The black in me...

I'm struggling. I have found that I am offended by comments made but some public figures and for some reason that makes me petty. Steve Hofmeyer pulled the Kaffir card and i suppose my blogging about it makes me an accessory to his rubbish but it bothers me.

People have told me repeatedly that it doesn't matter. "who cares?" they say "Its Steve fucking Hofmeyer" but think about this: if you walk into a room and someone you don't know and don't particularly care for is telling their friends how incredibly lame and insignificant you are...would you be less offended just because you dont know them or their friends?

My boss asked: "So what if he is racist? Isn't that his right?" and I don't know the answer to that. All I know is that when someone says Kaffir, I know where the word is coming from, and it bothers me that there are people walking around with that kind of darkness...still...in 2011.

Some white people say: "disarm the word, all it means is Athiest" but i am afraid it is not that simple. So I'm sorry, but the black in me...the part of me that listened to Horror stories told by my parents and grandparents told of being rediculed and abused. The part of me that listens quietly and bites my tongue when I am told that I speak so well for a black. The part of me that revel in my achievements because I know i worked hard and they weren't handed to me on account of my past...that part of me is unable to accept that someone can use the word Kaffir to prove a point.

As black people, we are taught from birth to be humble and graceful and Mr Nelson Mandela made sure that we stayed true to those teachings. WE FORGAVE. So it is not fair that that word is thrown in our faces when someone is looking for attention.

The Colour-Bar

I’d like to kick start this article by stating for the record that I am not racist. Some of my favourite people are white or of white descent. I am able to watch and enjoy British Comedy and sometimes even bellow with laughter. Having said that, I feel that it is my civic duty to ask “What the hell is going on?!”

The year was 2005, I was enjoying a cigarette with a friend and a young man who we didn’t know but who had asked to share our cigarette. As we engaged in student small talk a young, white woman, about our age, came walking past. From her frazzled hair and the untrimmed toenails on her filthy bare feet, one would have assumed (as I did) that she was homeless, or on drugs, or both. As we quietly shifted in the pungent odour which followed her, the young stranger we were with took a puff of his/our cigarette and chuckled “Don’t do drugs kids”, the three of us shared a good laugh and just as I was about to make a mental note of his wit and comical timing he sighed “Well at least she’s white so I would do her”. The rest of the conversation is a blur though I do remember a lot of profanity and hand gestures from my friend and myself. This could be considered one idiots opinion in the land of milk and honey, however the reason that this incident bothered me so much is because of the sheer honesty of it!

Five years later I found this scene to be on repeat in my mind for some or other reason. So I conducted some self funded research. I asked ten young men to describe what their ideal woman looks like. The words “light, petite” and “long, straight hair” were thrown around. I assumed they were describing a woman of Chinese descent when the phrase “fat ass” kept popping up. I realised they were describing a white black woman. These gentlemen could not stress the “Light” feature enough. Some even went so far as to use the word yellow. REALLY?! Has the scar tissue of the Apartheid regime managed to infiltrate even the youngest of our generations? Have we been so heavily indoctrinated that we wonder the streets with a mental colour bar against which we measure the worthiness/desirability of our, dare I say it, brothers and sisters?

Now, I’m a child of the 80’s so you can’t tell me squat. I was born in the height of Apartheid, I grew up during its down fall and I became conscious at a time when the name of the game was “who can make the most heart wrenching post Apartheid movie”. So I am tired...no, exhausted by the subject and that is why I am so incredibly annoyed. I am annoyed by the national state of post traumatic stress that blankets my people and is conveniently ignored. I am annoyed at the “Yes baas” mentality that still seems to haunt our every day lives. And I am especially annoyed at the possibility that all those episodes of Molo Fish and repeats of Sarafina could turn out to have been for nothing! The black South African population could be compared to a kidnapped child who never underwent any type of counselling after being emancipated from his/her captor. Now it would seem that this child, though still fearful of their captor, has become some what obsessed with their captor; trying to impress their captor and even mimicking their captor in an attempt to feel closer to their captor. We, as black South Africans, are suffering from Stockholm syndrome!

