I found myself in a parenting workshop this morning. I didn't go because my relationship with Catticus has entered some other level, I went because I was invited to attend and it's my job to attend community events. So there I was, sitting around a horseshoe of tables with a group of parents, a cup of tea, and a Lemon Cream biscuit. It was an interesting morning. I learnt about the developmental stages of childhood, about parenting styles, and about how Ben 10 is not actually about a ten year old boy called Ben but about a boy called Ben who can turn himself into any of ten monsters when faced with a situation he doesn't quite like. It had relevance at the time.
Exactly a week ago, I was sitting in another horseshoe. It was a community support and prayer group that Ma'Regina wanted me to attend. We walked from the bungalow to the meeting and sat down together; she pulled my chair close to hers so that she could hold my hand in her lap. We sat the two of us, and then I helped her up when the time came to stand and pray. And then I helped her down again, and fetched her tea while the group leader welcomed everyone and asked us all to reflect on the last week of our lives. Ma'Regina had to translate a little, she whispered in my ear and the group leader paused when he saw our process.
The Monday before last, I was sitting in the too-full office of one of my community health partners. I sat with the service-manager, and it was cold. The electricity kept tripping because too many people had too many heaters on. It was instantaneously dark and we couldn't see, so we'd switch from the conversation that I needed to write down, to the conversation that I didn't. He's a nice guy, this service manager. He told me about how he's trying to change his name from the nickname his friends gave him in high school two decades ago, to something more professional. "The people I know from then, they call me Maboyz. The people I know from hey, the last few years, they call me Donald."
I smile and reach out for a fist-bump in the dark: "Ah, Donald, my friend, I know exactly what you mean. I can tell you where I know someone from, depending on whether they call me Jen or not. I used to be Jenny."
Three Mondays and three conversations. I had tea out of mug this morning, an enamel cup last week, and no tea the week before because the kettle kept turning off. Variables yes, but each week I've heard about cycles. Parent to child. Past to Future. Metaphors of relay races and students passing batons to each other. It's been kind of meta having the same conversation about how life repeats itself...
Showing posts with label The Wellness Centre and Seniors' Club. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Wellness Centre and Seniors' Club. Show all posts
Monday, August 5, 2013
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
Between two corners
Everytime I visit the Wellness Centre, I drive past the neighbouring Daycare Centre. It's on the corner of the road with its brightly painted sign hanging off the building's awning. I've met the manager a couple of times before, there in the Seniors' Club bungalow. We've chatted, been friendly, but today I needed a favour. See, two of my students were meant to volunteer at a daycare centre in Barcelona but the daycare manager couldn't get some community leaders to sign an agreement about staffing for 2013 nor to decide on who from the community was going to help in the container where they run their programmes. So that process has stalled somewhere between a megalomanic and a bunch of kids who'll go back to running around the afternoon lanes and alleyways of Barcelona. Obviously, my students could no longer go there. The director of the homeless centre in Salt River, which was option number two, called me early Monday morning, she was angry and upset. Her organization is being evicted from the building they lease, the owners want to sell. It was unexpected, very sudden and unfair. "Good luck," I told her as we ended our conversation, "if there's anything you need from me, just let me know." I hung up the phone and stamped around in my pajama's for a bit, frustrated and pissed-off to be honest, about how my partner is being treated. Then I headed to work, started to stop running out of ideas and, as I do these days when this whole community development vibe gets to much for me, I phoned Tabs. "Sisi!" she called when she answered the phone, "how are you?"
"I need some help Tabs, how are you?"
She laughed, listened to my quandary, and we made a plan.
I drove into Khayelitsha this morning to drop off a pair of students at a high school there and to meet with the principal. They were short four teachers last week, and the principal explains, "the department is only giving us three, so we'll have to redo the timetable." She smiles apologetically at my students, as though it's her fault.
I don't know if it's the 7am meeting that's got me off my game, but I have an overwhelming urge to scream and shout and throw things. I get why kids burn their schools: in that moment I could have set fire to something. No, it's not constructive, but neither is not having enough teachers: as though one teacher too few is even the most serious issue here... I leave the school and drive to the Wellness Centre, slowing down to avoid the people walking in and around the taxis idling near the Pama Road bridge.
Tabs hears me talking to Lulu at the reception desk and pulls me into the kitchen, "you want a cup?"
She makes me sweet coffee and we stand for a while and chat. Ma'Monica joins us and I sit up on the counter like I always do, Tabby leaning her arms on my legs, hitting my knees for emphasis when she makes a forceful point. I've been there a while, our cups are empty, and we're paging through the Shoprite advertorial. "Don't you want to help me find Gloria?" I say to Tabs. The internet and phones haven't been paid so were cut off from last week already; there's nothing for her to do here. "Mmmm" she answers emphatically, "let's go."
We walk over the road to the Daycare Centre, greeting and hugging the staff. Gloria's in the office and she doesn't recognize me at first. "I had long hair last time," I tell her, and then she remembers.
"I wanted students from last year," she tells me, when I propose my offer, "so yes, ofcourse they can come." She walks Tabs and I around the centre and explains that there was a burglary last night. Someone broke in the window of the outside room and stole the keys to the other bungalow. "Why do people steal from children?" I want to know, Gloria just shakes her head.
"We're waiting now for someone to come to open the bungalow" she says, "so for now the children must all sit in here." There must be about 20 of them, squeezed into a sliver of room. Their little bodies fit into one another like puzzle pieces. There is no room to play or move really, just to be inside and to listen to the mas tell them stories and teach.
I drive back to the office via the corner of Lansdowne Road and Mew Way. The lights were out when I came in this morning: no red, no orange, no green, just the blue of the traffic car parked on the island in Mew Way. The officer stood leaning against the bonnet of the car watching the wheels and feet negotiate their way over and across the intersection. But the lights were back on now. They'll be off again this afternoon, I can almost guarantee it, but I don't know, just for a moment--maybe it was Tabs, maybe it was Gloria--I felt kind of hopeful.
"I need some help Tabs, how are you?"
She laughed, listened to my quandary, and we made a plan.
I drove into Khayelitsha this morning to drop off a pair of students at a high school there and to meet with the principal. They were short four teachers last week, and the principal explains, "the department is only giving us three, so we'll have to redo the timetable." She smiles apologetically at my students, as though it's her fault.
I don't know if it's the 7am meeting that's got me off my game, but I have an overwhelming urge to scream and shout and throw things. I get why kids burn their schools: in that moment I could have set fire to something. No, it's not constructive, but neither is not having enough teachers: as though one teacher too few is even the most serious issue here... I leave the school and drive to the Wellness Centre, slowing down to avoid the people walking in and around the taxis idling near the Pama Road bridge.
Tabs hears me talking to Lulu at the reception desk and pulls me into the kitchen, "you want a cup?"
She makes me sweet coffee and we stand for a while and chat. Ma'Monica joins us and I sit up on the counter like I always do, Tabby leaning her arms on my legs, hitting my knees for emphasis when she makes a forceful point. I've been there a while, our cups are empty, and we're paging through the Shoprite advertorial. "Don't you want to help me find Gloria?" I say to Tabs. The internet and phones haven't been paid so were cut off from last week already; there's nothing for her to do here. "Mmmm" she answers emphatically, "let's go."
We walk over the road to the Daycare Centre, greeting and hugging the staff. Gloria's in the office and she doesn't recognize me at first. "I had long hair last time," I tell her, and then she remembers.
"I wanted students from last year," she tells me, when I propose my offer, "so yes, ofcourse they can come." She walks Tabs and I around the centre and explains that there was a burglary last night. Someone broke in the window of the outside room and stole the keys to the other bungalow. "Why do people steal from children?" I want to know, Gloria just shakes her head.
"We're waiting now for someone to come to open the bungalow" she says, "so for now the children must all sit in here." There must be about 20 of them, squeezed into a sliver of room. Their little bodies fit into one another like puzzle pieces. There is no room to play or move really, just to be inside and to listen to the mas tell them stories and teach.
I drive back to the office via the corner of Lansdowne Road and Mew Way. The lights were out when I came in this morning: no red, no orange, no green, just the blue of the traffic car parked on the island in Mew Way. The officer stood leaning against the bonnet of the car watching the wheels and feet negotiate their way over and across the intersection. But the lights were back on now. They'll be off again this afternoon, I can almost guarantee it, but I don't know, just for a moment--maybe it was Tabs, maybe it was Gloria--I felt kind of hopeful.
Thursday, December 6, 2012
World Aids Day at the Wellness Centre
It was (a belated) Worlds' Aids Day at the Wellness Centre yesterday, with speakers and presentations and testimonies from the audience. I walked in to see the Senior's Club sitting in the front row, they take these things seriously. Ma'Regina was the first to offer her thoughts on the role of the elderly in the changing social landscape that Aids has moulded in our country. Tabby walked over to where I stood leaning against the information shelves with her "follow me" expression. So I followed her into the kitchen where she pulled out an apricot from her apron.
"I took it from the display," she said. To the far left of the speakers table was a display of healthy foods, it was always one of my favourite jobs for the centre's health days, doing the display.
"Tabs!" I reprimanded her, giggling, "you can't take it away!"
"No look," she rolls the apricot over in her hand and shows me its bruised underside, "it isn't a good one anyway."
"Fair enough." I agree.
In the kitchen, Ma'MP and Ma'Sophe are making chicken and spinach, Tabby asks me to set out plates.
"So is Lulama still in Norway?" I ask as I stack out the green and yellow enamel plates.
"No she's back, but she had a good conference. She was the only one from South Africa there!"
"Shoh that's a lot of pressure."
Tabs nods in agreement, "but you know her, she won't be intimidated."
She won't. She's fearless. Fearless and so full of grace really. When she's around, the world just works.
We get distracted talking about the conference, and everything Lulama said about it. But then,
"No but hang on, if she's not in Norway, then where is she?"
"Oh yes, she's on leave today. Her son went to the bush last week on Wednesday, and so her and her family have been making umqombothi and making the arrangements for the food and the sheep."
"What? No man Tabs, her son is only 13!"
"Ha-uh, this is the son she inherited. He's 18."
"Ooh, right, ok."
Tabby goes on to explain as much of the bush process as she can to me, but since she's not a man, there's not much she can tell me. "It takes shorter these days, it used to be six months, now it's just a few weeks." I ask her what else has changed.
