What happens when three American women put their faith into action in a developing nation? In I Am That Child, Episcopal priest Elizabeth Geitz proves that cross-cultural relationships among people of faith can change our world ... one person at a time.
Geitz welcomes readers to join her pilgrimage to an orphanage in Cameroon, sharing both humorous and gut-wrenching wisdom from leaders and children who struggle against AIDS, global poverty and sexism. Along the way, Geitz and readers take a hard look at race and cultural privilege and find hope for reconciliation back home. The book concludes with study and resource guides to help readers engage global poverty efforts and build community across continents and across the street.
“Elizabeth Geitz's odyssey to a Cameroon orphanage yields profound insights into AIDS, the criminalization of HIV, and racial and gender discrimination -- not to mention a narrative that is as breath-taking as it is inspiring.” – John Berendt, Author of Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil
“This is the most compelling book about mission that is honest-to-God … and honest-before-God … that I have ever read. If it does not move us to contrition, affectionate love, and then to action, the fault is with us and not with the book or the story it tells.”
Phyllis Tickle, Author of Embracing Emergence Christianity and former religion editor for Publishers Weekly
“Geitz takes us into a brilliant world -- one seldom seen through Western eyes. If you see this world, I predict two things. First, you will not look away. Lastly, you will discover here courage and perseverance.” Michael Battle, Author of Ubuntu: I in You and You in Me
“… a touching account of learning and growing across boundaries of culture and economics in a Cameroonian orphanage where we see ‘the love of God materialized.’ Geitz’ book will encourage Westerners to explore solidarity with companions in the Two-Thirds World – and with those suffering injustice at home.”
Titus Presler, Principal, Edwardes College in Peshawar, Pakistan, and Author of Going Global with God: Reconciling Mission in a World of Difference
“The stories unfold in short, lively chapters and take the reader on a fascinating journey. Elizabeth Geitz writes lucidly and engagingly of her own privilege and a pilgrimage that brought her to a renewed passion and priesthood; one hopes that she'll continue sharing more with us all.” – Sam Portaro, Author of Crossing the Jordan: Meditations on Vocation and Transforming Vocation
The Reverend Canon Elizabeth Geitz is an Episcopal priest and author of numerous books, including Fireweed Evangelism: Christian Hospitality in a Multi-faith World and Soul Satisfaction: Reclaiming the Divine Feminine; Gender and the Nicene Creed, and co-editor of Women's Uncommon Prayers. The former Canon for Ministry Development and Deployment in the Diocese of New Jersey, she is an award-winning writer and popular speaker and works closely with Sister Jane Mankaa and the Good Shepherd Home Board in Cameroon. Visit Elizabeth's website and blog at www.elizabethgeitz.com.
I Am That Child
Changing Hearts and Changing the WorldBy Elizabeth GeitzChurch Publishing Incorporated
Copyright © 2012 Elizabeth Geitz
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-0-8192-2778-2Contents
Chapter One
Witchcraft and Southern Roots
Sister Jane is a born storyteller who highlights a story by lowering her voice, widening her eyes, or slapping her fist in the palm of her hand. Ebony skin against white nun's habit, face radiating joy her presence never fails to fill a room. I saw it happen at a gathering in America, where she was sharing stories of the orphanage she had established several years earlier in Cameroon, West Africa.
"I was here in your country in 2003," she told us, "when I received an urgent e-mail from Sister Précis, one of the nuns at the orphanage. 'You've got to come back immediately!' it said. 'The other Sisters and I can no longer stay in this house. We are terrified. There are large snakes, witch snakes that disappear completely when we try to kill them. The work of the witch down the road. We cannot stay. We're leaving our dogs behind and getting out of here tonight. Hurry! We need you here!'"
"You know," she went on to explain, "only a witch snake can totally disappear like that. They are big, huge really. Something that big can't just disappear unless it's through witchcraft. So with all the Sisters gone from the home, I had to go back to solve the problem."
