After an hour of shopping at Mervyn’s, my friend Grace and I agreed we had what we needed for our college outfits. The double doors swooshed open, and we stepped out from the clothing department into the bright sunlight of a balmy March afternoon in Fresno.

I had recently moved into a small house that I rented with Grace and her sister while I attended Fresno City College. This was only my second semester in college, yet my fifth house in ten months.

The year before, during my senior year in high school, I lived with my family in the San Francisco Bay Area on a furlough from our missionary service in Africa. In June, upon my graduation, my parents flew back to their ministry with the Yoruba people in Nigeria, leaving me behind to attend college.

I moved south to stay with an aunt and uncle, who kindly took me into their home in Reedley, thirty minutes south of Fresno. Knowing I wouldn’t see my mom and dad for two years left a deep, dark void in my heart. Having had a taste of being together under one roof instead of separated at boarding school, this extended separation created new levels of despair. Fed up with rules and forced changes, I couldn’t accept what my aunt and uncle meant to be loving house rules for me. So, I moved out.

And every two months or so, I moved in with a different friend as I tried to figure out my life. Just that morning, I wondered to myself, How long will I be staying in this shack with Grace?

Getting Busted

Just as we stepped outside the store, a gruff-looking security guard appeared in front of me.

“Miss, I need you to come with me.”

I looked at Grace. She looked back at me. Her long, blond hair swirled around her face as she shook her head, her eyebrows furrowed together.

I shrugged, palms up. Uh-oh. I’ve been caught. But I’ll try to look innocent.

I turned to follow the uniformed man who had already entered the store.

The guard wound his way toward the back right-hand corner of the store, turning around every few feet to make sure I followed.

In the dimly lit hallway, he pushed open a door. We entered a small office with two desks in the center, covered in paperwork and clutter. A female security guard sat on an office chair in front of the closest desk, and a gray-haired officer in the other chair tipped back lazily.

The older man cleared his throat. “Miss, do you know why you’re in here?”

I shook my head, my feet rooted to the tiled floor, just inside the room where I had stopped as the door clunked shut behind me. My hands felt clammy. Yes, I do know.

“We have reason to believe you attempted to leave the store with unpaid merchandise.”

What Do I Do Now?

I looked at the woman, then at the guard at the door, then back at the senior officer,

“Um. Wh-what?”

“In the women’s changing room, we found price tags torn from a brassiere. We think you have that item of apparel in your possession.”

The woman sat with her arms crossed, silently assessing me. Slowly, she stretched her arm toward me and waggled her fingers. “Let me see your handbag.”

I handed over the bag, and she dumped the contents on the desk.

She rifled through it, then glanced at her boss. “It’s not in here.”

Old grumpy pants grunted and stabbed his finger at me. “Where is it?”

This can’t be happening. I’ve taken things before, but no one ever found me out.

I scuffed the floor with my shoe. I knew I was guilty and didn’t want anyone to strip-search me. “I’m wearing it.” My voice wobbled.

“Go take the garment off and bring it here.” He pointed to a curtain behind me, the entrance to a small changing room.

After a minute, I emerged, holding the brand-new piece of clothing.

“Shoplifting is a serious crime, young lady. We’re charging you with a misdemeanor, and you’ll need to appear in court.” He picked up a pen and scribbled on a piece of paper.

“Now, where do you live?”

“You mean, where am I staying now?” How do I answer this complex question?

“Yes.” His pen hovered an inch above the paper.

No Home of My Own

“My California residence is my great-aunt Ella’s home in Oakland. I use that for all paperwork with Fresno City College.” I cleared my throat as confusion fogged my head. “Do you want that address?”

“No.” He raised an eyebrow and his voice. “Where is your home?”

I wrapped my arms across my chest. My home is in Nigeria with my parents, but I’m stuck here for college. “Do you mean the aunt and uncle who I’m supposed to be staying with in Reedley?”

He threw up his hands, and his face turned deep red. “Just tell me where you live now!”

I mumbled the address of the run-down bungalow I rented with Grace. I hope he isn’t going to put me in jail.