"Before they go, the boys go to the clinic now for a check-up and to be tested to make sure they're not HIV."
A disproportionate number of my students want to come to South Africa to learn about HIV, to see what an "infectious disease" looks like. I sometimes lose my patience with them. Grannies rethinking their retirement, orphans adopted or inherited, a new tradition added to an old one; HIV and Aids looks like people living their lives. Different lives yes, and living their lives sometimes with incredible loss and pain, but living. And while Aids has sculptured South Africa's already transitional terrain in dramatic and sometimes difficult to comprehend ways, it doesn't define us.
"I went to Cape Town on Sunday," Tabby starts a new story.
"Oh ya, for the Christmas lights, how was it?"
"Mm, it was great, we only left late. But next time I'm taking a camping chair and really settling in."
I laugh, "seriously Tabs, a camping chair?"
"Ewe sisi, why not?"
Friday, November 9, 2012
Home.
The worst of my jetlag over, I went to visit the Seniors' Club yesterday. I brought my mas some chocolate from my travels, Hershey's Kisses to be specific. Hershey's is about as average as my left toe, but the Kisses are a bit of a novelty so I thought I'd go with them. The women were thrilled. "From America!" they would tell every arriving club member, and "First class chocolate!" Oh America, even in your most average state you're first class aren't you? There was a great debate as to how many individually wrapped Kisses each woman would get, with Ma'Regina and Ma'Ellen proposing extravagance and "saving for a rainy day" respectively. In the end everyone got three to do with what they want, and the rest are to be kept on the shelf under the sink for guests.
I carefully extricated myself from the chocolate distribution debate, and instead started talking about my travels. I'd printed out a couple of photos, mostly of my time in Cambridge, and the mas ooh'ed and aah'ed at the beautiful old buildings and lamented the fact that they would never be able to go there. I never quite know what to say when the difference in our privilege is laid so bare, so I go now with a sincere "Ya, you would love it there: there are so many gardens and trees and places to walk. And lots of churches!" The women nod and smile. We get lost for a moment in our thoughts before Ma'Ellen calls out: "OBAMA!" and we all chorus "OBAMA!" in reply. "I just missed the elections," I tell them, "but I was holding thumbs for Obama." The women agree, they too were praying for an Obama win.
Tabs comes to find me, and is a bit put-out that I didn't come to say hello to her first, so I leave the bungalow and walk with her to the kitchen. She's preparing chicken feet, and I learn a new name for them: amanqina. I've heard of walkie-talkies (when paired with mouth/head parts) and runaways, but not yet amanqina. We practice the click, the "q" is really difficult to get right; it requires a kind of hollow sound that my mouth is just never happy making. Anyway, so she's making amanqina and we chat about what's been going on here, what's been going on at home, and then she asks how I'm doing. "Oh Tabs, we had some trouble in the family, see, my grandpa passed away."
She shakes her head sympathetically and prompts me to go on. We talk about my grandpa, about my mom and her siblings and how my granny is doing. "And the family is well?" she asks me.
"Ag you know Tabs, there are always politics with a passing, but yes, we're all fine."
I'm surprised when she starts laughing.
I leave my post at the amanqina pot and walk over to where she stands at the sink with her hands paused over the washing up: "what now?" I ask her.
"No, no," she chokes out her words between laughs, "I thought it was just us black people who had politics with death, I didn't know it was a thing with white people too!"
I laugh with her.
A week ago, when I was presenting my research during my whistle-stop visit to the California campus that employs me, someone asked me whether I felt that the women at the Wellness Centre had learnt as much about me as I had about them. I'd answered, "yes, I think so" but I hadn't been sure. As Tabby stands laughing, clutching the sink for support now as we enter hysterics about black people and white people and the tragic absurdity of the politics of passing on I'm fairly convinced that yes, such surprise can only indicate learning.
"Oh sisi," she tells me later and reaches out to hold my arm, "I'm sorry about your grandpa"
"Thanks Tabs," I answer, as I feel the gentle pressure and care of her squeeze.
So I'm back. Back in Cape Town, back in Khayelisha, back at work, back at the Wellness Centre. Back with the people who make my Cape Town the epic wonderland that it is.
I carefully extricated myself from the chocolate distribution debate, and instead started talking about my travels. I'd printed out a couple of photos, mostly of my time in Cambridge, and the mas ooh'ed and aah'ed at the beautiful old buildings and lamented the fact that they would never be able to go there. I never quite know what to say when the difference in our privilege is laid so bare, so I go now with a sincere "Ya, you would love it there: there are so many gardens and trees and places to walk. And lots of churches!" The women nod and smile. We get lost for a moment in our thoughts before Ma'Ellen calls out: "OBAMA!" and we all chorus "OBAMA!" in reply. "I just missed the elections," I tell them, "but I was holding thumbs for Obama." The women agree, they too were praying for an Obama win.
Tabs comes to find me, and is a bit put-out that I didn't come to say hello to her first, so I leave the bungalow and walk with her to the kitchen. She's preparing chicken feet, and I learn a new name for them: amanqina. I've heard of walkie-talkies (when paired with mouth/head parts) and runaways, but not yet amanqina. We practice the click, the "q" is really difficult to get right; it requires a kind of hollow sound that my mouth is just never happy making. Anyway, so she's making amanqina and we chat about what's been going on here, what's been going on at home, and then she asks how I'm doing. "Oh Tabs, we had some trouble in the family, see, my grandpa passed away."
She shakes her head sympathetically and prompts me to go on. We talk about my grandpa, about my mom and her siblings and how my granny is doing. "And the family is well?" she asks me.
"Ag you know Tabs, there are always politics with a passing, but yes, we're all fine."
I'm surprised when she starts laughing.
I leave my post at the amanqina pot and walk over to where she stands at the sink with her hands paused over the washing up: "what now?" I ask her.
"No, no," she chokes out her words between laughs, "I thought it was just us black people who had politics with death, I didn't know it was a thing with white people too!"
I laugh with her.
A week ago, when I was presenting my research during my whistle-stop visit to the California campus that employs me, someone asked me whether I felt that the women at the Wellness Centre had learnt as much about me as I had about them. I'd answered, "yes, I think so" but I hadn't been sure. As Tabby stands laughing, clutching the sink for support now as we enter hysterics about black people and white people and the tragic absurdity of the politics of passing on I'm fairly convinced that yes, such surprise can only indicate learning.
"Oh sisi," she tells me later and reaches out to hold my arm, "I'm sorry about your grandpa"
"Thanks Tabs," I answer, as I feel the gentle pressure and care of her squeeze.
So I'm back. Back in Cape Town, back in Khayelisha, back at work, back at the Wellness Centre. Back with the people who make my Cape Town the epic wonderland that it is.
Friday, October 5, 2012
Oranges at the Olympiatrics
About a week ago, I got a text from Tabby, which included the line: "Seniors frm all over CT r having a sports day on de 4th including ur ladies wish u culd c dem."
Yesterday, I put on a hoodie, drove to Vygies Stadium in Athlone and went to the Olympiatrics. My ma's were having a jam when I arrived over lunch, cheering their teams on. "Ntombezaan, you came!"
"Ewe ma, and I brought some oranges."
I explained that when I was in high school, during my short-lived hockey career, we would get orange slices at half-time. "I'm not really sure why to be honest," I tell them, "I think it's just a tradition to eat oranges when you play sport."
I shrug and hand over my tupperwares and the women agree to eat my carefully cut up quarters. "For energy!" shouts Ma'Ellen.
"Enkosi ma, yes." I agree.
They're sitting in fairly organic rows in the stands; many of the flat plastic seats have been broken or dirtied over time so they've just camped out in the most comfortable way they can. I flop down to Ma'Regina. "So have you won anything yet?"
"Ye-es." she tells me.
"Which races?" I ask.
"The Egg and Spoon race and the Sack race. We came second and third."
"So no trophies or medals yet?" I tease her.
"Heh, ntombezaan, we're doing well!"
"Mmm," I answer.
I walk down to the edge of the track where Tabby is organizing competitors and getting everyone lined up for the Dress-up Race. The two commentators are calling over the music for missing competitors and clubs. Elderly people, some more sprightly than others, are calling back. Tabs hands me a crumpled schedule for the day: "Hold that," she instructs me. I wait for further explanation, but she's too busy corralling participants, shouting rapidly in Xhosa as she does, uncompromising in her directions and answering most suggestions with "huh-aaaah!" So I page through the schedule to see what's coming up. There's the Pass the Ball Race, the Novelty Race for club leaders, and the Relay Sprint. Say whaaat; a sprint...?
"Yes," Tabs answers my concerned question. "The sprint."
About an hour later, the relay teams are taking their positions on the track. I'm apprehensive. Some of the team members limp a little to their starting blocks, some are stripping off layers of scarves and jerseys, readjusting their glasses, tugging their socks and folding them over their sandals. Tabby starts giggling, holding onto my arm and pointing to our team's fourth runner. It's the old man who hangs out at the bungalow some days, "but he's so fat!" squeals Tabs, "how's he going to run?" I have to admit, while I would've phrased the question differently, I shared her sentiments and shook my head a little. "I dunno Tabs, maybe he was an athlete when he was younger?" Our speculations are brought to an end by the commentator's count-down: "One, two, three" and his "GO!" is matched with the small bang of the starting gun.
We're not doing too well over the first three legs, which doesn't stop us from jumping and shouting "MASINCEDIIIIIIIISWE!" like small children, but things aren't looking good. But then, hey, then, Ma'MP hands over to our final runner and our fortunes change. Our happy surprise culminates as he wins us third place.
"But he is so big!" exclaims Tabs, "how can he run so fast?!"
He really is a big, big man. Round, round, round, like Father Christmas.
He's waving his arms above his head now, the champion of the race.
Tabs and I join the throng walking towards him and the other three on his team. "Take his photo! Take his photo!" shouts Ma'Monica. His glasses have sweat-slipped down his nose and he shoves them up with the back of his hand, clearly enjoying the shouts of congratulation pouring down on him.
I give myself a black mark for my prejudice, for thinking that you can be too old, too fat, too wobbly, and too un-athletic to come third place in the Olympiatrics Relay Sprint. I forget sometimes that human potential is defined by what we can do, not by what we can't.
Yesterday, I put on a hoodie, drove to Vygies Stadium in Athlone and went to the Olympiatrics. My ma's were having a jam when I arrived over lunch, cheering their teams on. "Ntombezaan, you came!"
