You have to leave to come back.
Monday 12 August 2013
Thursday 8 August 2013
You Strike a Woman, She Strikes You Back.
Tomorrow is Women's Day in South Africa, a public holiday. The words "Wa thint' umfazi, wa thint' umbokodo" (You strike a woman, you strike a rock") will be repeated over and over again. I've never been able to make sense of this refrain, but many people do and will no doubt repeat it, again and again.
In 2013, I think we need a new motto for this day. Firstly, can people please stop striking women? Secondly, if you're a woman and someone strikes you, I think you should give them an ass whupping they will never forget.
We're not rocks. We are feeling, bleeding, human beings. I don't want to be "strong" tomorrow, I want to be vulnerable and safe, in the knowledge that my "weaknesses" will never be used against me, not exclusively but especially by those that profess to love me the most.
Aluta Continua.
In 2013, I think we need a new motto for this day. Firstly, can people please stop striking women? Secondly, if you're a woman and someone strikes you, I think you should give them an ass whupping they will never forget.
We're not rocks. We are feeling, bleeding, human beings. I don't want to be "strong" tomorrow, I want to be vulnerable and safe, in the knowledge that my "weaknesses" will never be used against me, not exclusively but especially by those that profess to love me the most.
Aluta Continua.
Tuesday 6 August 2013
How Can I Miss You if You Won't Go Away?
My friend Robbie has an expression he loves to use: "How can I miss you if you won't go away?" It always makes me laugh.
Frankly, I doubt if even one person has missed this blog. Which is just fine by me as I'm not even sure why I started it to begin with. I've started writing here again because I think I've figured out what it means to ME. It's my thoughts. That's it. I'm not using it to gain fans, followers, fame or fortune. A private diary is always an option I suppose, but it feels so ... 1930's a-la Anais Nin. This in one way can be my diary, albeit a public one.
Many times I would start writing and then just delete it, because I didn't like what I had to say and in turn what it said about my negative state of mind, especially about this country. When I stated this blog I had just closed down my business and was resentful and bitter. My writings were exposing something about me I didn't care for, never mind sharing it publically.
I must be feeling more positive then, or maybe things are just more in perspective.
In any case, I'm back. Even though I never really left.
Frankly, I doubt if even one person has missed this blog. Which is just fine by me as I'm not even sure why I started it to begin with. I've started writing here again because I think I've figured out what it means to ME. It's my thoughts. That's it. I'm not using it to gain fans, followers, fame or fortune. A private diary is always an option I suppose, but it feels so ... 1930's a-la Anais Nin. This in one way can be my diary, albeit a public one.
Many times I would start writing and then just delete it, because I didn't like what I had to say and in turn what it said about my negative state of mind, especially about this country. When I stated this blog I had just closed down my business and was resentful and bitter. My writings were exposing something about me I didn't care for, never mind sharing it publically.
I must be feeling more positive then, or maybe things are just more in perspective.
In any case, I'm back. Even though I never really left.
Monday 7 May 2012
New Help, Old Issues
I got a new helper. In as much as I resisted, largely for practical reasons than middle class guilt, which is that my place is small and truth be told, I don't really need the help. My laziness notwithstanding, helper got hired. Besides, she kind of came to me.
There's a caretaker who comes in twice a week to clean the common areas and the garden in my complex. I needed his help to move some furniture. We got to talking. He's got a wife you see, fresh from Malawi. She needs a job. My running friend and I have been talking about sharing a helper anyway. Who the hell wants to deal with the tedium of house chores? Not me. So enter the new helper. Let's call her Chastity. After her first day it became clear that language difficulties aside, the fee was to be negotiated with her husband, the caretaker, which as a feminist, offended me to no end. But, it's the card I had been dealt, so I went on with it. We haggled over a fee, and I told him the fee my friend and I had agreed to. What he doesn't need to know (and her for now), is that we're actually paying her a little extra.
Presumptuous, isn't it, assuming that we're helping her by negotiating an entry level fee, but in reality paying her a fee for someone with much more experience? I don't know what Chastity's situation is with her man. He seems nice enough, but I can imagine the burden of living as a migrant in a hostile South Africa can test even the patience of the nicest of husband, and who the hell knows what goes on between two people when the world is not watching?
