Last year I wrote a book. It is called “the place between our fears”. Ironically, it was written just before the pandemic. Just before we, collectively, came to reside in the middle of our fears.
The book is a true story. It begins with me moving to a city in eastern Congo. It is a city literally caught in the space between an active volcano and an exploding lake.
The story follows my friendship with two Congolese women, over the next decade, as they flee, on crutches through war, refugee camps and every imaginable danger. I wrote the book, with my two Congolese friends, hoping to answer one central question. How do these women manage to pull themselves toward each other, to create community, in the face of such overwhelming challenges?
The question seems more relevant than ever now. We are all facing an unexpected new world. How do we create community in this new space? How do we pull ourselves toward each other, in a situation that seems built to keep us apart?
When I think of my time at WMS, of course I think of a phenomenal education. I think of all the ways that WMS supported and inspired me individually as a learner. But perhaps, even before that, I think of community. I think of the Thanksgiving meals that we prepared together, with each class making one dish. (How I loved the smell of the apple crisp floating down the hallway!) I think of our whole school packed into the gym, sitting cross-legged, with Matilda leading us in song. I think of adults who talked to us as equals. I think of how my family’s income was undoubtedly a small fraction of the income of some of my classmates’ families. And how that never seemed to matter. At WMS I felt part of a community.
Our school building changed a lot over my ten years there. It started as a low slung arm of a building. Then the shape changed. Wings just kept getting added. In 5th grade, due to construction, my class was relocated to the church across from the school.
Now, WMS resides in a different building entirely. It is a gorgeous building. The first time I visited was for a memorial to celebrate the life of a classmate who had left us too soon. Hundreds of people crowded into the new gym. Actually, it wasn’t even a gym. It was an auditorium, I think.
The space was different. But the sense of community was the same.
For this, I am forever thankful to WMS. WMS taught me the intrinsic value of education, but also the intrinsic value of community. And it taught me that the two are connected. That when we make space for the dignity and value of every individual, we also make space for community.
These days, there is a pandemic. We are all stumbling through a new world and wondering about our place in it. We find ourselves stuck in our homes, apart from one another. We find ourselves on Zoom, in a world that exists apart from any particular place. Everything is virtual, and yet, change is marching down the very real pavement of our streets. We hear calls for equality and justice pulling us out into the world. The need for community is greater than ever.
I can’t imagine what the future of this world holds. I hope that our world, like the WMS building, can grow and expand, or even be built anew, from the ground up. I hope we can pull ourselves toward each other, like the women of Congo.
I keep reminding myself of a lesson I learned long ago. Community does not depend on a building. It depends on us.
At WMS, I always felt valued, and I always felt welcomed. I hope I carry that lesson out into the world.
Dawn currently lives in New York with her husband and daughter. More information about her work and her book can be found at www.shonacongo.com.