"Ewe ma, and I brought some oranges."
I explained that when I was in high school, during my short-lived hockey career, we would get orange slices at half-time. "I'm not really sure why to be honest," I tell them, "I think it's just a tradition to eat oranges when you play sport."
I shrug and hand over my tupperwares and the women agree to eat my carefully cut up quarters. "For energy!" shouts Ma'Ellen.
"Enkosi ma, yes." I agree.
They're sitting in fairly organic rows in the stands; many of the flat plastic seats have been broken or dirtied over time so they've just camped out in the most comfortable way they can. I flop down to Ma'Regina. "So have you won anything yet?"
"Ye-es." she tells me.
"Which races?" I ask.
"The Egg and Spoon race and the Sack race. We came second and third."
"So no trophies or medals yet?" I tease her.
"Heh, ntombezaan, we're doing well!"
"Mmm," I answer.
I walk down to the edge of the track where Tabby is organizing competitors and getting everyone lined up for the Dress-up Race. The two commentators are calling over the music for missing competitors and clubs. Elderly people, some more sprightly than others, are calling back. Tabs hands me a crumpled schedule for the day: "Hold that," she instructs me. I wait for further explanation, but she's too busy corralling participants, shouting rapidly in Xhosa as she does, uncompromising in her directions and answering most suggestions with "huh-aaaah!" So I page through the schedule to see what's coming up. There's the Pass the Ball Race, the Novelty Race for club leaders, and the Relay Sprint. Say whaaat; a sprint...?
"Yes," Tabs answers my concerned question. "The sprint."
About an hour later, the relay teams are taking their positions on the track. I'm apprehensive. Some of the team members limp a little to their starting blocks, some are stripping off layers of scarves and jerseys, readjusting their glasses, tugging their socks and folding them over their sandals. Tabby starts giggling, holding onto my arm and pointing to our team's fourth runner. It's the old man who hangs out at the bungalow some days, "but he's so fat!" squeals Tabs, "how's he going to run?" I have to admit, while I would've phrased the question differently, I shared her sentiments and shook my head a little. "I dunno Tabs, maybe he was an athlete when he was younger?" Our speculations are brought to an end by the commentator's count-down: "One, two, three" and his "GO!" is matched with the small bang of the starting gun.
We're not doing too well over the first three legs, which doesn't stop us from jumping and shouting "MASINCEDIIIIIIIISWE!" like small children, but things aren't looking good. But then, hey, then, Ma'MP hands over to our final runner and our fortunes change. Our happy surprise culminates as he wins us third place.
"But he is so big!" exclaims Tabs, "how can he run so fast?!"
He really is a big, big man. Round, round, round, like Father Christmas.
He's waving his arms above his head now, the champion of the race.
Tabs and I join the throng walking towards him and the other three on his team. "Take his photo! Take his photo!" shouts Ma'Monica. His glasses have sweat-slipped down his nose and he shoves them up with the back of his hand, clearly enjoying the shouts of congratulation pouring down on him.
I give myself a black mark for my prejudice, for thinking that you can be too old, too fat, too wobbly, and too un-athletic to come third place in the Olympiatrics Relay Sprint. I forget sometimes that human potential is defined by what we can do, not by what we can't.
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
Coming and Going
I didn't realize til I drove into Khayelitsha this morning how much I've missed being there. Yes, obviously I missed the Seniors Club and the staff at the EWC, but I didn't realize the extent to which I'd missed the place. I can't quantify why, and I hope it's not some romanticized ideal of community playing mind-games with me, but driving over the Mew Way bridge and into Site C I just breathed this deep and relieved sigh, reassuring myself that it's ok, Khayelitsha hasn't left in the last month, it's all still here. Still broken, still unbroken, still fixed. Sure, things have changed, in such a mutable environment meaning comes from change, but it's still here.
A couple of months back, someone asked me what the empty plot over the road from the Site C terminus was about. Today, the construction of the new Shoprite exposes the skeletal beginnings of the building. The tshishanyama fires fill the road with a heavy and moving fog. I wait as I drive down Phaphani Crescent for the woman on crutches to swing her way over the road. The house on the corner, that turquoise one; man, the lavender bushes on the verge outside border on abundant.
I had a meeting at a partner organization in Site C, and then, ofcourse, I made a quick stop at the EWC. I couldn't not. I follow Bonga Drive past the Police Station, past the carwash where the vacuum-cleaner cord hangs from a loose plug a little way up an electrical pole, and comes to rest in a pool of muddy water at its feet. The potholes aren't as bad as I remember them, or perhaps they've been filled up and re-holed in the time I've been away? Those potholes become miniature tidal pools when it rains, with shreds and shards of food packaging swimming lazily about in them. At the corner of Pama Road, there's a salon offering mani's and pedi's for finger- and foot-nails.
My ma's are excited to see me and I sit down for a quick cupcake with them. They're loving the change in the weather, and have new outside furniture that they show-off. They tell me that:
"There are two other ladies who came here," a pause, "was it last week?" Ma'MP asks me.
I shrug. "Two ladies from where?"
"Oh, they are like you," is the answer. "They come from the college to be with us."
I smile. "Ah, that'll be nice!"
"Yes," is the answer. "We showed them your poster," she points to where it still hangs on the wall. It reads: "Ndifunde lukhulu kuni", I have learnt so much from you.
It's not that I'm territorial, not that I'm jealous, but I'm really, really happy that my poster still hangs on the wall, that my presence will be felt by those two other ladies.
I wave at the security guard on the way out, at least after a year I no longer have to go through the ritual of signing her well-thumbed ledger. I swear like a pirate at a taxi on Lansdowne Road after it forces me closer to the pavement than I usually like to be. I can see the tops of the water-reeds in RR-Section, this area really is as much raw as it is urbanized. There's a sign saying "No Dumping Here" just next to the porta-potties lining the Mew Way N2 onramp. A mound of sky blue rubbish bags have started to collect at its base.
A couple of months back, someone asked me what the empty plot over the road from the Site C terminus was about. Today, the construction of the new Shoprite exposes the skeletal beginnings of the building. The tshishanyama fires fill the road with a heavy and moving fog. I wait as I drive down Phaphani Crescent for the woman on crutches to swing her way over the road. The house on the corner, that turquoise one; man, the lavender bushes on the verge outside border on abundant.
I had a meeting at a partner organization in Site C, and then, ofcourse, I made a quick stop at the EWC. I couldn't not. I follow Bonga Drive past the Police Station, past the carwash where the vacuum-cleaner cord hangs from a loose plug a little way up an electrical pole, and comes to rest in a pool of muddy water at its feet. The potholes aren't as bad as I remember them, or perhaps they've been filled up and re-holed in the time I've been away? Those potholes become miniature tidal pools when it rains, with shreds and shards of food packaging swimming lazily about in them. At the corner of Pama Road, there's a salon offering mani's and pedi's for finger- and foot-nails.
My ma's are excited to see me and I sit down for a quick cupcake with them. They're loving the change in the weather, and have new outside furniture that they show-off. They tell me that:
"There are two other ladies who came here," a pause, "was it last week?" Ma'MP asks me.
I shrug. "Two ladies from where?"
"Oh, they are like you," is the answer. "They come from the college to be with us."
I smile. "Ah, that'll be nice!"
"Yes," is the answer. "We showed them your poster," she points to where it still hangs on the wall. It reads: "Ndifunde lukhulu kuni", I have learnt so much from you.
It's not that I'm territorial, not that I'm jealous, but I'm really, really happy that my poster still hangs on the wall, that my presence will be felt by those two other ladies.
I wave at the security guard on the way out, at least after a year I no longer have to go through the ritual of signing her well-thumbed ledger. I swear like a pirate at a taxi on Lansdowne Road after it forces me closer to the pavement than I usually like to be. I can see the tops of the water-reeds in RR-Section, this area really is as much raw as it is urbanized. There's a sign saying "No Dumping Here" just next to the porta-potties lining the Mew Way N2 onramp. A mound of sky blue rubbish bags have started to collect at its base.
Saturday, September 1, 2012
No complaints
For the how manyeth Saturday I'm sitting in my office writing my thesis. At this point, I've been writing it for so long that it seems habit now, ritualistic. Two laptops have come and gone since it's conception, litres of rooibos have been drunk, whole crates of smarties snacked, rolls and rolls of toilet paper cried and sniffed into. I've received such insufficient and inappropriate support from my academic department and they knew when they accepted my research proposal--a proposal that proposed not a question but an attitude--that I was going to need oodles of hand-holding. If my words lack the anger that should decorate my Christmas tree of complaint, it's because I have no more anger to give them. Now I just feel abandoned. Betrayed even.
Anyway, so here I sit. I wanted to remind myself why I chose to do this research as oppose to something easier, less complicated, less political. I suppose, I want to know whether I have reason to complain. Because yes, I'm sitting here struggling with the thesis component of the research, but I said from the beginning, from that first presentation to the department, that I valued something else. That I wanted something else. That I was sick of how research gets done, that the ethics of it makes me profoundly uncomfortable, that I wanted to be a different kind of researcher. Can I complain now that I've taken this route? I read over a couple of the texts I've received from my "research participants" in the last couple of days.
"Molo Thandeka kuyabanda u know what i was thinking about u 2day, we all mis u Lots of love"
"Molo Thandeka, Oh we mis u my angel u know what, we used to c the face full of love on friday, u left a big gap in our events, Yr poster is still on the wall (wathint'abafazi) Keep Well enjoy (mama)"
"Hi Girl, u'r so special gift from God, I really appreciate that. Thandeka we will c u next tm. Sleep well my Angel, Mama Monica"
No.
I can't complain.
If I'm honest with myself, I know that more than a thesis, this is what I wanted from my masters degree. I wanted to build relationships, to cross the institutionally constructed barriers between "university" and "community", I wanted to love and be loved. I wanted to replace an ethic of consent with an ethic of caring. I did all that. My thesis is one smidgen of something so much bigger, and so much more meaningful. I argue in my thesis that "doing well" shouldn't be the grade on an artefact of knowledge, it should reflect the process that brought that artefact into being.
Maybe I'll still write a good thesis. Maybe someone will read it and it will resonate. Maybe.
Who knows.
"Molweni molweni everyone!!" I start my text, "Just wanted to say hi quickly and to send you all my love..."
