Drop in a Bucket

I don't come here often anymore. Life in America is life as normal now. It feels funny to type that, because I used to say the same thing in Cameroon so often on this blog: "Not much to report because life here is normal now."

My life back in America has gone along pretty well since my return in 2007. I worked on a cancer study for a few years and earned a Master's degree in International Advocacy Journalism from Georgetown University by taking night classes. Many of the articles I wrote throughout the course of my graduate work were about West African immigrants, and the journeys they take to reach America, the hurdles they face after arrival. During my final semester, I quit my day job and took an internship at the White House, reading President Obama's mail all day long. I even had the privilege of finding and forwarding to him the Natoma Canfield letter, which ended up being instrumental in passing the health care reform bill. Now I work for USAID doing administrative work, which I hope will eventually lead to more travel. But all of that is neither here nor there.

I write here today because I just got off the phone with Carine. My dear friend, Carine from Guneku, Cameroon. We keep in touch pretty often, speaking about once a month. I send her parcels every few months, with photos and games, school supplies for the Home Economic Center we started, clothes for she and the girls. She sends me pictures, which often bring tears to my eyes. Wee-Mah is almost eight years old now, tall and skinny. She wears glasses and excels in school, often coming in first or second in her class. Hope-Mah is five now, losing her baby chub, and always looks wary about having her photo taken, so different from the ham she was for my camera. Baby Lindsay I have never met, she was born after my COS, but she looks like her father, the Fon of Guneku. Sometimes when Carine calls me, she says, "Ah-ah! That Lindsay just love to eat!" I say, "Lindsay and I have that in common." Wee-Mah and Hope-Mah who learned to walk and talk and sing and count in front of my eyes are still growing now that I'm gone. Even three years later, I still ache a little to think about the fact that I exist to them only in photos and phone calls now. I've become "Auntie Lindsay," the absent whiteman who sends Christmas presents, but I wonder if they still remember "Auntie Lindsay" who ate dinner with them every night, whose lap they were not shy about visiting, who was there everyday.

Today when Carine called me, it was 4 PM here in D.C. That makes it 9 PM there. I had a voicemail from the Fon: "This is the Fon. Fon of Guneku. Carine wants to talk to you. Call Carine." I thought someone died. They never leave voicemails. I called immediately. To my surprise, Carine was not bereaved but ecstatic. The large provincial hospital in Mbingo had visited villages around the Northwest, looking for regional community outreach workers. Carine applied, and out of everyone in Guneku, she was chosen. She had an eight-day training in Mbingo on public health topics, will work in Guneku, teaching about healthy habits and attitudes, will make a salary of about 6,000 CFA ($12) a month. She's elated. She was chosen, she told me, because she already had health sensitization experience from when she worked with me.

Twelve dollars is not a lot, but it's enough for food. Eight days is not long, but it's enough to learn. Community outreach does not sound important, but it's crucial. Carine is one person, but I made a difference to her.

Three years later, the work I did still matters. This is why Peace Corps is worthwhile.