• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

Rita nodded slowly. “Keeping the funders overseas would help keep their noses out of the daily working of the project.”

“Maybe. Actually, as I think of it, I might be able to set up a nonprofit in England, too. They would, again, be completely separate. Then the project here would not be dependent on any single group. It would have its autonomy. The project would really be the center of the organization, even though the organization would be international.”

“Sounds good,” Rita said. “So you do that part. It excites you, doesn’t it?”

I laughed and looked into my empty glass. “It’s ideas. I like the creativity of it. But you’d have to set up the nonprofit here.”

“With your help,” Rita said. “I don’t want to be alone on this.”

“You know, Rita,” I said slowly. “As much as I would like to, I really can’t be the person doing the project here. I’m white, middle-class, foreign–First World even. If I do the project, it won’t change anything. It will just reinforce the usual patronage system we know: whites holding power, whites teaching browns. I can think I’m different, I can make links, have understanding that others don’t, but I can’t change who I am. I can assist with on-the-ground change, but if I actually do it, then it’s not really change. Not at a deep level.”

We sat silent for some time. Then Rita sighed. “You are different, which is exactly why you understand this.”

“So you have to be the director,” I said.

Rita shoved her warm beer aside. “But I don’t know how to do that. You know better that kind of thing than I do.”

“Maybe.” I poured her warm beer into the gutter and refilled it. Across the street, two men walking together started to laugh. One tugged at the other’s backpack, an action that for some reason made them only laugh harder. They stopped walking, and still giggling, they wiped the tears of laughter from their eyes. “You know how to make it work,” I said, still watching the men. “How to get people’s support here.”

“You know how to write grants.”

“I hate writing grants.”

“And I hate administration. I have no idea about budgets. Do we really want to do this?”

“Every project has its boring bits.”

“Yeah, but it means you’ll have to stay in the States. You’ll have to find the money.” I looked into my beer. A fly had drowned in it. Rita took the beer and poured it out for me.

“I can try living in the States,” I said. “I think I can handle it if I know I have a reason for leaving on a regular basis, if I have strong connections outside. My friends in London have good connections for money. I could ask them to get involved too. Then I’d have to visit Britain regularly as well as Brazil!”

Rita shook her head. “Start a nonprofit so you can continue to be a vagabond.”

“Sort of.” I leaned back in the metal folding chair; it was cool along the top of my back. A solitary man now sat on the curb where the men before had stood laughing. “So, what do we do?” I asked. “Just start talking with people and see what they say?”

“Sounds like a plan to me. And then see what happens.” Rita poured the dregs of the bottle into our cups and signaled to Nelson that we were ready to pay the bill. “And think about your infrastructure. I’ll probably have to keep my cell phone, won’t I?”

I laughed. We stood and pulled grubby notes from our pockets. Rita gathered the money together and waved it at Nelson. “Nelson!” she shouted. “Here. See you tomorrow!” Nelson nodded and came over to take the bills.

Rita and I walked along the narrow sidewalk that still emanated warmth from the heat of the day. We joined the crowd at the nearest bus stop and, together with the others, hugged the building as the buses came close to the curb. We all watched for the names at the front of the buses, waiting for the one that would take us home.

Rita and I talked with group after group of people. Everyone was in a festive mood getting ready for the Christmas holidays. They all said they wanted education. Everyone thought that if they could have