An odyssey is an attempt to find oneself and I did. It was a long, hot, drawn out summer and I was ready to return to my mountain home right after I started the ignition and cruised down thousands of miles of geographical and philosophical adventure, as a single thirty-something woman with her bulldog and a Prius. Names and details are undisclosed to protect identities.
Part 1: Mama Drama and The Establishment
My mother stood outside the hotel furiously tapping her feet. “You’re late for dinner! Get cleaned up and dress up for dinner we have important people to meet.” That was her greeting as I pulled up the ritzy high-rise St. Louis hotel after days of driving to the General Conference. She wasn’t impressed at my tardiness and neither was The Establishment. With big smiles we began our rounds of introductions, “Here is Mr./Dr./Professor/Elder/Pastor so-and-so...” Endless introductions, plenty of ego talk, stuck in a world of unfathomable privilege. Why am I here? “This is my daughter!” Oh yes, now I remember the biological connection and why I ran away. It wasn’t from her, it was from The Establishment, that is the Adventist Industrial-Institutional-Complex Incorporated LLC. As a third generational Adventist, she had groomed me for this privileged life and was deeply disappointed. “I don’t understand what’s wrong with you? We did everything we could, took you to the right schools, made all these connections, and basically gave you a future on a silver platter, why don’t you just take it?” Meritocracy, Mama! I don’t believe it’s right, just because I’m the right skin color, come from the right family, know the right people, it doesn’t make me qualified for the job, I would be taking away that opportunity from someone else. The pressure cat-and-mouse game began, my mother’s political canvassing and me hiding from familiar faces. I found refuge in the daily Prayer Room knowing well that the political world and spiritual world are oil and water. Then came Sabbath, rest, right? Wrong. I ran into my Professor Auntie who I sat with for the service. During which time, the new GC President took the stage. “What is he?” She asked. “He’s Brazilian, Auntie,” I told her. “But his name…He must be from German extraction?” She inquired. “Yes Auntie, during post-world war two, many Germans expatriated to Latin America to flee the rampant extradition from war tribunals, so it may well be the same for his descendants, but now that’s not very politically correct, thereby he identifies himself as Brazilian.” Intellectual people can be so exhausting especially on an empty stomach, so I politely excused myself after the closing prayer and made a bee-line for lunch. At the lunch table, I looked up and across from me an endearing couple looked at me with great sympathy, as if my face bore the frustration of my convoluted life. The husband discerningly spoke to me directly, “There are two roads in scripture. The broad road and the narrow road. Both roads are in the world but also in the church itself.” How profound. Perhaps the broad road was The Establishment with all its power and privilege, and the narrow road was filled with the unknowns, no glitz and glamour, just a dusty road leading to self-denial’s Calvary. That was the General Conference for me, a clash between two worlds: The Establishment vs. The Dusty Road, Oligarchy vs. Meritocracy, The Old World of Tradition vs. The New World of Innovation, The Agenda of Globalism vs. The Principal of Individualism, Mama Bear’s hopes vs. Bear Cub’s American Dream. I don’t know why we still attend these quinquennium meetings, but somehow all 60,000 of us Adventists showed up at Adventist Mecca as a pilgrimage for power, people connections and prospects for the future. As for me, I was repeatedly reminded that my future could be in these crowds, but they were wrong, it would be at a conference to follow.
Part 2: Mr. Wilson and The Future of Adventism
I arrived at the youth conference on time but with one slight hitch. My roommate Clara had made the reservation so I couldn’t check in without her. I sat in the car with my bulldog Simba and waited for her plane to land. The security man wasn’t impressed, he drove up to my car twice to ask what I was doing of which I politely explained my presence. Finally, Clara was here. At the check in station, it was plain to see, whatever we wanted we would find here: a career in institutional life, a ministry to join, or a spouse to marry. So intentional they were on matchmaking, we were given only two choices to wear either green or black lanyards, green for single and ready to mingle, or black for uninterested or taken. “This is where you can find your Prince Charming… at Adventist conferences!” Clara reminded me. This is where she met Mr. Wilson her current beau. There were plenty of options, the grass was greener here, plenty of institutions hiring, ministries hungry for young blood, and almost everyone wore a green lanyard was single, young, attractive, educated, talented and Adventist. This is the future of Adventism. I don’t know how I got into the room to begin with since my introverted insecurities were seething. Somehow I made my rounds of the exhibit hall booths, seminar talks and friendly chit-chats, when the pressure of landing deals came crashing down and I finally had to escape to my hotel room and take a long nap. Simba my bulldog wasn’t doing well either, maybe he was feeling the pressure, he woke up every night at midnight to throw up. I wished we could trade places and he could bear the pressure of being an Adventist youth. This will be the last conference I will attend, I pledged to myself. The next day, Sabbath might I add, was the highlight with endless seminars, talks, sermons, giveaways and I was ready to retreat again when I ran into a handsome stranger. The reason I noticed him is because he was doing exactly what I was doing that is running away from the pressure. He sat alone in the lobby couch, his suit jacket beside him, exhausted by the pressure. I politely asked if I could join in his escape and he smilingly welcomed my presence. I had to ask him, “What are you?” He laughed. I found his racial ambiguity intriguing. “I’m Argentinean, my father’s side is German and my mother’s side is Spaniard.” How interesting. “So, what