Homeless Success: The Story of a Morehouse College Student
By: Laron Rodgers
My
experience started back home in Taylor, Michigan, where I had lived for six
years. For a while, I had recurrent dreams in which I saw images of buildings
and structures that I could not identify. In these dreams I also saw groups of
young men walking around and heard them using a jargon that was unlike that of
the young men of my neighborhood in Taylor, Michigan—much more sophisticated. I
simultaneously saw a tower and heard the melodious chiming of a bell. I saw a statue pointing to the institution,
as if it were saying, “This is where you will go to become a man.” As the
dreams became more descriptive and more layered, they became even more
personal. I saw myself receive a diploma, smiling and waving to the crowd that
had watched me accept it. I now know, in retrospect, that the images and structures
in my dreams were those on the campus of Morehouse College, that the groups of
men in these dreams were men of Morehouse, and that the chiming came from the
tower of the King International chapel on the Morehouse College campus.
Things
became eerie as the dreams began to fully invade the space of my waking consciousness.
Every second, every minute, and every hour of every day, these visions would
appear in my head. I could not get rid of them, and it seemed as if they would
never depart unless I acted upon them. Here is when things would become even
more eerie. On July 14, 2011, I opened
up my mother’s laptop, intending to search for more information about a gym
that I was thinking of joining. However, as soon as I typed the letters
“m-o-r-e,” the word “Morehouse” appeared in the Google search engine. For some
unknown reason, I clicked on the word “Morehouse,” and the address and other
information about this institution, which would normally appear in blue print,
seemed to be highlighted in bright red.
It seemed that the whole screen was saying to me, “Click here now and
change your life forever.” Below the Morehouse College name, I read the words “the only all-male historically black
institution of higher learning in the United States.” Admittedly, I was
a bit skeptical about the idea of attending an all-male institution, but when I
clicked on the Morehouse College website, I saw the same figures that I saw in
my dream: the highly sophisticated black men, the pointing statue, and the bell
tower. Things were becoming all too
strange. I immediately notified my mother, who was also aware of my reoccurring
dreams and visions, that Morehouse College was possibly the institution that
had been reappearing over and over in my dreams. Who knows whether the words “Morehouse College” was actually highlighted in red
that day on my mother’s laptop or whether that color was but a figment of my
imagination? But I knew even as I clicked on “Morehouse,” that my life would
take a transformative turn.
Later
on that day, I did extensive research on the Morehouse College website and was
thoroughly intrigued and fascinated by what I found out. On that day, I decided
that Morehouse College was the place that I wanted to be. After all, I had seen
myself get a diploma from this place; so I thought, “How difficult can it be to
go to Atlanta and obtain what I have envisioned.” Unfortunately, I did not know
what I was getting myself into. After doing the research, I learned that I had
to submit a completed application form and pay the admittance fee of $555. But,
of course, I did not possess this amount of money and neither did my parents.
Eventually, my father was able to take out a small loan. I, too, would have to borrow from the bank to
purchase a used 1999 Lincoln Continental so that I could drive to Atlanta,
Georgia. I had faith that I could make it to Morehouse College and pursue my
dreams, but I had little faith that my old rust bucket Lincoln would withstand
the physical and mechanical rigors of the journey from Taylor, Michigan, to
Atlanta, Georgia. But, the motivation to succeed outweighed my doubts about
making the journey in a car that sounded as if its engine would collapse, its
doors would fall off, and its transmission would completely burn up at a moment’s
notice. So I decided to make the journey despite my uncertainties.
So
around one o’clock on a Sunday afternoon, I began my journey to Atlanta,
Georgia, hoping that I would arrive in Atlanta by two o’clock in the morning. I
had packed my car with some of my personal belongings: clothes, three bologna
sandwiches, chips, a big bottle of water, and one-hundred and fifty dollars for
gas money—which had been given to me by my mother—she could not really afford
to give me the money, but she made this sacrifice so that I could pursue my dreams.
During
the first hour of the drive, my front right tire blew out, so I had to exit the
highway sooner than I had intended. I tried aimlessly to find a tire shop, but,
because it was Sunday, every shop in town was closed. Despite the fact that my
tire was flat, I still believed that things would work out. And they did! A kind
gentleman pulled up to a closed tire shop outside of which I had parked my car.
To my surprise, he happened to be an employee at that shop and, for the price
of five dollars, he decided to open the
After
the tire was replaced, I got back on the road to continue my trip to Atlanta. Four hours had passed by and suddenly I could
see in the distance what appeared to be a massive storm. When I finally came face to face with the storm,
it knocked my car off of the road multiple times. I had absolutely no control
over the vehicle— the other drivers on the highway were caught in the same
bind. So I decided to pull my car over. After
the storm abated, I proceeded on my journey. A few miles further, unfortunately, another
storm emerged, but this time it brought with it some reinforcements: the wind
was stronger, the thunder was louder, and hail rained down with the promise of total
calamity. Again, I was forced to pull over to the side, as my car could not
handle this raging demon that had spit out ice from its mouth. But, like the
previous storm, it too eventually disappeared, and I was back on the road
again.
You
would never guess what happened in the next twenty minutes of my drive. Yes, a
third storm arrived, with ferocity enough to throw me off my course once
more. But, this time, I did not pull over to the
side. Instead, I prayed: “Lord you have given
me the task of attending and graduating from Morehouse College in Atlanta,
Georgia; therefore I ask that you remove this storm in your mighty name. Amen.”
In an instant, the storm stopped. Before this abated, I had never prayed to God
about anything, but that experience was enough to turn me into a praying man.
Soon after, I would come to rely solely on God through prayer. From that day on,
I would no longer believe in luck but in blessings cast down upon me by the Lord.
Indeed, it was a blessing that delivered me, safe and sound, to Atlanta,
Georgia.
Upon
arriving to Atlanta, Georgia, around three o’clock in the morning, I stopped at
a gas station so that I could refuel and figure out where I was. As I looked
around, I saw an African American face on every fuel pump poster and every large
billboard; and I saw African Americans working the actual gas station. “What
planet,” I asked myself, am I on? Black faces on fuel pumps and billboards? Are
you sure that you are in Atlanta?” I double-checked my GPS route. Yes, I was in
Atlanta, and although, obviously, I was not accustomed to being in an African
American community, I was happy to have made it to this new place.
Around three o’clock in the morning I
arrived at the Morehouse College campus and parked in the lot of Mount Moriah
Baptist church adjacent to the campus. Since I was in a place unfamiliar to me
and because I did not know a soul that lived in the state of Georgia, I ended
up sleeping in my car until sunrise.
This
happened to be the first day of the new semester and, of course, I had no money
to attend school. On average, it costs about forty thousand dollars annually to
attend Morehouse College, and after purchasing two rounds of gas for the trip
to Georgia, I had ten dollars to my name. Let’s face it: I had no business
being at this institution. By asking random people for information regarding
school, I found out that I needed to go to the Financial Aid office. And so I did.
I had already gone through the process of filling out a FASFA for the academic
year while I was home, so the next process was to find money—the Financial Aid
office would make that very clear. For the rest of the day I travelled all
around campus searching for the necessary funding, but to no avail. Determined
to continue my efforts the next day, I returned to my car in the parking lot of
Mount Moriah Baptist Church, knowing that I would have to sleep there
again.
The
next morning I found that my body odor was becoming far too foul for my liking,
so I pulled out a change of clothing from my trunk and sneaked into one of the
freshman dorms for a shower, after which I continued my search for funds. Again,
I failed, as I would the next day and the day after that. In fact, two weeks went
by and my chances of finding money to attend Morehouse College seemed slim to
none.
Upon
waking up in my car one morning, outside of my window I saw students smiling
and conversing. They looked as if they had all the things I did not have: paid
tuition, a comfortable room to sleep, a place to shower regularly, and meals on
a consistent basis. The ten dollars that I had to my name was used to pay the
church parking lot officer. I still owed him one hundred dollars, but he
allowed me some time to repay it. Moreover, my entire life mired in depravity. On
that day, I sat and cried. I thought about giving up. It would have been a lot
easier to go back to Taylor, Michigan, to live in the comfort of my mother’s
home. There I would have had food to eat, a comfortable place to lay my head,
and a place to take a nice hot shower. In fact, while I continued to cry, I gave
serious consideration to returning home. Then suddenly it dawned on me that I
had not once prayed to God about my situation—and so I did. After praying about
my finances, my homelessness, and my hunger, I set out that morning to continue
my search for what I needed.
Just
when it seemed that my situation was hopeless, I was awarded a grant from
Morehouse College, an alumni grant from Michigan, and a small loan, all of
which would cover the expenses of my tuition, dormitory, and my meals at the
school cafeteria. Once again, prayer had worked. My belief in God was growing
stronger by the minute. I could not wait to get back to my car to unload my
personal belongings and take them to my new room. Alas, upon returning to where
my vehicle had been parked, I discovered that it was no longer there.
Apparently, the Mount Moriah parking lot officer was tired of waiting for the
money that I had owed him, and decided to have my car towed. Fortunately, Dean Harry Wright from the
student services department offered to give me a ride to the company that had
towed my vehicle. There I was told that I would have to pay a fee of one
hundred and fifty dollars to take possession of my car. Having no money, I
prayed once again. My prayer was quickly
answered. The owner of the car lot ended
up covering the towing costs. I suppose he felt bad about my situation.
Having
walked to the back lot of the towing company to retrieve my car, I stopped to
give my ticket to the man that controlled access to and from the parking lot. Unfortunately,
I was standing right where the arm gate lifts up and down for passing vehicles,
and because the man was not paying attention, he pressed a button which caused the
arm gate to come down on top of my head like a bowling ball falling from the
sky. Soon after, I was taken to the emergency room and was diagnosed with
post-concussive syndrome.
