Chocolates for Mary Julia: Black Woman Blazes Trails as a Career Diplomat

By Judith Mudd-Krijgelmans

Following of on bee coming-of-age story in Flowers for Brother Mudd,
JUDITH RETURNS TO NEW DELHI
as a US diplomat, her lively five-year old daughter at her side. Embarking on the life she's dreamed of, this former English major and Fulbright scholar who's just earned a Master's in international service from American University throws herself into living the globe-trotting life. What lies in store for this risk-taker who grew up during Jim Crow is what Chocolates for Mary Julia is about. After riding the stormy waves of the Civil Rights Movement and witnessing monumental legal changes for blacks, she entered the foreign service expecting to serve on behalf of an America that had finally assured the right to the pursuit of happiness for all, only to realize that there was much more to do. Nonetheless, she would not be robbed of a fulfilling career. As the velvety sweetness of her mother, Mary Julia's, dreams hoisted her on her way, she embarks on tours abroad, and in Washington, DC. Determined to succeed, she thrives on living in faraway places while overcoming high hurdles, making it a point to savor as much of the good life as she can. Doing work that makes a difference, on a level of excellence inspired by the Ursuline Sisters and historically black Morgan State University, often in the face of racial bias, she persists in having a full life: Never giving up on love, building family and effective work teams, seeing world sights—all while, paradoxically, proudly waving the flag for an ideal America yet to be realized.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9781669813217

Judith Mudd-Krijgelmans

Hailing from Louisville, Kentucky's Smoketown, Judith Mudd-Krijgelmans served as a Foreign Service Officer with the United States Information Agency and the US Department of State. In a nearly 30-year career she publicly represented the USA in Delhi, Bombay, Dhaka, Taiwan, Hongkong, Brussels , Libreville, Bujumbura, Brazzaville, and Washington, DC. She oversaw eight French-speaking African public affairs posts, and led the first US Government civic education project in South Africa. Since settling back in Northern Virginia with her husband Belgian writer Claude Krijgelmans, she has taught memoir courses, while writing and speaking about her own fascinating life.

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Copyright © 2022 by Judith Mudd-Krijgelmans.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

The opinions and characterizations in this book are those of the author and do not necessarily represent those of the US government.

Rev. date: 07/05/2022

Xlibris

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Also, by Judith Mudd-Krijgelmans

Flowers for Brother Mudd: One Woman’s Path from Jim Crow to Career Diplomat (Xlibris), 2018

Preface

Stunned was how I felt when I saw protesters storming the US Capital on the afternoon of January 6, 2021. By evening, though I was making progress on this book, I felt I couldn’t go on. Its whole point was to showcase how a person raised during Jim Crow could burst through barriers, earn opportunity and acceptance, and gain a wider world. Had my tale lost its credibility? Global views of the turmoil in America—unrelenting racial animosity, real time killings of blacks by police and citizen watchmen, abuse of migrants, even separating children, and roll backs in voting rights—had clouded the lens through which I was viewing memories that had shaped my career. I’d been in places where coups were a fact of life. Now the phrases attempted coup and violent insurrection could be applied to my land of the free.

All those years of telling America’s story to the world would be seen in vain against the unfolding backdrop that was redefining the country. But, in time, as I kept faith with those fighting to uphold democracy in Washington and across the nation and followed the news of the fight for it in Hong Kong, which I knew well, I regained my footing and realized even more the value of what people like me had done. I felt even more obligated to pass on my story, if not as a shining example of one minority American’s achievements, then as a primer for those working across cultures. As tired as freedom lovers may be, hope has to continue to be high. Afterall, my parents and forebears mostly lived on it; like my mother, Mary Julia, they never got much compared to what I was able to achieve. Passing on my tale is the least I can do to honor the truths they laid down for me.

To Rekha, my daughter, grandson Jon-Mingus, and great-granddaughter Marlee, and for the descendants and relatives of Mary Julia Harris and William F. Mudd

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Mother, Mary Julia, age 49

Table of Contents

Preface

Part 1: 1975–1982

Chapter 1:   India Again!