"When I got back to Cameroon, I brought friends to the house with me so I wouldn't have to enter alone," Sister Jane continued, brown eyes sparkling. "While they were examining every nook and cranny of that abandoned house, one of the dogs dug up a twelveinch clay pot in the front yard. In it we found someone's hair, a small spear, a knife, coins, and a tiny bag with black stuff inside. All signs of witchcraft. Then the minister who had sold us the house came over. We gathered up all the things that had been buried in that pot and burned them. Afterward, we put the ashes on the road going to the man's house who we knew had done the witchcraft.
"When the man saw the ashes, there was no doubt in his mind as to what they were. 'Why'd ya put those ashes on my road?' he screamed the first time he saw me. 'Because you're the one doing the witchcraft!' I yelled back at him. The man did not defend himself. He just went home and two months later he moved out." As she finished her story, Sister Jane crossed her arms in front of her with a satisfied look on her face.
"Our spirit of prayer was disturbing him, and that house of his collapsed," she explained. "He only came back to sell it to us. So we bought it and completely destroyed it. And then we bought the property next to it. We got that, too and that's where the Good Shepherd Home is now."
Sister Jane was lost in thought. "We have not had it easy trying to establish our orphanage," she sighed. "No, we have not had it easy."
And this was just the beginning.
* * *
Sitting with me that morning were two women who were as captivated by Sister Jane as I was: Lillian Cochran, who had previously visited the orphanage, and Nan Curtis. Three years later, we took the unlikely leap of journeying to Africa together.
We had no idea what we would find when we arrived. One afternoon we saw each other in town and shared stories of our very different preparation procedures.
"I can't believe we leave in a month. I don't think it's sunk in yet," said Nan, a trim woman in her late forties with short brown hair.
"How about bug spray? Have you all bought any?" I asked, filled with last-minute questions. "They say there's a kind of malaria peculiar to Cameroon that's resistant to pills. I don't know what to do—cover my face with a net I guess, get a mosquito net for the bed, and douse myself with the best bug spray I can find."
"Elizabeth," said Lillian, a spry and bright woman in her eighties, "I've told you a hundred times that I never saw one mosquito when I visited the orphanage four years ago. Not one. Don't worry about it. You won't need any of that stuff."
"But my guide book says the type of malaria you can get in certain areas of Africa is awful and I'm not taking any chances," I responded.
Clearly we needed to do a more thorough review, so we set a wine and cheese date at my house exactly two weeks before departure. Nan arrived with the three donated laptops we were taking in our carry-on luggage for the children. Then Lillian joined us. Sitting on my couch that was covered in cream-colored silk, our plate of cheese on a tea table in front of us, I could see the stark contrast between our lives here and the community we would soon be visiting.
"Why did you all decide to do this?" I asked. I'd been wrestling with my own motivations and was curious about theirs. We hadn't known each other well prior to this. We were church friends who occasionally had dinner in one another's homes, but not much more. We were all concerned about helping our neighbors both near and far. But why Africa? Why now? And why the three of us?
"There are a lot of different factors for me," I volunteered. "Certainly part of it is the work I did with African Americans twenty years ago in the inner city. While I was there I felt called to become an Episcopal priest. Now that I've been ordained fifteen years, I've been given a sabbatical and initially had no idea how to spend it. Then I suddenly remembered something. In the late seventies, I was watching The Today Show with my husband when Miz Lillian Carter was being interviewed; she began relating a mesmerizing story about her visit to an African village. Suddenly there was a picture of her sitting on a motorcycle with a big smile on her face, surrounded by about thirty village children. 'That's going to be me someday, minus the motorcycle,' I told my husband, filled with conviction. But the biggest factor for me by far was meeting Sister Jane three years ago. Her deep sense of spirituality and ability to communicate the love of God never fails to draw me to her. Not to mention her determination and perseverance."
"I know," said Lillian, nodding her head. "She's the reason I decided to visit her orphanage four years ago and why I started a sponsorship program for the children when I returned."
As soon as I heard about the program, I immediately signed up to sponsor five-year-old Nafi Ndika. I had wanted to visit him but wasn't sure how. The feeling continued, so I drew Lillian and Nan into the journey with me.