Anyway, so here I sit. I wanted to remind myself why I chose to do this research as oppose to something easier, less complicated, less political. I suppose, I want to know whether I have reason to complain. Because yes, I'm sitting here struggling with the thesis component of the research, but I said from the beginning, from that first presentation to the department, that I valued something else. That I wanted something else. That I was sick of how research gets done, that the ethics of it makes me profoundly uncomfortable, that I wanted to be a different kind of researcher. Can I complain now that I've taken this route? I read over a couple of the texts I've received from my "research participants" in the last couple of days.
"Molo Thandeka kuyabanda u know what i was thinking about u 2day, we all mis u Lots of love"
"Molo Thandeka, Oh we mis u my angel u know what, we used to c the face full of love on friday, u left a big gap in our events, Yr poster is still on the wall (wathint'abafazi) Keep Well enjoy (mama)"
"Hi Girl, u'r so special gift from God, I really appreciate that. Thandeka we will c u next tm. Sleep well my Angel, Mama Monica"
No.
I can't complain.
If I'm honest with myself, I know that more than a thesis, this is what I wanted from my masters degree. I wanted to build relationships, to cross the institutionally constructed barriers between "university" and "community", I wanted to love and be loved. I wanted to replace an ethic of consent with an ethic of caring. I did all that. My thesis is one smidgen of something so much bigger, and so much more meaningful. I argue in my thesis that "doing well" shouldn't be the grade on an artefact of knowledge, it should reflect the process that brought that artefact into being.
Maybe I'll still write a good thesis. Maybe someone will read it and it will resonate. Maybe.
Who knows.
"Molweni molweni everyone!!" I start my text, "Just wanted to say hi quickly and to send you all my love..."
Monday, August 27, 2012
Nay-Nay on the hand-holding
I haven't had much more than a sniff of the N2 in recent weeks. Tied to my desk, typing, typing, all I can do is dream of the days I've spent outside of these four flimsy walls. Just to prove that I'm not a totally unproductive schmuck, I'll share something of what I've been writing about for thesis purposes...
So, there's this whole model of engaged research right, to which universities the world over are hitching their ivory towers. One of the big things that this model values is building relationships with communities. In South Africa, where universities are characterized by a history of exclusion, making the institution seem less inhospitable is a worthwhile activity. It's all fine and well having these aspirations, but, and here's where I start to smell a rat, if an institution isn't willing to prioritize the hand-holding Kumbaya singing, then hells, it mustn't expect to lose its reputation of elitism and inaccessibility. AND, invariably, when the Kumbaya singing comes up against, say, something like the production of knowledge--which come on, we all know is the real business of universities--then you must rather just roll up the campfire in a ream of papered institutionalization and give it all up.
A little to abstract for you? Let me offer an analogy.
The Masincediswe Seniors Club have ongoing knitting projects in which they expect me to participate. So I have mismatched knitting needles and a bundle of grey wool and need to turn that all into a tangible product. A couple of weeks back, I arrived at the EWC to find Ma’Sophie sitting outside with her back to the sun.
“Molo ma,” I offer a smile and a greeting. We chat for a bit, about the week, about the change in the weather. And then she tells me, “they missed you inside.”
I couldn’t visit last Friday, and I’ve been feeling guilty about it since.
“Ndiyazi,” I tell her, I know. “I missed them too.” I turn to the bungalow’s door but before I can go inside, Ma’Sophe reaches for the knitting in my bag. I untangle the errant threads from the bag’s zip and pass the woollen bundle to her.
“Is this all you’ve done?” she looks at my efforts disapprovingly and shakes her head. I’ve added only a few rows in the last two weeks. “You are being lazy!”
More guilt. I look down, I look at her, “I know ma, I’m sorry, I was so busy this last while.” I offer a contrite smile and a “I’ll do better, I promise.” It’s a promise flavoured by desperation.
Sadly, it’s not the first time the women have commented on my “lazy hands”. Back in the days when I was still on my ridiculously misguided ethnographic data collection mission, I’d sit with my book as they’d sit with their sewing: me taking notes, them stitching and knitting and beading. They said I had lazy hands, because as far as they could see, I was doing nothing.
And so my lazy hands are back. The deadline to complete my thesis, a shining artefact of knowledge, edges closer, day-by-day. Between reading and writing, I’m not knitting. My mismatched needles and grey wool lie at the bottom of my bag, occasionally making it onto my lap. But you can’t, no matter how much you want to, type and knit simultaneously.
Right now, I have a research grant, an academic department, and an impending deadline, all telling me: Jen, you need to finish (To be fair, I suspect my department isn't wildly interested in what I'm doing). My masters degree requires a wordy product, and my knitting, my happily tatty knitting and all that it symbolizes; it suffers.
How's that for an analogy?
So I'll continue hiding here in front of my Mac. Not building relationships, not singing Kumbaya, not knitting. Tied to my desk, typing, typing, all I can do is dream of the days I've spent outside of these four flimsy walls...
So, there's this whole model of engaged research right, to which universities the world over are hitching their ivory towers. One of the big things that this model values is building relationships with communities. In South Africa, where universities are characterized by a history of exclusion, making the institution seem less inhospitable is a worthwhile activity. It's all fine and well having these aspirations, but, and here's where I start to smell a rat, if an institution isn't willing to prioritize the hand-holding Kumbaya singing, then hells, it mustn't expect to lose its reputation of elitism and inaccessibility. AND, invariably, when the Kumbaya singing comes up against, say, something like the production of knowledge--which come on, we all know is the real business of universities--then you must rather just roll up the campfire in a ream of papered institutionalization and give it all up.
A little to abstract for you? Let me offer an analogy.
The Masincediswe Seniors Club have ongoing knitting projects in which they expect me to participate. So I have mismatched knitting needles and a bundle of grey wool and need to turn that all into a tangible product. A couple of weeks back, I arrived at the EWC to find Ma’Sophie sitting outside with her back to the sun.
“Molo ma,” I offer a smile and a greeting. We chat for a bit, about the week, about the change in the weather. And then she tells me, “they missed you inside.”
I couldn’t visit last Friday, and I’ve been feeling guilty about it since.
“Ndiyazi,” I tell her, I know. “I missed them too.” I turn to the bungalow’s door but before I can go inside, Ma’Sophe reaches for the knitting in my bag. I untangle the errant threads from the bag’s zip and pass the woollen bundle to her.
“Is this all you’ve done?” she looks at my efforts disapprovingly and shakes her head. I’ve added only a few rows in the last two weeks. “You are being lazy!”
More guilt. I look down, I look at her, “I know ma, I’m sorry, I was so busy this last while.” I offer a contrite smile and a “I’ll do better, I promise.” It’s a promise flavoured by desperation.
Sadly, it’s not the first time the women have commented on my “lazy hands”. Back in the days when I was still on my ridiculously misguided ethnographic data collection mission, I’d sit with my book as they’d sit with their sewing: me taking notes, them stitching and knitting and beading. They said I had lazy hands, because as far as they could see, I was doing nothing.
And so my lazy hands are back. The deadline to complete my thesis, a shining artefact of knowledge, edges closer, day-by-day. Between reading and writing, I’m not knitting. My mismatched needles and grey wool lie at the bottom of my bag, occasionally making it onto my lap. But you can’t, no matter how much you want to, type and knit simultaneously.
Right now, I have a research grant, an academic department, and an impending deadline, all telling me: Jen, you need to finish (To be fair, I suspect my department isn't wildly interested in what I'm doing). My masters degree requires a wordy product, and my knitting, my happily tatty knitting and all that it symbolizes; it suffers.
How's that for an analogy?
So I'll continue hiding here in front of my Mac. Not building relationships, not singing Kumbaya, not knitting. Tied to my desk, typing, typing, all I can do is dream of the days I've spent outside of these four flimsy walls...
Friday, August 17, 2012
A cup of tea
It's not that I haven't blogged about my undying love for rooibos tea many times, I've just never published those blogs because the gushy passion overfloweth every teacup in the world. I'm a huge fan. I drink tea like a chain-smoker lights up: continuously. I'm convinced that even the Zombie Apocalypse could be dealt with over a cup of rooibos. Nothing like a spot of tea to calm even the most dedicated of undead. Today, I was sitting there in the corner of the Seniors' Club bungalow, paging through the City Vision. My reputation as "lazy" has reached such an entrenched level that I no longer bother bringing my lame knitting attempts along on my visits, choosing instead to sigh "I know, I know" as the women's admonishments float over to me.
So, I'm paging through the City Vision with half an ear on the conversation around me. Ma'Sarah brought her neighbour's kids again today, and there is constant debate as to the cause and treatment of the little boy's eczema. Everyone from the nurse who delivers the club's medicines to the security guard at the main gate has an opinion. Today, Ma'Noms suggested rooibos. My ears pricked up like a hunting dog's when I heard that "r" roll out.
"Rooibos, ma? What were you saying?" I ask.
"Ewe, sisi, rooibos."
"Ok but what about it?"
She mimes rubbing on her face.
"Aaaah, rubbing it on skin. Is it good for you?"
She laughs. "Not for you, or maybe, but for the boy. For his eczema."
"Oh will it help?"
She nods in reply.
I turn to Ma'Sarah, she is rubbing, fairly aggressively, what looks like thick white paint onto the little boy. He stands with his hand in his mouth, not particularly bothered by the yanking and twisting and turning to which his pint-size body responds.
Almost a year ago now, in Spring of 2011, Champion, the garden monitor, explained to me how to make plant fertilizer with rooibos. All I needed was a two-litre Coke bottle in which to keep discarded teabags. "Liquid fertilizer," he said, "it'll make your plants grow green-green-green!" There is a bucket in the Wellness Centre kitchen for teabags, for every teabag. It took me a while to get used to and I fished bags out of the bin on numerous occasions at the beginning of my time here.
Oh, rooibos. It might not be a panacea for all the world's problems, but it's close enough.
"Thandeka!" someone shouts from across the bungalow, rousing me from me reverie.
"Yes, ma?" I offer a wide-eyed response.
"Are you going to make tea now?"
I put down the City Vision. "Yes, ma," I answer, and fold away the newspaper.
So, I'm paging through the City Vision with half an ear on the conversation around me. Ma'Sarah brought her neighbour's kids again today, and there is constant debate as to the cause and treatment of the little boy's eczema. Everyone from the nurse who delivers the club's medicines to the security guard at the main gate has an opinion. Today, Ma'Noms suggested rooibos. My ears pricked up like a hunting dog's when I heard that "r" roll out.
