Wishing you a happy (and memorable) Labor Day!

I hope that this Labor Day finds you well! As I prepare to travel to the Congo again in the near future, the holiday has me thinking about labor in the Congo.

Through my mother's efforts, I was exposed at a young age to the power of women coming together and joining forces to redefine the realities of what it meant to be a working mother in the Congo. The magic of their unified strength was truly revolutionary. As a wise woman once said, "when spiderwebs unite, they can stop a lion."

As we are working on the final chapters of the memoir (we plan to finish the manuscript by late fall/ early winter), I am pulling on my earliest memories of these scenes, remembering back to the way it all began....

Chapter 9 - Spiderwebs

The fervent buzz of conversation dwindled as one by one the women’s eyes turned to a single corner of the room. They were waiting for Nzol Akayimb to speak.

But makw Nzol sat silent, legs crossed in her faded, neatly tied makwemb. Her eyes shone out from the soft papery folds of her skin. The silence silence spread as she steadily met the eyes of each woman in turn. When her eyes rested for a moment on my own, I could see that they were deep midnight pools in which the reflection of the moon danced and played with a shimmering brightness. Her gaze held all and yet revealed nothing.

Finally Makw Nzol spoke.

“When one falls down, will we leave her behind? Will she stay on the ground when we have so many hands to help her back up, and so many arms to lean on? No, we are together in this. We are one. Where one falls, none can continue on the path.”

****

As the meeting dispersed, Mom and makw Nzol lingered at the entrance after the others had gone. Then, deep in conversation, they began the journey home in the darkness together, with only the moon to light their way. Quietly, I followed behind.

“We must help one another in this as in all things.” I heard makw Nzol tell Mom before patting her chest lightly once with her open palm. It was a quick and subtle gesture, but my eyes never left her diminutive frame. When the path parted, Nzol stopped and turned toward Mom again. “We will visit him tomorrow, in the evening. It will be better.” Mom nodded in agreement and the two women said their goodbyes.

I watched as Nzol turned onto the path and slowly made her way down the road, her bare feet sounding solid, reassuring thwaps against the clay road as she made her way slowly down the shadowy path, leaning on her gnarled old kashi stick.

Trailing Mom home that night after the meeting, I wondered at the strange turn of events that had taken place. And I remembered back to the day that had started this course in motion....

****

Stay tuned to read the next installment of this chapter--coming soon!

Happy Mother's Day!

In light of tomorrow's Mother's Day celebration here in the U.S., I thought I would give a quick update on our progress with Remember for Me and also share a brief excerpt with you in honor of my mother.

We are currently on track to have a finished manuscript by October of this year. I have been truly amazed by the support that has already begun to transform this dream into reality. I'm reaching out to ask you to join this team of contributors by considering making a small donation to help us cover some of our pre-production costs. You can do this by clicking on the donation box on the right side of this page, or contact me at chingwell@comcast.net for more information.

It's important to note, that I am attempting to tell both my own story, the story of my mother and my family, and also the story of the community of Musumba where I grew up. My goal is to be true to the voice of the local people. Accordingly, all proceeds from the sales of this book will go back to support the people of Musumba. Please help us share this story with the world.


Here is an excerpt from Chapter 6 of Remember for Me that is dedicated to my mom and to the determination, spirit, and ingenuity of all the mothers in Musumba.

***

“Mom is back! Mom is back!” As we heard the joyful shout, Kasua and I looked up. We locked eyes for no longer than a second before leaping from our seats and racing outside. As we ran toward the main road and along it to the entrance to our village, we caught up with my brother, Mutombu, and the throng of neighborhood children who had alerted us to Mom’s return. We ran together, arms flailing, our bare feet slapping the red clay road still damp from that morning’s rain. As we ran, hope and anticipation rose in my throat—and I could also see it on my siblings’ faces. Eyes wide, lips parted, eyebrows raised, but not yet smiling. We had to see for ourselves that it was true. Had Mom really returned? 