I have wondered this earth for the past quarter century as a very dark skinned child, and it is as a direct result of the darkness of my skin that I have often gotten the short end of the racial stick. I have been called tar baby, coal train, black bird, N***er ball and all sorts of other horrible names, but not by white people, by “my people”. So understandably I have been angry at my people for most of my adult life because I failed to understand why I was made to feel ashamed of being dark. But now I sympathise with my people, but only the older portion of them. Those older generations who call darker children ugly because they are trying to prepare them for what they think white people will call them later on in their lives. I can almost understand their “tough love” approach and I am even willing to cast them away onto the “lost cause” island. When it comes to people my age and below, however, I do not have to sympathise nor do I have any understanding. I call you “Good Blacks”. "What is a Good Black?” I hear you ask. Allow me to elaborate:

Before I begin to define this phrase, allow me to explain that I understand our story. Us, who were thrust into white society and directed by our parents to mimick accents, and gestures. Us, who were made to “say something in English” to impress our aunts and uncles and pretty much make anyone who couldn’t speak English feel like crap. Us who, as a result of the above, speak to one another in English, think in English, write in English and even talk dirty in English. I understand. We are victims of our past blah blah. What I don’t understand is those who choose to act like there is something wrong with being from elokshini (townships) or even ezilalini (rural areas). Those black people who are the first to jump up and point out mispronunciation of a word by their fellow black brother/sister, or look down on those who have struggled and were not blessed with the same opportunities. OR say they would sleep with a homeless person because they are white and that makes them…what? Superior? Those are your good blacks: Trying to impress their captor unawares of the fact that no one cares anymore.

We can blame our parents up until we are about 19 years old. Then the excuses stop. We are the masters of our own destinies. We are all very aware of the fact that not everything our parents teach us sticks. Some of us where taught to be Methodists from birth but still manage to come out Buddhists. Now I am not saying that we should all go out and peruse the set of Muvhango, find the darkest person on set and marry them…no. I am just saying we should look at our values. Look at our core and perception of beauty and intelligence and question its basis.

We didn’t escape one racist regime to be boxed into another one.

Poor Is the New Black

I have never been a fan of rich people…they smell funny. They smell of superiority and their condescending attitude makes my face itch. I always assumed I was born this way and God must have had his reasons for giving me this allergy. I was then confronted with the fact that my whole family was suffering from the same allergy…this made me blame genetics, until I realised that my entire neighbourhood suffered the same symptoms. Could this be an airborne disease that was spreading throughout my community? Or was my itchy face a symptom of something larger than an allergy? It was not an allergy, it was fear. I, along with my community, am suffering from a phobia against the rich and powerful?

I was always a bit of a misfit in school. I could never quite put my finger on why though. I thought of myself as quite a smart and might I add hilarious kid, and so I could never quite understand why I had to fight so hard for my popularity. It was upon moving to an all girls’ high school that things where put into perspective. What I had originally identified as racism I later realised was classism. I was poor. Poor people don’t get to be cool, make decisions, complain or have opinions. The more I thought about it, the more obvious it became and the more obvious it was the angrier I got. This infuriated me because, firstly; I could not understand why there was an ongoing competition about money in high school when none of us made any, and secondly; so what if I came from a long line of domestic workers, how was that a twelve year olds business? In retrospect I am now able to identify this epiphany as the cave from whence my phobia emerged.

We as South Africans have managed to tip toe and dance around the fiery coal that is apartheid since its down fall 20 years ago. White South Africans spend their days avoiding words like; black, brown, you people and good old days. While black South Africans spend their days avoiding words like; guilt, blame, your fault and civil war. I’m sure we can avoid this for infinity however what we can’t avoid are the new trends of segregation we find ourselves subjected to.

The fact that being of a certain class could see you receiving better service in stores or from public service providers should bother us. All one has to do is look at the fact that some communities are still subjected to the indignity that is the “bucket system” instead of proper sewerage systems for one to see that something is definitely amiss. Also, listen to the “Why bother” responses that emerge when the idea of building development or learning centres in rural areas or townships is brought up in social circles. The argument: “Why bother, they are just going to burn them down and piss on the ashes”. Now ask yourself; who are “they”? Twenty years ago black South Africans would have squirmed under the general understanding that they were the “they” being referred to. However nowadays it is not as easy to pull the race card because black people are in power. So “they” are the poor. And once again an enormous percentage of South Africans (57% according to a study conducted by Craig Schwabe - 2004) are getting the short end of the stick.

So whose responsibility is it this time to co-ordinate a rescue operation? Those in power? No, because power and money go hand in hand and the most difficult thing about being poor is that rich people find you so annoying. Every protest against poor service delivery that is broadcast on the seven o’clock news is met with sighs of irritation from the rich and successful. Never mind the fact that people who live in poverty stricken areas of South Africa are at the mercy of their councillors and mayors, and when the government fails to deliver; they are the ones who feel the impact the hardest. The irony, of course, is nestled in the fact that these are the very people who keep the above mentioned government in power and so one would expect the government to be leaping through hoops to make them feel attended to. But government, or should I say; those in power, know that they don’t have to, because few things are more stubborn than the loyalty of the down trodden.

