My First Girlfriend

The first time I kissed a girl my eyes were wide open. It had been a long time coming and I was surprised it had taken as long as it did. The bland disappointment that followed, however, I did not expect. It was not a major anti-climax or steep decline to nothingness but rather a sense of: “oh…ok”.

It all started with baggy pants and hip hop music. Shaggy hair, bitten nails a deep voice and a pair of converse sneakers were enough to convince all those around me that a boyfriend was out of the question. My choosing comfort over style was apparently an encrypted statement of homosexuality. I was a seventeen year old girl who smoked weed and listened to the Wu-Tang Clan and so was of no interest to the boys at my brother school, even more insulting was the fact that they were mediocre looking. Not one of them was strapping with broad shoulders and dreamy eyes, instead they were skinny with disproportionate rear ends and un-kept hair. So when one evening a new and incredibly attractive girl came into my room, closed her eyes and leaned in…I leaned in too…eyes wide open. I had been kissed by a girl once before, but this was the first time that I had ever kissed back. My eyes scanned the room as I waited for the time to stand still and for us to be thrown into a dizzying lust only to be jerked back to reality by the sound of the “lights out” bell. None of this happened.

One of my closest friends was lesbian and she was having the time of her life. She didn’t walk into spaces and constantly feel awkward and underdressed or any of the other symptoms of social retardation that burdened me. She took what she wanted and I admired that. I wanted that. So I kissed back. I was not sure if this girl was what I wanted but I decided to take her just in case. It was only after I watched her leave my room, her walking on air and me stead fast on the ground, that I came to realise what it meant to succumb to pressure. Here I was, awkwardly groping some confused young girl who had probably mistaken her own admiration for lust. I knew that if she turned around and came back into my room I would do it again, but I was not sure why. I was a senior and she was a junior but we were both just kids.

It was done.

She came into my room often and I let things happen. I let her straddle me and pine over me. I let her send me letters and tell her friends and all the while I felt nothing. Every time I heard her knock on my door I took on the duty of groping and kissing, teasing and whispering things I had heard on TV, it was awkward. She began to pick up on the chill I was giving off and sought comfort elsewhere…I felt no particular way about that either. It was when another young girl came to my room seeking some of what “old girl” had got that I realised that the charade had become exhausting. I realised that I owed my first girlfriend an apology.

I used her. I wanted to be wanted. I needed to be needed. I longed for someone to look at me and struggle to catch their breath, for them to toss and turn at night, all but begging the sun to rise so that they could see me again. I wanted someone to feel sick at the thought of losing me and though she was the person who felt that way…she was not the person I wanted to feel that way.

I was in a parallel universe where people pretended to be gay to fit in and be wanted. I now recognize that as a symptom of a society that shames those who travel alone. Apparently we all need someone to confirm our existence. So rather than an apology, I think I owe my first girlfriend a thank you. There is no shame in being alone and I learnt that in her arms.

"A" for effort; "F" for everything else

I completed my entire high school career without ever having obtaining an A for anything and I know why: I didn’t give a damn. I was more interested in lying on and ingesting grass as well as recreational activities such as watching Yizo Yizo. Not once do I remember exerting myself and my report card stood testament of that fact. When I reached my final year of high school and had to work twice as hard to get half the marks, the lesson was clear; you have to work for every stitch of credit given to you. Apparently, the rules have changed!

I came across the report card of a matric student recently and was quite horrified at what I saw; all F’s and one A. The A that stood cold and lonely in the middle of the report card was for Life Orientation. Now, first and foremost that cannot be a real subject and secondly; if everyone is passing a subject with flying colours…surely it needs to be looked at. I am all for young people working hard and reaping the benefits; however this does mean that I all but despise those who reap the benefits without doing the work. Extremes such as everyone passing a certain subject with flying colours or even everyone failing a certain subject dismally should be interpreted as a symptom of a faulty system. Granted I did not have access to the report cards of the entire matric class, however seeing an A amongst an F aggregate is much like seeing a white spot on a brain scan; it means something isn’t right.

I like to think of myself as a pessimistic woman whose favourite hat is optimism; I wear it often and look great in it. I will however say this; there is a time and place for “prizes for participation” and that time and place is; Grade 1 at the swimming gala. Giving away A’s does not instil any type of work ethic in young people. I know what it feels like to fail and I would not have it any other way. Working for every single mark on your report card matters. Giving out A’s for showing up is not fair to those who show up and work their fingers to the bone. Am I saying the young student whose report card I saw should have gotten all F’s? Absolutely, that is exactly what I am saying. At least then the report card would have been an honest reflection of their participation.

