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

Mr. Moody’s Mood

BaldOpinion 10
02 July 2012

I wish that I was not going to write this piece. I have to though. The subject matter is painfully close to me, maybe too emotional for me, maybe unnecessarily emotional.  You be the judge.

Nonetheless, the situation I depict is real, sad, but real, particularly as I witness the degradation setting in, the reinforcement, the acceptance… and the decline of the people from whose loins I come.

I no longer live with my disparate people, but I shall never deny who I think I am and where I come from.

The mule is an interesting animal.  It is the offspring of a donkey stallion, a jack, and a horse mare. Hinnies, however, is the opposite in that this breed is the result of a cross between a stallion horse and a donkey jennet. For ease of reference, both are described as mules.

Folklore has it that when asking the mule about its parentage it, the mule, shall refer to the horse and to the donkey only under duress. 

Stereotypes inform norms.  In this instance the norm is accepted.  The donkey is stupid and stubborn.  The horse is elegant and intelligent.  The science people write that the average donkey is more intelligent when compared to the average horse.

Cape Town is a city in South Africa – often mistakenly referred to as the Mother City. 

We were driving, and the talk was on the radio. For good reason I was extra attentive. A diuretic sounding voice told about the need to change the name from Cape Town to //Hui !Gaeb. 

The would be proposed new name has properties reminiscent of a modern day email address, yet, the name seeks to establish what, according to the diuretic speech, is the original name.

That woman was being serious.

The South African, like any other national, is a very interesting person. It is often said how complex the South African political situation is.  I can’t see the complexity, can you?

Here’s my brief interpretation of the history:

The dark-skinned people moved into the country from the North of the continent. Where was the mother city?

The fair-skinned people moved into the country mainly from the North, but via the sea and landed at one of the many capes in South Africa.

Once upon a time, a long, long… long time ago, the fair-skinned people had dark skins and lived in Africa. They left to seek whatever turned them on at the time. The result is that their skins, amongst other features, changed; because of the climate. They developed fair skins, but it took a long time.  Methuselah’s mother was probably not born, let alone pregnant, so long ago it was.  Ooh, but we ignore this because someone must have decided that the latter migration took place too long ago to matter.  I ask again, “How long is long ago?”

Okay, so, the dark-skinned folk arrived from across the land and the fair-skinned people arrived mainly from across the sea.

On arriving the fair-skinned folk met two groups who refer to themselves as Khoikhoi and Khoisan respectively. They were either hunter-gatherers, pastoralists or they were part of a nomadic group, the original farmers.

The fair-skinned people, mainly men, saw these yellow-skinned folk and traded. Over time they also exchanged bad habits, language, sex and religion.

The dark-skinned people came down from the north, across the land.  When they met the yellow skinned Khoi similar relationships to those the Khoi had with the Europeans developed. These relations included a few wars. In fact, a few wars between the Khoikhoi and the Khoisan are also recorded. 

The iconic, Nelson Mandela, is genealogically proven to be of Khoikhoi ancestry.

Over the past four centuries one group always sought to dominate, or rule another; much to the chagrin of the often small in number and therefore less powerful Khoi peoples.

Later, the fair-skinned people also fought with each other.  There were two such wars between mainly the English and the off-spring of the Dutch.  These two separate wars lasted a total of FOUR (4) years, but there were many other warring groups too. 

Due to various liaisons between the dark-skinned, yellow-skinned and fair-skinned people, a community came to be that were neither Khoi, fair-skinned, or dark skinned.  They were the left–over people, the as a result of people, the half breeds, the bastards.  All of this in a fast becoming skin-tone obsessed society where the fair skin was king.  Many groups moved closer to the big City, Cape Town.  Once there, relations between persons originating from South East Asia, Mauritius and Madagascar also influenced the emerging populace who were not strictly defined by culture and religion, but who increasingly became sub-sets of their masters, the fair-skinned persons of European decent.

