Baldopinion 12 (b)
15 February 2013
PART 1
Cynthia
is an ordinary woman – slim, delicate and she has class.
On
occasion I worked in Windhoek, the inland capital city of Namibia. I was a boy in a vast country consumed by the
Namib Desert. Out there on the southwestern
coast of Africa - the dry red land presupposes nothingness. People said that on arrival they cried, but
when they left, they cry again – they were right. The land is captivating; a
land of two cries.
Namibia
reclaimed its independence from South Africa on 21 March 1990. I was a boy
before then.
I
think back and giggle because of the stories informed by my experiences. Those
stories won’t flow here though, save for the one about the family who granted
me lodging.
I
worked in the Performing Arts Industry then and our calls (when we started work)
were from four in the afternoon.
There
was a bed and room for my tools in the Schmidt family home. We lived in Khomasdal.
Khomasdal
is derived from the name given to the escarpment of that area. Next door is the
Township, Katatura. There was an infamous worker compound in Katatura. These
days the same venue is a shopping mall.
About
6kms / 4miles away was the theatre where I worked. It was during the time of
social revolution and the worker compound was being unbundled. The building
structure provided many with doors, roofing material and window frames. On a
Saturday morning I watched people carve away at the red brick walls in order to
re-use the bricks. The entire experience was one catalyst for my interest in
employment law. Years later the study and practice of employment law became my
subsequent profession.
Mary-Hope
was the youngest daughter in the Schmidt family home. She was born with a Down-Syndrome condition. Mary-Hope must have been about seven years old
at the time. She was tactile and loving to a point of irritation.
Her
parents came to the room where I was working. Mary-Hope was sitting atop the
piano. She had already messed up my drawing board – it was their turn with her and
I was happy…
Her
father is a gentle, tolerant man. He had a face-defining protrusion to the left
side on his forehead. The bump was accentuated by the baldness of his pate.
After
Mary-Hope was lifted off the piano her father led her down the hallway to the
adjacent room. They spoke another language. I overheard as he said, “Mary-Hope
was sent to teach me patience.” Those
words so impacted me that today, nearing 30 years later, when I come across
people who present with this condition, then I am reminded to be patient.
There
was a car ahead of me the other day. It wore a bumper sticker: “My Child Has
More Chromosomes than Yours.”
Cynthia,
on the other hand, she teaches me humility. In the famous biography, Long Walk to
Freedom, President Mandela describes people like Cynthia by use of the term
peasant.
President
Mandela also used the term coloured to define people who present with a genealogy
that includes a fair-skinned ancestor.
In
South Africa we claim to be non-racist. When we speak and in our laws it
reflects that we subscribe to multi-racialism. We perpetuate the divisive terms used to
lineate people into groups based on their skin-tones. This principle was a cornerstone of Apartheid. The institutionalised social structure
resulted in fair-skinned people receiving privileges. The privileges decreased
for those with darker skins. We know what that intitutionalised social
structuring resulted in. Why then do we remain quiet, even subscribe, as we
perpetuate the determinant of skin-tone-lineage. This happens today under the
guise of correcting the past. It feels more like tit for tat to me. Is this in
the best interest of the country?
Public
speakers and the different laws have a responsibility to use and apply terms that
are consistent with non-racism. We should desist from conflating non-racist
intent by using multi-racist talk.
Multi-racism stems from when people are classified into different race
groups. In the South African context the
determinant was and remains skin colour, save for people of Indian origin. Non-racism
is in theory what we subscribe to. In my view this theory will only come to
life when people are afforded the right to soar based on their inherent ability
and potential. Education, housing and sustainable job-creation are what we should
focus on. Instead, we deploy expensive
resources to correct social occurrences of the past. More people are unemployed
than ever before. Informal housing is a sprawling reality. Our education system
is embarrassing and suppresses the vocational work done by a small number of
exceptionally committed teachers.
Recently,
whilst in conversation with an Australian friend, I asked “… and what are you doing about the Abo’s on those reserves in
Australia?”
I
was severely reprimanded.
“That
is a derogatory term, one that we do not use,” came the crisp reply at the cusp
of a lot more.
Realising
my error and in an attempt to save face I seemingly made it worse – I should
have known better, me – after all, I know how it feels. What is said cannot be unsaid.
“… no, the correct term is Aboriginal. Use it because
that is the collective noun the indigenous people of Australia refer to
themselves by.” I
continued to be embarrassed, but the lesson was well learned, the hard way…
During
my theatre years there was an occasion when I worked in Montreal, Canada. I was introduced as a native of Cape Town,
South Africa. It felt strange to be a native.
When
I was a younger native growing up in the most beautiful city of the world, pretentious
people, when speaking, referred to those with dark skins… “They, the Natives…”
I
remember thinking with my child brain… “Ma has a darker skin than the noisy
milkman. Is she a native too…? Though Ma can’t whistle like him.”
Why
did I have to go to Montreal in order to be a native of Cape Town?
Unlike
in Australia, where I learned that for each name there is a shortened version,
or that is what I thought until the discussion I referred to earlier. At one
stage I spoke at a conference in Melbourne, in the State of Victoria, Australia.
I asked to introduce myself because I could identify many South Africans seated
in the huge auditorium. For them to hear that I was a native would be
unsettling. After all, most of them left because there are too many natives in South
Africa.
A
corpulent fellow, flanked by two seemingly attractive women was seated in the
front row. I was sure that he was South African. Mr. Charming could not contain himself when
informed that Cape Town was the seat of my soul. His whisper was audible from
the podium where I stood in the Melbourne Crown Plaza. He whispered to the
women, “All men in Cape Town are GAY.” I overheard, paused, and told the
audience what he had said. The laughter was slight, not like after I asked him,
“How do you know…?”
Cynthia
though, is a woman of few words and huge integrity. She’s been arriving for
work at 08h00 four days per week over the longest time. Cynthia struggles with
English.
“Where’s
my black shorts. That cotton one,” I would say.
In responding she would mumble, “Shorts”
“Yes,
the one that hides my knock knees…”
… And
again she would mumble “…knock knees”
I
shall tell more about Cynthia in Part 2
