I pressed my best suit and starched a white shirt. Held up each and every one of my ties, trying to decide which one looked the most professional. It was the night before my first day at my new job. Not just any job. A job at the White House. I was full of nervous energy.

When I tried to read, my mind kept wandering. I thought back to all of the experiences and the people who had helped me get to this point. College professors. Friends from graduate school. Mostly though, I thought about the people from my hometown. I thought about Madison Park.

I was raised by my grandparents—Mama and Daddy, as I called them—in Madison Park, a town founded by freed slaves on the edge of Montgomery, Alabama. In 1880, John Motley, Sr., my great-great-grandfather, joined a group of freedmen as they stood on the ground that would become Madison Park and pledged to build a community where people could thrive. Daddy built almost half of the black churches in Montgomery, including Union Chapel AME Zion Church in Madison Park.

Some kids had paper routes after school let out. I had a people route. Almost every day when I was growing up, I would go around the neighborhood and visit with each of the people who had made an investment in my life. Especially my tutors.

When I was in first grade, Mama got a letter from my teacher explaining that I was being demoted from the Rabbit reading group to the Turtle reading group. Even though she and Daddy didn’t have much formal education, Mama would have none of it. She immediately called my Aunt Shine. The next Sunday in church, Aunt Shine stood up and made a plea to the congregation.

“Brothers and sisters, we have a serious problem,” she said. “Eric Motley has been moved from the Rabbit to the Turtle reading section at his school. Eric needs to practice reading, and he doesn’t have many books at home. If you have any books you’ve finished reading, please drop them off at the Motleys’.” I was mortified. and yet that afternoon, reading material started arriving on the porch. Books, old magazines, volume “L” of the Encyclopaedia Britannica. Even some poetry.

That wasn’t enough for four retired teachers who lived in Madison Park: Aunt Shine, Aunt Prince Ella, Mrs. Carrie Madison Seay and Mrs. Frankie Lee Winston. They came by the house every afternoon, two by two, to tutor me. They didn’t stop at reading, either. They helped with math, science, history—you name it. Eventually, they expanded their efforts to all the kids in the neighborhood. For a few years, about 60 of us would gather at the church every afternoon for tutoring.

My Rabbit status was restored, and I excelled in school. But the efforts of my neighbors were far from over. They weren’t content for me just to be a Rabbit. They had their eyes on a bigger prize. College.

In my teen years, my afterschool routine changed. At 4 p.m., when I got off the bus, Mama would greet me with a cup of hot tea and cookies and we would chat about our day. Then I’d change into working clothes—worn khaki pants and a hand-me-down denim shirt—to do my chores.

Next was my favorite part of the afternoon: my people route. I’d say hello to the McCarters, who lived across the street. They had 10 kids, but Mrs. McCarter always set aside an extra slice of pie or scoop of ice cream for me. I’d holler at the other kids on my way through the neighborhood—Regina Gibbs, the Simon and Henderson boys—before visiting with my tutors.

Aunt Prince Ella would wait on me to walk with her to gather eggs from her chickens. If Mrs. Seay’s clothes were on the line outside, I’d take them down and help her fold them. Aunt Shine would talk to me about history and politics. Mrs. Bertha Winston became my speech coach. She would drive me to our church so I wouldn’t be distracted by the comings and goings in the neighborhood. We’d park under a big oak tree, and she would give me a list of words to recite. Mama and Daddy couldn’t afford many books, but Mrs. Winston taught me that if I memorized the passages that spoke to me the most, they would always be with me.

My tutors weren’t the only people on my route. I always had a steady supply of odd jobs to complete after school. When I was done visiting with my tutors, I would mow lawns, trim shrubs, pick blackberries and weed gardens. Anything for a few bucks.

My neighbors could have easily done the work themselves. They hired me to help build my college fund. I would have much preferred if they’d just given me the money. Mama and Daddy insisted that I earn every penny.

I worked along my people route until dinnertime. Dinner, like breakfast, was a full cooked meal. Usually Mama made okra, peas and some sort of delicious main course like meatloaf or pork chops. Before eating, Daddy would ask, “Eric, do you have a couple of lines you want to give us?” Then I’d stand at the end of the table and recite a few lines from a poet I loved, often someone Mrs. Winston had introduced me to. Over the years, I covered a wide range of poets, from Shakespeare to Langston Hughes. Then Daddy would pray over our meal, saying, “For these blessings, we give you thanks. And make us ever mindful of those who have not. Amen.” To this day, I still say this prayer before eating.

My favorite times with Daddy, though, were the Sunday mornings we spent on Little Joe Simon’s back porch. At eight o’clock, the men of Madison Park would congregate at Little Joe’s for a haircut before church. We would sit under the magnolia trees and drink coffee while catching up on what was happening. I loved when Little Joe cut my hair. More than that, I loved being a part of something, witnessing so many people come together. It was the most important stop on my Sunday people route.

