she too worked in one of the wealthy homes in the area.  We struck up a conversation, comparing our jobs, etc.  To our delight we discovered we were both Christians and so shared our belief in Christ.  When the bus arrived we were deep in fellowship—as though we had known each other all of our lives and were the best of friends.

The doors of the bus opened.  I stepped back so she could get on before me because she was older--although Mom never taught me to cook, she did manage to teach me good manners.  Instead of stepping up, she suddenly turned to me and stood aside.  “Oh no, Miss,” she said.  “You must get on first, you’re white.”

I remember the dark cloud that fell across my joy in our fellowship.  Suddenly we were no longer sisters in Christ.  Now I was White and she was Black.  The ugly specter of racism had stolen away the delight of our spiritual birthright.  I didn’t have time to argue with her, the bus driver was tapping his hand on the steering wheel, anxious to keep his busy schedule.  I shyly stepped on before her.  She went to the back of the bus, and I dropped into a seat behind the driver awash in a sea of shame and confusion.  I felt that she didn’t wish to talk with me any longer, or that she thought it would not be seemly to do so.

For months after that I hoped I would meet her again. I wanted so much to share with her that I didn’t care what our races were, we were related in Christ and that was a relationship that superceded race, culture, age and everything else.  But I never saw her again.  To this day I feel the sadness of that day so long ago.

www.1-800BadCredit.com   Need a car loan but afraid you can't qualify? I'll bet you can with one of our lenders. Give it a try!

Budget Resume Site   Visit our Resume On A Budget site and get the Resume & Interview help you need without going broke!

www.ResumeHelpBlog.com   Let us help you find a new job. Go ahead!