Dance Lest We All Fall Down - Margaret Willson [68]
I looked at the lime, now encased in ice cubes. “That’s true, I suppose, but I still don’t feel very good about it.”
“Margaret, I have lots of money. You know that. Each year I put aside a certain percentage of my investment interest to give to charity. My trust lawyer tells me how much I have to give, and I decide where I want it to go. I generally give it to big groups that have a good reputation, like Oxfam. But your project, because I know you, I know that nearly all of the money I give you will go toward the project itself. You know the people and the area where you’re working, and you have integrity. For me, that’s a good choice and a good investment.” He smiled. “And your project is so small I know that what I give you will make a big difference. Giving the same amount to Oxfam is only a drop in their very large budget.”
“This means we can add a second girl right now, you realize that?”
“Use it as you think best. In a year, let’s see where you are. I could make this an annual thing.”
I stiffened my lips to keep them from trembling. After a few moments I spoke.
“You know, Alex, this money—you’re right, it will make a huge difference, and I very much appreciate it.” I looked at him and looked away. “But what that money represents—your support, the confidence you’re showing for this daunting idea—that perhaps means more than the actual funds.”
“I know that.” Alex gave me a small, smug smile. “But the money’s good too.”
“You are also a very annoying human being.”
“Thank you.”
A few days later, Alex and his wife, Susie, invited me to a party in a small town outside London. At the party, a very attractive man, with whom I thought I had been flirting, asked me about Bahia Street. I went into some detail.
He looked at me, in my black outfit, which I thought looked rather slinky, and said, “Oh, so you must be a nun, then?”
I walked away and quickly drank two scotches. What was happening to my identity? I was a vagabond, the antithesis of a nun. I walked around the party, stared into the large outside bonfire. Why was I doing this? To be my own boss, to have people look up to me? To push away those demons of hopelessness that visited with the news each morning?
I wandered into the house and saw another cute guy. I asked him to dance. He told me he lived in Italy. We began to dance, and I forgot all about Bahia Street. At least he could flirt. And he clearly didn’t mistake me for a nun.
To a Mailing List of 25: March 25, 1998
Dear Donors,
It is strange how opening my mailbox has taken on new meaning. I find I am excited to get mail for Bahia Street. Does this sound corny? Even the bills, the letters from the IRS, the city telling us they require a business license (costing $75!)—all of this somehow reaffirms the legitimacy of Bahia Street. We are an organization and we are growing.
So, here are some highlights of what has happened in the last two months: Donations: People have given or pledged $6,875 new donations since January, coming from people as far afield (to Seattle, not far afield to themselves of course) as London and Amsterdam. The generosity of these people, together with those of you who have given previously, means that we can fund the schooling for a second girl, Patricia. Thank you.
I am commuting each week to a teaching job in Portland, so if I take several days to respond to phone calls, please do not take this personally. I shall be finished in early May and will then be able to devote all my energy to Bahia Street for the summer.
In closing I wish to tell you about the telephone conversation I had last night with Rita (who, like me, is currently volunteering her time). She said that when the first month’s vouchers for books, uniforms, and transportation arrived, Patricia and her aunt both burst into tears. Until then they never really believed this opportunity