For one, language is a problem. A big problem. Gestures and getting back to the real basics is what keeps us going, but when the going gets tough, the husband has to come translate. I asked Chastity if she speaks Zulu and she readily agreed. Asked her a question which required some language skill, and got a resounding "yes" instead. Yes. In English. But there's only so many ways you can use a vacuum cleaner, so it all gets figured out in the end. There's a lot of girlish giggling in between as I try to break the monotony of work with personal questions, which I'm sure she resents for the snooping that it is.
Chastity calls me "Madame" - in that French way. I haven't corrected her yet. Small small. She's so shy and dependent on me that I fear I'm throwing too much her way. "Don't run the water unless you're using the tap, please eat whatever is in the fridge, fold the shirts sideways first and then by width, and THEN separate them by colour." When I think about it, I must be a serious pain in the ass of a helpee. But we'll find our feet in time. Chastity isn't going anywhere fast. In fact she strikes me as a woman firmly determined to build roots in this country, and it will be interesting to see how she changes in the next year. But I could be wrong.
Being in position to hire a helper is complicated for many of us, who have parents and grandparents who themselves were domestic workers in white people's houses. We still see it as demeaning work, and by inference as if the people doing the work are presumably, therefore less human. We oscillate between wanting to genuinely help to improve the lot of the people who work in our homes, to feeling outright hostile at their perceived entitled attitude. Stereotypes are abound; Malawaians are great, Sotho's from Lesotho are unreliable and prone to absconding from work without notice, Xhosas from the Transkei are unreliable and most likely to be afflicted with kleptomania. The list is endless. Everybody has a story. My friends with kids have the most interesting stories to tell.
I've also been embarrassed to witness how some friends treat their helpers, so don't assume that just because the helpers look like us, we're better bosses. There is a shortage of quality jobs out there, and that means for too many, cleaning up after somebody is an unfortunately necessary option.
Like everything, it's a relationship.
You don't really get to a place of safety until you've had a serious fight (or fights) with your helper, where she decided to tolerated you, and you kept her in your employ, and both are richer for the relationship.
There's a caretaker who comes in twice a week to clean the common areas and the garden in my complex. I needed his help to move some furniture. We got to talking. He's got a wife you see, fresh from Malawi. She needs a job. My running friend and I have been talking about sharing a helper anyway. Who the hell wants to deal with the tedium of house chores? Not me. So enter the new helper. Let's call her Chastity. After her first day it became clear that language difficulties aside, the fee was to be negotiated with her husband, the caretaker, which as a feminist, offended me to no end. But, it's the card I had been dealt, so I went on with it. We haggled over a fee, and I told him the fee my friend and I had agreed to. What he doesn't need to know (and her for now), is that we're actually paying her a little extra.
Presumptuous, isn't it, assuming that we're helping her by negotiating an entry level fee, but in reality paying her a fee for someone with much more experience? I don't know what Chastity's situation is with her man. He seems nice enough, but I can imagine the burden of living as a migrant in a hostile South Africa can test even the patience of the nicest of husband, and who the hell knows what goes on between two people when the world is not watching?
For one, language is a problem. A big problem. Gestures and getting back to the real basics is what keeps us going, but when the going gets tough, the husband has to come translate. I asked Chastity if she speaks Zulu and she readily agreed. Asked her a question which required some language skill, and got a resounding "yes" instead. Yes. In English. But there's only so many ways you can use a vacuum cleaner, so it all gets figured out in the end. There's a lot of girlish giggling in between as I try to break the monotony of work with personal questions, which I'm sure she resents for the snooping that it is.
Chastity calls me "Madame" - in that French way. I haven't corrected her yet. Small small. She's so shy and dependent on me that I fear I'm throwing too much her way. "Don't run the water unless you're using the tap, please eat whatever is in the fridge, fold the shirts sideways first and then by width, and THEN separate them by colour." When I think about it, I must be a serious pain in the ass of a helpee. But we'll find our feet in time. Chastity isn't going anywhere fast. In fact she strikes me as a woman firmly determined to build roots in this country, and it will be interesting to see how she changes in the next year. But I could be wrong.