Labeling continued. The only group who retained their first names were the Muslim slaves.  These people brought their own religion to the Cape, Islam. They originated from the aforesaid countries, countries that included Malaysia, hence the colloquial term referring to slaves from Malaysia, Slams(e), or Cape Malay people.

The urbanised Khoi, the left-over group, traded their identity and took on European names and surnames and mainly strove to emulate those values and the lifestyle which they observed from their masters, the European people. 

It may be near heretic for me to allege that the mule syndrome has from that time affected how this disparate group assesses itself. In my experience, when asked about his European surname the answer would often be about the German, Dutch, or English grandfather, but never about the Khoi, dark-skinned, St Helena, or slave grandmother.  It is known that the European Governments often sent errant officials to Cape Town – as a form of punishment when they were naughty. It stands to reason that these officials were errant in the Cape, far away from their bosses’ gaze.

The labeling never stopped.  The disparate group of left-over / as a result of people needed a name.  Many were embarrassed about their Khoi ancestry.  The Europeans named the Khoikhoi, “Hottentots” and the Khoisan was called “Bushman”.  The dark-skinned groups have their own derogatory name for the Khoi (Batwa, Abatwa – small person). How does “Men of Men” and “True People” compare to small person?

Then Europeans decided that the growing disparate group should be labeled differently. Plurals, mixed and then finally, the Cape Coloured became the preferred label. Fair-skinned people of European ancestry allocated the label, Coloured, and the mainly brown-skinned people accepted this definition. 

Today many of these people refer to themselves by the imposed and derogatory term, Coloured. As a person of mixed parentage I find the label Coloured to be a bastard term. It is a term used to describe those in South Africa who are in excess, as a result of people.  It is a term created by the Verwoerd Administration.  Verwoerd was the creator of apartheid, a social, political and economic system that set out to legitimize superiority amongst people as determined by the colour of their skins, shape of their noses and texture of their hair.  It is this term, “Coloured”, this bastard term that was further legitimized by the Nelson Mandela Administration and the ANC ruling party in South Africa.

South Africa continues to claim that it subscribes to the principle of non-racism. I put it to you, South Africa is more racist today than it was during the Apartheid era. In South Africa I continue to be defined by the colour of my skin. Therefore, my skin tone continues to give me discrimination in South Africa.

Meanwhile, the same practice of labeling dark-skinned groups “kaffirs” and “bantu” was dropped in favour of self-determined names like Zulu, Xhosa, Venda, Ndebele, Shangaan-Tsonga, Sotho and many more.  To use the term “kaffir” in reference to a dark-skinned person is a criminal offense in South Africa.

It is fine, even correct and legitimate to refer to people with no consistent common heritage by the derogatory mongrel term, “Coloured”.  

My view is that those who label themselves Xhosa, Zulu, Indian, Griekwa, Baster and whatever else, they should be free to do so. Those who wish not to be labeled, or who cannot be labeled, because of the disparate nature of who we are, those people should be free to be people, South African people, because we live here. Why make the blood that courses through my veins the curse of my life?

The above is reason too, why Cape Town is Cape Town, viz. it is a geographical description of the town which situate is a land formation alongside the sea described as a cape.

A long while back, whilst visiting, for inspiration (served in a bottle), I met an elderly gentleman.  He introduced himself, “I am James Edwin Moody”.  Mr. Moody was visiting the pub long before I arrived. We slowly played pool, sipped on the inspiration and then sat to enjoy more – others told their spouses of the “book club meeting” they were attending, so the discussions were varied.  Mr. Moody and I, a few others, we sat aside and spoke about that, this, music of course and other world problems that as the evening grew a beard we became more inspired to define.

My name was asked, the genealogy questioned and I answered. 

Said Mr. Moody,   “St Helena, your Mum is St Helenian?”; …he wore a wry smile and gently said “Once I had a girlfriend from that West Coast Island, Saint Helena; they look similar to Indian folk, those people, islanders…”. “Not my mother”, I thought. My mother would be too old for this Moody, but age assessed against an indigenous skin is often deceptive. (At 90, my mother only has a small clutch of grey hairs.)