Chapter 2:   Bombay Bests

Chapter 3:   Bangladesh Big Picture

Part 2: 1982–1989

Chapter 4:   Back in the USA

Chapter 5:   Taiwan Times

Chapter 6:   Hong Kong Highs and Lows

Part 3: 1989–1993

Chapter 7:   Welcome Home!

Chapter 8:   Beguiling Belgium

Chapter 9:   America from Afar

Chapter 10: Hands across the Sea

Acknowledgments

Part 1: 1975–1982

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Map of India

1

India Again!

A creamy blast spewed from Rekha’s mouth as she bent over as the plane landed in New Delhi. I held the air bag under her chin while the other passengers scurried to the overheads cramming the aisles. I gathered our belongings and I tried to neaten us up after the twelve-hour flight from Rome. We’d just spent two breathtaking weeks in the Eternal City seeing the magnificent sights and savoring sumptuous delicacies. No wonder Rekha’s stomach was giving out, and mine, with the ten pounds I’d gained in that city, made it hard to button the executive jacket I was squeezing into. Cold, dry December air swept into the cabin as the doors opened. My head began to throb and my stomach turned somersaults as we descended the steps of the rolling stairs. When I saw a tall, craggy-faced man with a drooping mustache in a coffee-brown blazer swoop Rekha into his arms, I knew I had arrived in more ways than one: a new job and lifestyle, and it was like coming home.

The man was Bruce Kreutzer, my training office; he took us to his house near the American embassy where his family welcomed us with so much warmth that I almost felt like a member. I would learn that the wholeheartedness was in the tradition of the Foreign Service: that of the sponsor in an enduring esprit de corps. For newcomers, even second-timers to India like me, it was a custom, which made all the difference in how I perceived the post from day one. By the time we were settled into our cottage in the gated embassy compound in Chanakyapuri, we were able to fall into a good night’s sleep. Later the next day, we met our neighbors: Elena, an embassy secretary, and her Vietnam-born daughter, Stacy, who was five like Rekha. The family liaison officer had thoughtfully made sure that we were lodged next to another single-parent household. The four of us hit it off right away. Soon I’d get to know others on the compound who became friends and helped me learn the ways of post living.

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Elena, Stacy, and Aimee Adesso

Diplomat in Delhi

The next morning, I was picked up in the car that took USIS¹ officers to the American Center on Kasturba Gandhi Marg, twenty minutes away near the center of town. As the driver

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US Embassy, New Delhi

negotiated through the hodgepodge of moving vehicles, animals, and humans, from pedestrians to holy men and hawkers, I remembered the goats and cows on the streets of Nagpur seven years ago. Seeing the sign that said American Center as the car stopped in front of the two-story building, my heart skipped. I recalled bringing my students from Springdales to the moon-landing exhibit at the center in July 1969. How times had changed. Then I wouldn’t have been caught dead in the American embassy. But now, although no breeze waved in the wind when I arrived, the stars and stripes saluted me. Now I was the woman in the picture in the magazine that had inspired me to become a Foreign Service officer (FSO) years ago.

After I met those I’d be working with—Ed Shulick, chief, and Roz Bazala, deputy, of the North India Program Office, where I’d work after training at the main embassy building, and the many other Americans and Indians I’d collaborate with—a sense of having to rise to the challenge welled up in me. As I moved through the center, I came to see that being an FSO was not going to be enough. I had to perform the duties worthy of the title. I was energized by what I was seeing and hearing. I hadn’t known what to imagine, but certainly, a staid, staunch official had come to mind. These diplomats, foreign affairs specialists, and their staff were full of ideas and racing to get things done. The foreign nationals (FSNs), the Indians, struck me as being the real ones in the know, and I was right. Then and throughout my nearly three-decade career, I’d see that FSNs did a lot to make Americans look good, supporting our tasks excellently and, usually, loyally. Having worked in three Indian educational institutions, I suspected this would be the case. They were taking my measure, and I had to show them I was up to the task.