We are the country who celebrated having scored the opening goal at the world cup even after we were cut out of the competition like a diseased tumour. We writhe under a government who pays enormous salaries to fraudulent people who do the bare minimum. Are we all willing to pretend that we do not know that there are young people whose primary goal in life is to get paid to do nothing? Prostitution has taken on the guise of ambition as young women boastfully call themselves gold diggers because apparently having sex (something we can all do) with wobbly old men (something that most choose not to do) is more glamorous than using ones brain. Mediocrity cannot be celebrated. It breeds fraud, short cuts amoral behaviour and signifies that a country is turning into Lazyland – where the cats are fat and are all in parliament.

I like freebees as much as the next person (the lady with the sausages at Pick n Pay can attest to that), however I believe that when it comes to the big things…things like your job and your brain…perhaps brutal honesty is the only kind of feedback that is necessary. Perhaps it’s time we expected more of ourselves.

An open letter to black tweens

I want to kick start this open letter by saying I am in no way an ageist, in fact I have family who were born in the 90’s and am able to tolerate them in small bursts. Having said that, I feel it is only fitting to ask you to do one thing: listen to yourselves.

I was inspired to write this letter after having a short conversation with a young man who was born in 1993. He was trying to explain to me why his life and experiences would be better than mine because he was a coconut. I trembled in the 35 degree heat as I tried my damdest not to pounce for his jugular like the panther that I am. He then went on to take all of his privileges for granted suggesting that access to running water and electricity had nothing to do with how one performs in school and that everyone should have an “equal shot”. My irritation turned to sorrow as I realised that this poor child had no idea what he was talking about, he was just quoting various catch phrases that the media and “grown-ups” were throwing at him and others his age.

I realised that a conundrum was at hand. As a child of the 80’s who can still smell the apartheid regime on the breath of my elders and can still clearly remember being the only black face in class, what was I to say to this young man? was I to tell him that being a self proclaimed coconut doesn’t not change the fact that he comes from “that side of town” and that his white friend may not be hurrying over for sleep over’s? Was I to point out that racism doesn’t listen…it just sees and acts. Was I to beg him not to listen to a damn thing a single politician tells him because; where one comes from and what one has will always affect where one is going and how one will get there? Or should I have just let him live in his blissful world of ignorance, sent him off on his unicorn and let him gallop into the rainbow?

The fact of the matter is that us old people are battered and bruised. Our bitter experiences have changed the way we move in society. I can’t objectively council a youth when it comes to this stuff because being called black bitch at the age of 12 by a forty-something old white man changed me. All my wit and charm counted for nothing and being a coconut would not have helped me. So I will say this:

Look to elders for guidance not for answers. Taste privilege but don’t forget the taste of deprivation. Touch the highest bar of success with your feet firmly places in the two roomed shack you grew up in. Take in every breath with the knowledge that it was fought for and listen to yourselves. Know what you are saying and why you are saying it. Stop trying so hard. Not everyone is going to like you but remember that has got nothing to do with you. Don’t waste your life trying…just be.

I don't pronounce the "c" in Schedule

White people trust me. They really do and I don’t blame them because I am awesome. They invite me to dinner and introduce me to their parents and feed me crudités. However, today I will have to strain my relationship with my white friends by being honest (I will let the irony of that serve as ambiance to this piece). The fact of the matter is; I have uncovered my secret; that je ne sais quoi that allows white people to let their guard down around me; I don’t pronounce the “c” in “schedule”.

Now before you dismiss this as inaccurate street therapy…or racist, please allow me to elaborate. I am a very dark skinned woman who is often mistaken, by many, for a foreign national on account of my dark skin and my accent. Upon finding that I am in fact a Xhosa woman, both black and white people tend to assume that my command of the English language and my fastidious approach with regards to my pronunciation means that I hate black people. Apparently there is an English Language/Black Pride ratio that is being applied throughout society and my Black Pride numbers are dismal due to the height of my English Language numbers. This would be absurdly funny if it weren’t for the fact that it is a real thing and people subconsciously use this ratio all the time. Still not convinced? Please read on:

When I was but an impressionable youth, I noticed that I kept finding myself in a rather awkward scenario. My white friends kept telling “black jokes” in my presence. The first time it happened I quietly looked for my reflection in a nearby window to check if I still had the charcoal coloured face I had come to know and love. When I saw my dark face staring (confused) back at me, I realised that I had to make a decision; was I going to giggle along and be a good black or was I going to stand up for my people? I heard myself say “that’s kind of racist” softly as if to get the statement out of the way. My white friends patted me on the back and giggled “come on now Julz, you are hardly what I would call black” (that response made me feel funny). These situations kept coming up time after time as if some higher power was trying to bring a point across. Was I a sell out? I began to look closely at the reason my accent was as it was. I did not go to a private school and was not adopted by a gay white couple at birth so there had to be a deeper meaning to it all.

