I grew up in Miami as a young Jewish girl, besieged by trauma but with no ability to express it. I had been sexually abused early on in my life with no understanding of what it was or the ways it would affect me. In the early 90s, sexual abuse was not something that was discussed.
In the midst of my mental health struggles, which I hid away from the world, my family moved to Northern California. No longer was I surrounded by the warmth and diversity of my friends, but instead I was in a new world where every face looked the same.
Carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders, in addition to the trauma of moving away from everyone I knew and loved, I started a new elementary school in my sixth-grade year. This was especially traumatic for me because I had been with the same group of friends my entire life. It was only a matter of time before things got worse.
A little boy began mocking my Jewish star necklace and bullying me. The verbal assaults then turned physical. I had never experienced anything like this before. I took in the pain as another unwelcome beating from God, and stood on the sidelines during recess with the only two kids who would talk to me; one was Black, and the other was disabled.
This is just one of many memories I have of being embraced and loved by someone from the Black community. That little girl knew what it was like to experience prejudice. The three of us represented the only diversity in that school, and every day we were bullied because of it.
Eventually, my family moved back to Miami, but I never forgot the experience I had in Sacramento. Coming back home and making my way into middle school saw a reunion with the diversity of friends I loved so dearly. All was well in the world again.
Then in 1991 came another reminder of the brutality and reality that our country was still in. We turned on the television to watch the brutal beating of Rodney King. I can still remember the hot tears that poured down my face as I was reminded of the terror and anguish Black Americans still face in our country. As I went to my middle school that day, a group of us got together, led by our student government president, and organized an approved sit-in to protest racial violence. It was not only our way of having our voices heard, but also a coming together of people from different backgrounds to show our solidarity for the Black community.
These are just some of the memories and experiences that have stayed with me throughout my life. I am also reminded of the myriad times that the Black community has supported me, been there for me, and allowed me in. I can tell you that it isn’t lost on me how very sacred that is.
Many years later, I found myself practicing law in the criminal justice system. During that time, I converted to Catholicism and began to make my way in a new and unfamiliar world. After being part of several different churches, God eventually led me to a diverse church that felt like home. The people in the pews represented the same cultures and beauty that I grew up with. I began helping and serving during our celebration of the Haitian New Year, enjoying the company of my new brothers and sisters.
During this time, I continued to work as a police legal advisor at a major metropolitan police department. After I had been there a long time, nearly ten years, came the start of the COVID-19 pandemic and things at work began to get ugly. I started to experience corruption, sexual harassment, and a hostile work environment. My childhood trauma came back, but this time in a rage.
Like an untamed storm at sea, I had to somehow get myself out of that environment while ultimately facing my own mental health struggles stemming from my childhood. I thought about my sexual abuse, the Rodney King beating, and my childhood experience with bullying and harassment. I couldn’t hold on any longer. It was time to get well.
I resigned from my job at the police department in haste with no Plan B, but God promised justice and restoration in my career for what happened to me. First, however, there had to be healing. During a three-year struggle, finding where I belonged and going through intense therapy, a theme began to emerge: a longing for home. I missed my community in Miami, the people I loved, and the mission I signed up for when I went to law school, embodied in Isaiah 42:6: “I, the Lord, have called you for justice.” God was slowly showing me the way back to who I was.
That’s when a friend sent me a job description at Florida Memorial University, a historically Black university in Miami Gardens. They were looking for a criminal justice professor—specifically, a lawyer to teach classes full-time. I didn’t think I even had a chance. For one thing, I was white. For another, I did not have my PhD. I applied anyway and left it in God’s hands.
I went through the usual application process, the interviews, and the like. Then, a week later, I received a call that I was being invited for final interviews. I had never been to the campus and it had been many years since I visited my hometown. I can still remember the excitement of crossing the county line and seeing the entry way back home.
Walking on to the campus and feeling the radiating energy was like traveling back in time. Back to my beginning, back to where I came from. I felt an instant comfort and ease that overcame me. However, the greatest feeling I felt was the feeling of being safe.
I cannot describe to you in words what it feels like to be back in God’s arms. This is the only way I know how to describe the embrace I feel at Florida Memorial. I was hired and started this fall as a full-time faculty member in our Department of Social Sciences, and my life has never been the same.
I belong at Florida Memorial University. I feel like a person who has come home to a community that loved me when others did not. I owe the Black community more than I could ever repay, and in some small way, I feel as though God is allowing me to express my gratitude through the gifts and talents he has given me.
As it turns out, that little girl never forgot where she came from. And now, she is home.
Melissa Presser is a wife, mother of three, and a seasoned attorney. She is a full-time Professor of Criminal Justice at Florida Memorial University. Her experience as a trauma survivor has allowed her to connect with people around the world through her writing, as she continues to use her own vulnerabilities as a guidepost to help others in their healing journeys.