After settling in, I had an easier rapport with the Indians than the Americans. Given my background of growing up during Jim Crow, I could only relate to white Americans selectively, assuredly with most girls and women but carefully with men. I had a hard time calling my new colleagues by their first names, a real handicap when I wanted to show I was a member of the team. That’s why I’ll always be grateful to Bruce, whose unassuming attitude from the start made it easy for me to call him by his given name. Once I got used to that, I could say Ed and the first names of the other men except for the chief librarian and the public affairs officer’s secretary, Dolly, who were women. Still, I would have been hard put to call the ambassador or the deputy chief by their first names as I’d later have to do. On the other hand, I could make friends with Sharmaji, Tony, Jeri, and Prabhi. There was also the connection, the unspoken truth that, like them, I came from a recently liberated group. This would stand me in good stead then and throughout my days as a diplomat.

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Beginning my career at a full-service post like New Delhi was a lucky-stars gift for me. Historically, an FSO wanted to start in Europe; however, that was a carryover from before the last world war. As one of the first baby boomers, I saw the world differently, and so did US foreign policy-makers with the war in Vietnam finally moving toward a peace agreement and the recent recognition of China. London and Paris were still there as was the Cold War, and US presence in Asia had expanded. New posts were being built in Asia. They benefited from starting from scratch with all the space and equipment needed to reach out to large publics. I was privileged to serve in New Delhi at the beginning of my career and in Taiwan at the end; both were well-funded from the start so that they could better survive the cascade of budget cuts that would come during those thirty years. A movie theater, a comprehensive library, and the latest in programming—a multipurpose space for discussions, speakers, exhibits, and cultural performances—were in the USIS American Center in Delhi.

As a trainee, I needed to learn all forms of programming to connect with those who influenced India, and being in a post with a wide range of equipment, facilities, and materials was a definite plus. Every post after India would not be as well endowed. In the days before the green revolution made it possible for countries like India to feed their population, the US lent funds for agricultural development. When India repaid, because the rupees couldn’t be spent outside of the country, the PL 480 surplus fund (Food for Peace) was established. It became a trove for funding the hard-to-measure goodwill efforts of USIA and other agencies.

Jay Gilner, former assistant press secretary to President Kennedy, would soon be the counselor for public affairs, which, in a large post like Delhi, had the power almost equivalent to the ambassador. Although I think of Jay as the first public affairs officer (PAO) I’d work with, he wasn’t.

Within the first months of my arrival in December 1975, another man came to be PAO at the start of 1976. My new colleagues didn’t hold their tongues in commenting on what they thought of him: they didn’t like him and showed it at our first country team meeting with him. I never knew why they felt as they did, for I was too new to the job. As number 21 in the rank of officers, I wanted to like everyone and for everyone to like me. But when at a second meeting a week later the new PAO, dressed in a dark suit and not having caught much sun, still looking as pale as if he were in the winter of Washington DC, told us that he regretted he would not be staying, the long silence that met his words was unbearable, everyone knew they wanted to clap for joy, and no one spoke up to offer the customary, We’re sorry… I didn’t know what I was going to say, but someone needed to say something. I opened my mouth and out came the words: I hope it’s not because of me! and that broke the silence. That single round of harmonious laughter said welcome, Judith, we like you, which made me feel I was in. From that moment I knew I could and would succeed in my new career.

Since finding the right person to help with Rekha was my most immediate concern, I set about looking for child care. Rekha would be going to kindergarten at the American Embassy School in a few days, but that would only be during the mornings. I needed someone to take care of her throughout the day, so while Elena’s housekeeper helped the first week, I hurried to find someone and hired Miss R who had worked for Americans. What a bad decision. I had to let her go after two weeks. One evening I came home to find the carton of my favorite Kwality vanilla ice cream practically empty. When I asked Miss R why she had let Rekha have so much, she threw her hands up saying Baby say ‘ice cream ice cream’!

Wonderfully, as in my worst times, another angel came my way. With her long coconut oiled braids falling neatly behind her ears, glowing bronze skin, and restrained, thoughtful manner, Ursula reminded me of dear sister Cathy who had cared for Rekha in Washington.