As we approached the village entrance, the scene before my eyes was so vivid that I knew in that moment that I would never stop seeing it. The wet earth spread in front of us, like a red carpet that had been rolled out for the occasion; the road lined on either side of us with towering mango and flamboyant trees—a canopy of green, heavy with bright fruit, and dotted with red and yellow flowers; and straight ahead—cows! Huge brown cows occupied the entire width of the corridor. Slowly making their grand entrance into town, they meandered over the red carpet, moving casually towards us.

My eyes skimmed the lush and beautiful scenery with a sole agenda—Mom. Where was Mom? Our noisy gang descended on the herd of cows, children buzzing, searching and calling for Mom. The cows, tired from their long journey, and perhaps offended by our less-than-decorous reception, began to protest. Loud moos drowned out our calls, and as we rushed among them, the cows’ discomfort turned to fear. They began to clumsily pivot and shuffle in all different directions. One by one they started to move in short, powerful bolts, attempting to distance themselves from the chaotic throng of children. The herdsmen began to shout and then calmly cajole the cows, attempting to corral them back onto the road facing the right direction. Hanging back, I observed as the other children continued to weave amongst the cows, in very real danger of being crushed, searching and calling for Mom. Amidst this furious commotion, Mom finally emerged from the back of the herd, stepping out from behind the huge creatures.

She quieted the children and gently herded us out of the way. Once both cows and children alike had been soothed and corralled, the group continued the final leg of its journey into town.

The Beauty of Collaboration

Even the most intimate of stories is not told in a vacuum. Storytelling by its very nature is born of collaboration—a connection between the storyteller and the audience. As the storyteller, I feel very fortunate to have a group of committed friends who have shown interest in my story and have encouraged me to share this story with a wider audience. To me, my story is just an ordinary story and for a very long time, I did not see why anyone would be interested in reading about it. But the more I shared the rough drafts of my life’s journey with my colleagues, the more they encouraged me to pursue a formal path of literary publication. And I am glad they were very persistent and convinced me to pursue this path.

The process of working on this memoir has been a journey of self-discovery. And one of the best decisions that I made as I decided to embark on this path was to enlist the help of my colleague Elysia Kotke. With her expertise as an editor and writer, Elysia has been able to go through and make sense of my mountains of story drafts and information about my life experiences, and she has provided the guidance for me to tell my story in a more powerful way.

It is my hope that throughout the course of 2013 you will get to meet some of my colleagues who have been very supportive with this project. And today, I would like to introduce you to one of them: Elysia Kotke. I will let her tell you about herself. Elysia, the stage is now yours…

“Words form a tender bridge extending across distances of time and space to create a place where author and audience can connect.”                       - Anonymous

I can remember clearly the day that I met Chingwell. As an introverted writer born and raised in the Midwest, I’m more comfortable behind the scenes; I often feel shy meeting people for the first time, but Chingwell’s genuine warmth and gentle spirit put me at ease. When I listened to her talk about her work in the DR Congo, her passion inspired me to believe again that maybe I too could make a difference in the world.

Now, having worked with Chingwell for the past three years, I feel that we have formed a unique bond. Although, we have grown up in different cultures and lived different lives, we seem to intuitively understand one another. And we are united by a mutual desire to uncover the commonalities of our experiences.

When Chingwell approached me with the idea of Remember for Me, I was thrilled by the possibility. But the reality of the project has surpassed my expectations. Through written drafts and interviews, Chingwell has shared with me the raw material of her story—her memories and experiences. And with careful hands I have worked to gently shape these stories while always striving to preserve the natural beauty of her voice and the powerful authenticity of her memories.

In this way, I have been blessed with the opportunity to stand quietly over her shoulder, to witness and connect with her stories—and to discover the universal truths and experiences that unite our different lives and cultures. I have laughed and cried; I have learned so much.

Last week, I attended a local school with Chingwell as she read a few excerpts from the chapters we have worked on together so far. As Chingwell read a passage from Remember for Me in which she visits her favorite river stream at five years old, the 12^th grade students leaned forward to catch her soft words. When she finished, the class was silent. Then, one by one the students began to share their thoughts. One girl said “I remembered what it felt like to be five again. I felt like I was with you, but I also felt like I was myself as a child. As you were running through the jungle, I was running through my woods.”

