All That Is Bitter and Sweet (68 page)

I thought about Astrid, a tiny starving toddler whose cotton dress hung slack on her frame. I met her outside of a ramshackle health clinic in Kinshasa. Her mother had abandoned her, her grandmother walked to the clinic when she was literally on her last legs, and I watched Astrid clutch a UNICEF-provided refeeding formula with the fury and the rage that only the starving can truly understand.

Yet before I knew it, I would be easing back into my velvety world of abundance and first-class problems. I would be barefoot in my office—the back porch—wearing a white nightgown, looking at fireflies, eating black raspberry chocolate-chip ice cream with Dario, surrounded by our well-fed, inoculated pets, while Astrid and all the friends I made on this trip will still be … here.

I couldn’t stop thinking about a photograph in the genocide memorial in Kigali, the one of the Belgian priests measuring the heads of Africans and consigning them to their fates through the delusion of ethnic separation. The priests were committing acts of evil, but did they know it? What about the United Nations countries that ignored the genocide spawned by these false divisions? Were those decision makers perpetuating evil by acts of omission? And what about me? I know I am human, I am fallible, I am capable of greatness, and I am capable of atrocity. In these pictures—I could be on either side: the measured or the measurer; the abused or the abuser. My mind’s eye kept returning again and again to the image of the white priest, the black women … and which side of history I was going to be on.

I am grateful that in countries like Rwanda and Democratic Republic of the Congo, with challenges so great, my work with Population Services International and other organizations helps to put me on the right side of history. And somehow, in spite of it all, my faith, my hope, and my core belief that we can change the world and manifest peace is ever renewed.

fter twenty-five hours of travel back home from the Congo the plane touched down in Nashville, but my mind was still in Africa. Reentry is always difficult, and the tougher the place, the harder it is to adjust to the affluence and ease of America. I gaped at people in the airport: They were washed, clean, neat, their clothes free of stains. Everything was so bright, too bright.

I asked the driver who picked me up to open the windows and turn off the AC, then I reflexively braced for the potholes of Kinshasa. But the roads in Tennessee are as smooth as ganaches. The hills are packed with densely foliated trees—so strange. I was raised in the South, and yet these familiar sights were overwhelming. I tried to shut down. I closed my eyes and was soon dozing. But my body marked each turn, and once the roads narrowed and I perceived, even in my sleep, the approach to our farm, home called my spirit forth.

Although I had tried to mentally arrive home, imagining walking through the gate, up the garden path, trying to acclimate in advance, the exercise did not eliminate the shock of actually arriving. Disembarking from the car, I stood stock-still in the side garden of our brick farmhouse, shocked by the smothering of green, the lushness, the ethereal beauty of May in Tennessee. It was too beautiful, too cocooned, too soft, too womblike.

Buttermilk ripped out of the house to see me, soon joined by his sister. I was stunned. I had forgotten we had dogs. Their leaping knocked me back on my heels and I had to kneel, let them wag it out.

I crept through the garden, unable to handle it all at once. I eventually made my way to the backyard, and was again arrested, this time by the explosion of a green undulating valley. I was glad Dario had not heard the car drop me off, did not yet know I was home. I needed some time to acclimate. I said hello to each cat as they one by one discovered their mama was home, and gave myself the space the breathe.

Eventually, I slowly entered the kitchen, taking in with disbelief our calm, ordered home. I opened the fridge. There was a riot of color, so many shapes and sizes. My brain became flooded and my eyes could not individuate any one thing. Finally, I focused on one large block on the top shelf, Dario’s leftover lunch. I retrieved the plate. It was enough to feed four people. I removed the plastic film from the feast, and carefully set it aside, having been taught in poor households that such an item is a valuable treasure. But I ceased seeing the food before me, and instead, behind my tears appeared the image of a little boy’s legs, shredded, layers of peeling wounds. He had just walked four days to arrive at a hospital, his daddy knowing it was either starve at home, or risk dying on the journey to a place where he might possibly receive food. I waited for the tears to clear, to emotionally come back to our kitchen, then I devoured the vegetables, of which I had recently had none. This food and ease of access to this food brings on a new round of tears.

