Dance Lest We All Fall Down - Margaret Willson [31]
“You don’t.”
“I’m strange.”
“An idealist, perhaps?”
“No. I was brought up too rough for idealism. Remember I grew up during the dictatorship, protesting, running, watching my friends get tortured and disappear. And now I see my friends and neighbors die of drugs and disease. Not an idealist. I’m a realist. And as a realist, I see that nothing will change unless we do it ourselves.”
“But what about the aid agencies, those working for development? All those programs for street kids?”
“Right.” The bitterness in Rita’s voice startled me. It was a tone I had never heard in her voice before. “So-called aid agencies teach the street kids they can become waiters, maybe, or show them how to draw. The churches sometimes give starving people food—on Easter. But that doesn’t change anything. The middle class doesn’t really want to change anything; they just want difficulties that hamper their lives, like being robbed or mugged, to go away. So, they set up their little ‘charitable’ organizations, telling the poor what is best for them, never asking for suggestions. God forbid they would ever actually ask someone from a shantytown to advise them! And the poor people detest them and steal whatever they can. The overseas ones are even worse. They mostly bring in foreigners who have no idea what’s going on and often cause more harm than good.”
“But surely local people start their own groups, don’t they?”
“Some.” Rita refilled our glasses. “In case you haven’t noticed, Brazilians aren’t a particularly philanthropic people. Nearly all the grassroots groups are started and run by women in the shantytowns. But they don’t know anything about accounts or legal contracts or that kind of thing. And the middle class isn’t going to give them any support, let alone money. And if they get any money, someone who works for them generally steals it. So they start with good ideas and then collapse.”
I swirled the beer in my glass and wondered if my next comment was smart considering I was now completely dependent upon Rita for her connections and insights with my research. I said it anyway. “So, Rita, since you seem so clear-eyed on this, why don’t you start your own nonprofit? Work directly for social change?”
“I already do it with my photography, and with the stuff I do in the neighborhood. But…” She stopped speaking and watched a couple walking by, the girl about twelve, the man in his forties. “The prostitution here gets worse by the day,” she said. “Her mother’s probably at home waiting for that girl’s money.” She sat silent again. “I suppose,” she finally said, “that even with all my education, I really don’t know how to do that myself. I would have to have someone with me, a group perhaps, but one that wasn’t middle-class, but knew the legalities. A group that maintained a power with the people being served, the people in my neighborhood, but with a structure that protected the group’s interests.” She laughed. “So, now I am being idealist. You were right, I’m an idealist. You’d think I’d learn by now.”
“Not an idealist, Rita. A realist.” I leaned forward in my metal folding chair. “You know, Rita, you’re a determined person. I think if you really wanted to put together a group just as you describe, with all your knowledge and connections, you could do it.”
Rita looked at me a moment and waved her arm at Nelson, the waiter, who stood behind the bar chatting with a friend. “So I’m an idealist and you’re an optimist. A great pair. Another bottle, a final one for going home, shall we?”
I laughed and drained my glass.
One day, not many days later, I found my orixá.
No, Agnaldo helped me recognize my orixá.
He invited me to the small windowless room of the