I had no idea until that afternoon that both Lillian and Nan were also from the South, with Lillian having grown up in Louisiana and Nan in Kentucky. I grew up in Tennessee, though I had spent the last twenty-nine years in New Jersey.
We discussed the segregated schools of our youth, the "coloreds only" water fountains, access to movie theaters only through the balcony for "colored people." Lillian recalled battling fear when a black man sat next to her on the bus—every message of her culture said she should move. I remembered being told in all sincerity, "Never look a black man in the eye." Such was the racist world in which we cut our teeth, the very air we breathed.
In the same world some of us were cared for by African American women in our homes. These women gave of themselves each and every day, and we grew to love them with a fierce loyalty over the years, even as we recognized the injustice that forced them to nurture us at the expense of their own children's care.
"I guess our Southern roots have a lot to do with why we're going," I observed, not realizing then how true that statement was for me. "I'd like to do something significant for the orphans and Africa, but we need to build relationships and gather facts first. We need to understand what might help the children and what won't. It's not as straightforward as we've been led to believe. Large-scale foreign aid from one government to another is not helping. What will make a difference? What could be our call to action? I don't know. I need to go and see for myself."
"I agree, and no matter what we encounter, together the three of us can do this," Lillian said. United in spirit, we hugged one another with unspoken assurances that all would be well as we traveled to a crowded mountain city in Cameroon, with bug spray very much in tow.
Chapter Two
Inside Out People
Twenty hours after taking off from Newark Liberty International Airport, we arrived in Cameroon, which is located southeastof Nigeria and is slightly larger than the state of California. When our plane landed at dusk in the city of Douala, we were exhausted but exhilarated and took in the scene. Imagine Newark or O'Hare at rush hour times ten. Imagine being the only faces of your race anywhere in sight. Imagine confusion when the bag carousel doesn't work.
Enter Sister Jane in her flowing white nun's habit with black headpiece, accompanied by Peter and Paul dressed alike in navy shirts and dark slacks. They offered us big hugs and welcome and—with some well-placed bribes—quickly got us and our luggage through customs and onto the paved streets.
The stifling hot air hit me the minute I stepped outside. More chaos. A teeming mass of people in every direction with nowhere to go. Taxis at least thirty years old filled with dents and rust. Fortunately, with Sister Jane in charge we soon spotted the dark blue Good Shepherd van and driver and we were off, chatting like old friends who hadn't seen each other in years.
After maneuvering through streets that were chock-a-block with people in worn, Western clothes, walking or driving rundown cars or motorcycles, we were ushered into the Minotel Vallee des Princes Hotel in the heart of downtown Douala. The hotel was elegant, complete with crystal chandelier, antique furniture, elaborate wall hangings, plush carpet and air-conditioned rooms. Since Douala is located in a French-speaking province, the furniture and food bore the mark of French style in this seemingly out-of-place, upscale hotel. We saw no display of wealth like it throughout the rest of our visit. Not surprisingly, Sister Jane had cut a deal with the hotel.
After a night of sound sleeping, we awoke bright and early, then gathered for breakfast in the hotel's dining area. I was surprised to see Nan and Lillian in their "suburban clothes": Nan wore a turquoise and green blouse and Lillian a nice coral-colored pantsuit. I had done copious research and purchased several pairs of cargo pants in khaki and dark green along with several dark T-shirts with long sleeves. They were obviously not as uptight as I was.
With a hot breakfast in our stomachs and the three of us in our eclectic attire, we were ready to meet the children. But first, we would have to get there. The Good Shepherd Home is located on a hill overlooking Bamenda, Cameroon, a crowded city of almost half a million people. Traveling from Douala on the central coast to Bamenda in the mountainous northwest region is an arduous eight-hour drive on poorly paved, pot-holed roads with no lanes, no speed limit, and no traffic lights. And the motorists? Think New York City taxi drivers on steroids.
We headed from extremely crowded market areas with people in makeshift stalls along the road selling a bit of everything—chickens, vegetables, meat, furniture, flip-flops, and soccer balls—to lush green tropical countryside with beautiful palm and banana plantations that looked like a captivating Caribbean postcard. The contrast was startling and continued unabated throughout our long, tedious journey as we drove from city to market area to countryside then back again.
