A Thousand Sisters_ My Journey Into the Worst Place on Earth to Be a Woman - Lisa Shannon [43]
He translates, “Money! Send more money!”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
My Own Private Sister
I HAVE A confession to make. During the first year my first sister Therese was in the program, I did not write her. I was so busy running and speaking and trying to build a movement, I let it slide. Maybe it was because I had only received one letter from her. Maybe it was because I assumed the important part was putting a check in the mail. Maybe I just didn’t know what to say. Since I’ve been in Congo, I’ve learned that the assumption “They don’t care if I write” is dead wrong. In my spare moments, waiting in the Women for Women courtyard, I regularly find myself surrounded by participants who dig out plastic pouches from around their necks or under their blouses that are stuffed with letters from their American sisters. They shove their sponsorship booklets and letters my way, asking, “Do you know my sister?”
I’m so sorry. I don’t know Susan Voss from Illinois or Patty Philips from Little Rock or Teisha Johnson from Atlanta. (Amazingly, in two cases I do happen to know their sisters.)
I’ve found myself animatedly explaining the details of American life that the women’s sponsors have written about. I give spontaneous yoga demonstrations; tell them what it means to put a dormer on the house; describe Disneyland (a place with giant, magic talking mice and roller coasters, where people pay to get scared—for fun!).
For the Congolese women, getting a letter from an American sponsor is kind of like an American woman getting a personal note from Julia Roberts. Even if she told you about her fabulous time at the Oscars, would hearing about her life make you jealous or depressed? No! You’d frame it and put it on display. Or at least tack it up on the fridge, so you could tell your friends, “Oh, yeah, Julia and I are tight. I’m totally on her Christmas card list.”
I am not the only sponsor who hasn’t written. It turns out that not writing is more the rule than the exception. For every one letter sent by a sponsor, three are sent by program participants—exactly the opposite of what I would have guessed.
A few days ago, a lone woman approached me and showed me her sponsorship booklet. “I’ve been in the program eleven months with no letter,” she said.
I fessed up to her. “At the beginning, I didn’t write to my sister either,” I said. “But she was still very important to me.” Then I ripped off a sheet of colorful stationary (I’ve learned to always keep it on me for these occasions), and fired off an inspirational note to the woman standing in front of me, announcing, “You are officially my adopted sister.” I stuffed it with a couple of postcards and photos of my family.
Therese, my first sister, had noticed I didn’t write. When she was just about to graduate the program, I received a batch of three letters she had posted nine months before. (The surge of new sponsors after the Oprah report created a massive backlog of letters.) She wrote, “I used to write to you, but you never reply. I wonder why.”
Oy vey! I scrambled to write her a long note in a greeting card, continued it on legal paper made folksy with flower stickers, and stuffed it in an envelope with postcards and family photos, scrambling to compensate for the months she waited for my reply that didn’t come. I posted my letter to her on her last day in the program. I have no idea if she ever received it.
I vowed to be better about corresponding, and in the past year I’ve written each of my sisters four letters.
Today, I’m meeting Therese in person. I’m embarrassed, but I’m hoping the fact that I’ve traveled all this way will exonerate me for not writing. My meetings with women’s groups have been nonstop, and no meeting has been like that first hard-charged campaign for cash, after which I slinked upstairs to the office, depressed. Jules, head of the sponsorship staff, approached to ask, “How did your meeting go today?”
I told him.
“Lisa, we could