A Thousand Sisters_ My Journey Into the Worst Place on Earth to Be a Woman - Lisa Shannon [16]
Embarrassed to admit it, I answer, “I’ve never been to Congo.”
I’m so tickled that a letter written by a woman in the Congo has landed in the hands of a U.S. Senator. I stop by Union Station and pick up postcards of Washington monuments framed with cherry blossoms and I write to Generose. I make rudimentary diagrams that outline the way the U.S. government is structured, so that Generose will understand how high up her letter has gotten. I suppose I want to offer her one of the few shreds of silver lining available after a loss, the modest comfort that a loved one’s death has not occurred in a vacuum, but that something meaningful might spring from it.
A batch of new sponsorship packets arrives around the same time. The photos of new sisters always seem to have the self-conscious look of those who are unaccustomed to being photographed, but these four portraits say something else entirely. Though their paperwork looks no different than that of other Congolese women, their furrowed brows and downcast eyes convey distress. They look transparent, beaten down. Something especially bad must be happening in or around the Women for Women center they all attend called Walungu.
Back at Women for Women’s D.C. headquarters, Sumana, the group’s media person, tells me she wants to pitch my story to national magazines. Later that day we hop across the street to rummage the magazine racks at Borders, hoping to spark some ideas. As I thumb through women’s magazines, Sumana leans over to me and whispers, “I know that woman. She’s with [a major national magazine].” Without blinking, she pounces on her long-lost colleague. They swap updates about the last few years, since their joint stint in the White House press corps. Then Sumana launches into her Women for Women pitch, motioning for me to join them. “You have to hear Lisa’s story. Well, Lisa, you’ll tell it best . . .”
Pitch myself ? Ugh. I stumble—practically choke—while the reporter listens politely. When I finish, she turns back to Sumana. “We get hundreds of pitches for stories on someone who crawled across the country on hand and knee for some good cause.” She sizes me up. “Have you been to Congo?”
“No. Not yet.”
She turns back to Sumana and says, “We might consider a story on letters between women, but just make sure it’s not who you’d expect. You know, not someone who looks like they eat granola.”
Whoa there, lady. I don’t eat granola. It has way too much sugar.
Sumana jumps in, trying to salvage the contact. “I know a sponsor who would be perfect . . .”
I retreat to the magazine rack, trying to hide out behind Elle or Glamour or Cosmo, wondering what part of this perfectly pressed, all-black suit from Saks Fifth Avenue identified me as granola. All I can figure is that my silver 1920s art nouveau choker, a collector’s item, apparently screams “hippie” in this Ann Taylor town. In any case, I don’t need to be told my story isn’t suited for a national magazine. I never dreamed it might be until Sumana mentioned it.
Fortunately, Runner’s World and O, The Oprah Magazine—and later, Fitness magazine—disagree. Nine months after the meeting with Sumana, they all publish stories about me and the run, and the timing couldn’t be better. Congo legislation is stalled in committee in the House following a unanimous pass in the Senate. It’s cosponsored by Senators Barack Obama and Sam Brownback. (You can’t get more opposite sides of the aisle than that!) But rumor has it the committee chair is holding it up so as to not aid Obama’s rising star. I head over to D.C.’s Union Station, a couple of blocks from Capitol Hill, and stock up on as many copies of O and Runner’s World as I can stuff into my bag, then I join the small constituency from Chicago, about six people total, for their self-proclaimed “Congo Lobby Days.” We lug the magazines up and down the halls of Congress, asking for support of the bill.
When we talk with a couple of Republican staffers,