The heavily crowded market areas we came upon were lined with one stall after another, the more prosperous ones covered with rusty corrugated aluminum roofs, while most were covered in straw. The walls were made of mud bricks, dried in the sun in the shape of concrete blocks and loosely mortared together. Somehow they appeared to have withstood the rainy season.
With more than 50 percent of the population living below the poverty line and an average living wage in Cameroon of less than a dollar a day, very few people have money with which to buy goods, so it's mostly a barter economy, as is the case in many African countries. Everyone seemed to have something to sell or trade; those without stalls plied goods carried on their heads—from food to firewood to hardware supplies.
As our drive continued, I was struck by the crowded conditions. I never saw a motorcycle with less than three people riding on it, and often there were four. Cars and buses were filled beyond capacity, while people without transportation could hardly take a step in the dense crowd without jostling one another. Clearly, there were way too many people crammed in too small a city with little means to support themselves.
Nan turned to Randy, the driver who doubled as the Home's electrician, and asked him, "Why are all those people just sitting on motorcycles over there?"
"They have nowhere to go; they have no jobs, so they're just lined up hoping someone will come offer them something. The government says we have around 30 percent unemployment, but it's actually higher than that. That just counts the people who are still officially looking for work."
We bounced through more uneven potholes, gradually making our way back into a broad expanse of countryside. On such stretches, Randy's breakneck speed along with the open windows sent a refreshing breeze blowing through the van, cooling us on the scorching, sunny day. With the air on our faces and the beat of African music filling our ears, I felt totally free and adventurous.
Suddenly our van veered to the left and made an abrupt stop by the side of the road. A young man, whom Sister Jane seemed to know, came to the door and they began talking animatedly in another language, which I later learned was the Bafut dialect. During the roadside discussion, there was much gesticulating and shaking of heads to indicate "no." After fifteen minutes a boy of about twelve hopped into the van, sat next to us in the back on a small jump seat that had been folded against the door, and off we went.
"The young man I was talking to came down to rent a palm farm for us so we can get palm oil," Sister Jane told us. "We rented it for eight hundred dollars. We use much red palm oil for cooking at the Home; it's so expensive to buy, I had to do something. We are renting this place so we can hopefully get eight hundred liters of palm oil for the year; we use twenty liters every week. This is the brother who will be taking care of the farm. The money we gave him is to clear the farm and to also put in groundnuts [peanuts] for the dry season."
"What were you negotiating with him about?" I asked.
"He was saying the money I gave was not enough to clear the farm and buy the peanut seeds to plant. I said I think the money was enough. He said it wasn't. I told him that since he's gotten married, his wife can help him. He was telling me he cannot do without a wife because the work is too much for him by himself. Some people just get married to get help working the farms. It was about two weeks ago that he got her, a girl of eighteen years. That man is now working the farm and she has to work with him." With that, we bounced down the road with our new passenger.
I tried to make conversation with the boy seated next to us. "My name's Elizabeth. What's yours?" Sitting there in his T-shirt, long beige shorts, and dusty sneakers, he didn't seem to hear me. I repeated my question and he ducked his head, looking afraid.
Sister Jane laughed, "My dear, he has not seen a person like you. He will probably not talk to you."
"Like me how ... white?"
"White," she responded. "You know, a lot of children like him have never seen a white person. In fact, I have heard white people referred to as 'erased', or 'inside out' or 'peeled' people."
"Inside out! Now that's interesting," I observed. "So tourists must not come here very often. I hadn't realized that."
"Elizabeth, I believe you will learn some things while you are here," Sister Jane noted, smiling.
As the van rolled on, I felt as if a book were unfolding before me. I'm a voracious reader and usually read on a trip of that length. Not this time. What I was seeing and experiencing was far more enlightening than any book I had read, and I was right in the middle of this one.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from I Am That Childby Elizabeth Geitz Copyright © 2012 by Elizabeth Geitz. Excerpted by permission of Church Publishing Incorporated. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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