I headed upstairs and find Dario in the bedroom, doing a Winston Churchill, reading and working from bed, propped up so as to enjoy the spectacular views, and rest his ankle, which he insisted was fine and indeed, he would be racing again soon. When he saw me, there was the moment I love, of recognition and reunion. We hugged, and I took a big bite of his devilishly handsome hair into my mouth. He didn’t even say, “quit annoying me,” as he usually does, with that secret smile in his voice.

When night fell, with all the windows open and the gentle air cosseting us, I knelt beside the bed, transfixed by the maple trees that nearly touch the windows, benedictions of softness, of generosity. I didn’t say much. God understands. In bed, I occasionally blurted things out to Dario, staccato thoughts about my trip. I was physically present, but emotionally, I was in Africa. I was in India. I was in Central America.

The next morning, I sat on our upstairs back porch. I could feel the fecundity of spring on my skin as I regarded the morning glories, how well the hyacinth bean vine had started. The heirloom lilacs, as always, were heartbreaking, wafting fragrance everywhere, and the sweet peas were peaking. Dario brought my tea, having correctly identified the “morning glory teacup,” saying he left Buttermilk’s poop in the dining room for me to clean up. When he had been let out to do his business last night, Buttermilk made his choice, and running the hills was far more important than pooping outdoors. I smiled. Home.

“Okay,” I told God. “I belong here, too. Home, my home, this home, and Africa, both are real, equally real. Thank you for letting me know it’s okay for me to be here.”

But my energy was very low, and I had to drag myself to my daily meeting. I continually made nests for myself and lay down on the bed, in the backyard, in the woods, with our animals who, with the softness of their eyes, regarded me deeply. I watched documentaries about rape in the Congo, about other African issues, and I tried watching the news. But for the head space I was in, it was too gruesome, and I realized that I needed a break. I didn’t feel guilty at all when I relied only on Jon Stewart to keep up with the world, because if I wasn’t laughing, I was near tears.

Some days, I did my own Churchill, windows open, skeptically regarding the improbably blue sky, still feeling myself in the liminality between very, very different worlds. Congo is primary colors, vivid, urgent, raw, visceral, a palette of red, orange, brown, black. Tennessee is like walking in the green fluffy grass of an Easter basket, so soft, pale, ethereal, like it’s not real, like if I stepped off the bus everything I see would recede from me, like in a dream when I step forward into the dreamscape and it stays just ahead of me, out of my reach, so real in appearance, but untouchable.

I played a song, “Calling All Angels,” sung exquisitely by Jane Siberry and k.d. lang, accompanied by cello, an old favorite of my sister’s and mine.

Just then, my email inbox gave a ding, and I saw Zainib Salbi had written. She was checking on me after my trip, thanking me effusively for having visited the program, and for what I have written thus far that had been published, describing it as so helpful. I gave myself a few more days to feel rotten but when it didn’t lift, I headed to the doctor for my routine, posttrip physical, with the usual parasite test. I studied the awesomely modern, pristine room, and resisted contrasting it with the clinics I have visited around the world. It would be a futile exercise. It is what it is.

My physician was wearing very thick sterile plastic gloves. They looked industrial strength, in fact. When he opened an alcohol swab, I was suddenly confused. I wasn’t having blood drawn. I wondered if I was receiving a shot of which I was unaware. He lifted the end of his stethoscope, and wiped it before placing it on the fabric of my dress to listen to my heart. His mouth was moving, but I stopped hearing. I began to cry. He had sterilized the end of his stethoscope. Across the world, surgeons at Panzi Clinic scrub without running water, using bar soap, and sometimes operate without electricity. Many patients leave at night, and sleep in parks nearby, as the clinic cannot accommodate them all.

Although I seemed to be exotic bacteria- and virus-free, I was clearly ill. My doctor then surprised me, this same sweet man who told me years ago if I went to a mental hospital for depression it would go on my “record,” diagnosed me with severe reverse culture shock. He said there was nothing he could do but suggest I rest and give myself time to heal from the effects of what I had chosen to expose myself to and take on.

I continued slowly to work at my desk on the advocacy tasks I created for myself during my time in Africa, with each email and call, praying the effort made good on promises made to my new sisters.

Once the Africans had gone offline for their nighttime, I turned my attention westward, to Hollywood. I spoke to my agent who as ever was full of information about scripts and green-lit movies, phone calls and appointments, and all the latest show business news, that nonetheless made my head spin. I started reading a few scripts she had sent me.