Putting the show up in Chicago had been quite an undertaking. A first for me, who has never worked at curating or coordinating an exhibition before. Yet, by the time the Congo/Women team was done, the space had been entirely transformed. The uneven flooring, bowing ceiling, oddly placed walls, and ugly carpeting completely disappeared into a sobering gallery experience.

The first time I was able to see the show as a viewer was with my family. They made a day out of coming downtown to see it. We had brunch at Yolk, and it was Sunday, so the restaurant was packed. My father managed to stifle any of his common complaints about being in the city—the people, the noise, the lack of space. After enjoying our meal we made our way to the Congo/Women gallery on Michigan Avenue.

When my parents and brother entered the space, several people were viewing the exhibition silently. Women’s voices whispered faintly in the background as my family followed the exhibition’s circular path.

Few words were exchanged among family members. Instead of the usual, steady clamor of comments and conversation, there was an overall hush as the afternoon progressed.

Some thirty minutes after we had entered, the drama of the distant crisis finally tapered—my mother had found my name in the credits. This was the only thing I pointed out to her, or explained, during the entire course of the exhibition.