"Rooibos, ma? What were you saying?" I ask.
"Ewe, sisi, rooibos."
"Ok but what about it?"
She mimes rubbing on her face.
"Aaaah, rubbing it on skin. Is it good for you?"
She laughs. "Not for you, or maybe, but for the boy. For his eczema."
"Oh will it help?"
She nods in reply.
I turn to Ma'Sarah, she is rubbing, fairly aggressively, what looks like thick white paint onto the little boy. He stands with his hand in his mouth, not particularly bothered by the yanking and twisting and turning to which his pint-size body responds.
Almost a year ago now, in Spring of 2011, Champion, the garden monitor, explained to me how to make plant fertilizer with rooibos. All I needed was a two-litre Coke bottle in which to keep discarded teabags. "Liquid fertilizer," he said, "it'll make your plants grow green-green-green!" There is a bucket in the Wellness Centre kitchen for teabags, for every teabag. It took me a while to get used to and I fished bags out of the bin on numerous occasions at the beginning of my time here.
Oh, rooibos. It might not be a panacea for all the world's problems, but it's close enough.
"Thandeka!" someone shouts from across the bungalow, rousing me from me reverie.
"Yes, ma?" I offer a wide-eyed response.
"Are you going to make tea now?"
I put down the City Vision. "Yes, ma," I answer, and fold away the newspaper.
Monday, July 23, 2012
A rock and a rock
I'm on a bit of a blog go-slow at the moment. Between my never-ending dissertation and my end of year (American academic year) annual reports for work, I've churned out enough words to drown a troupe of unsettled elephants. But, in the name of procrastination, I've squeezed out a few more words...
When it comes to people's beliefs about the world, I'm fairly relativist. People think differently in different contexts and who I am to intervene and interfere when I have not experienced the reasons that ground their beliefs? Obviously, this applies only to people who do not have the power to resist my interference, I don't give rocks about interventions if I'm engaged with Super Power People. But see, I'm also a feminist. And sometimes I find myself in spaces where I have to compromise one of those two ideologies. Like at the Wellness Centre.
We still haven't replaced the stolen kitchen grater so I'm chopping the carrots with a bread knife into teeny tiny chunks. Ma'Monica is impressed. "You chop them so small!"
"Yes," I answer happily, "I can't cook anything so with my parents they would always just ask me to chop."
I know immediately that I have said something wrong.
"Why can't you cook?" Ma'Monica stops her soup-stirring mid-stir and turns to me almost accusingly.
I ramble out a lame defense, culminating in "so, well, I just never learnt." I don't know how I can explain to her that it's the men in my family who cook, not the women.
Ma'Monica clucks disapprovingly.
"But I can clean," I add in hurriedly, "I've always been a good cleaner!"
"Good," Ma'Monica nods, "at least you have that."
I relax but Ma'Monica isn't finished, her pause had more to do with increased concentration on the soup and less to do with letting me off the hook.
Wiping her hands on the dishtowel at the stove she turns to me and asserts, "but when you get married you will have to learn to cook. You know that?"
Right. The patriarchy and heteronormativity dance in front of me. I could say something. But then I'm stuck in another set of equally crappy norms: the white woman telling the black woman what's right and what's wrong, the middle-class enlightenment being charitably imposed on the poor, the university-educated telling the uneducated how little they know; all in a language that is native to me, and foreign to Ma'Monica. Stuck. I am stuck. The politics of knowledge dictate that in this interaction, I own the monopoly. If I was convinced that Ma'Monica felt she had the authority to tell me to shut-up and scrub the stainless steel tables with the stuff that makes my hands smell funky, then I would challenge her.
"Ah, but Jenzils," you say, "what about Freire?"
Ooh, you gain the upper hand and I start to cower.
"And then," you might continue, "surely you are obliged to do all you can to even the epistemological playing-field so that you can both challenge one another?"
I curl up into a fetal ball.
But I agree with you. And my agreement is how I got myself knotted into my ridiculously demanding research. It's not your traditional intellectual fist-fight, nay-nay. It's a different kind of demanding: evening the damn playing-field demanding. After almost a year at the Wellness Centre, and mired in privilege and guilt, I'm on the brink of concluding that it's almost impossible. There are brief shudders when I realize the ground has shifted, but I blink and my feet are back on their stilts.
Being an engaged feminist in a world of intersecting playing-fields is kak difficult.
When it comes to people's beliefs about the world, I'm fairly relativist. People think differently in different contexts and who I am to intervene and interfere when I have not experienced the reasons that ground their beliefs? Obviously, this applies only to people who do not have the power to resist my interference, I don't give rocks about interventions if I'm engaged with Super Power People. But see, I'm also a feminist. And sometimes I find myself in spaces where I have to compromise one of those two ideologies. Like at the Wellness Centre.
We still haven't replaced the stolen kitchen grater so I'm chopping the carrots with a bread knife into teeny tiny chunks. Ma'Monica is impressed. "You chop them so small!"
"Yes," I answer happily, "I can't cook anything so with my parents they would always just ask me to chop."
I know immediately that I have said something wrong.
"Why can't you cook?" Ma'Monica stops her soup-stirring mid-stir and turns to me almost accusingly.
I ramble out a lame defense, culminating in "so, well, I just never learnt." I don't know how I can explain to her that it's the men in my family who cook, not the women.
Ma'Monica clucks disapprovingly.
"But I can clean," I add in hurriedly, "I've always been a good cleaner!"
"Good," Ma'Monica nods, "at least you have that."
I relax but Ma'Monica isn't finished, her pause had more to do with increased concentration on the soup and less to do with letting me off the hook.
Wiping her hands on the dishtowel at the stove she turns to me and asserts, "but when you get married you will have to learn to cook. You know that?"
Right. The patriarchy and heteronormativity dance in front of me. I could say something. But then I'm stuck in another set of equally crappy norms: the white woman telling the black woman what's right and what's wrong, the middle-class enlightenment being charitably imposed on the poor, the university-educated telling the uneducated how little they know; all in a language that is native to me, and foreign to Ma'Monica. Stuck. I am stuck. The politics of knowledge dictate that in this interaction, I own the monopoly. If I was convinced that Ma'Monica felt she had the authority to tell me to shut-up and scrub the stainless steel tables with the stuff that makes my hands smell funky, then I would challenge her.
"Ah, but Jenzils," you say, "what about Freire?"
Ooh, you gain the upper hand and I start to cower.
"And then," you might continue, "surely you are obliged to do all you can to even the epistemological playing-field so that you can both challenge one another?"
I curl up into a fetal ball.
But I agree with you. And my agreement is how I got myself knotted into my ridiculously demanding research. It's not your traditional intellectual fist-fight, nay-nay. It's a different kind of demanding: evening the damn playing-field demanding. After almost a year at the Wellness Centre, and mired in privilege and guilt, I'm on the brink of concluding that it's almost impossible. There are brief shudders when I realize the ground has shifted, but I blink and my feet are back on their stilts.
Being an engaged feminist in a world of intersecting playing-fields is kak difficult.
Monday, July 9, 2012
No going backwards
Ma'Regina spent some time on Friday morning giving me the stink-eye after I got my knitting all messed up again. The ma's are crocheting blankets for a children's home around the corner from their bungalow for Mandela Day. I thought that I'd be let off the hook because I can't crochet, but apparently they're happy with one scrappy knitted square floating between all the perfectly symmetrical crocheted ones. But once again, the ma's have overestimated my knitting abilities and are having to save my catastrophe and untangle my mess. I sit shame-faced while Ma'Regina undoes the maze that I've created.
The women are talking about Facebook and the girl in her church uniform who was caught drinking and someone posted a picture of her and then she got into big trouble as she should because why was she drinking in the church uniform anyway and the youngsters today will do anything. Ma'MP comes to the girl's defense by suggesting "maybe she was photoshopped."
Say whaaat?
Here sit a group of 70 year old women, busy with their knitting. Dan, one of the guys who works on site gave them a couple of computer lessons last year, but that's it. So what do they know about photoshop?
I'm not the only one who wants to know.
Ma'Regina starts grilling Ma'MP, what does she mean?
The Xhosa is too rapid at times for me to follow, but I get the gist: it's when you put the one photo with the other photo to make a new photo.
The "aaaah's" are accompanied by nods.
But they're still not convinced that the girl in the church uniform wasn't actually drinking, and why do young people do these things anyway?
I'm still chuckling from the photoshop comment, and don't notice Ma'Regina waving me over at first, until her waves are accompanied by an: "Ntombezaan!"
I look up and she hands me back my knitting, and the cryptic instruction "no going backwards, just don't got backwards." I nod, earnestly, and try again.
The women are talking about Facebook and the girl in her church uniform who was caught drinking and someone posted a picture of her and then she got into big trouble as she should because why was she drinking in the church uniform anyway and the youngsters today will do anything. Ma'MP comes to the girl's defense by suggesting "maybe she was photoshopped."
Say whaaat?
Here sit a group of 70 year old women, busy with their knitting. Dan, one of the guys who works on site gave them a couple of computer lessons last year, but that's it. So what do they know about photoshop?
I'm not the only one who wants to know.
Ma'Regina starts grilling Ma'MP, what does she mean?
The Xhosa is too rapid at times for me to follow, but I get the gist: it's when you put the one photo with the other photo to make a new photo.
The "aaaah's" are accompanied by nods.
But they're still not convinced that the girl in the church uniform wasn't actually drinking, and why do young people do these things anyway?
I'm still chuckling from the photoshop comment, and don't notice Ma'Regina waving me over at first, until her waves are accompanied by an: "Ntombezaan!"
I look up and she hands me back my knitting, and the cryptic instruction "no going backwards, just don't got backwards." I nod, earnestly, and try again.
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
Tell me a story of sand
My office is hosting a group of visiting colleagues next week and I'm taking them around to our partner sites to give them a taste of what it is our students do here. Part of this tasting includes an orientation to the areas in which we work. I've mentioned in a previous post that I really don't like orientating people to Cape Town; to reduce the complexity of the city to anything less than the labyrinth of intersecting points of beautiful chaos that it is, seems, well, unjust. For a twenty-something year old who knows close to nothing about the world to champion this orientation, shoh, the unjustness moves from shaded grey to saturated yellow. But I take the challenge seriously, don't worry.