He jotted a few more notes but didn’t ask me any more hard questions. Then he handed me a notice that said I had to appear in court.

When I finally walked outside, Grace was waiting for me on the edge of the sidewalk at the parking lot.

“What happened?” Her shrill voice pierced the air.

I felt flushed with embarrassment and rubbed my hands over my warm face. “I stole a bra and stupidly got caught.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Grace shook her long blond hair. “We could have high-tailed it to my car and raced out of here.”

I took a deep breath and smiled. She didn’t chide me for stealing. She’s upset only because I’d gotten caught. Somehow, that made me feel loved. Here was someone who didn’t judge me. For better or worse, she felt compassion and wanted to protect her friend.

Looking Back at that Time

Of course, I’m not justifying shoplifting. It was wrong, and I had to appear in court, plead guilty, and pay the $200 fine for an $8 garment.

Right after my parents had flown back to Nigeria, it was hard to move in with my aunt and uncle, even though they treated me like their own daughter. Enveloped with suffocating grief, I cried myself to sleep every night for a month. I felt as bereft as I did the first time I arrived at the mission boarding school at age six.

Trying to adjust to life in college away from my home country, I got into the habit of sneaking things into my purse while strolling down quiet store aisles. This country has so many things just ripe for the taking. Items like ChapStick, hand lotion, or cheap earrings sat unattended on shelves upon shelves.

For some reason, it gave me a feeling of power and control over my life when I slipped an object into my handbag. As a struggling college student, I had just enough money to buy groceries, so incidentals were a luxury, as was a new bra.

But still, I had everything I needed. So, why did I have “sticky fingers” when I went shopping? Being raised within the confines of an institution, I had lived under constant surveillance. Thus, I took on the role of scrutinizing where I was, measuring everything I did, and observing how people responded to me. At boarding school, I didn’t have the opportunity to be me. I was the girl they wanted me to be.

What I Know Now

As I talked through this memory with my friend, Brenda, she suggested I was rounding out my understanding of myself with a hammer and chisel. I was also pushing the boundaries of faith and culture in response to deep feelings I didn’t know how to process.

At the boarding school, I lived in daily fear of getting beaten with a belt like my brothers did, so I didn’t dare step one toe over the line. I repressed temptations to avoid getting punished. God’s character was often muddied by things being labelled sinful that were merely against a staff member’s strong preference.

In college, I was suddenly an adult, alone–angry at God and those who claimed to represent him. I needed to make a psychological break from who I felt I had to be to qualify as “good.” So, I explored what life would be like if I walked in some of those temptations. In the process, I experimented with many “bad” activities.

Fortunately, I didn’t get into too much trouble. This was more about expressing my anger, allowing myself to be impish, and pushing the limits of propriety.

I was searching for a sense of home and real love—to plant roots that I never had.

Link it to Your Life

How was your experience of moving out on your own and finding your path? Was it easy or challenging? In what ways? Did you ever take something from a store or from another person?

Photos

I don’t have pictures from this era of my life, so I chose three from the previous three years. The first one is of a hilarious escapade my friend/nemesis/frenemy, Debb Forster, got me into. And since I’ve posted an embarrassing story, I might as well post this embarrassing photo! See caption for the juicy details.

Debb is on the left, and that’s me on the right. Yes, I dressed up as a man, and she painted a mustache, goatee, and sideburns on me using shoe polish, most likely. She even drew hair on my chest with a Bic pen. I won’t describe what I’m using as a “cigar.” You can guess on that one. Let’s call this a Halloween costume. But seriously, we were just really bored. This was at Niger Creek Hostel at Hillcrest School in our sophomore or junior year, circa 1975

My brother Larry and I were at his Junior/Senior Banquet in the last week of his senior year of high school at Hillcrest School in Jos, Nigeria.

In my last semester of high school, in San Leandro, California, with my mom’s parents, Grandma Ruth and Grandpa Emil Delk. Circa spring of 1977, just before graduating and moving to Reedley, south of Fresno.

To read more about my transition from Nigeria to California and starting college in a “foreign country,” click here.