Chingwell’s story is powerful and universal. It is the story of children everywhere—their curiosity and joy, but it is also the story of a very specific place and time, the story of what it was like to grow up as a child in a village in the DR Congo at that time. My role in this project is to edit and guide this story, to represent the audience, and to continue supporting the tender bridge of words which will one day allow many other readers to cross over and meet Chingwell as well.

The Magic of Storytelling

Growing up in the DR Congo, we did not entertain ourselves with television, movies, or even radio. We owned few books and toys. Instead, we played outside, and on dark nights when the moonlight was too faint to play our games, we gathered around the fire to listen to the stories told by our parents, relatives, and neighbors.

Many of these fables and folktales had powerful morals, but a few seemed to exist for simply the pure joy of igniting the imagination. One of my favorites was the story of the monkey and the crocodile.

The story inspired illustrator Nick Rebman
to create this humorous drawing.

One day a monkey found himself facing a problem. He needed to cross a huge river, but he didn’t know how to swim. As he paced the bank of the river trying to figure out how he would get across, suddenly, a crocodile appeared. The crocodile was very hungry and seeing the monkey, he happily thought to himself “Ah, I have found my lunch!”

But as the crocodile prepared to attack and eat the monkey up, the monkey pleaded, “Dear crocodile, I know that you are very hungry, and that you are going to eat me no matter what, but please I have one wish to ask you still. I don’t want to die on this side of the river. I would much rather die on the other side. Please dear crocodile, I would very much appreciate if you would help me cross the river. And when we get to the shore on the other side, you are welcome to eat me, and I will die happy.”

The crocodile thought for a minute and then agreed to the monkey’s request. He thought to himself “What do I have to lose? I will have my lunch, what do I care which side of the river I eat it on?” So the crocodile, picked up the monkey, tossed him on his back, and the unlikely pair began to make their way across the river.

But as they neared the far shore, the monkey jumped from the crocodile’s back, and ran as fast as he could until he reached the high lands where the crocodile could not follow. The monkey looked back, yelling at the crocodile, “how stupid you are crocodile! Did you think I would sit quietly and let you eat me? You must be nuts crocodile!” And the monkey ran off, leaving the crocodile helpless at the shore of the river. The crocodile was very hungry and angry indeed!

I loved this story as a child and asked to hear it over and over again. I loved imagining the huge crocodile carrying the monkey on his back—a small passenger who had just tricked him in order to get across the lake. Even at the end, I always felt scared for the monkey, and hoped that he would never return to the same river.

The world is changing very quickly, but the magic of stories and the power of storytelling lives on. Even in the rural communities of the DRC, such as the one that I grew up in, technology, climate change, and the progression of time are altering the traditional ways of life. I feel it is more important now than ever to remember and record our stories and our shared history.

By sharing my story in this memoir, I invite you to join the circle around the fire—and share your own story as well.

Remember for Me

You may have noticed a recent update to the working title of my memoir. As this memoir has progressed and the story has unfolded, “Remember for Me” has emerged as the title that best fits this story. Throughout the writing and editing process, I constantly find myself thinking back to the words my mom spoke to me on a phone call from the Congo in March 2012.

“As I am starting to forget and may not always remember what I say or tell you, I want you to remember for me. Write it down so that you will remember and remind me.”

With this request, my mom was asking me to remember for her in a literal sense. In the past few years her health has become more of a concern. And a recent stroke has sometimes made it difficult for her to remember details of her past.

But in this request, she was also asking me to remember figuratively. To remember not just for her, but also for my grandmother, for all of the people I grew up with, for our small village community, for my nieces and nephews, and to remember a way of life that is connected to the dreams of our ancestors.

Faced with our own mortality, we begin to ask ourselves: how will we be remembered? What is worth remembering? As I write this story, I realize that the true purpose of this story is to remember our mothers. We remember the women they were, the women they became and honor the women, we as their daughters, have become today—our lives intertwined, can never be completely separated.

By remembering where we come from, we are remembering who we are.

Remember for Me!

