Oh...! And I sang for her at Christmas-time

 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

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hk3mAX5xdxo