I'm putting together my orientation pack, and writing a my lines on each of the areas. It all sounds so simultaneously trite and Wikipedia-esque. I'm tempted to replace my words on Khayelitsha with those of someone else. See, a little while ago I asked the Ma's to describe Khayelitsha. Their first words weren't about the history or the politics. Not about the sanitation-absence in RR section that is rapidly mutating into a public health crisis. No. They told me about the sand. "The sand?" you ask. Yes. The sand.
"Oooh, when we first came here the wind just blew and blew." Ma'Regina screws up her eyes and gestures with her hands. There are nods and waves of agreement from the other women listening in.
"Yes," she continues, "it would blow the sand right into your house." She pauses, looking down at the pale green knitting in her hands. Then she turns to me and shakes her head, "you could try anything but that sand would come in."
Man, they spoke about that living, breathing sand and they lamented its ally, the wind. Before the people, the shoes, the feet on the ground there was the sand. It defined their experience here for years. Now that the sand is covered by shacks, by plastic and tyres and development shrapnel, it blows less. Relief.
"It blows less."
So, somewhere between the sand and the suburbs I need to navigate a path that represents a version of Cape Town simple enough to find in a day. I shake my head at me. Ya, I don't know how I'm going to do it either.
I'm putting together my orientation pack, and writing a my lines on each of the areas. It all sounds so simultaneously trite and Wikipedia-esque. I'm tempted to replace my words on Khayelitsha with those of someone else. See, a little while ago I asked the Ma's to describe Khayelitsha. Their first words weren't about the history or the politics. Not about the sanitation-absence in RR section that is rapidly mutating into a public health crisis. No. They told me about the sand. "The sand?" you ask. Yes. The sand.
"Oooh, when we first came here the wind just blew and blew." Ma'Regina screws up her eyes and gestures with her hands. There are nods and waves of agreement from the other women listening in.
"Yes," she continues, "it would blow the sand right into your house." She pauses, looking down at the pale green knitting in her hands. Then she turns to me and shakes her head, "you could try anything but that sand would come in."
Man, they spoke about that living, breathing sand and they lamented its ally, the wind. Before the people, the shoes, the feet on the ground there was the sand. It defined their experience here for years. Now that the sand is covered by shacks, by plastic and tyres and development shrapnel, it blows less. Relief.
"It blows less."
So, somewhere between the sand and the suburbs I need to navigate a path that represents a version of Cape Town simple enough to find in a day. I shake my head at me. Ya, I don't know how I'm going to do it either.
Friday, June 15, 2012
Competition for resources
Tomorrow is Youth Day and South African NGOs are in overdrive; themed public holidays are gold in terms of fun pictures to send to funders. But in an area like Khayelitsha, where there are more NGOs than flush toilets, organizations run into a little snag: not enough community participants to go round. And hells, there are even those community members who just don't want to participate. Criiiisis! This morning at the EWC, I sat knitting with the seniors. We sat outside the bungalow today, on the little stoep with our backs to the sun, giggling and drinking tea. The centre itself was empty, much to the great distress of the centre manager. They had planned a Youth Day celebration, and no one had come. The ex-manager was, as always, being blamed, but she's got used to the blame game and has perfected an arched response: "well, actually, it's no longer my job."
Ma'Monica waved to me from across the grassy patch separating the bungalow and the centre, "Ntombezaaaaan, yizapha!*" I had my knitting, my tea and an absence of centre politics, but when Ma'Monica shouts, it's not my place to say no. "What's up?" I ask her as I shuffled over. She rattles off a list of instructions.
I started with the first one: make a sign. I've become a pro at this, with just scrappy newsprint and permanent markers. I joined the rest of the team in the kitchen while the manager flapped in and out. As we edged further and further past the start time of the event, and the hall still lay empty, she finally flipped. "Go and find people outside, tell them to come in." Tabs and the other sandwich-makers mumble in Xhosa, the manager can't understand. But she gets the gist.
"I'm being serious," she says a little more harshly now, "management is going to be here in ten minutes and there's no one. Go and call the community."
Someone tries to explain that there are a number of events going on today, and that the centre usually works with older people, like the seniors, so will have little draw for younger members. The manager is unpersuaded.
"Go to the school," she directs us. You can see the primary school from the kitchen window, "go and get the Grade 7s."
I'm not about to take kids out of class to get them to come and perform for Management so I stay where I am, adding a careful colour outline to my black-lettered sign.
But Tabs has a job to do, so she leads the other women out and they split up. Some patrol the streets outside, some head to the school. I try to embed as much of a stink-eye as I can in the smile I give to the manager.
Soon 'participants' start dribbling in. Some in school uniform, some recruited from the corner opposite the church where they usually sit and smoke. But it's not enough. So the manager comes out to where I'm sitting with the seniors. Usually on days like these, the seniors are under strict instruction to stay outside. But times are desperate.
"Don't you want to join in?" she asks.
I giggle as I listen to Ma'Noms' response, "No, not really." I know she's just making the manager sweat; the seniors will go.
"Are you sure?" a desperate plea in her eyes, "you're not interested?"
I wish the ma's had held out for longer, but they're too sweet, too kind, too agreeable.
"No, it's fine," replies Ma'Noms, "we'll come. We'll come just now."
Another eight seats filled.
I sidle up to the ex-manager in the hall, she starts to laugh.
"Why are you laughing Lu?"
"Hah, I must keep young!" she replies.
"Mmm," I start to laugh too.
She pulls me closer to her and stands with her arm around my shoulders and starts to whisper, telling me just what she feels like telling her managerial replacement...
*Come here my girl!
Ma'Monica waved to me from across the grassy patch separating the bungalow and the centre, "Ntombezaaaaan, yizapha!*" I had my knitting, my tea and an absence of centre politics, but when Ma'Monica shouts, it's not my place to say no. "What's up?" I ask her as I shuffled over. She rattles off a list of instructions.
I started with the first one: make a sign. I've become a pro at this, with just scrappy newsprint and permanent markers. I joined the rest of the team in the kitchen while the manager flapped in and out. As we edged further and further past the start time of the event, and the hall still lay empty, she finally flipped. "Go and find people outside, tell them to come in." Tabs and the other sandwich-makers mumble in Xhosa, the manager can't understand. But she gets the gist.
"I'm being serious," she says a little more harshly now, "management is going to be here in ten minutes and there's no one. Go and call the community."
Someone tries to explain that there are a number of events going on today, and that the centre usually works with older people, like the seniors, so will have little draw for younger members. The manager is unpersuaded.
"Go to the school," she directs us. You can see the primary school from the kitchen window, "go and get the Grade 7s."
I'm not about to take kids out of class to get them to come and perform for Management so I stay where I am, adding a careful colour outline to my black-lettered sign.
But Tabs has a job to do, so she leads the other women out and they split up. Some patrol the streets outside, some head to the school. I try to embed as much of a stink-eye as I can in the smile I give to the manager.
Soon 'participants' start dribbling in. Some in school uniform, some recruited from the corner opposite the church where they usually sit and smoke. But it's not enough. So the manager comes out to where I'm sitting with the seniors. Usually on days like these, the seniors are under strict instruction to stay outside. But times are desperate.
"Don't you want to join in?" she asks.
I giggle as I listen to Ma'Noms' response, "No, not really." I know she's just making the manager sweat; the seniors will go.
"Are you sure?" a desperate plea in her eyes, "you're not interested?"
I wish the ma's had held out for longer, but they're too sweet, too kind, too agreeable.
"No, it's fine," replies Ma'Noms, "we'll come. We'll come just now."
Another eight seats filled.
I sidle up to the ex-manager in the hall, she starts to laugh.
"Why are you laughing Lu?"
"Hah, I must keep young!" she replies.
"Mmm," I start to laugh too.
She pulls me closer to her and stands with her arm around my shoulders and starts to whisper, telling me just what she feels like telling her managerial replacement...
*Come here my girl!
Monday, May 28, 2012
Adult Education
Tabby writes her Adult Education exam on Friday. She's been studying furiously the last few weeks, she really wants to do well. "I've never failed anything," she told me over tea, "I don't want to fail this." But she's struggling a little, after she was put in the wrong class and covered the wrong material for half the term before the teacher realized her mistake and moved her to where she should be. A glitch in the university's registration system and suddenly it's even harder for Tabby to learn. It would be ironic if it wasn't so frustrating.
The manager at EWC isn't making things easier; refusing to give Tabita time off work to study. But Tabby has balls the size of Russia, and is mitigating the situation as best she can. When I visited a week ago, Tabby gave me her books to sit with in the kitchen, pretending they were my own. She stood a few steps to the right peeling carrots, or rather peeling one carrot repeatedly, while I read out her notes slowly, repeating the lines, each line, and she listened. Between us Ma'Monica's soup bubbled, behind us Yandi cleaned the sink. The manager walked in and out. She tolerates me because she has to; my presence at the site precedes hers and was negotiated by a former manager and she can't tell me to leave. I smile as I answer her questioning gaze, "I'm just doing some reading." Tabby refocuses on her carrot and peels furiously.
On my visit last Friday, Tabby passed me a note as I sat warming and humming next to the heater in the office: please go to the kitchen we will discuss this further. Take the book with.
So I took the note, scrabbled around on her big desk to find her book, grabbed some other papers to cover it up, and made my way to the kitchen. I would have whistled and swaggered nonchalantly if I could have pulled it off. She joined me a few minutes later and we stood at the food-preparation table. Sitting would imply that we were spending time in the kitchen, standing means that she caught me in passing as I paged through the thick manual.
"So the question is about how you learn. About how it's a cognitive and social process." I tell her.
"Ok," she says, "so I discuss what needs to happen in my mind and then also around me?"
"Yeah, and you need to give examples." I read off the rest of the instruction.
She pauses for a few seconds, "Where must I find the examples?"
I start laughing, standing there in the kitchen with "my" books, hiding from her manager. "Tabs, I think you can start finding them here..."
The manager at EWC isn't making things easier; refusing to give Tabita time off work to study. But Tabby has balls the size of Russia, and is mitigating the situation as best she can. When I visited a week ago, Tabby gave me her books to sit with in the kitchen, pretending they were my own. She stood a few steps to the right peeling carrots, or rather peeling one carrot repeatedly, while I read out her notes slowly, repeating the lines, each line, and she listened. Between us Ma'Monica's soup bubbled, behind us Yandi cleaned the sink. The manager walked in and out. She tolerates me because she has to; my presence at the site precedes hers and was negotiated by a former manager and she can't tell me to leave. I smile as I answer her questioning gaze, "I'm just doing some reading." Tabby refocuses on her carrot and peels furiously.