Pulling Back the Veil

Some time ago I watched a video that touched me deeply. The video depicts scenes and people from everyday life in Afghanistan. This is an Afghanistan not seen in the news—a place and people obscured by turmoil and war. In an interview with The Atlantic, the filmmakers said, “With this film we don't want to exclude the ongoing war but we wanted to show another reality of Afghanistan, which shows daily life that is still going on.”

I hope that by sharing my story of growing up in the DR Congo, I too will be able to show you another reality of my home, one which is about solidarity and universal experience, more so than war and poverty. With this memoir I hope to draw back the veil on some of the scenes of daily life, the beauty, joy, and resourcefulness of the people that has been buried beneath the more dominant story of the ongoing war in the DR Congo.

One of my most vivid memories of my childhood was accompanying my mom to her restaurant in the commercial district of our village. The sights, sounds, and smells of a bustling rural market where everyone traveled on foot or by bike were forever imprinted on my young mind. It was a community of people who were deeply connected—held together by a mutual need and experience. Here I came to understand the value of social capital. I witnessed the extraordinary resourcefulness and determination of people working with the resources that were available to them that day. And above all, I came to learn my mother’s business philosophy which placed greater importance on the dignity of others than immediate financial profit.

Here is an early excerpt describing these experiences. Please comment and share your impressions!


The Village

Twenty minutes later we were approaching the village’s commercial district. The road on either side of us was lined with towering mango and flamboyant trees, their vibrant red and yellow, five-petal flowers and waxy green leaves creating a corridor of brilliant color. Along the way, we passed other travelers on bike or foot, and Mom greeted each of them. It would have been almost unheard of to pass someone without acknowledging them. Several times on the ride, when we had passed one of Mom’s close friends, or someone of special importance, Mom had stopped and gotten off the bike to pay her respects and get the latest news.

Now, as we entered the market neighborhood, I saw that almost every house that we passed had its own flamboyant tree in front. In the shade cast by the umbrella of branches, each homeowner had set up their own small stand selling a wide variety of produce and livestock. We passed merchants selling crowded stalks of bananas, chickens in hand-woven crates, bushels of leafy green legumes, small, strong-smelling pineapples, ripe red tomatoes, goats standing placidly at the end of their tethers. There were mushrooms of all shapes and sizes—baskets full of mushrooms as small as buttons, and individual mushrooms as large as umbrellas; red, pink, and yellow tree mushrooms, freshly harvested from the forest. In a flash, I saw small, egg-shaped eggplants with a wonderful bitter taste unlike eggplants in the U.S., and baskets of small edible seeds, or sacks of dried wax worms—a special delicacy. I gripped Mom’s waist tightly as I drank in all of the new sights, sounds and smells of village life outside of the Mission.

Our first destination was the huge open market two blocks from the restaurant where Mom bought the ingredients she would need for that day. Located at the intersection of four different regions, Musumba was a major center of commerce for indigenous residents. Traders came from all directions to buy and sell their goods in our village. And today, like usual, the market was bustling—everywhere I looked people were unloading things from their bikes, arranging their goods, and shouting greetings to Mom and one another. Never had I seen so many people in one place.

They were all around us—walking, talking, laughing, singing, greeting each other, and hollering to attract customers. For those who already had a captive audience, the dance of making a deal had begun. The negotiations were endless, as the prices were never set, but instead determined by what the seller thought the customer could afford, and how eager they were to sell their stock. Gesturing and laughing, vendors and customers, went back and forth, playing the game by in turn bluffing and calling each other’s bluffs. These interactions were quite time-consuming and through this practice strong relationships were built up slowly over time.

[This chapter goes on to talk about the way bartering and credit worked in the market; the daily flag-raising ceremony; Mom’s restaurant, how she prepared food, and how her customers were served and ate; Mom’s business philosophy; and my experiences playing with children from the village (outside of the Mission).]

What is the best way to make a difference in the world?

Jacqueline Novogratz’s memoir, The Blue Sweater, touched me deeply, and I felt compelled to write the following reflection. Thanks to CO2 Partners for posting!

http://www.co2partners.com/blog/2012/06/what-is-the-best-way-to-make-a-difference-in-the-world/