The fact of the matter is I am a child who started at a predominantly white school at a time when the country’s future was not clear. My mother had no way of knowing which way the country was going to go. The streets were on fire and the threat of civil war was hanging heavy in the air. So she decided to arm me with the best English accent that her money could buy. She believed that doing this would secure my future no matter what happened. If the country went to the dogs and white people sent us all back to the homelands, I could still, at the very least, get a good job as a high end domestic worker by impressing them with my poised accent. In the event that white people did not send us to the homelands, I would be in the running to live the South African dream and become an MEC (whatever that is). Fast forward back to present day; I have my “good English” and absolutely no desire to become an MEC, and these awkward scenarios are still rearing their annoying heads and my white friends’ responses still make me feel funny.

I have never considered myself a prude, nor do I get myself all worked up over things before I know and understand the situation but I need to make something clear. Just because I speak “good English” and am well read, does not mean that I think that the word “Kaffir” is nothing but an Arabic word that has been misinterpreted. A Bitch is a female dog, but I don’t hear people telling women to calm down when someone refers to them as such. A seventeen year old democracy doesn’t change the fact that I would have failed the pencil, colour bar and brown paper bag test three decades ago and therefore would have been considered a second class citizen. This means that my parents were considered second class citizens as were their parents. I know that when bad things happen people say; “ten years from now we will all look back and laugh” but I just want to warn everyone that it may take a little longer for most black people to find the word “Kaffir” paradoxical. Am I asking white people to whisper in the presence of black people? No. I am simply reminding white people (as well as all those black people who have promised to find and kill all blacks with the bourgeois twang in their voice) that “good English” is not a symptom of self hate and even if it were; etiquette is a standard requirement if one wants to be acknowledged as a human being. Just like we don’t tell fat jokes around obese people, we frown upon those who tell black jokes around black people.

There is no pride in being perceived as a pseudo white person, nor is there shame in having gotten a good education. The shame is rather in the fact that the good accent matters so much and that English is interpreted as some higher power that only the best of the best can touch. The sad fact of the matter is that; we model C snotty types make the best window dressing…which brings me to that funny feeling I felt in the presence of those “black jokers”: Disappointment. I was disappointed that this group who I perceived as my friends and others perceived as open minded and diverse were racist’s incognito. They were forgiving me for my blackness on account of my general whiteness. I refuse to be that spineless excuse for a person that is too scared of being a sell out to speak English well but that by no means suggests I have any desire to eat crudités for the rest of my life.

I love my culture, my colour and my people. I love my language, my heritage and my country. Having said that; I will never apologise for my education, nor will I be ashamed of my command of the English language. I am a Xhosa woman from Peddie in the Eastern Cape AND I am a woman that doesn’t pronounce the “c” in schedule.

nina simone - my baby just cares for me

She said that she would prefer a broken neck to another broken heart. by Amir Sulaiman

She said that she would prefer a broken neck to another broken heart.
I said "Remember, even the beauty of birth leaves its own scars
And know that you will find your home right where you are."

She said, "I know it sounds cliche, but I really am just waiting to exhale."
She's not looking for a perfect man, she ain't holding out for Denzel
She's just looking for a real man,
But she said "Most of the realest were in graves or in jail"
Just an upright brother, but she's left with low down brothers, homo thugs, and downlow brothers.

And it took her some time with herself to discover
That having love is even more important than having a lover
But what am I supposed to tell her?
That it's going to be okay? But it may not be.
It may be hard and ugly,
Difficult, complicated, rough and bloody
And I said, "So many women are struggling"

She said, "Yeah, I'd like a man to kiss me, I'd like a man to hug me
But he's gotta truly love love before he can truly love me"
I said, "I feel you." She said, "No, you're not feeling me.
We are women bringing up seeds,
Our own sons grow up thinking love is a disease
Ducking and dodging real relationships, and just gonna take what they please
And they treat pregnancy like it's an STD
If the test comes back positive, it's a negative
And they are ghost in the streets,
Drunk in the wind, only a moment is spent and those moments are brief
Our sons' role models are rolling stones unknown or deceased
They figure we can't teach them manhood, so they'll get grown in the streets
So in the cold world they find warmth with the men holding the heat."

I said "There's gotta be a change."
She said, "Yeah, it's gotta be more than poems on TV"
I said, "I feel you." She asked me how I survive.
I said, "By Allah, it was my mother otherwise
I would have been dead, crazy, institutionalized."

"She kept us in the good neighborhoods, even though she couldn't keep on the lights
So we could go to the best schools learning to read and to write.
Sometimes we'd be so broke, in the store, she'd have to pick between the beans and the rice.
Sometimes she'd put ketchup on a navy bean so it wouldn't seem like we're eating the same thing every night.
Two jobs during the day, and one at night.
And the stuff I saw her endure, I never wanna see my wife [endure]
So I know being a man is more than being male, and I'm focused on doing it right."