The tutors, the neighbors, the odd jobs, everyone who came together on my behalf—they all helped get me to college. I received a full scholarship to Samford University, about 90 miles away from Madison Park. After graduating college, I went even further, all the way to Scotland, for graduate school in international relations.

Now I was headed for the White House, where I would serve as a special assistant to President George W. Bush. I closed the book I’d been trying to read and checked the clock. It was 10 p.m. Even with my clothes laid out and my briefcase packed, I couldn’t sleep. The phone rang. I checked the caller ID. Montgomery, Alabama. I picked up. It was Mrs. Bertha Winston.

“I hope I didn’t wake you, Eric,” she said. “I just couldn’t sleep. I wanted to tell you how proud we all are of you. Tomorrow, you go in there and work! When you go into that White House, remember you’re taking Madison Park with you.”

I thanked Mrs. Winston and hung up, feeling peace wash over me as I remembered that this job, this opportunity to work in a place of influence, was more than mine alone. Even though I was far from the family and friends who had shaped me, they would always be a part of everything I accomplished.

The next day, I walked into the White House with pride, wearing the red-and-blue striped tie that Daddy had worn to my high school graduation.

I worked in the White House for four years. I was ready for a new opportunity at that point, but a good friend unintentionally sowed doubts in my mind. “Don’t leave the White House!” he said. “If you do, you’ll no longer be Eric Motley from the White House!”

That was true, but I wondered how I’d given him the impression that my identity was only of value in relation to the White House. Wasn’t being Eric Motley from Madison Park good enough?

One of the odd jobs I did around Madison Park was picking blackberries. I was picking them one day when one of Mama’s friends, Miss Daisy, appeared. I chatted with her to be polite, just small talk about the weather and her health. She didn’t reciprocate.

“You mustn’t pay attention to me or to anyone when you’re working the work before you,” she said. “You have to be totally involved in what you’re doing and consumed with what’s before you.”

Her advice reminded me of a prayer I’d once delivered to a church in Montgomery: “Help us to know ourselves more fully and wholly; help us to never forget whence we have come.” God answered my prayer and reminded me where I came from. I listened to the advice of Miss Daisy over the advice of my good friend. I knew that the work before me no longer included my job at the White House. It was time to move on.

I’m now an executive vice president at the Aspen Institute, a nonprofit leadership think tank, and my management strategy comes from the wisdom of the people I grew up with. I seek to encourage rather than criticize, to build up rather than tear down. Every day I rise before the sun, as Mama taught me to do, and I remember that even though she and Daddy have passed, as have so many of my friends and mentors from home, I carry the spirit, principles and values of Madison Park with me.

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There are some unforgettable dreams so strange or so beautiful you find them difficult to share with others. But one dream I must tell about, for I believe it was from God.

Some years ago when I was living in Portland, Oregon, I dreamed I was a famous musician. A young reporter from New York came to interview me. She was beautiful, with lustrous auburn hair and warm, friendly eyes with crinkly laugh lines.

I awoke with my heart pounding. Though I doubted I would ever be famous, I felt certain that God had shown me the woman I would marry. I called her my Dream Princess.

Marriage, however, seemed distant. Even though I was 39, I still hadn’t made much of my life. My ambition was to become a published writer. I had written stories, plays, poems and books, but none had seen print. To support myself, I worked for an auto dealership, washing and selling cars. In my spare time I refereed at school athletic events.

Because I firmly believed the promise that God would guide me, I decided to move to New York City. That’s where the publishers are. Friends and most of my nine brothers and sisters ridiculed me. “You need contacts, Joe,” warned one. “The city will eat you up,” said another, laughing. “You’ll be glad to come back to Portland.”

My answer was to buy a one-way Amtrak ticket to New York. In late June 1991, I boarded the train after saying goodbye to my sister, brother-in-law and nephew. One of my two suitcases held all the books, stories, plays and poems I had written, along with $400.

On July 4, I arrived in bustling Penn Station. I set down my suitcases to check the hotel address. When I leaned over to pick them up, the one with my manuscripts and money was gone! Astonished and dumbfounded, I found a policeman. All he could recommend was to file a report. “Welcome to New York,” someone said, snickering. All I had left was $100 in my wallet. I checked into a hotel and started looking for work. A few days later, on an evening stroll, I was mugged. I lost my cash and ID. I couldn’t believe it. Twice in one week! “You gotta be careful,” advised the hotel clerk, shrugging his shoulders.

