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I was so proud of these girls, I could hardly contain myself. I glanced back at Rita and she nodded at me, indicating “Pretty good, aren’t they?” The parents and community screamed their approval; most were in tears.

After the performance, Edson spoke about the production of the play and his excitement about the girls’ creativity. Fio followed. Then Rita. Then me. Then a cluster of girls approached Fio. “They want to say something, too,” he said.

“How could we think these girls would let such an opportunity pass?” I heard one parent say to one of the teachers. They both laughed. One by one, various girls took their place center stage, some shy, others prancing, and each told how much her teachers, the program, and her new friends meant to her life.

Lastly, Nina (at eight years old the youngest girl, small and full of exuberance) took the stage. A natural performer, she thanked her teachers, Rita, and the program for teaching her to read, and also she told us, “I really like art.” She held up a string of carnival beads we had been exchanging as symbols of friendship and said, “I want to thank the person whose support and kindness has made it possible for me to study and learn.” She walked to the front row and hung the beads around her mother’s neck. The audience cheered.

Rita, Fio, and I were standing at the back. Fio and Rita exchanged a meaningful glance. “She’s not her mother,” Fio said to me quietly. “Her mother died when she was very young, so her father took her to live with his father and then left. The grandfather had a young girlfriend at the time. The grandfather has since died and this woman is the girlfriend. She kind of got stuck with a child that had nothing to do with her.”

“Nina’s very fearful she’ll leave her,” Rita said. “Like everyone else in her life.”

A few days later, Rita, Fio, and I were sharing our usual evening beer and sandwiches at Nelson’s bar.

“Where was Christina?” I asked biting into my hot cheese and meat roll.

“You didn’t tell her?” Fio asked Rita.

I put down my sandwich. “What?”

Rita sighed. “Christina’s mother brought her in last week. Christina was all beat up. Her mother was dragging her by the hand. She pushed her in front of us. ‘What are you going to tell them?’ she said to Christina. Christina looked at the floor and then said in a very low voice, ‘I want to leave Bahia Street. I don’t like it anymore.’”

“What!?”

“Yeah,” Fio said. “We couldn’t do anything. Her mother’s not going to let her come back.”

“We did manage to get her into a room next door with the door shut for a minute,” Rita said. “We told her that she could come back anytime, that Bahia Street would always be open for her.”

“We told her we loved her,” Fio said.

We sat in silence.

“She created a lot of the play that the other girls performed without her,” Fio said. “Her mother wouldn’t even let her come to that.” He idly folded his napkin into a small square. “She’s one I wish I could adopt,” he said.

“At least Christina can now read, she passed the sixth grade,” Rita said. “She understands about contraception and has more awareness of the world around her. But…” She lapsed into silence again. After a few moments, she said, “It’s things like this that make doing Bahia Street so hard.”

To a Mailing List of 560: May 12, 2003

Dear All,

Each year, Bahia Street grows stronger and more effective. With forty (!) girls this year, the price per girl is actually decreasing.

The building we had been renting was too small, so Rita moved the entire operation a block down the street to a larger building. It has space for two classrooms, a lunchroom, and an arts room. It is also much better ventilated than the last building. Salvador, as most of you know, is very hot, and the other building was often so stifling that study became impossible. We are still working to buy our own building. A building of our own would allow Bahia Street in Brazil to generate its own income and give security in so many ways.