Dance Lest We All Fall Down - Margaret Willson [100]
“We’ll send the letter,” Helen said. “And I’d screen my calls.” I nodded. “Just don’t engage her. Hopefully, the whole thing will die away. You’ll lose some support, but I don’t think there’s much you can do about that now.”
“Margaret,” Joyce said. “You know these claims are crazy. We know it. Just keep doing what you’re doing. The person who wrote this letter has a lot of other issues; she must be in pain. You’re the tall poppy, daring to stick your head above the others. That’s always dangerous. People notice you, winds buffet you. Let’s just go on. In time, people will forget.”
As the weeks went by after this letter and the several exchanges that followed, I watched for the fallout for Bahia Street. It appeared that everyone in the Brazilian community, or associated with it, had received a copy of the e-mail. We had an event for Bahia Street soon after; it had always been well-attended by Brazilians in previous years. This year was a disaster—almost no one came.
I opened my e-mail during this period to see a message from Rita. “Call me,” it read. She included a friend’s phone number and a preferred time to ring. I wondered whose Internet she was using. Perhaps an Internet cafe?
I dialed the phone with trepidation. After some deliberation, I’d sent her a copy of the letter. I decided that she had as much right to read it as I did.
“I sent her a reply,” Rita said when she answered the phone. “She insulted me more than you. She never even mentioned me. It’s as if I had nothing to do with Bahia Street. She acts as if you did the whole thing; you thought up the name, you designed the program. She just forgot about me. She’s the racist, assuming that, of course, the African-Brazilian doesn’t have any real power. Or worse, maybe she really never noticed my name. Probably the only black person she ever met in Brazil was her maid.”
“You sent out a letter, Rita? Did you write this in it? To whom?”
“To everyone.”
“What do you mean everyone?”
“I just cut and passed her address list. Everyone who received her letter has now received mine.”
My heart sank. “Do you think that was a good idea, Rita? It might just make her angrier.”
Rita laughed. “We shall see,” she said. “If she doesn’t like Bahia
Street, she should come down and talk with me sometime.”
“Did you talk with your board, or a lawyer or anything?”
“Of course not. I was too angry.” She paused. “Bahia Street is a fight, just like life. No shallow, inconsequential idiot is going to damage this work I’ve done.”
“You didn’t write that, did you?”
“Oh, I don’t remember. I’m sure I gave her something to think about.”
I decided not to tell my board about her letter unless I had to. But a part of me quietly exulted. African-Brazilian Rita from Bahia could credibly say things in defense of Bahia Street that I never could. Since I wasn’t on the mailing list, I never received her letter. Oh well, I thought. Probably better I don’t know.
twenty-two
a shadowed color of shade
On top of all this, Eduardo had decided to leave the board. He said he was leaving because his music business was taking so much of his time. He was becoming successful, and he and his wife were managing his music as a business. He was starting to teach in the local schools. And he had a child. I could hardly fault him, but his departure made me feel alone.
About two weeks later, early one Saturday morning, I was walking home from the local store, carrying a sack of milk and other breakfast groceries. Despite the early hour, Wilson was already working on a car. An old classic Cadillac, its front windows broken and covered with plastic; it hadn’t moved in six months. For all I knew, it didn’t have an engine. He’d had his head stuck underneath the hood when I’d passed on my way to the store. As I approached now, I thought I heard the motor cough and then purr. Wilson stared at it in deep concentration, a screwdriver