Meanwhile, no publisher was hiring. I searched for any kind of job, but it seemed hopeless. I felt I was at least becoming streetwise, until I went to the restroom in Grand Central Station. Once again I was mugged. This time I was slammed against the wall, and a shiny blade was pressed against my stomach before my assailant fled. Penniless, I went to Traveler’s Aid. They advised me to call my family. No way, I vowed. I couldn’t face the “I told you so’s.” With no place to live, I joined New York’s homeless and hungry. The aroma wafting from restaurants tied my stomach in knots. I stared hungrily at half-eaten food in street-corner trash baskets.

Someone said that the Church of St. Agnes near Grand Central Station had a drop-in center where some 400 people gathered to eat every night. I felt fortunate to join them, but I didn’t feel right sleeping there. It was still summer, so I slept in doorways and on park benches. Sometimes I rode the subway or walked the streets all night. I soon learned to wrap myself in newspapers and lie on top of cardboard to stave off the night chill. But finding a job without a home address or identification was hopeless. That was the worst of it—feeling useless, not having anywhere to be, getting awakened by footsteps of lucky people hurrying to work.

Sometimes I thought of my Dream Princess, but now she too seemed a fading illusion. Desolate days blended into a gray emptiness. Some evenings found me in an all-night McDonald’s near Times Square, writing my thoughts in a notebook. Occasionally the manager let me sleep in the closed-off upstairs section.

Fall was coming on and one cold night I trudged through Herald Square. Despite the crowd, I felt alone. Sick at heart, I looked up into the murky sky and wondered if God had forgotten me. I thought of the Psalms my mom had had me memorize, in which the psalmist continually expressed his faith even in the grimmest circumstances. Leaning against an iron fence, I sighed: “Thank you, Lord, thank you for taking care of me today. Thank you for what you are going to do for me tomorrow. For whatever comes into my life, I thank you.”

I had no idea he was going to answer so quickly. Within a few days I was assigned a bed two nights a week in a shelter in Astoria, Queens.

As I signed in at the table, a young woman walked in from the kitchen. I looked up and my heart skipped a beat. There was my Dream Princess! I stared at her lustrous auburn hair. She had friendly eyes and there was a glow about her face as she walked across the room. My hands trembled and I began composing a love song in my mind.

Haltingly I struck up a conversation. Her name was Carol Ann Perkins. She was a volunteer worker in her mid 40s. She was polite and we talked a bit about my writing aspirations; then she left. But before she was out the door I had finished her song in my mind. A few days later I went to another shelter, at the Community United Methodist Church in Jackson Heights, where I had come to know the pastor, the Reverend Austin H. Armitstead. He gave me a typewriter and I typed out the song about my Dream Princess.

Meeting Carol Ann sparked a positive change in my life. I found a part-time job refereeing high school and college athletic events. My self-confidence grew.

Three weeks after meeting Carol Ann, I was again a guest at the shelter where she was a volunteer. Having saved a little money, I asked her out to lunch. For a moment I was afraid she was going to turn me down. Then, smiling, she hesitantly said yes. We went to a Roy Rogers and over hamburgers fell into easy conversation. I could see there was hurt in her eyes, and I cautiously drew her out. She said she had just ended a relationship with someone and then quickly changed the subject. We parted as friends, but that was all.

Even so, I excitedly phoned my mother about finding my Dream Princess. She said she would pray for her. I asked Carol Ann out again, and this time I brought her a single red rose. For the next four months our relationship continued over lunches, but always on a casual, friendly basis, and obviously not going anywhere. I, of course, was head over heels in love but didn’t want to push myself.

“Oh, Father,” I prayed, “this is the girl you showed me in my dream, but she doesn’t seem interested in me at all. What should I do?” It turned out I didn’t have to do anything. A few days later I discovered a new Carol Ann. I sensed a special warmth in her green eyes, and when she placed her hand on mine as we talked, I was ecstatic.

Later I learned that a friend of hers was making a pilgrimage to the Shrine of Our Lady of Guadalupe in Mexico. Carol Ann had given her a prayer petition to take, asking for “someone who is kind and gentle, good and loving and only has eyes for me.” It was then she realized that the one courting her was all of those things.

On February 12, 1992, I got down on one knee and with a red rose in hand asked Carol Ann to marry me. Our wedding was officiated by pastor Armitstead and Bishop Douglas L. Trees. A friend, Frank Scafuri, sang “Dreamer, I Wanna Be With You,” the song he and I composed from the words I wrote after I first saw Carol Ann.

Since then we have made beautiful music together, and every week my Dream Princess still receives a single red rose from me. Carol Ann and I are both working and we volunteer at the two church shelters where I once slept.

Every so often someone down and out looks at me with pain-filled eyes and asks, “How can you possibly understand what I’m going through?” I sit down with him, put my arm around his shoulders and explain I know exactly what he’s going through. I tell him God gives each of us a dream. And if we follow his will, pray and hold on to our faith even through the darkest times, our dreams will come true. Then I tell him about Carol Ann.