The one thing that could emancipate the poor from their gloomy fate; education, is rationed to them sparingly and they are left to rely on their God given flare for academics to derail their path to perpetual poverty. I have family members who have to get to school early to sweep human faeces and cow dung off the floor before class starts, they are seven years old. I feel like someone should prepare them for the fact that their educational problems have just begun and that even in this day and age, some of their class mates will only ever see a computer when they get to varsity…if they get to varsity. They should know that they can work as hard as they want but in all probability their destiny will be defined by a combination of luck and the mercy of a person in a class above their own. They should know that it is not their fault; it is because they are poor and poor is the new black.

Few things can contend with the powerful emotion that is hopelessness. Those in power should be ashamed that they evoke this emotion in the very people that propel them. The thing about poverty is that it is everybody’s problem. When you are not poverty stricken, you are so happy that you are not poor you try to avoid rocking the boat.

According to the rich, the poor have a false sense of entitlement. But one must ask oneself; are they not entitled? The portions of South Africa that are poor now are the same people that were poor twenty years ago, so are they not entitled to something? They fought through this country’s darkest times and those in power rode on the backs of the poor to their present, elite glory. Are they not owed, at the very least, an explanation?

So whose responsibility is it to co-ordinate the rescue operation? I shudder to think that this may be a revolution that may never happen because society’s general consensus is that poverty is poor people’s problem.

Shero

I despise the label: Victim. I find it dismissive and weakening. It brings with it an air of unwanted fragility and a sense of dependence. When someone, anyone, is labeled a victim, those around that person feel the sudden urge to pick them up and hold them or say that word that drives me insane: “Shame”. It is due to the above (amongst other things) that I absolutely resent and despise rape. I could write a long winded explanation of how I hate rapists and the act that is rape is barbaric.

"I could emphasize how animalistic it is to force oneself on
another, but unfortunately our jaded souls would find that all just too
redundant."

So allow me to explain what enrages me:

On the 22nd December 2010 the body of an 18 year old girl was found in the Tantyi Township of Grahamstown. The young woman had been raped and killed and left in some stranger’s back yard. It is horrible. It is horrible that she was on her way back from work and was attacked that way. It is horrible that she died before she got to see how well she did in her matric exams. It is horrible that while everyone else was screaming “HAPPYYY!” at the top of their lungs as the clock struck 12 on the 31 December, her family was blanketed by grief. It is horrible. But here’s the thing about rape. The sorrow…the horror…the shame does not end in that household. That home, and all the homes on that street. The house where the body was found, and all the houses on that street. Every woman, little girl and especially mothers, who knew her; knew of her; had seen her once or twice; were served by her at the restaurant she worked at; or even just read about her in the local paper. All of them, including me, feel like they dodged a bullet. From the moment they put down the paper, disembarked the taxi where the horror was being whispered or switched off the radio where the story was being announced; something changed. A small part of their confidence shifted, and ducked slowly into a shadowed part of their soul to hide. Or maybe its just me.

Here’s the thing about Rape and all violent crime…but I think Rape especially: the literal victim is not the only victim. I don’t know much about Post traumatic stress in victims of violent crimes; so I wont pretend to be an expert. The most accurate information that I can put on the table is what I felt and what every woman that I spoke to felt: Scared. Being a woman is tough, now I am not asking for a pat on the back or a piece of paper with a gold star and the word “Excellent” written on it, I’m just making sure everyone is on the same page. We are haunted by the sad notion of being needy and unable to do anything ourselves. And in the event that any woman dares to stand out and be independent…it seems that someone (not always a man) comes along and forces her to be needy and robs her of the ability to do anything herself. You can be at the top of your game, a doctor who is taking life by the horns one moment and then a victim raped in the very hospital you work in the next.

We roam the streets followed by darkness. Is there an act more personal, more vindictive? Every time I hear one of these stories, I feel like a kid who just found a bag of poo in their lunch box and everyone else is laughing. It’s not embarrassment, it’s not shame either it is a giant WHY?! Why does this keep happening? Women feed whole families from nothing. Hand wash every stitch of clothing in a house, out in the blazing sun and then go inside to see who’s hungry. Women wear tattered and torn clothes so that their children, and sometimes children that aren’t their own, can proudly sparkle amongst others. Women are beings of a loving, nurturing kind…yeah there’s the odd pain in the ass monster who will leave their new born baby on the side of the road, but generally woman are the thread that holds communities together. So WHY?! Why do we constantly have to fight for the very society that we hold together, to give us a freaking break! I don’t have the answers. I have complaints, I have queries and I have a mountain of horrible stories, but I do not have answers. But here’s the thing that everyone keeps forgetting about women: we don’t quit.

Women are well aware of the amount of responsibility that rests on their shoulders. Their self sacrificing nature is what holds them together in a time of crisis. If I had jelly bean for every time I heard my aunt say: “If I cry what is there left for children to do?” I would be a very happy woman. Our mothers (especially black mothers) have never been romantic about life and its challenges. Life for a woman is hard, but life for a victim is a nightmare. Its time to shake off the labels.