Missionary Kid: Born in India, Bound for America

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My desire to write my memoir — what life was like for me as a child growing up in India in the mid-1900s as the daughter of missionaries — goes back to 1999, the year I retired. I thought it would be a good retirement project to do to keep me pleasantly occupied. To get myself started off on the right foot, I took a class to learn the craft of writing. During those early retirement years, I was quite productive and wrote several stories about my childhood. I also spent a great deal of time reading the letters I had written to my parents from the boarding school where I was getting an education. Thankfully, they had saved those letters and eventually returned them to me. Excerpts from those letters, as well as the stories I had already written, appear in this memoir. My own diaries, my parents’ diaries, my father’s memoir, and other letters written between my parents and relatives also proved to be valuable resources for me. Along with some of my recently written reflections and musings, I now, after 15 years, have all the pieces and have put them together to capture my childhood years in written and pictorial form.

I have been honest in telling my story in my own voice, and I hope you will find it an engaging reading experience!

Three-year-old me

Travel routes, by year, of the Essebaggers family

Being an MK

Daddy, who dug the hole for the ocean? I asked, as I sat perched on the ship’s railing, securely encircled by my father’s arms. I was awed by the vast expanse of water we were looking at. It was the Arabian Sea. I was five years old and had lived in India all of my young life. The largest body of water I had ever seen was a talaab — a hand-dug lake which caught the rainwater during the monsoons and served as the water supply for the local villagers. In response to my innocent question, my father chuckled and explained,

People didn’t dig the hole for the ocean, dear. God made the ocean! And our ship is going to take us across it to America.

Then my father prompted me, And who are we going to see in America?

I knew the answer, because we had talked about it many times. With confidence and excitement, I answered,

Grandma and Grandpa and my cousins!

It was 1942. I was oblivious to the fact that World War II was in progress and that the Japanese were threatening to invade India. I was not aware of the gravity of the situation, nor could I anticipate the perils of crossing the Atlantic in wartime. All I knew was that I was on a big ship and that I was going to America. It was all very exciting!

This 1942 trans-Atlantic voyage was just one of the many adventures in my life as an MK — an acronym we Missionary Kids coined for ourselves. We didn’t ask to be MKs, but that was who we were — because our parents were missionaries!

What are missionaries?

In the 1930s, when my parents’ story begins, there was what could be called a missionary movement in developed countries. Christians were being called to third-world countries to carry on religious and/or humanitarian work. Being called meant being chosen by God, either through a religious experience or by way of a person’s own strong conviction and desire to do God’s work. What kind of work was it? Simply put, it was service work such as education, social justice, literacy, and healthcare, with the added element of evangelism to spread the Word of God.

A little history

Historically, Christian Catholic missionaries started their migrations from the Middle East to India as far back as the first century AD. It wasn’t until the 18th century, however, that Protestant missionaries came to India. Most of them came from Germany, Sweden, Denmark, England, and the United States. By the time my parents, who were Protestants, came to India in 1935, the mission field in that and other parts of India was already well-established. Schools, churches, hospitals, and dwellings had been built by the earlier missionaries. The facilities, though operated and overseen by the foreign missionaries, were staffed by Indian teachers, pastors, and healthcare workers, all of them educated in Indian and/or Christian institutions of learning, and most of them Christians themselves. When my parents arrived in India, there was a community of American missionaries there to welcome them, to orient them to the job(s) to be done, and to help acclimate them to the way of life in India. Thus, they were not pioneers by any means — yet, it was an entirely new way of life for them.

The British influence

In 1935, when my parents traveled to India, the country had been under British rule for more than a century. The British tenants had established a distinct lifestyle for themselves, and they ruled by precedence and class. They lived in compounds — expansive bungalows and beautiful gardens closed off from the local villages by encircling walls. They employed Indians as servants. They sent their children to boarding schools in England or Switzerland for their education. Over time, and certainly many years before my parents arrived, the foreign missionaries in India had adopted this same privileged lifestyle. Even after India won its independence from Great Britain in 1947, the missionaries maintained this way of living for another two decades. Everyone, Indians and foreigners alike, had become acclimated. Growing up in this environment of privilege was thus accepted as the norm by the children of the missionaries. I will relate how I experienced this way of life in my own childhood, including what it was like to go away to boarding school.

Throughout my time in India, I was acutely aware that I was an American citizen. My birth certificate is a document with a raised seal of the American Consulate in India and states that I am born of American citizens abroad at the time. I envisioned America as the mecca, the land of milk and honey, and all things wonderful and exciting. It was the place where my relatives lived and the place where I would eventually be going to college. There was never a question of an MK not going to college!

I am one of the last

Religious proselytizing was banned in India soon after it won its independence in 1947. Thus, missionaries were no longer welcome, and Indians took over their work. So, we MKs are now a dying breed, so to speak. Each one of us from that time, no doubt, has a unique story to tell about what life was like in India. This is my story alone, and, although some MKs reading this may recognize themselves in my memories, it reflects only my impressions and remembered experiences.