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Ursula D’Souza

Even her name soothed me, bringing back the steady, caring guidance of the Ursuline sisters. Like Cathy, who had been a nun, Ursula had been raised in a catholic convent in the southern state of Kerala. Deeply religious, with a brother who was a priest, she seemed, and indeed said, that she was devoting her life to caring for children. In her dark cotton skirt and white blouse with no jewelry or makeup, she looked the perfect nanny. I gave her the position right away, finding that her resume and references lived up to how she presented herself. She slept in a bed next to Rekha but stayed to herself when I was at home, taking her meals separately, which was hard to get used to, but I did eventually, giving her privacy. I never felt that Ursula completely approved of me, but she respected me and we communicated well to take care of my daughter.

During that first week, I dove into learning the wide-ranging tasks of my new job, a long list of must-dos from holding out my hands to tens of people and sitting through speeches and presentations of flowers and garlands, as well as delivering official remarks. Taking a deep breath and getting on with my journey, as my college swimming teacher used to say when I was afraid to go into the deep end, now that I had caught hold of a raft of a chance, I had to show my new colleagues that I could make it with them upstream.

When I did show what I could do, I did it with a splash, which was cited as an accomplishment in my first efficiency report six months later. It had resulted from one of the first programs I took part in: a visiting American lecturer was speaking at the center, and since arranging such programs would be one of my responsibilities, I tagged along with Bruce to the event. Seated in chairs around, not in front of, the speaker to encourage participation, the American professor, talking about pluralism, was commenting on the odiousness of slavery, to which, naturally, all those listening agreed. But during the question-and-answer period, I raised my hand to offer a contrasting view, which the speaker acknowledged was well worth taking into account. It had to do with slave women choosing to stay in bondage to live with their kin for the sake of the family. When Bruce wrote that he had observed me stand up and make a point promoting the importance of family values, a phrase that was catching on during the 1976 US presidential campaign, although I didn’t like to appear aligned with any political slogan, I was proud to be commended for my contribution to that evening’s discussion. It was like what’s happening in the US these days, as I write in 2020: pluralism and multiculturalism are at a wide standoff.

In those early days, I went with Tony (Jesudasen), the cultural specialist, on my first offsite speaker program featuring an American poet. Future evenings like that one would remind me of how popular and respected artists are in traditional societies. We had a grand evening sprawled on Persian-carpeted floors, our backs resting against gold-trimmed, tasseled crimson cushions. The lilting strings of the sarod as the poet and his Indian counterparts matched verses, and the copious rice and curry meal that followed nearly lulled me and our group to sleep on our ride back. Arriving at the embassy compound gate to drop me first, the driver slowly moved through the hometown-look-alike street that was a sharp contrast to the old structures of the India we had just spent the last four hours in.

Making small talk, I was telling the poet that this compound was where I lived, and his retort was surprising: You live in a barracks! There was no time to tell him I lived in a cozy house and that the Foreign Service was not an armed service. Then I thought, what difference did it make to someone who lives in America anyway? None, it seemed as I said good-bye to the drowsy bard. I could see I was in that space in most of my compatriots’ minds that thought of me and others as those overseas. If only I could tell them about the uniqueness of our jobs, representing the USA and how living on an embassy compound prevented more Americans from having to live on a military base.

My look was unfinished. In those days, when women were accepted into the service and those who had been in it before and had been made to quit when they married were returning, no one dare tell us what not to wear. Then too, this was in the 1970s when weird, exaggerated styles, like winged collars and bell-bottom pants, were popular. I had found it daunting, shopping for a wardrobe, before I left Washington. Large sizes and good fit were hard to find in those days when Lane Bryant dressed pleasingly plump women in tentlike creations. I didn’t consider going to a better store and having clothes tailored, and my talents in making my own clothes had not advanced.

Now that I could invest in a good wardrobe, I had a hard time finding what I needed. I gave no thought to color or materials when everything was made of polyester, and when I chose only sedate colors, thinking that, as a diplomat, I had to look somber even if dark and dull tones clashed with the gold of my skin. Having had to deal with my cotton-soft, flyaway hair in the heat and dust when I lived in the subcontinent five years before, I was ready for the climate when I arrived in Delhi with a voluminous Afro and two-inch-wide silver hoop earrings à la Nancy Davis. To boot, I had acquired a leather jacket in a shade of maroon—good color for someone else but not me—and making the jacket even more unsuitable was that it had to be tied with a belt. I needed to camouflage my middle, not draw attention to it.

