When our Congo Cloth Connection booth opened the first night of the big Mennonite USA convention, we were mobbed. Fabric literally flew off the tables. There was even some Filene’s-style competition. Well, not really. These were well-behaved Mennonite ladies. But it is true, isn’t it, that a piece selected by someone else becomes extra attractive?
In an hour we had taken in $680. So far, so good. But it was July 4 and the Pittsburgh fireworks display started up just outside the convention center. All the Mennonites went out to watch. End of sales.
The next morning I woke with the numbers going through my head. We would have to sell a lot of cloth at $10 a yard to break even on our expenses, let alone make enough to substantially support Marie-Jeanne’s workshop. Selling cloth is not an efficient way to raise money. If raising money was really what this was about, we should just ask for donations, right? Give to a worthy cause! Hard-working Congolese Mennonites have set up this sewing training workshop to help young women and single moms learn a viable profession. We should do what we can to help them out.
Instead of conserving our resources, however, the Michiana Friends of Congo had gone to considerable expense to bring Marie-Jeanne Mujinga to the States. We had hosted her and her husband in our homes and churches and then brought them to the convention, to help cement ties between Mennonites in Congo and the United States. But does this sort of thing really work?
That first evening at the convention it was all about shopping. By the next morning it had become, for me, all about money. All about helping. Uh-oh. Something was wrong with this picture.
Nina had the bright idea of bringing her sewing machine to the convention and setting Marie-Jeanne up to do some sewing on the spot. Marie-Jeanne is on the shy side and speaks no English. This would give her something to do and ease the burden on the few of us who speak French.
I saw this as a potential logistical complication—all that fabric in a small space, plus a quilt that people would help stitch, plus activities for kids, plus an on-the spot seamstress? . . . but I did not object. Fortunately.
Booth traffic was slow the first morning. I worried about money. Marie-Jeanne tried her hand at quilting but that was not her thing.
A young woman came by and admired a dress Marie-Jeanne had brought as a sample of her creations—short puffed skirt, ruffled neckline. Could Marie-Jeanne make one like that for her? Well yes except . . . we had no zippers, no place to buy them. (See? I knew this wouldn’t work.)
And then it began to happen. The connections were made, the stories unfolded.
The director of a children’s peace center came looking for material for international costumes for children. She ended up ordering five ruffled wrap skirts for little girls, with matching head ties. She came back to photograph the sewing process. It means so much, she said, to know that these costumes were made by Marie-Jeanne from Kinshasa.
Marie-Jeanne made each skirt a little different, just to exercise her creativity.
A young mother wanted two aprons for her two little girls. Could she bring them in to be fitted? Marie-Jeanne suggested. Put that order aside till noon the next day.
A woman wanted an apron of fabric she had chosen.
A woman ordered a whole two-piece outfit. She would have preferred it with lace but since we had none, Marie-Jeanne would improvise the adornment.
A man eyed the fabric longingly, saying his wife, who was “from the islands,” would love it. How much would be needed for a skirt? But he had come to the convention with no money to spend, no money at all. Satisfying my impulse-shopping need, I decided that his wife should have this skirt and I would give her this gift. (I had already given myself several impulse gifts of fabric. ) He was wide-eyed but did not protest. He wanted me to choose the fabric because the array was too dazzling for him, but in the end, he was the one who put his hand on the cloth with the coppery background and spinning, feathery design like fireworks. What did he owe me? he wondered. A photo, I told him, of his wife in her lovely skirt.
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