The seX factor

I look at this woman and I can't help but wonder. We live in a society that hardly accepts those of us who are considered normal. Our teen years are riddled with all sorts of cries for attention and approval from...everyone. The world in general has a warped relationship with sex and all things related. Parents would much rather have their children witness a beheading than have them witness a couple have sexual relations. So I...marvel at this woman, Lea T, and I wonder how tormented she must have been before she decide that enough was enough...that she would succumb to her femininity and leave the shell of masculinity that she was born with.

I am vexed at the 'boxed in' mentality that we as a society are so comfortable with. This is this and that is that and there is nothing in between. One only has to reflect back to the Caster Simenya debacle to see how uncomfortable we are with the idea that there may be more to life than what we thought. But I can understand...in fact I can almost sympathise with the idea of growing up with a certain ideal deeply intrenched in you and struggling to come to terms with the fact that the ideal may be up for debate. What I cannot and will not understand is our lack of empathy. We all know what it is to be a teenager. We are all fully aware of the amount of confusion and hightened emotion that comes with the dawning of each day. Teenagers are a bunch of tortured souls that will jump off the highest building at the slightest provocation...knowing that, how is it that we are unable to empathise with those who are faced with feelings that may be interpreted as abnormal?

For most teenagers the yearning for approval trumps every other feeling, all you have to do is look at the amount of teens that find themselves scribbling down a cellphone number quoted on a "Pain free abortion" poster. From childhood most are taught that the opinions of others matter more than their own. I don't know that parents know that when they "what will people say?" everytime their child does something out of order, they are setting their child up for major disappointment because; that child may end up trying to impress "people" at their detriment only to find out that "people" don't give a rats ass. Yes they will judge you and ridecule you...but then tomorrow they will find another freak to laugh at.

So this is basically a salute to Lea T who was honest with herself and others. I don't know what it is to feel displaced to the point of physical discomfort. I cannot begin to imaging how restless one must feel when they open their eyes in the morning and know that they are going to spend the next 12 hours lying to everyone they meet...I can only say that I respect those who understand that they are the ones who have to live with themselves.

(wo)man

Being a woman is tough. Not because of childbirth and the intricacy of applying mascara but because everyone (including other women) seems to hate you. I realise that this is a bold and generalised statement but not entirely unfounded or at least not in my opinion. The rape and domestic violence statistics speak volumes about how a certain amount of men feel about women, and then the fact that a woman will snatch another woman’s eyeballs out over a man says all there is to be said about the so called sisterhood. Women seem to be on the bottom of everyone’s list and nobody seems to know how they got there.

Frank discussions with female friends of mine have resulted in men being related to every being in the animal kingdom. Sentences are punctuated with hand gestures and are drenched with onomatopoeic slurs as women relate their nightmarish encounters with men they dub inconsiderate, selfish and ignorant. However, at the end of all the ranting and cursing…the cliché “boys will be boys” still prevails. Now I could take on the stereotypical feminist standpoint and throw my hands up in disgust at the way that men treat woman but that would be too easy. I’d rather point out the fact that we as a society have taught women how to treat men and in so doing cultivated the way men treat women. We worship men from birth. It is a sad truth that is apparently here to stay. I was naive enough to assume that women my age were enlightened enough to know that there really isn’t anything that superior about a man. So, imagine my horror when a woman my age with all her education and English said she would rather have sons because “girls are whores”.

We insist on making all sorts of excuses on behalf of the handful of men who treat women like rubbish and in so doing detract from those men who hold women in a high regard. We, as women, account all inappropriate behaviour displayed by men to them being men. I mean surely even men are insulted at the notion of them having absolutely no control over their penises (so much so that they urinate and scratch in public because apparently; once the penis has spoken...it has spoken).

We are living in a society where young gay men are being beaten to death for not being man enough. Lesbian teens are being raped to “cure” them of their “disease” because God forbid anyone says no to a penis. Women are married to men who have illegitimate children sprinkled all over South Africa and dare not stand their ground against the man of the house. Really? In a time when HIV/AIDS has our country in a choke hold, women are still allowing themselves to be subjected to repeated infidelity and physical abuse. In a time of female rights and feminist action there are still very few people who believe that there is such a thing as a husband raping his wife. In 2011 we are still making excuses for rapists…really? Now, I know the darkness that surrounds abusive relationships so I sympathize, however what frustrates me is how blazè most communities are when it comes to these situations. This “men are men” attitude is a load of rubbish.

According to (black) women the options are as follows: if you find a man you love you can either a) accept that he is going to cheat on you and ask that he has the courtesy to cover his tracks or b) leave every man that cheats on you and land up having slept with every man alive. We have been robbed of our confidence. We as women are not confident enough to expect any respect out of our relationships. All we expect is to be cheated on and beat on and if we aren’t we just assume that the man involved is some sort of master of deception. Women weaken themselves in the shadow of men, we women who start and end wars.

I find myself wallowing in a pool of disappointment when it comes to women’s willingness to shy away from the glory that is rightfully theirs. When a woman is confident in herself and does not depend on the opinion of another, whether they be male or female, I believe she flourishes in ways that far surpass anything she could have imagined for herself.

Now I am not a bra burning feminist, I am even honest enough to admit that in the modern world; I do not really know what true feminism is. What I do know that I am stubborn and I wish that a few of my sisters would be a little more stubborn with me. I wont try and do every little thing a man does…but I will never let a man tell me what I CANNOT do.

BLue Valentine

If you have ever gotten to a point in a relationship where you literally cannot do it any more...this is a movie you would relate to. It allows you to watch a relationship disintergrate to a point of resentment.

Ryan Gosling delivers as per usual with his delicate yet honest depiction of his character and Michelle Williams shows massive growth as transcends *in our minds* into a mature actress who owns her character and all its ugly emotions...loved this movie and i think anyone who has had to give up on what they THOUGHT was love will too...

Sexual Chocolate

i dont know what it is about a dark skinned brother...but everybody loves them. i mean everybody! Sisters line up and scratch one anothers eyes out in the street over them. White women get all stealthy and land up on Ricki Lake using words they do not fully understand over them. Something about them...well i think it is a vaiety of things, not least of which is the perception that they are animalistic. These guys get away with sooo much! because they are "rough and real and they dont know how else to act" i mean the way people carry on one would think that the conversation is about a tamed animal.

Now i dont know what connotations you get when you think of a dark skinned, toned brother...but the picture i chose says it all. No one expects to be picked up, thrown over the shoulder of or carried into the mist by a light skinned brother...we dont think you're weak or anything we just assume you will be driving something. This raises a question...what is it about us that makes us think that a dark skinned person is just a little more in touch with thier roots? And further more...these roots that we reffer to...why are they so sexual and crazy and chest bashing.

...we are a confused nationality...and this is why the chinese are winning...

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.