Being in position to hire a helper is complicated for many of us, who have parents and grandparents who themselves were domestic workers in white people's houses. We still see it as demeaning work, and by inference as if the people doing the work are presumably, therefore less human. We oscillate between wanting to genuinely help to improve the lot of the people who work in our homes, to feeling outright hostile at their perceived entitled attitude. Stereotypes are abound; Malawaians are great, Sotho's from Lesotho are unreliable and prone to absconding from work without notice, Xhosas from the Transkei are unreliable and most likely to be afflicted with kleptomania. The list is endless. Everybody has a story. My friends with kids have the most interesting stories to tell.
I've also been embarrassed to witness how some friends treat their helpers, so don't assume that just because the helpers look like us, we're better bosses. There is a shortage of quality jobs out there, and that means for too many, cleaning up after somebody is an unfortunately necessary option.
Like everything, it's a relationship.
You don't really get to a place of safety until you've had a serious fight (or fights) with your helper, where she decided to tolerated you, and you kept her in your employ, and both are richer for the relationship.
Wednesday 2 May 2012
Time
I've got my hot chocolate next to me. The electric blanket is getting ready for me next door. But it's one of those days where I wish the blanket had eyes. Cause I'm so chatty! I could talk the hind leg off a horse right about now.
So, the alternative is to light up the gas heater, put on my sweater and embrace the fact that it's getting bloody cold out here. It's been raining for a few hours. I pray it keeps up and makes it almost impossible to work out at 6am. See, insomnia, she's unapologetic about her interruptions. You either embrace her or you hate her. Hating takes way more energy than I can give right now, so here I am.
I've been thinking about "time" lately. How I spend it, and with whom. I've been spending a lot of time with mom. It's beautiful, it's frightening, it's fulfilling, it's frustrating. It's clear to both of us how important it is to spend time with each other, and you can only come to this conclusion when you do the deed, not just by talking about it. It's ironic that since moving to a city 2 hours plane ride away, I actually spend more time with my mother now more than ever. But I feel more like the mother. I'm the caretaker and leader. When did this happen, and who the hell approved it?
I watch this frail woman and wonder how I could have possibly have thought of her as the giant I did. She's tiny! I know I know, coming from me that might seem rich. But really, I think I liked it better when she was in charge. Actually I don't mean that. I felt powerless as a child, and I never want to feel like that again. The reason I'm so frustrated that my new scanner is not feeling me is that I've got all these pictures of my family that I'm desperate to work with. They are borrowed from my mother and I'm their temporary custodian. I think it's rude not to return pictures to their owners, but this new technology is kicking my ass, so mama has to wait.
Watching my mother, I've grown to respect and even fear old age. It's much more lonely than most of us realize, and it seems like the older you get, the less in your power it is to determine how alone or not alone you choose to be. The children and grandkids always promise to visit more than they ever do, and on the flip side you may be forced to live in a situation that may not be of your choosing. The sicker you are, the less power you have. Control freak-ness aside, that's a frightening thought.
As a kid my mother was a tower of strength. She was indomitable: to my brother and my eternal mortification, even during apartheid times where it was a given that white is right - if slighted, she had no qualms about fighting with white cashiers. A particular high (or low), depending on where you sit, was when she called a white woman who had cut in front of her in a line a "rooinek". I remember leaving the store the in a huff and a puff, and her hand was particularly high and jerky than normal. She always held my hand, and her mood used to determine the pace of our stride.
Even though I often feel she told me too much, too young, I realise more and more how little I really know about my mother. I may have heard the stories she tells a million times, but the subtext is all in the detail. I listen more and critisize less when I'm with mom, and I like that about me.
I wish I could be like that with everybody.
You choose every day who you spend time with. For me, it's not good enough just to intend to spend time with someone. I'm embarrassed by how many cancellations I'm actually responsible for, but when it comes down to the wire, I find that I only spend time with people I want to or feel compelled to spend time with. The latter feels so wasteful, but it's just pure business sense. If I had all the gold in Jo'burg I'd probably feel differently, but I don't right now.
By the way, it's still raining:)
So, the alternative is to light up the gas heater, put on my sweater and embrace the fact that it's getting bloody cold out here. It's been raining for a few hours. I pray it keeps up and makes it almost impossible to work out at 6am. See, insomnia, she's unapologetic about her interruptions. You either embrace her or you hate her. Hating takes way more energy than I can give right now, so here I am.
