Dance Lest We All Fall Down - Margaret Willson [131]
All this disruption has impeded the running of the Center. Several girls contacted Rita and said that although they would not be going to public school and were protesting, they wanted to come to the Center. Rita told them not to as they would have to walk (for many a walk of about five to ten miles each way). She worried about them wandering alone in unfamiliar neighborhoods with all the police and other activity. So the Center, like the public schools, has only been running on nonprotest days.
When I heard all this, I became confused and asked Rita what in the world she was doing there.
“I just needed to get some things done,” she said. “So I came in.”
“From your home? How did you get there?”
“I walked.”
“But Rita, that is almost ten miles or something.”
Rita laughed. “Well, I’ll get fit and skinny.”
I told her she was too dedicated.
On a bike ride recently arranged by one of our Bahia Street volunteers, I met Karima. Karima is Moroccan-French, speaks several languages (Spanish, French, English, Arabic, German, and Albanian—and she is already picking up Portuguese) and has extensive experience working with international non-profits in social justice. So, Bahia Street is lucky enough to have her now working with us. The timing could hardly be better; we are growing and need someone with this kind of experience. So, I welcome her to Bahia Street and look forward to you meeting her at our next event.
As I finish this, I am listening to Mongolian music that I collected some years ago in Inner Mongolia. It is a saudade kind of music, resonating well with the hollow thumps and slaps the wind carries off the water and under the dock here, offset by the quiet and warmth of a single lamp inside the office. My best to all of you. May this change of season bring you curious noses and intimacy.
um abraço,
Margaret
twenty-eight
heartbreak
“Did you know that the building would have to be rebuilt when you bought it?” James, one of my U.S. board members, asked.
“No.” I could hardly believe this was happening. I had no idea what to do.
At the time we bought the building, the Bahia Street Board in the States consisted of five people: Joyce, by then my longest serving board member; Almuht, a sharp-minded realtor and leading member of the Brazilian community; Henry, a Rotarian and lawyer who had, pro bono, spent hours rewriting our by-laws and making sure our legal papers were in order; Mo, a general contractor and guitarist who also worked with “at-risk” young people; and James, a fairly new addition to the board, whom I had asked to join because he had strong local business ties and a good head for business methods. I liked them all. Some of them were my closest friends in Seattle. They had always given me good advice and support. I had never been political or “strategic” with my board, but had always told them my straight thoughts or reactions. Too late I realized this was a huge mistake, that being on a board was always political, no matter how much one might like its members. I had not allowed for the obvious fact that the board had never had the experiences in Brazil or the history there that I had.
I had just told the Board that we would not be refurbishing the building in Salvador; we would be rebuilding it. That this included demolition and would likely take at least a year.
“Did Rita know this?”
“No. But she understands how Bahia works. I don’t think it makes so much difference to her. We have the building, that’s the most important part. Now we just make it work for us.”
“But this is going to take much more money than we have,” Joyce said.
“They say no, that they can do something reasonable with what we already have.”
“And how are