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.
Monday, 7 May 2012
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:)
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