I've been thinking about "time" lately. How I spend it, and with whom. I've been spending a lot of time with mom. It's beautiful, it's frightening, it's fulfilling, it's frustrating. It's clear to both of us how important it is to spend time with each other, and you can only come to this conclusion when you do the deed, not just by talking about it. It's ironic that since moving to a city 2 hours plane ride away, I actually spend more time with my mother now more than ever. But I feel more like the mother. I'm the caretaker and leader. When did this happen, and who the hell approved it?
I watch this frail woman and wonder how I could have possibly have thought of her as the giant I did. She's tiny! I know I know, coming from me that might seem rich. But really, I think I liked it better when she was in charge. Actually I don't mean that. I felt powerless as a child, and I never want to feel like that again. The reason I'm so frustrated that my new scanner is not feeling me is that I've got all these pictures of my family that I'm desperate to work with. They are borrowed from my mother and I'm their temporary custodian. I think it's rude not to return pictures to their owners, but this new technology is kicking my ass, so mama has to wait.
Watching my mother, I've grown to respect and even fear old age. It's much more lonely than most of us realize, and it seems like the older you get, the less in your power it is to determine how alone or not alone you choose to be. The children and grandkids always promise to visit more than they ever do, and on the flip side you may be forced to live in a situation that may not be of your choosing. The sicker you are, the less power you have. Control freak-ness aside, that's a frightening thought.
As a kid my mother was a tower of strength. She was indomitable: to my brother and my eternal mortification, even during apartheid times where it was a given that white is right - if slighted, she had no qualms about fighting with white cashiers. A particular high (or low), depending on where you sit, was when she called a white woman who had cut in front of her in a line a "rooinek". I remember leaving the store the in a huff and a puff, and her hand was particularly high and jerky than normal. She always held my hand, and her mood used to determine the pace of our stride.
Even though I often feel she told me too much, too young, I realise more and more how little I really know about my mother. I may have heard the stories she tells a million times, but the subtext is all in the detail. I listen more and critisize less when I'm with mom, and I like that about me.
I wish I could be like that with everybody.
You choose every day who you spend time with. For me, it's not good enough just to intend to spend time with someone. I'm embarrassed by how many cancellations I'm actually responsible for, but when it comes down to the wire, I find that I only spend time with people I want to or feel compelled to spend time with. The latter feels so wasteful, but it's just pure business sense. If I had all the gold in Jo'burg I'd probably feel differently, but I don't right now.
By the way, it's still raining:)
Saturday 21 April 2012
Who's Loving You?
"Who's loving You?"
Remember this song from Terence Trent D'Arby's debut Album: "Introducing The Hardline According to Terence Trent D'Arby?" It was so so fresh when it came out in 1987 we all thought we'd died and gone to heaven. It was just about the time Jazzie B and Soul II Soul came out with "Back to Life". It was the kind of music you heard and instantly knew it was going to transform your life. You had no idea how, but you knew things were now different. It was exciting, original, and bloody damn good! I've no idea what any of the artists I mentioned above are doing now, since they're no longer releasing music to the public (as far as I know).
The thought I had was this, when I listen to great music, I feel loved. A good song will express exactly the same sentiment that YOU could have written, but clearly didn't . It moves you emotionally and tonally to a point of dementia for those around you who have to hear it for the 15th time and may not share your sentiments about the genius in the music. Seriously, when D'Angelo wails "How does it feel", I answer him. It's a less important question for me to answer (for now anyway) than it is for me to ask myself the feelings I had when listening to the song for the very first time.
Feelings change, but we still remember how music made us feel at a particular time. I love good solid vocals, great lyrics, and a wicked tune that won't get out of your head.
"Who's Loving You" is one of those songs from TTD that was not as celebrated as say "If you let me stay" and "Sign Your name". I still remember every lyric of every track, and could even start singing the note that I know will come next after the end of the previous song.
There's a huge collection in my playlist, which I'm always expanding on; but truth is I'm so boring and predictable that I tend to play and listen to the music I know from before much, much more than I do music I've recently been introduced to. Mxo, Nomfusi and the Lucky Charms (love the name) & that British sensation Adele is a great example of the newbies that are now part of my collection.
A friend of a friend (ahem) recently went on a 3 hour site visit with her boss, a particularly vexatious member of government who is constantly in the news about one thing or another and is not a most likable member of the new establishment. Dude actually barred my friend from playing ANY music during the trip. What kind of creature does that? Someone who needs a lot of hugs, I suspect.
So, who's loving you lately?
Remember this song from Terence Trent D'Arby's debut Album: "Introducing The Hardline According to Terence Trent D'Arby?" It was so so fresh when it came out in 1987 we all thought we'd died and gone to heaven. It was just about the time Jazzie B and Soul II Soul came out with "Back to Life". It was the kind of music you heard and instantly knew it was going to transform your life. You had no idea how, but you knew things were now different. It was exciting, original, and bloody damn good! I've no idea what any of the artists I mentioned above are doing now, since they're no longer releasing music to the public (as far as I know).
The thought I had was this, when I listen to great music, I feel loved. A good song will express exactly the same sentiment that YOU could have written, but clearly didn't . It moves you emotionally and tonally to a point of dementia for those around you who have to hear it for the 15th time and may not share your sentiments about the genius in the music. Seriously, when D'Angelo wails "How does it feel", I answer him. It's a less important question for me to answer (for now anyway) than it is for me to ask myself the feelings I had when listening to the song for the very first time.
Feelings change, but we still remember how music made us feel at a particular time. I love good solid vocals, great lyrics, and a wicked tune that won't get out of your head.
"Who's Loving You" is one of those songs from TTD that was not as celebrated as say "If you let me stay" and "Sign Your name". I still remember every lyric of every track, and could even start singing the note that I know will come next after the end of the previous song.
There's a huge collection in my playlist, which I'm always expanding on; but truth is I'm so boring and predictable that I tend to play and listen to the music I know from before much, much more than I do music I've recently been introduced to. Mxo, Nomfusi and the Lucky Charms (love the name) & that British sensation Adele is a great example of the newbies that are now part of my collection.
A friend of a friend (ahem) recently went on a 3 hour site visit with her boss, a particularly vexatious member of government who is constantly in the news about one thing or another and is not a most likable member of the new establishment. Dude actually barred my friend from playing ANY music during the trip. What kind of creature does that? Someone who needs a lot of hugs, I suspect.
So, who's loving you lately?
Sunday 15 April 2012
On Top of the World
And to think I was going to be my usual self and cancel. It seemed like a great idea last night, but when you're cuddled with the warm blankets, this "reason" now seems entirely unreasonable. But I forced myself out of the house and had a fantastic (and not easy) experience. I huffed, and I puffed. I cursed my tobacco habit, but once on the top, I couldn't remember any of these excuses.
To my right is Ntsiki and then Marcella. Marcella and I have known each other for about 5 years. It was love at first sight, what can I say. A Colombian native, we met through a mutual friend everybody calls The General. Incidentally, The General and I met in Cape Town in 1997. It was my first job back in the country. I remember still living in the USA and everybody saying "It's going to be so easy for you to get a job, having an American Degree and all." They lied. None of the "contacts" I'd made who promised me access had bothered to stay in contact, even after repeated prodding. It was a hard lesson in human relations, but worth every second. You need these hard knocks in life to set you on the straight and narrow.
It had taken me 6 weeks to land this job, and my mom was still asking me "exactly what it is you're doing"? Actually, not much has changed. My mom still asks me the same question, but I've made it work for so long now that she knows that I'll be ok, whatever it is I am or will be doing. I was an associate producer on a documentary series called Africa, Search for Common Ground. It was produced by Ubuntu productions, and I remember landing in Cape Town and thinking: "I am never leaving here.". Well, I left, and came back, and left. And now I'm back again. Like I said, not much has changed.
I've cleaned two loads of laundry. The oven has been simmering with a Kgomotso's Pocco Bucco (using pork instead of veal, and then of course I didn't have celery and carrots so I had to improvise, hence my signature on the dish). I'm grilling cougettes and pumpkin. For the past 3 days I've been fermenting mabele to make Ting, a sour traditional SeTswana, sorghum based grain that also used to brew traditional beer.
I'm drinking red wine and taking a break from cooking to write this.
Excuse me. Lunch is served.
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