Though the look was not the most flattering, I felt gorgeous. Still, deep inside, I knew I had to lose weight. I was skirting 200 pounds and was very uncomfortable. Thank goodness! no one told me how much better I’d look if I lost weight (although a friend, also not thin, did tell me that the dresses with printed designs on a black background with long sleeves, which I liked wearing in the freezing, air-conditioned offices, made me look as old as her grandmother!) I had delayed applying to join the service in the belief that being overweight would disqualify me as specified in the requirements in a printed brochure. But, luckily, no one said anything when I stepped on the scale during the mandatory physical exam. I had made a promise to myself when I passed it, that I would go on a diet when I got to Delhi. I did just that and lost forty pounds that first year.

The Candle Lamp

During that early period, I got to meet the world-renowned engineer, architect, and futurist Buckminster Fuller when he gave a talk at the American Center. An ordinary-looking older man, balding, with a paunch, he held the packed audience of Indian experts in rapt attention, describing how the world could improve if his ideas related to the geodesic dome, which he had patented, were adopted. We watched scenarios projected on the large screens of computers built into consoles, which looked like fish tanks. PAO Gilner leaned forward, shaking his head, agreeing with the legendary speaker as did the rest of us who were spellbound. Since my days at the Census Bureau in 1971, I hadn’t seen a computer. Even when I worked on the 1970 count, the computer was in another room, behind a screen, like in the storybook land of Oz. Now, the curtain was pulled back. I felt modern and in with the latest in my state-of-the-art post in ancient India. I didn’t know it at the time, but Bucky Fuller was a friend of then prime minister Indira Gandhi.

Another program during my training in Delhi was a trip to Lucknow farther north. With Raz Bazala in charge, I was accompanying a prominent American speaker (who’d been on the cover of Time magazine) and his wife to meet academics and speak at institutions in that seat of centuries-old princely power. As would become my custom with such visitors, I went with the

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Groovin’ with Raz Bazala

couple to look around the bazaars. Having seen a lot of the items on offer for tourists when I lived in India before, I knew what was special and what wasn’t and what I wanted to purchase. I usually didn’t buy anything. This time, however, two red glass antique candle lamps caught my eye. Encrusted with colored jewel-like cut glass, mounted in beaten brass, I couldn’t resist them but bought only one, fearing that I could manage a single eighteen-inch square box on the return plane trip, knowing that two would annoy my traveling companions.

Lucknow had been a rich princely state but strapped for funds since the privy-purse for royals was abolished in 1969; families attached to the kingdoms were increasingly without means and had to sell off their valuables. In Lucknow that day, we were, however, fortunate to have access to a private sale. I was to learn that members of the former maharaja’s circles didn’t like the brash way of the Ugly American or other foreign tourists who threw wads of cash at them, thinking that only money talked. Members of the former independent princely states still wanted to be respected for their lineage and culture even as they adjusted to the government’s curtailment of funds.

The visit was going smoothly, but one evening, I saw something that I’d never seen before and made a point not to see since. Our university hosts had taken us to dine in the restaurant of a major hotel where the after-dinner entertainment featured a dancer, a young woman with fair skin and long flowing hair. After we had settled into our meal, my eyes nearly popped out of my head, watching as the dancer arched her back clinging to the floor while the volume of the sitar rose and the beating of the tablas intensified. I couldn’t believe what she did next. She took her already skimpy clothes off and proceeded to do things with a cigarette that defied nature. Immobilized in astonishment as her act unfolded right in front of us, it seemed that, like me, our distinguished American philosopher sitting there with his wife couldn’t move. In those days, we didn’t talk about trafficking and prostitution in our programs as we would later, but I was no prude having come of age in the days of alternative lifestyles and Deep Throat, but this was too much. We left quietly, all astonished, and didn’t talk about the unvarnished striptease we’d just seen. I was upset with myself for not getting up from the table and leaving, but I had been shocked; it had happened so fast. What was more baffling, families, some with young children, were present.