Because
of my injury I could not think clearly and I had memory loss; I passed out many
times; and I suffered from agonizing migraines. A neurologist later told me that
I could not continue with school for the academic semester of fall 2011. This
meant that the money that I had just recently received would be taken away from
me. Ironically, then, I found myself back in an all too familiar situation:
homeless, penniless, and sleeping in my car. After learning of my unfortunate
condition, several faculty members told me that it would be best for me to go
home—that perhaps Morehouse College was just not the place for me. These words
discouraged me. Again I felt like giving up. Again I prayed. Searching my
wallet, I found that I still had a Morehouse access card with my name on it—the
only thing that the College did not confiscate from me. So I figured that I
could use the semester to access the school’s library, become acquainted with
Morehouse Faculty and students, adapt to the Morehouse College atmosphere, and use
my time to get a head-start on the following semester.
While
it seemed as if my situation was indeed a disaster, it turned out to be manageable,
thanks to Dean Wright, who, alarmed by my condition, tried to do what he could
to help me: he gave me a big bulk-sized box of nature valley granola bars on
which I survived on for many days and nights. Eventually, he found a way to
provide me with cafeteria admittance passes that allowed me to eat once during
the day. But, of course, I had to sneak a few sandwiches into my pocket so that
I could eat at night. Not surprisingly, then, Dean Wright became like a father
to me, and I could always depend on him in times of need.
Although
I would have to sleep in my car for another ninety days, I continued to network
and to build relationships with students and faculty. I learned the location of
every building on the Morehouse College campus. I read many books in the
library and became familiar with the intellectual jargon. I even became so
comfortable that I pretended to be an enrolled student. I did all of the things
that normal college students did, including attending parties. However, I quickly learned that the party life
was not really for me though—I had no interest in it anyway. On the whole, in spite
of my situation, I was getting a leg up on the other college students; for,
unlike most of them, I would be prepared for the Morehouse College lifestyle
before actually taking a college course. Or so I thought.
In
the spring semester of 2012, I was given the same endowment fund, and received
the same few grants and loans that I had landed during the fall semester of
2011. Of course, I still had to work really hard to obtain them: waking up
early and knocking on doors persistently. I did not give up and had no
intentions of doing so. Again, my tuition was paid for, I had my own dormitory
room, and I had full access to the school’s cafeteria. I was living the life,
so to speak, and was full of confidence for the future.
But,
Morehouse College would quickly knock me off of my high horse. That semester I
would not do well academically. In fact, I earned a 1.9 grade point average and
was placed on academic probation. That spring semester made me aware of my
inability to study effectively, my mistake in not taking advantage of the
professors’ office hours, and my gross mismanagement of time. I cried again, but I also prayed again. Since
I had developed a relationship with many faculty members during the previous
semester, I was given the opportunity to work in the Pre-Freshman Summer
Program, despite my low grade point average. Though I was supposed to be mentoring
students—teaching them how to study effectively, how to take advantage of
professors’ office hours, and how to manage their time wisely—I was also
learning these things for the first time. In fact, the Pre-Freshman Program did
for me what it was designed to do for in-coming students: It became to be the
stepping-stone to my academic success at Morehouse College.
The
following semester I obtained a 2.6 grade point average. In successive
semesters my averaged climbed to 3.14, to 3.4, then to 3.5. In the fall
semester of 2014, I earned my highest grade point average: 3.62. Today, my
cumulative grade point average is now a 3.12.
I
am currently a senior majoring in English, and I will be graduating in May 2015.
I am also on track to graduate Cum Laude (with honors). One of the most
interesting things about my experience, besides being homeless and finding ways
to persevere through my hardships, is the fact that I came up with an idea for
a unique candy bouquet business—Dulcet Sucré. The idea for this business seemed
to emerge, uninvited, from the deep depths of my consciousness. It was,
perhaps, the same candy business that I saw in my dreams. I launched this
business in January of 2015, and on February 14 (Valentine’s Day) the business
made over $1500, with total profit margins of $1100 thanks to the monetary investment
of another father-figure at Morehouse College. My sales were made possible by
selling my Valentine’s Day candy bouquets in the Morehouse College bookstore—the
manager of the bookstore had graciously given me permission to do this. Since
then, I have been highly motivated, and I plan to expand my business. My dream
of receiving a diploma and becoming a wealthy candy business owner no longer
seems to be as farfetched as it used to be.
I pass on my
experience in hopes that I can inspire someone who may be on the brink of
giving up. My message is this: It is
okay to cry sometimes, but, after the crying is done, you get back up and keep trying
until something positive happens. Fight through adversity and learn to pray
when things don’t go your way. Most importantly, if you keep knocking on the
door of success, it will eventually open. Given your unfailing tenacity, your
success is inevitable.