On my visit last Friday, Tabby passed me a note as I sat warming and humming next to the heater in the office: please go to the kitchen we will discuss this further. Take the book with.
So I took the note, scrabbled around on her big desk to find her book, grabbed some other papers to cover it up, and made my way to the kitchen. I would have whistled and swaggered nonchalantly if I could have pulled it off. She joined me a few minutes later and we stood at the food-preparation table. Sitting would imply that we were spending time in the kitchen, standing means that she caught me in passing as I paged through the thick manual.
"So the question is about how you learn. About how it's a cognitive and social process." I tell her.
"Ok," she says, "so I discuss what needs to happen in my mind and then also around me?"
"Yeah, and you need to give examples." I read off the rest of the instruction.
She pauses for a few seconds, "Where must I find the examples?"
I start laughing, standing there in the kitchen with "my" books, hiding from her manager. "Tabs, I think you can start finding them here..."
Saturday, May 19, 2012
Knitting needles
Ma'Sarah and Ma'Regina started a process yesterday that I assured them would fail; teaching me how to knit. "You can't just sit and do nothing." Ma'Sarah told me.
"I like doing nothing," I replied in defense, "and anyway it's hard work trying to follow your conversation. I have to listen hard."
Ma'Sarah raised her eyebrows. "Here," she passed me her knitting, "knit."
I looked at her blankly but grabbed the needles somewhere near their tops. Ma'Regina, sitting next to me, took the ends of the needles and guided them confidently in and through and around the wool. "No Ma, slow down you're going too fast I can't see what you're doing!"
Ma'Regina chuckled and kept going. I turned to Ma'Sarah for support, "Ma I can't see what I'm doing so I can't learn." Ma'Sarah joined in the chuckling but persuaded Ma'Regina to slow down so I could watch how our hands were moving. Ma'Regina pulled and directed the needles slowly and deliberately now, " 'yabona*?"
"Ewe Ma, yes Ma, I see."
As we continue our tandem knitting efforts, the Ma's start explaining about the garden situation they've got going on. A group from the city (local government) came to visit last week, and wanted them to fill in a form so that they could receive equipment and soil and seedlings. "But we can't just go filling in forms you know," Ma'Sarah started.
"Yes," Ma'MP continued, "because we are under EWC* and we can't sign for other things even if we want to."
"So what did you tell the people from the city?" I asked.
"No we told them they had to speak to management, that they must make an agreement you know."
"Ya no I know, I see. but did they understand?"
A few head shakes. "I don't know. You see they wanted us to fill in the form and we said yes we want your support but we can't fill in the form." Ma'MP sighed. "I hope they speak to management."
I hope they speak to management too. The Ma's want the city's support, they want the resources they offer, but the politics of their relationship with EWC dictate that they can't ask for it, nor can they accept it. It has to be asked for and accepted on their behalf...
"Huh-aaaah!" Ma'Sarah interrupts my thoughts. "You are taking too long." She takes her needles back from Ma'Regina and me. She turns to me, "Next week you bring your own needles and wool ok?"
"Ma," I start telling her that knitting really is not part of my capability-set but she doesn't let me finish.
"Ok?" she asks again.
"Yes Ma, ok." I agree. I'm going to have to go and dig in my mom's sewing cupboard this weekend, but the politics of my relationships with my Ma's dictate that I can't refuse their insistence to teach me, I must accept their offers of help. I smile as I write this because I don't mind those politics, not one bit.
* Uyabona: You see?
* The NGO whose land they use and whose (sometimes limited and erratic) support they rely on
"I like doing nothing," I replied in defense, "and anyway it's hard work trying to follow your conversation. I have to listen hard."
Ma'Sarah raised her eyebrows. "Here," she passed me her knitting, "knit."
I looked at her blankly but grabbed the needles somewhere near their tops. Ma'Regina, sitting next to me, took the ends of the needles and guided them confidently in and through and around the wool. "No Ma, slow down you're going too fast I can't see what you're doing!"
Ma'Regina chuckled and kept going. I turned to Ma'Sarah for support, "Ma I can't see what I'm doing so I can't learn." Ma'Sarah joined in the chuckling but persuaded Ma'Regina to slow down so I could watch how our hands were moving. Ma'Regina pulled and directed the needles slowly and deliberately now, " 'yabona*?"
"Ewe Ma, yes Ma, I see."
As we continue our tandem knitting efforts, the Ma's start explaining about the garden situation they've got going on. A group from the city (local government) came to visit last week, and wanted them to fill in a form so that they could receive equipment and soil and seedlings. "But we can't just go filling in forms you know," Ma'Sarah started.
"Yes," Ma'MP continued, "because we are under EWC* and we can't sign for other things even if we want to."
"So what did you tell the people from the city?" I asked.
"No we told them they had to speak to management, that they must make an agreement you know."
"Ya no I know, I see. but did they understand?"
A few head shakes. "I don't know. You see they wanted us to fill in the form and we said yes we want your support but we can't fill in the form." Ma'MP sighed. "I hope they speak to management."
I hope they speak to management too. The Ma's want the city's support, they want the resources they offer, but the politics of their relationship with EWC dictate that they can't ask for it, nor can they accept it. It has to be asked for and accepted on their behalf...
"Huh-aaaah!" Ma'Sarah interrupts my thoughts. "You are taking too long." She takes her needles back from Ma'Regina and me. She turns to me, "Next week you bring your own needles and wool ok?"
"Ma," I start telling her that knitting really is not part of my capability-set but she doesn't let me finish.
"Ok?" she asks again.
"Yes Ma, ok." I agree. I'm going to have to go and dig in my mom's sewing cupboard this weekend, but the politics of my relationships with my Ma's dictate that I can't refuse their insistence to teach me, I must accept their offers of help. I smile as I write this because I don't mind those politics, not one bit.
* Uyabona: You see?
* The NGO whose land they use and whose (sometimes limited and erratic) support they rely on
Monday, May 7, 2012
PB and J
Monday mid-afternoon; 'nuff said. In my middle drawer is a jar of peanut butter. Well, it's no longer in my middle drawer, it's next to my keyboard with a spoon balanced on top. I heart peanut butter, not only because of its necessarily tasty-treat nature, but also because of its instrumental value...
It happened early on in my fieldwork. It was lunch-time and I sighed at my boring but budget-friendly lunch: squashed peanut butter sandwiches salvaged from my cavernous bag. I wasn't looking for sympathy but I got. The women around me understood. Everyday, staff and trainees were served peanut butter sandwiches from the trolley in the kitchen, and everyday, I arrived with a clingwrapped bundle. Our mutual dissatisfaction for lunch of this nature was the first sign that we might just be able to work together. It was the first clue that the women had that I wasn't, as Lulu put it, "some sturvy* white girl".
And so my tub of Yum-Yum (extra-crunchy) is just so much more than nut-flavoured nirvana. Although it does that pretty well as well....
* Pretentious, putting-on, the opposite of down to earth
It happened early on in my fieldwork. It was lunch-time and I sighed at my boring but budget-friendly lunch: squashed peanut butter sandwiches salvaged from my cavernous bag. I wasn't looking for sympathy but I got. The women around me understood. Everyday, staff and trainees were served peanut butter sandwiches from the trolley in the kitchen, and everyday, I arrived with a clingwrapped bundle. Our mutual dissatisfaction for lunch of this nature was the first sign that we might just be able to work together. It was the first clue that the women had that I wasn't, as Lulu put it, "some sturvy* white girl".
And so my tub of Yum-Yum (extra-crunchy) is just so much more than nut-flavoured nirvana. Although it does that pretty well as well....
* Pretentious, putting-on, the opposite of down to earth
Friday, May 4, 2012
Taking one for the team
Tabby and Ma'Monica are offering a variety of medical tests today at the Wellness Centre, including blood glucose. Tabby came to find me earlier, "Je-een you must come and help us."
I'm not good with blood. (This is a euphemism for saying I *freak out* at the the mere thought.) But Tabby isn't used to being refused, particularly not by me; I usually jump at the opportunity to go on trips to the Shoprite to buy veggies for the nutrition display and greasey chips for me. So I went along to the testing room.
"What's up?" I feign nonchalantness while quietly throwing myself against an internal padded cell.
"It's not working." Tabby points to the mini-lancet that is used to puncture the skin. I am less good with needles than I am with blood. Deep breaths.
"Ok," pull yourself towards yourself I think, "let's see."
We sit and go through the pictorial guide to getting the lancet to work. It seems fairly straightforward. It isn't. After every fiddle with the lancet in its holder, I hold it to my finger, screw my face up, panic with anticipation and press the puncture button. Nothing. Tabby and Ma'Monica keep looking at me expectantly, so I keep going through the horrendous ordeal of fiddling, panic, press and nothing. But then,
"OW!" I surprise myself. Tabby and Ma'Monica look at the growing droplet of blood on my forefinger happily.
"Good!" A quick pause. "So what did you do?"
"I don't know," I answer, trying to avoid looking at the micro-puddle of blood.
Concerned glances between Tabby and Ma'M. I realise where this is going. I sigh.
"Ok, hand me another one, I'll try again." After several attempts, mis-attempts and careful observation from the two of them, we work out how it needs to be done. SUCCESS! And only marginally traumatised fingers. But tragically that was only step one.
"Ok," starts Tabby, pointing at the glucose tester "now we need to see that this works." She takes my finger in her hand, squints at the little blob of blood and rubs the testing strip over my finger. Nothing. We whip out the instruction guide again and start over....
I'm not good with blood. (This is a euphemism for saying I *freak out* at the the mere thought.) But Tabby isn't used to being refused, particularly not by me; I usually jump at the opportunity to go on trips to the Shoprite to buy veggies for the nutrition display and greasey chips for me. So I went along to the testing room.
"What's up?" I feign nonchalantness while quietly throwing myself against an internal padded cell.
"It's not working." Tabby points to the mini-lancet that is used to puncture the skin. I am less good with needles than I am with blood. Deep breaths.
"Ok," pull yourself towards yourself I think, "let's see."