"But when I think about my childhood, I don't think about poverty
I remember how she hugged me, kissed me, taught me, loved me.
And I know you prefer a broken neck to another broken heart
Broken parts that litter the night sky like stars.
But remember, even the beauty of birth leaves its own scars
And know that you will find your home, right where you are
We will find our homes right where we are."

-Amir Sulaiman

The Voo-Doo we Do

I was 16 years old when I witnessed my intoxicated uncle scream at the top of his lungs: “I’m a witch; Now what?” at a family gathering. I’m not clear on what the circumstances leading to this outburst were (though I think it is safe to assume that this was drunken babble rather than a factual declaration) but I do know that this awakened a curiosity in me that I have struggled to satisfy. It is a cultural barrier that will stubbornly withstand all transformation. Even in the most diversely evolved future, this will be the thing that white people and black people will struggle to logically explain to one another; witchcraft.

In the many years of society grooming me to become an uppity pseudo white kid who perpetuated elements of white supremacy with my snotty “white” accent and my inability to speak my own vernacular, never have I been confronted with my own blackness more than when a white teacher suggested that there was no such thing as witchcraft. My burning desire to tell her that she was an idiot was held back only by my pursed lips and fear of detention. I felt an almost primal need to list the many people who inexplicably went crazy or went to sleep and never woke up again. It was a confusing time. Surely, in a cut and dry world, bi-polar, schizophrenia, or heart and brain aneurisms would serve as more logical than the old lady next door hunched over a cauldron…but for some reason, at that moment my world seized to be cut and dry.

*I would like to take this opportunity to draw attention to the fact that white people are not completely untouched by the entity that is witchcraft as “supernatural” and “vampire diaries” have so considerately brought to light. If you can believe in vampires and ware wolves, we can believe that an undisclosed amount of people have been turned into flies and various other insects.*

Now, before I delve into my opinion of the issue of witchcraft I would like to apologise in advance to the many people who will be offended by my statements: I don’t mean to hurt you but I do mean what I say. The door to the belief in witchcraft is kicked open around the same time that the door to the belief in miracles. That door is then taken off the hinges by the scientific theories e.g. “for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction”. Angels/demons, God/Lucifer, Heaven and Hell are all just testiments of this “tit for tat” theory. Then there are slogans such as: “If you believe; it you can achieve it” and “mind over matter” which are thrown around all willy-nilly and everyone feels great about it…but what about those who want to achieve things that are to the detriment of others? Surely they can achieve what they believe too? Or is there some sort of filter that ensures that all bad thoughts are not realised? Isn’t that what witchcraft is essentially: bad energy?

I don’t mean to trivialise the white experience at all, and I promise to write many articles on the white experience when I come back as a white woman in my next life, but right now as a black woman, I can honestly say that being black is tough. Often, watching a black family come from nothing and gradually scrape their way to success, school their children and go on to live a comfortable life is somewhat of a miracle, so much so that most times it is assumed that the family had a little help from say….a demonic snake? If the family suffers some sort of a loss (their child or close relative dies) it is widely accepted that the deceased’s life was how the family had to pay for their wealth. No one mentions the double shifts the mother worked or the two jobs the father has because; everyone has double shifts and everyone has two jobs but not everyone has a Lexus. Who is going to tell the man with two jobs, five kids and a mountain of debt that; the only reason the Nxumalo’s have a double story house and their kids are in private school is because they made sacrifices? We all make sacrifices and no one wants to hear that despite their sacrifices; things may never work out for them as well as they worked out for the Nxumalo’s. So it must be a demonic snake. It can’t be luck or good fortune or hard work and preparation meeting opportunity…it is obviously a demonic snake because a demonic snake means that it is fair. A demonic snake means that the only reason the Nxumalo’s are making it, is because they have no problem selling their souls and we all have souls to sell meaning we can all make it.

I’m not saying that witchcraft does not exist but I do believe our insecurities and hardships as black people contribute widely to how much of a role we think witchcraft plays in our lives. There are people who experience hardship after hardship and struggle to make it from one day to the next. People who struggle to actually live due to the amount of sorrow that burdens their day to day lives. Those people are the ones who wake up one day and think: “this can’t be life”. Those are the people who are looking for a reason…desperately seeking an explanation for their unending misfortune and in those cases, it takes one person pointing out a possible witch to initiate a re-enactment of the “Salem witch trials”. With belief comes passion and not all passion is positive. So again, negative energy steals the show.

There are very few black people (if any) that can say with a straight face that they honestly do not believe in witchcraft, mostly because we have just seen too much. The average black person has seen things that would send most whimpering back into their mother’s arms. When I apply my cheap street psychology, my findings are that we need to believe in the supernatural. We need to know that, when needed, there is a means to protect oneself from the evils of this world, whether it is by means of prayer, meditation or chewing on a stick Gonondo gave you. But whose Voo-Doo is the right Voo-Doo? Well that is not for me to decide.