In order to tell the story of my life in India, I must start from the beginning — how my parents, Ted and Helen, came to be missionaries in this faraway country of startling contrasts and amazing adventures.

My Parents’ Story

As a child, I didn’t know much about how my parents met or what brought them to India — nor was I very curious about it. In my later years, I took an avid interest in researching my own genealogy. My parents’ letters, diaries, and my father’s memoir were invaluable resources for me. I was thereby able to unravel the circumstances under which my parents met, married, and subsequently traveled to India.

The following is what I have pieced together about my parents, Ted and Helen.

Ted

By the time Theodore Essebaggers was commissioned to India in 1935, he had already set a course for himself which had taken him out of the community he grew up in. Born in 1902, he was the fourth of eight children born to Isaac and Kate (Olthof) Essebaggers. His parents, both of Dutch heritage, raised the children as Protestant Christians in the conservative Dutch Reformed Church of Muskegon, Michigan. My father was named Tidde after his maternal grandfather. As far as I know, he was the only one of the children given a Dutch name. It was one of the things that set him apart from his siblings. Whether he was called Tidde at home, I don’t know. What I do know is that he always used the Americanized version of his name: Theodore, with the nickname of Ted.

Another thing that set Ted apart from his siblings was that he was the only one to go on to college after high school. He enrolled at Hope College in nearby Holland, Michigan. It was a Dutch Reformed church-related college. Along with many of his classmates who were preparing to enter the ministry, Ted knew he wanted to enter into church work.

In 1926, after graduating from Hope College, Ted had an opportunity to go to Basra, Iraq, to teach in a mission boys’ school for three years. He enthusiastically accepted. He was a young man of 23. He said his goodbyes to his college sweetheart and fiancee, Cornelia, and sailed across the ocean to the Middle East. Cornelia said she was willing to wait for him, and they wrote letters back and forth. But after some time had gone by, Ted’s ardor for her waned, and he realized he was no longer in love with her. In a poignant letter to Cornelia, he broke off the engagement just before returning to America. He also wrote apologetic letters to both sets of parents.

Putting matters of the heart aside, Ted realized his experience in Iraq had solidified his zeal to go into the ministry. In 1929, he traveled to New York City and enrolled at The Biblical Seminary. It was here that Ted became friends with another student, Homer Shafer, whose home state was also Michigan. Perhaps both being Michiganders was what brought Homer and Ted together initially. In any case, it was a friendship which would play a significant role in my eventual existence.

Helen

In the summer of 1931, with two years of seminary under his belt, Homer drove home to Grosse Ile, Michigan, in his Ford, with Ted as his passenger. It was a way for Ted to get halfway to his own home in Muskegon, Michigan. Just over the river from Grosse Ile was Detroit, from where he could take the train the rest of the way. While he was in Grosse Ile for that brief interlude, Ted met Homer’s family members, including Homer’s older sister, Helen. Recently engaged, she was preoccupied with her heart-throb, Mac. She was seeing him frequently because she knew their relationship would soon be turning into a long-distance one. She had decided to go to Normal School, a teacher’s college, in New York. At 25, and the oldest of four children, Helen had spent her teen and adult years shouldering the domestic chores in the family household on Grosse Ile. She knew that if she was ever to get a secondary education, she had to make a break from the life she led there — even if it meant being away from Mac for a while. And that is what she did.

At the end of the summer, Helen, her sister, Marion, and another single woman friend drove themselves to Newburgh, New York, where the young ladies found an apartment to share. The sisters anticipated seeing their brother Homer on weekends. It was only about 40 miles to New York City. Helen enrolled in the school in nearby New Paltz, a yearlong course of study. She rented a room to stay in during the week while she attended classes. On weekends, she joined her sister and girlfriend in the Newburgh apartment.

After heartbreak . . . new love!

Classes at the seminary started again in the Fall, and, on occasional weekends, Homer drove from New York City to Newburgh to see his sisters. On one of those visits, he took along his seminary friend, Ted. This time, Ted and Helen exchanged more than just pleasantries. The long-distance romance between Helen and Mac had cooled off — on Mac’s part. He had broken off the engagement about a month after Helen’s departure, leaving her heartbroken. But, it turns out, not for long, for soon Ted was showing interest in her, and she in him. Ted’s visits to Newburgh grew more frequent, and he now traveled by himself on the train rather than tagging along with Homer in his car. There was an evident chemistry between Ted and Helen, and Ted wasted no time in putting an engagement ring on Helen’s finger. It was March 22, 1932. On June 25, 1932, just six months after they had met for the second time, they were saying their marriage vows. Ted was 29 years old, Helen, 26.

