Fail Up (16 page)

So there I was, all hyped up, gung-ho, and ready to go to work … and there's a hiring freeze. If I had known, I could have—perhaps should have—stayed in Indiana and made sure I had finished school properly. But since I didn't know, I wound up stuck in LA without a degree, without money or a job, feeling like Boo-Boo the Fool.

If not for Eula Collins, Mayor Bradley's secretary, there's no telling what would have happened. Eula became a dear friend during my internship the previous year. If I wasn't at work, I was hanging out at Eula's house. She had two daughters but no son. Eula, my LA mother, seemed to enjoy having me around and doting on me. After arriving in town penniless, broken-spirited, and homeless, I gratefully stayed at Eula's house in South Los Angeles.

A couple of weeks later, Eula found an apartment for me, right across the street from her house. As fate would have it, that apartment is right around the corner from my headquarters in Leimert Park today. Fortunately, the apartment was already furnished. The owner had to leave town and rented out her one-bedroom apartment complete with sheets, towels, dishes, a television, and a modest amount of furniture.

Now I had a place to stay but no money. Until the hiring freeze lifted, I had to aggressively pursue a “meantime” plan. During my job search, I found myself locked in three uncompromising categories: “overqualified,” “under-qualified,” and “undependable.” Managers at McDonald's and other fast-food restaurants said I was woefully overqualified. Without an actual degree, I was underqualified for high-tech and other well-paying jobs.

In retrospect, I may have unintentionally sabotaged myself. In interviews with potential employees, I often talked about interning for Mayor Bradley and how I had a job waiting once the freeze was over. Why
would
anyone hire me? Fast-food places have enough turnover, and any savvy employer would hesitate to invest in someone waiting for the freeze to lift.

You Can Always Come Home

I could not find a gig to save my life. I ended up doing anything and everything I could to make a little money, including signing up when movies and TV shows advertised for extras. I made appearances on
Matlock, Cheers
, and a couple of other TV shows. I even qualified for a Screen Actors Guild (SAG) card, thanks to a quick cameo in the film
Someone to Watch Over Me
with Tom Berenger and Mimi Rogers. The director wanted a stock boy to ask, “Who's there?” when the killer broke in through a basement window. Out of the hundreds of extras on the set that day, I was chosen. Turns out, my lines were cut from the movie. But, those two words qualified me as a genuine actor. Funny, huh?

The hiring freeze—which lasted more than a year, combined with no consistent income—was getting the best of me. During my internship, I met businessman Harold Patrick, who became a dear friend and supporter. Harold, Eula, a couple of other friends, Mama, and Big Mama—everybody pitched in, sending me a little money to keep me afloat—which made me feel like a horrible failure.

I was barely hanging on, but an eviction notice pushed me over the edge. When my intuitive mother called to ask how things were going, I said, “Mom, I've done everything I can; now I'm being evicted. I can hear Gladys Knight and the Pips warming up. ‘LA proved too much for the man, he couldn't make it …' It's not going to work.”

I was trying to be cute and funny, but holding back the tears was a battle.

“I know you don't want to do this,” Mama reassured me, “and I don't want you to feel like a loser or that you failed, but I want you to know that you can always come home.”

For some reason, it hadn't occurred to me that I had that option. Accepting my mother's offer, which seemed like the only viable choice, was comforting, but it also meant I had failed. Tears of relief and humiliation flowed equally.

“Mom,” I sniffled, “I can't imagine how things can get any worse. I'm going to take you up on your offer. I'll pack my stuff and come home.”

That night, my friend Harold pleaded with me to change my mind: “This whole thing could turn around in a week. I really do believe you'll do great things in Los Angeles. I think this is your city, Tavis. Give yourself another week,” he urged.

Harold was trying to convince me to be more patient, more tenacious. He had a gut feeling that California was really the best place for my talent. He had no idea that his argument was bouncing up against an eviction notice. The signs were plain as day:
Give it up! Go home!

“Time's run out, Harold,” I said in quiet resignation. It was a Tuesday night; Thursday morning, I planned to head back to Kokomo. Wednesday night, filled with dread, I stepped into the shower. Lathered up, with water pouring from the spigot and my eyes, I experienced my first earthquake. It was a nice little shaker. In that butt-booty-naked moment, slipping and sliding all over the place, I heard a voice:

As long as you're alive, Tavis, there's hope. It can always get
worse. Hold on.

This may be hard for you to believe, but for me, it was a bona fide revelation. It was a message I not only heard, it was also one I felt, just as real as breathing.

I got out of the shower, surveyed the surroundings—a few dishes broken, furniture in disarray, fallen plaster from the wall—but no major damage. Still, in that moment, when I thought things couldn't get any worse, things miraculously changed. Like flicking a light switch, my tears subsided, and my spirit completed a 180-degree turn.

Before the earthquake, I thought I had endured enough and suffered enough; that eviction notice was a sign to move on. In reality, the earthquake was a stronger sign to stay put. It took an act of nature to shake up my world and toss me around, but afterward, I was still standing, still breathing, and feeling blessed to be worthy of bona-fide heavenly assurance to hang in there.

“I'm not going home, not just yet,” I whispered to myself with new resolve. “I'm going to hold on a little bit longer.”