are you doing here in America?” The same reason I was, that is to chase the American Dream. After an hour of flirtation and intellectual banter, we stared in each other’s eyes. Attractive? Check. Adventist? Check. Green lanyard? Check, check. Hardworking Dreamer chasing the American Dream? Checkmate. So, what else was I looking for in a husband? Before I could find the answer, he excused himself for the dinner line and I went back to my room to check on Simba my bulldog. “So, did you at least get his number?” Clara interrogated me. Isn’t it supposed to be the man who pursues and doesn’t anyone still believe in traditional gender roles? Clara began her lecture on how to close the deal. Apparently we’re in a modern age where every woman ought to know how to coquettishly steer her prospect onto the path leading to holy matrimony. Apparently that’s what I failed to learn in Finishing School, rather Adventist Academy. That’s what she did with Mr. Wilson. “So, is that Mr. Wilson now endlessly texting you and practically hanging onto your every word? You’ve not even been away more than 48hours.” She laughed. Oh, the entertainment of watching a woman smitten. At the plenary, I ran into another friend, Lacie, who I had met at a previous conference. She, like I, was still single and somewhat jaded by the fray of the pressure of landing deals, but settled into maturity as a somewhat older young woman. “You know what’s missing from this conference?” I told her. “White people!” She burst out laughing. “Only you would say that,” Lacie grinned, she being White herself. What’s the point of all these diversity talks if we’re missing a key segment of the population, where’s the diversity in that? That’s when she began looking around the room and pointing out the sprinkle of White people. Did the future of Adventism mean the phasing out of a key demographic? I hope my thoughts didn’t come out loud not to offend any tenderhearted attendees. The conference was now over, I intentionally skipped out on the Saturday night activities that included Salsa lessons, karaoke night or live podcasting. It’s either I’m now too old to stay up late, or unable to wake up early after a late night, or a combination of both, but I knew we had a long drive in the morning. I checked out of the room after breakfast, loaded up the car and Simba jumped into the passenger seat on cue. That’s when the security man returned. “Ma’am, I would like to apologize to you. When I first saw you, I thought you were a young, pretty girl waiting for your John at the hotel, but you were here for the Christian conference, I’m very sorry that I judged you.” How easy it is to judge people just because they’re young or attractive or in the right place at the right time. I took no offence and smiled, and pivoted the conversation. I shared with the security man about my faith in Jesus, what our church believed and why it was important for me to be a witness for my faith. He was impressed and asked if I could give him more information about our teachings especially the health message since he struggled with diabetes. I gave him Glow Tracks on the health message, shared my testimony of how Jesus healed me, and gave him some tips on how to improve his nutrition. We ended our conversation with a prayer. I asked Jesus to forgive him for judging me, thanked Jesus for giving me the opportunity to share my faith, and asked the Holy Spirit to heal him of all his diseases.
Part 3: The America of my Dreams
We left California at the end of May and, upon writing this article, will arrive back home in August. We drove through Nevada, Utah, Colorado, Kansas, Missouri, Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico and Arizona. The last road trip I did with my mother was almost two decades ago from coast-to-coast. Maybe wanderlust is my genetic inheritance. This time I did it alone with my bulldog Simba. It was important to see America through my own eyes, not what other people wanted me to see. I saw breathtaking landscapes covering Western states, I saw impoverishment reeking in grand Indian reservations, I saw the threat of abandonment of thriving agricultural and cattle-ranching industries, I saw ruins of small drive-by towns scattered around rural districts, I saw urban ghettos filled with moral filth, I saw many people: some suited up in halls of privilege and power, and others homeless and destitute completely left out in a world of haves and have nots. America has changed, not so much a dreamland, but reality that many want to escape. But here comes a dreamer, not one but generations, who came to make something out of what remained. I’m reminded of Eris, not Eric, the Salvadorian who was the only mechanic opened on a Monday morning who fixed my car engine after the cylinder was misfiring. I’m reminded of Tenimbe from Sierra Leone, our Lyft driver who was terribly homesick for the Motherland. I’m reminded of Angela, the Eastern European waitress at our St. Louis hotel, who warmly greeted me with a hug every breakfast. Dreamers, just like me, here to make America the land of all our dreams because we all want the same thing: freedom to be, to live, to do and to believe. That’s what makes America, the land of the free and home of the brave. How brave we must be to live free! My friends were worried about a single young woman, me, travelling by herself cross country, and what if I listened to their fears? For one, I wouldn’t have an article to write, a story to tell, or a life that I want to live. Secondly, I wouldn’t be able to face my fears. I am afraid about the future of this country but I had to see the truth for myself. We are living in precarious times, but if God led the pilgrims who boarded ships fleeing Europe, African slaves who ran away from plantations, Latinos who fled communism and cartels, and Asians who escaped demeaning caste systems, why are we doubting God now, here?
God is here. God never changes. He is still the God who makes all our dreams come true. That’s the America of my dreams. And so, soon I’ll be back home exactly where I belong and being exactly who I was destined to be.
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Liza Ngenye is a third generation Adventist living in Southern California. You can contact her by email: lizangenye@gmail.com
