Dance Lest We All Fall Down - Margaret Willson [96]
For those of you who are contributing directly to Bahia Street, in whatever way you can, it is hard to say how much this means. Thatcher Bailey, one of the people who made an AIDS hospice in Seattle possible, once wrote me an inspirational letter in which he explained that in this materialist society, we have an uncomfortable relationship with money, consumption, and greed. Through giving, we are literally transforming money into love. I didn’t understand the truth of what he was saying at the beginning when we started Bahia Street, but I do now. Bahia Street is growing, and with it a love that unites people of different nations, classes, genders, and races. This includes all of us. Together we are making an important change.
Best of thoughts e abraços,
Margaret
twenty-one
tall poppy
“Bahia Street,” I answered the phone.
“Hello. Do you speak Portuguese?” a woman asked in Portuguese. “Yes.”
“Oh, how wonderful. Are you Brazilian?”
“No, no, but I lived there for some time. Can I help you?”
“I was wondering if I could volunteer.”
“We do take volunteers here in Seattle. What can you do?”
“I can do computers. But I live in North Bend.” North Bend is a small town inland from Seattle, about forty minutes from the University District and the Bahia Street office. “And I don’t have a car. Could I meet with someone here, do something here?”
I was silent. Public transportation from North Bend to Seattle was terrible. And I had been getting numerous calls lately from Brazilian women, none of whom could speak English, who had good computer skills, and who, at first glance, just wanted to do something for company. As I listened to them, however, I had begun to notice a darker trend. I suspected this was a similar situation. “Why are you in Seattle?” I asked her.
“I’m here with my husband.”
“Your husband is Brazilian?”
“No. He’s American.” She sighed. “It’s terrible. Oh, it’s so good to speak Portuguese! I met John on the Internet. He seemed lovely. He came to visit me in Brazil a few times, and then he asked me to come here to live with him in the United States.”
“To North Bend?”
“I didn’t know what it’d be like! I’d never been to the States. I thought it was going to be beautiful. But it rains here all the time. I don’t know anyone. I’m here alone all day. I have nothing to do, no one to talk to. I feel so alone. I’m so bored I could die!”
“Are you taking English classes?”
“John doesn’t want me to. He says I should study it at home. He says he’s tired when he gets home and doesn’t want to drive me around to classes.”
“How about getting a driver’s license yourself?”
“I asked John about that, too. But I don’t know how to drive. He says he doesn’t like the idea of me being out on the road by myself. He says he likes me being home.”
“Are there places you can walk around there?”
“I tried, but there isn’t anything! We’re way out in this suburb. Any stores are a long way away. And no one is in the streets. I can’t talk with anyone.” She began to cry. “Why did I come here? I just want to go home. I want to be with my family. I thought John was nice, and that we could have a good life here, but he’s so controlling. He’s worse than Brazilian men. He doesn’t want me to do anything. Finally, after I begged him for months, he got me a computer. I spend all day on it. That’s how I found Bahia Street. Oh, it’s so good to talk with you!”
“Do you know any Brazilians here?”
“No. How am I supposed to meet anyone? I can’t get out. I feel trapped, as though I’m in prison. I just want to go home!”
I sat back in my chair and rubbed my forehead. What was going on? Why was I getting so many calls like this? I must have received at least six or seven in the last couple of months. Women coming over as Internet brides and then being made into virtual slaves for American men who had no accountability about how they treated them.
“Has John hit you?” I asked. Silence. “You can get