On April 5th an impressive community gathered in Portland, Oregon at the invitation of two long time supporters of Anansi, Pam Crow and Gaby Donnell. The friends came to learn about our organization, to hear poetry read and to raise funds for our cause. Ellen Goldberg, a published poet, also donated her time and one of her books. The images and stories written in various poetic form, read by both Pam and Ellen, often moved the audience to a collective audible gasp when a different view or understanding or simple recognition of a truth was presented with the such beauty and power.
While many people used the excuse that it was Easter Sunday not to attend, the introductory remarks of Ellen focused on the perfection of combining the beliefs celebrated by the Easter Holiday and Passover with the efforts to raise funds for Anansi. Ellen’s words, as well as those of Gaby, describing her and Pam’s history with the Roe family set the stage for a very moving evening.
Kathryn Roe, founder of Anansi, spoke briefly and answered questions from the audience while slides of our students, their homes and schools in Ghana as well as images of their wider community scrolled overhead.
There was a suggested donation at the door and then an explanation from Pam as to why, of all the different organizations that do good in the world, that she chooses to donate to Anansi. It was fundamentally the personal connection with Kathryn and her knowing that the majority of the donated money directly benefits the students. With Anansi having only one paid employee in Ghana, the administrative expenses relative to that of other organizations is unique.
In one and a half hours $3200.00 dollars was raised by about 75 people. It really is surprising what a few people with big hearts can do.
Images of the evening are shown below and a poem from each of our authors represents the quality of their work and the gathering.
A poem from Ellen Goldberg:
Redemption in the Year of Inert Gasses
It was May and I was failing.
Still, xenon, neon and argon appealed to me.
They lit up a grocery storefront
in the deserted neighborhood
of the periodic table
where it was always midnight,
and the streetlamps had been shot out,
and I’d been dropped off alone,
my thin coat of brains no match for the cold.
The teacher, Mrs. Mishalove,
took pity, gave me a string to hang
in a liquid she’d stirred something into,
not bothering to explain. By the next day,
a stack of clear shiny wafers had crawled
up the string. When I tasted one,
the body of the lord of salt, I knew that
making solid tears would be my project,
and might earn the precious credit I needed.
I guessed that while growing crystals
I had wandered into another class,
the one on weeping—where
I would be happier.
A poem from Pam Crow:
Memorial Garden
You worship in the dirt,
on your knees with a trowel
in your hand. You push
seeds into the earth, slowly,
the way hard truths push
into our hearts, take root there,
pressing the walls larger
to let more light in.
You tell me you don’t know
any God, but what of this
conversation with flowers?
Bee Balm, Love in the Mist
whisper to lavender and pansies
yearly we return.
Here, too, is what we wish
we could control: aphids black
on the slender necks of roses,
silver gleams where slugs pass
munching the sweetest stems
right down to the ground.
When so many are gone
I think this is the place to be-
dividing, planting,
making room.