Public and Personal Affairs

Changing hearts and minds can’t be illustrated like hoisting barrels of grains off a ship, for how do you measure feelings? In spring 1976, PAO Gilner called a meeting to plan the goals for the next fiscal year that would start in October; this was to account for what we would do to show USIA we were effective. Our target audiences were leaders and secondary groups, such as journalists, teachers, and university students. We measured participation by reporting on how many of each audience came to an event and tried to identify a tangible impact by a quote or an action that one of them made after a program. For example, a professor would remark that he was going to cover the topic, say free trade and open societies, in a lecture. Since reports were due within five days of an event, we had to project what we thought the program would yield, which, of course, wasn’t possible. Still, as unpredictable as it was, it was the best we could do, and I’m glad that we had it as a gauge, for it made us keep a record. Having it in writing was a phrase I’d been living by for years.

The plan was the seminal document that triggered the yearly activity. Its name changed a few times over the years but stayed much the same. All the usual goals on how USIS could support security, politics, and economics were proposed and accepted without much discussion. At the meeting, when Mr. Gilner asked for suggestions for specific themes, I sparked up. What about social justice in America for women and minorities? With a half-smile that made me think of John F. Kennedy, Jay nodded that it was a winning idea, leading the others to get on board and cheer too. I felt as if I’d saved the day!

Later though I thought, That was too easy. Didn’t those men know what had happened and was happening in the US? Apparently, not much, for more than one of them had been away while civil rights changes were going on. Not to discount what they were doing, for several of them had been in Eastern Europe, fighting the Cold War, but as good as they were in dealing with foreign publics, they didn’t seem to have much to say about minorities in America. I said to myself, if that’s all it takes, this career isn’t going to be that hard! I had initiated the theme in New Delhi; USIA Washington was already sending out materials to encourage the theme around the world from books and videos to two-foot-high photos on hard board with side panels for display.

By then, Rekha was settled into kindergarten and happy with the friends she had made. Far from shying away from the attention of being the new girl in class, she ran toward the wider world that the American embassy school opened up for her. For the school’s annual spring program with her class, she sang and danced to the children’s jig, Thorn Rosa, which was, of course, darling, but afterward, showing the fire in her nature that would become her avatar, she made waves by suggesting to her teacher that next time she hoped they could perform something funkier! An extrovert, she was happy at community gatherings, which made it easy for me when we were at such events. During that time, I was debating about whether to put Rekha in the embassy school’s first grade the following September or to enroll her into a local school.

Having taught in an up-and-coming Delhi school, I wanted my half-Indian daughter to have a similar type of learning and to be proud of her identity. The Indian education system seemed more serious than the negative image I had of American public schools. I had been fortunate to be educated in schools staffed by the Ursuline sisters. Another thing, if I registered her for first grade at AES, would she be able to complete the 1976 school year in Delhi since I was hoping to go to Bombay for my next assignment? The same question applied if she were to enroll in an Indian school in New Delhi, but I thought that, in that case, the transition to an Indian school in Bombay would be easier. At the time, I didn’t know that the Foreign Service took children and school transfers as seriously as I would find it did.

This tug over schools became a big issue as I got closer to transferring to Bombay; however, still early in my Delhi tour, I knuckled down to my duties. Continuing to feel strongly about Rekha being exposed to Indian culture, I soon enrolled her in a Bharatanatyam (traditional South Indian dance) class at the well-known Triveni Kala Sangam academy for Indian performing arts near the American Center. Getting the school to accept her wasn’t easy, for they doubted if an American youngster was up to their strict standards. The other foreigner, a Russian girl, was not only a good dance student and came from the land of the Bolshoi but was also fluent in Hindi. Nonetheless, persistence and being from the American embassy community paid off, and the school accepted Rekha. Ursula took her to class faithfully two afternoons a week.

One afternoon, however, Ursula came home crestfallen, and Rekha wasn’t her normal bouncy self. It turned out that our little artist had done the unthinkable: