I Beat the Odds_ From Homelessness, to the Blind Side, and Beyond - Michael Oher [29]
In fact, I saw her just recently at an annual charity event in Batesville, Mississippi. A friend of hers knew that I would be there and gave Ms. Logan a call. She came, but I don't think she thought I'd have any clue who she was. The second I saw her, though, I shouted, "Ms. Logan!" and gave her a huge hug. It was such a wonderful surprise. I reminded her that she and I shared the same birthday, and she thought it was so funny that I would remember something like that after all these years. But I don't think it was crazy at all. Each one of us has memories of a favorite teacher or coach from when we were little, and even if we didn't know how to tell them at the time how much their encouragement meant to us, we carry that memory in our hearts. I had carried that memory of Ms. Logan with me for years because she made me believe that I had a talent worth developing and the ability to see it through.
But the good times didn't last, and even the thrill of the new house wore off, too, when it was clear that nothing had really changed except our address. My mother disappeared a few times; we ended up moving again, too, staying one place for a little bit before getting kicked out of it for one reason or another. Pretty soon I was back to camping on people's floors or sofas, or even sleeping in doorways and under bridges when the front door was locked. Memphis winters usually aren't too bad, but the summers are brutal.
My mother fell back into the same routine of getting clean and then relapsing, and the same routine of neighborhood trouble started up again, too. There was a grocery store right next to Hurt Village called Chisholm Trail Grocery. It was a pretty big store where everyone did their shopping--and stealing.
I should take a second here to apologize to the owners of the store, which is out of business now, and probably because of all of the stuff I shoplifted from them. It started out as just a dumb thrill. All the neighborhood kids stole candy there, and I did, too. Not to be making excuses for what we did, but I don't think that it actually occurred to us that it was bad. After all, most of our parents weren't very active in teaching us right from wrong. And it seemed like more of a game than anything else. If you made it out of the store with your candy, you won. If you got caught, you lost. I lost four times.
But as I started getting a little older and the growth spurts started, stealing from Chisholm Trail Grocery wasn't a game anymore. It was actually a matter of survival for me. My mother didn't keep food in the house and what I was able to bum from people in the neighborhood wasn't nearly enough to fill me up. I needed food--real food that could keep up with my body. So I moved from stealing candy to stealing meals. I'd smuggle out pork chops, steak, whatever I thought I could get back home to cook without getting caught. I always tried to steal meat if I could because that was something we definitely didn't get at home.
Most of the time, though, I got food through the same old routine of begging and bumming. I'd hang out with a friend and just wait for their mom to offer me something to eat. There were certain moms who I could always count on to feed me. We all kind of knew the deal: There were the nice moms who you knew couldn't stand to see a kid not eat; there were moms who would give you something only if you asked; and there were the moms who clearly didn't want you around at all. All the kids in the neighborhood knew who was who. When she was off drugs, my mother was one of the nice ones who the other kids knew would give them something if they came by our house. Everyone loved her when she was clean because she was just such a loving woman. But as soon as she went back on drugs, it was