We sit and go through the pictorial guide to getting the lancet to work. It seems fairly straightforward. It isn't. After every fiddle with the lancet in its holder, I hold it to my finger, screw my face up, panic with anticipation and press the puncture button. Nothing. Tabby and Ma'Monica keep looking at me expectantly, so I keep going through the horrendous ordeal of fiddling, panic, press and nothing. But then,
"OW!" I surprise myself. Tabby and Ma'Monica look at the growing droplet of blood on my forefinger happily.
"Good!" A quick pause. "So what did you do?"
"I don't know," I answer, trying to avoid looking at the micro-puddle of blood.
Concerned glances between Tabby and Ma'M. I realise where this is going. I sigh.
"Ok, hand me another one, I'll try again." After several attempts, mis-attempts and careful observation from the two of them, we work out how it needs to be done. SUCCESS! And only marginally traumatised fingers. But tragically that was only step one.
"Ok," starts Tabby, pointing at the glucose tester "now we need to see that this works." She takes my finger in her hand, squints at the little blob of blood and rubs the testing strip over my finger. Nothing. We whip out the instruction guide again and start over....
Thursday, May 3, 2012
A sprinkling of insight
I have to teach a smattering of Asset-Based Community Development soon, and have started pouring over the relevant papers. You'd think that for an approach summarized as ABCD, there might be more colour and cartoons involved. But alas, no. ABCD is about a lot of things, premised on the idea that in development work you should really try and work with what you have, not with what you don't. Seems fairly intuitive that one.
Reading about it all reminds me of a conversation I had with Lulu a while back. Lulu is an aromatherapist at the Wellness Centre where I do my fieldwork. She is blind, and is perpetually being prayed for by people she meets on the taxi. According to her fellow commuters, God is punishing her with blindness because she doesn't pray enough. She shakes her head.
'You know what I tell them?'
'What?' I ask her.
'I say, even though I'm blind, I have a job and a house,' she pulls her face into a micro-expression of rebellion, 'I tell them they should save their prayers for themselves and their problems.'
I smile. 'You're right,' I say, 'you have a house and a job and they have neither. They should pray, not you.'
'And anyway,' she continues, 'what do they know? This one man told me to read Psalms. Obviously he doesn't know the Bible because there are no stories of blind people in Psalms.'
I start laughing. 'Wise words, Lulu.'
The commuters on the taxi look at Lulu and see her disability. They see blindness, weakness, punishment, need. Lulu, with her 'endogenous community knowledge', knows her assets, she knows her strengths. She also knows how to sass her way out of the victimization that others' throw on her, which is really just as valuable.
Reading about it all reminds me of a conversation I had with Lulu a while back. Lulu is an aromatherapist at the Wellness Centre where I do my fieldwork. She is blind, and is perpetually being prayed for by people she meets on the taxi. According to her fellow commuters, God is punishing her with blindness because she doesn't pray enough. She shakes her head.
'You know what I tell them?'
'What?' I ask her.
'I say, even though I'm blind, I have a job and a house,' she pulls her face into a micro-expression of rebellion, 'I tell them they should save their prayers for themselves and their problems.'
I smile. 'You're right,' I say, 'you have a house and a job and they have neither. They should pray, not you.'
'And anyway,' she continues, 'what do they know? This one man told me to read Psalms. Obviously he doesn't know the Bible because there are no stories of blind people in Psalms.'
I start laughing. 'Wise words, Lulu.'
The commuters on the taxi look at Lulu and see her disability. They see blindness, weakness, punishment, need. Lulu, with her 'endogenous community knowledge', knows her assets, she knows her strengths. She also knows how to sass her way out of the victimization that others' throw on her, which is really just as valuable.
Monday, April 16, 2012
Sitting inside
The Seniors' Club increased in members exponentially at the beginning of the year. The move from eight to about 25 women--and the odd man--has put a capacity strain on the little bungalow in H-Section. The upshot of it all: the bungalow has become a bit of an access-controlled site, with only 2011 members allowed to sit inside. The newer members are free to settle under the canopy, or in the grassy patch to the left of the bungalow, or on the plastic orange chairs that Champ, the gardener, packs away in his tool shed when it rains. But not inside. No-no.
'So what?' you might muse to yourself. Well, so many things. The bungalow, previously a space of loud calling and shouts, is now also home to whispered conversations, primarily to decide on the distribution of spinach and beetroot from the little farm-garden, but sometimes the hushed voices are directed at one of the orange-chair-Ma's. The Club has a distinct Secret-Society air to it now. That isn't to say that the 2011 women aren't all incredibly welcoming and sympathetic to their new members; sighing 'Nkosi-yam'* when they tell of teenage-grandchild troubles, offering a piece of thread or pair of scissors when the need arises, and greeting them all warmly everyday. It's just that the subtleties of authority are a little less subtle these days.
The colour of your chair, its proximity to the small basin and sink, what side of the door you're on: it all suddenly means a whole lot more than it used to. Frustratingly, one of the results of this new hierarchy is that I can't spend time with the 2012 members. It's one thing to greet them as I arrive, but my chair is inside, my space--nestled somewhere between the fridge and the wall--is inside. My conversations therefore, are inside. On the odd occasion that I've found myself meandering between the 2012 members, it's not been without a few eye-brow raises, and a 'come here' hand-crimping crescendo from one of the inside Ma's.
Ever-weary of committing an irreparable faux pas, I err on the side caution these days; offering just a small smile and a bit of wave at most, from my fridge-backed throne inside the bungalow.
*Oh my God/goodness
'So what?' you might muse to yourself. Well, so many things. The bungalow, previously a space of loud calling and shouts, is now also home to whispered conversations, primarily to decide on the distribution of spinach and beetroot from the little farm-garden, but sometimes the hushed voices are directed at one of the orange-chair-Ma's. The Club has a distinct Secret-Society air to it now. That isn't to say that the 2011 women aren't all incredibly welcoming and sympathetic to their new members; sighing 'Nkosi-yam'* when they tell of teenage-grandchild troubles, offering a piece of thread or pair of scissors when the need arises, and greeting them all warmly everyday. It's just that the subtleties of authority are a little less subtle these days.
The colour of your chair, its proximity to the small basin and sink, what side of the door you're on: it all suddenly means a whole lot more than it used to. Frustratingly, one of the results of this new hierarchy is that I can't spend time with the 2012 members. It's one thing to greet them as I arrive, but my chair is inside, my space--nestled somewhere between the fridge and the wall--is inside. My conversations therefore, are inside. On the odd occasion that I've found myself meandering between the 2012 members, it's not been without a few eye-brow raises, and a 'come here' hand-crimping crescendo from one of the inside Ma's.
Ever-weary of committing an irreparable faux pas, I err on the side caution these days; offering just a small smile and a bit of wave at most, from my fridge-backed throne inside the bungalow.
*Oh my God/goodness
Thursday, March 29, 2012
Nameless
Since August last year, I've been spending some time with an assortment of older women--nominally part of a seniors' sewing club--in a little bungalow on a patch of ground in H-Section, Khayelitsha. "Doing what?" you may be tempted to ask. Well that's just the thing, I haven't been doing anything; I've just been hanging out. Like I do with my friends under the tree in my back garden, minus the wine. I've spent a good couple of months talking nonsense with the women, occasionally sorting their teeny-tiny little beads into colour-coded piles to avoid being accused of having "lazy hands".
About a week ago, one of the group leaders turns to me and says:
"You know ntombezaan'*, we were filling in this form yesterday."
"Oh Ma, what form?"
"No, I can't remember now."
"Oh, ok Ma." I turn a few pages of the Vukani while I wait for her to continue.
"Yes, so we were filling in this form."
"Mmm."
"And we had to put down the name of someone here at the centre."
I nod in reply.
"So we put down your name, because you always help us with these things you see."
"Ya Ma, no I see."
"Yes," pause and a little smile starts, "but we had a problem, Ntombi*."
"Oh no Ma, what happened?"
She starts to laugh and is joined by the woman sitting next to her as she explains, "We don't know your name!"
"Huh-Aah!" I exclaim and shake my head at her. "Ma I've been here how many months?!"
Much clucking and laughing in the group.
Ma'Sophe turns to me and asks, "It's Catherine ne?" while Ma'Regina tells me, "It's been so long we just forgot!"
"It's ok Ma," I smile at them, "nguJen."
A chorus of "Aaaah's" and "Jeeeeen's" and commitments that "Ok Ntombi we won't forget again."
The thing is, I only know their names because I wrote them down right at the very beginning of my time here. If I'm looking for someone in particular, I'll ask "where's Ma'Sarah?", but talking to them, it's always just Ma. And there are some women whose lives I know, and whose names I don't.
And me? Well I'm the ntombezana who comes and sits and listens to their stories. I'm either Ntombi or ntombezaan', never Jen. Contrary to what I've been brought up to believe, here in the bungalow, being nameless is an indication of relatedness, not the converse.
*Girl, daughter
About a week ago, one of the group leaders turns to me and says:
"You know ntombezaan'*, we were filling in this form yesterday."
"Oh Ma, what form?"
"No, I can't remember now."
"Oh, ok Ma." I turn a few pages of the Vukani while I wait for her to continue.
"Yes, so we were filling in this form."
"Mmm."
"And we had to put down the name of someone here at the centre."
I nod in reply.
"So we put down your name, because you always help us with these things you see."
"Ya Ma, no I see."
"Yes," pause and a little smile starts, "but we had a problem, Ntombi*."
"Oh no Ma, what happened?"
She starts to laugh and is joined by the woman sitting next to her as she explains, "We don't know your name!"
"Huh-Aah!" I exclaim and shake my head at her. "Ma I've been here how many months?!"
Much clucking and laughing in the group.
Ma'Sophe turns to me and asks, "It's Catherine ne?" while Ma'Regina tells me, "It's been so long we just forgot!"
"It's ok Ma," I smile at them, "nguJen."
A chorus of "Aaaah's" and "Jeeeeen's" and commitments that "Ok Ntombi we won't forget again."
The thing is, I only know their names because I wrote them down right at the very beginning of my time here. If I'm looking for someone in particular, I'll ask "where's Ma'Sarah?", but talking to them, it's always just Ma. And there are some women whose lives I know, and whose names I don't.
And me? Well I'm the ntombezana who comes and sits and listens to their stories. I'm either Ntombi or ntombezaan', never Jen. Contrary to what I've been brought up to believe, here in the bungalow, being nameless is an indication of relatedness, not the converse.
*Girl, daughter
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