In what seemed like a lifetime later, looking at the single can of Spaghetti-O's in my cupboard and my last bit of cornflakes in a bowl in front of me, the phone rang.

It was Bill Elkins from City Hall:

“Congratulations, Tavis,” he said. “The city-government freeze has been lifted. Consider yourself a paid, full-time employee of Mayor Tom Bradley's staff.”

Hold On!

“I've been waitin' for this moment,
all my life, oh Lord"

—
“IN THE AIR TONIGHT”
BY PHIL COLLINS

I am still humbled that—if not for divine intervention—I might have missed my moment. I was just a day away from leaving LA, a day away from learning that my career in politics was about to start, and a day away from missing a life-changing opportunity.

The true meaning of patience and tenacity was, of course, my lesson. I had been given an internship and job opportunity with Mayor Bradley for a reason, and it wasn't to have me stranded and homeless in a strange town. I needed a reminder. Since my friend Harold couldn't penetrate my stubborn resolve, a voice during an earthquake seemed to be the next best thing.

Hold on! However bad things are,
it can always get worse
. Sometimes we lose sight of that significant message. We have to remind ourselves that things can also get better. I was so sure that the eviction notice signaled the end of my time in LA. In reality, it was a preview of the day persistence and tenacity were going to pay off for me.

In our pursuit of success, perhaps we have to redefine the meaning of a real problem versus a divine delay. If there's a solution—even if it's an out-of-reach solution—remember: Problems can be solved. Learning that you have cancer and six months to live—that's a real problem. But in comparison to life's irreversible crises, my problem stacked up more like an inconvenience.

Mark Zupan—the captain of the 2004 U.S. quadriplegic wheelchair rugby team and captain of the 2008 U.S. gold medalwinning quadriplegic team—can tell you about a “real” problem.

Zupan played varsity football and soccer in high school. On October 14, 1993, after a winning soccer game, he and a few teammates decided to visit a local bar. Inebriated, Zupan climbed into the bed of his friend's pickup truck and fell fast asleep. His buddy—who had also been drinking—later drove off in the truck without realizing Zupan was in the back. The driver collided with another vehicle, which sent Zupan flying from the back of the pickup and into a nearby canal. He was able to grab onto a branch and hang on for 14 hours, until a passerby noticed the struggling, half-conscious youth.

As a result of the accident, Zupan became quadriplegic. But because he held on, not only did he survive, he heroically managed to rise above a seemingly insurmountable challenge. He redefined his life and went on to win Olympic medals and inspire millions.

My interview with Zupan in 2008 reminded me of something Mr. Lee Young, the grandfather of my dear friend Wren Brown, used to say whenever we saw each other:

“How ya doing, son?”

“I'm hanging on, Grandpa Lee,” I'd answer.

“Naw, naw, naw, son,” the elderly man always responded: “Pictures hang; you hold on!”

Hold on! In the bigger landscape, what happened to me in the late 1980s was a small detour. The delay could qualify me as a “failure” only if I used it as an excuse to give up. Short-term failures used as stepping-stones to long-term success allow us to
“fail
up.”
Failing at something doesn't make us failures. Even if things hadn't worked out in California, due to the state's economic situation, that would only say something about me if I let it. I was the same energetic, young man itching to be molded and utilized. Nothing in my DNA had changed. Likewise, whatever happens to you has nothing to do with what's happening inside you. Graduates who can't find employment or people who have been downsized or terminated can consider themselves “failures” only if they fail to hold on to their goals. Recast delays and rejections as practice sessions for the job that suits you.

Ask yourself: Can I identify the solution to my problem?

Am I comfortable with the idea that I may have to chart a course that's unlike the one I imagined?

If you answered “yes,” you're not ready for that Midnight Train to what you consider comfortable.

Base your confidence on the fact that you've held a job or graduated from a college that has prepared you for something better, something that will challenge and grow your gifts. Don't insist on dictating the journey. Be patient and prepared and on the lookout for your earthquake moment.

Many times since that ground-rattling incident, I've been reminded that benefits will come if I just hold on to my vision and my commitment to use my gifts to serve. There are no magic wands, but there is the indisputable magic of hanging in there. As noted publisher and author William Feather put it: “Success seems to be largely a matter of hanging on after others have let go.”

The people in life who end up “making it” are usually not the most gifted or talented, the most fortunate, or the smartest—they are those who manage to hold on the longest.

Hold on and hang in! As long as we're living and breathing, as long as we have family and friends and people who believe in us and love us—things can always get better. Whenever we're feeling picked on by the universe, striving to accept our discomfort as a stage in our development may save our sanity. There's power in accepting unexpected circumstances and challenges as the perfect pause before completion. Don't give delays or unexpected setbacks more energy than they deserve. Be at peace, knowing that it's inevitable that you are going to get exactly where you're supposed to be.

Sometimes that pause before completion is really an invitation to be creative, to fine-tune your engines. Being overqualified or underqualified may be a signal that you're in need of a tune-up. You may have to go back to school or take some kind of technical course. You may have to volunteer to gain access and skills. Or it may mean becoming an entrepreneur and starting your own business. Whatever it means, commit to creatively charting your own course.

How long do you have to hold on? I can't say; it's situational. I
can
say you must resist the urge to give up. I
can
say that you have to find ways to navigate your way through it.

Hold on! Things can—and will—get better.