Ted and Helen’s adventure begins

By the time of their marriage, both Ted and Helen had completed their respective programs of education. Having received his Bachelor of Divinity, Ted secured a pastorate at the small church in the Bronx where he had already served as an interim pastor. Helen sang in the choir and was active in the women’s circle. They immersed themselves in church work and earned the respect and affection of the congregation. They developed a circle of friends and had a social life. In the first year of their pastorate, on April 30, 1933, their first child, Dorothea Marie, was born. Life was good!

But Ted was not entirely content. Remembering his time in Iraq, he longed to serve the church in another capacity . . . by doing missionary work overseas. He applied to the Mission Board of the Reformed Church of America, with expectations that he and Helen might be sent to Arabia. But they were told there were no monies in the budget for a missionary position. The prospect of going to Arabia looked dismal.

It was not until Dorothea was two years old that the Rev. & Mrs. Essebaggers were informed there was an opening for them — not in Arabia and not with the Reformed Church but under the auspices of the Evangelical Synod of North America, in INDIA! India was a place where there was much work to be done in spreading the Word of God. Seeing this as the opportunity they had been waiting for, Ted and Helen accepted the call.

Off to India!

After saying their goodbyes to their parents and brothers and sisters — and all the friends they had made in the Bronx church — the small family sailed to India in 1935. I can only imagine the mixture of emotions that my parents must have experienced during that trip, anticipating the adventure of living in a foreign country, yet knowing they would not see their families again for seven years, the length of a term of service.

Their ship arrived in Bombay (now Mumbai) a few days before Christmas. Disembarking onto the bustling pier, the sights, sounds, and smells of India bombarded all their senses . . . people everywhere, coolies clamoring to be hired to carry luggage, crows cawing incessantly and seagulls screeching as they sought out bits of food and fish amidst the throngs . . . the blasting heat of the tropical noontime sun. I wonder how my mother, especially, must have felt as she stepped off the ship and onto Indian soil for the first time. Her prior travel experiences had been limited mostly to road trips within the United States. Marrying my father had opened up a whole new world to her!

Learning the ropes . . . and language

Many new experiences and lifestyle adjustments awaited the Essebaggers family. The first of these was to travel two days by train to Raipur, Central Provinces (now the State of Chattisgharh). Raipur was the headquarters of the Evangelical & Reformed Church mission field. Here, they were warmly welcomed by some of the resident missionaries. And here, they stayed for their first few days of orientation and acclimation to India. But it would be some time yet before they reached their final destination — a place they could call home.

They learned that the mission field encompassed several other satellite towns — towns more like villages — not like the busy railroad junction that Raipur was. Towns with names like Tilda, Bisrampur, Baitalpur, Karballa, Khariar, Mahasamund. Remote towns that were out on the plains and could only be reached by a one-day train ride or by car on dusty, pot-holed dirt roads.

My parents and sister, Dorothea Marie (Dorth, for short), were shuttled around to several of these towns during those early times of their orientation to India and to missionary life. This allowed them to become acquainted with the missionaries stationed in those places and to see, firsthand, how they functioned in their jobs and the activities of daily living. It also facilitated adjusting to a new lifestyle and culture — one in which the local Indians respectfully addressed them as sahib (Mister) and memsahib (Missus). They observed that the missionary was the boss of the household with a staff of servants to oversee. The accepted premise was that, by having servants to carry out the daily chores, the missionary was freed up to do his or her church work. They learned that each household had many servants — servants to perform such duties as child care and cleaning the house (ayah), shopping and cooking the meals (khansama), taking care of the car and general handyman (chaprassi), planting and watering the garden (mali), guarding the house at night (chowkidar), laundryman (dhobi) and even someone to pull the rope to the large fan in the dining room during mealtimes (punkha walla). Most missionaries also employed a man for keeping the books. The latter job, that of bookkeeper, was considered, among the employees/servants, to be the loftiest, as only someone with an education in bookkeeping would be hired to keep the books for the sahib. The lowliest job, emptying and cleaning the bathroom pots, was carried out by one referred to as the sweeper (jamadar). My parents would eventually have their own household to run and would learn that servants were paid a nominal wage, which came out of their salary. It was the memsahib for the most part, who was in charge of the servants inside the house and the sahib who supervised the others. My mother would soon discover that her past experience with cooking, sewing, and running the Shafer’s household would serve her well in India. . . . but instead of having to do the work herself, she would be supervising someone else to do it.

During the first two years in the mission field, my parents were expected to learn to speak, read, and write Hindi, the native language of that part of India. Initially, they studied in their temporary quarters with a language teacher, a pundit — and later attended a language school for two years in Landour, a hill station in the foothills of the Himalayas. The first year in Landour, they lived in Zoar Cottage, a small stone house overlooking a deep valley, with a spectacular view of the snow-capped Himalaya mountain range. It was very early in their six-month sojourn in this lovely place that they learned my mother was pregnant.

My father’s first job