The discussion roamed from this, to that, the music, always the music, and back to the meaning of being classified “Coloured”; or “so-called Coloured”, said Mr. Moody as he readies to tell about his great grandfather who worked for an English gentleman in Constantia, “up where they grow a fine vine, near Cape Town”. This landlord wore the last name, Moody.  Later the workers each took this name to define where they lived, worked and in some instances, because that person owned them. It is with pride that Mr. Moody’s Dad named him after the English farmer… “You see, that is how I got my name”.

With reference to the Jamie Uys film, The Gods Must Be Crazy, Mr. Moody said, “Today I may look like Dawid Kruiper (http://www.google.co.za/#hl=en&output=search&sclient=psy-ab&q=dawid+kruiper+pictures&oq=dawid+kruiper+pictures&gs_l=hp.3...4349.11362.0.12096.22.22.0.0.0.0.576.6009.3-1j5j6.12.0...0.0.7IMpeDo8Gw8&pbx=1&bav=on.2,or.r_gc.r_pw.r_qf.,cf.osb&fp=ef3e47e2b0254e7b&biw=1093&bih=521) though my name represents nothing of where I come from. I wonder whether Dawid Kruiper’s name resonates with where he comes from…” I remember the sudden somber turn of that discussion.

 I sat, listening, and the moment clouded me too. I know that change is permanent; that a better tomorrow is not possible if we hanker after a near past - a past that is riddled with dispossession, displacement, robbery, rape, pillaging and so-called philanthropy. What merit is there should Mr. Moody have changed his name to //Xegwi, or if the vexed woman of the radio talk too, changes her name?

“Oh what the hell”, said Mr. Johnson (another of the long time visitors who had joined us earlier),”let’s have another round of inspiration boys - and James, play that piece, the one,…. the one with you, where you sound like a murder of crows being helped along by that most beautiful woman…, what is the piece called?”

 We each had a stab at guessing, but all were wrong.

“Moody’s Mood!” shouted Mr. Ngcukana whilst leaning over to take aim on the pool table.  He had been listening to the discussion all the while, said “If there’s a cloud up above us now, go on and let it rain…” I sensed he too was a tad sad.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OZ4xFBs08mQ&feature=fvwrel

Mr. James Moody died in December 2010 – he was 85.

Al Pacino Plays Winnie Mandela

BalOp007

Al Pacino Plays Winnie Mandela

Part One – Being African

The terms never and always have to do with hysteria and; by talking one is bound to say something that others validate as profound.

Having worked in the USA, Australia and China, I observe that there, when referring to a public persona the person is always described as an American, Australian, or Chinese National.  This manifests when talking about politicians, musicians, sports people, and more.

I do find it strange that the descendants of African slaves in the USA claim Africa to be their motherland. These African Americans can, if that is their wish, but I find it strange. I find it strange because the Afrikaner in South Africa does not claim Holland as their motherland; the Malay of the Cape have no yearning for an Indonesian, or Malaysian so-called motherland despite several words continuing to pepper the colourful language of the Cape-Malay tongue - “tamaaf” (sorry). People generally claim a nationality derived from the country that they were born in. The places where people spend their formative years more than likely determine the way they define themselves. To cite an example, people who experienced their formative years in Cape Town speak of themselves as Capetonian South Africans.  

• During 1619 the first African people were sold as slaves in North America
• The first Dutch arrived in the Cape in 1652
• People brought to the Cape from Mauritius and Madagascar were first sold as slaves in 1653.

We have to be careful about how much emphasis is placed on nationality and regional definitions because over-analyses and emphasis can result in xenophobic tendencies emerging, which in itself is a form of discrimination.

If your forefathers were born in Africa, captured and sold as slaves nearly 400 years ago and; on an opposite continent where you today form part of a minority group, does this make you African?

Others argue that your nationality is determined by where your forefathers came from.  

Palaeontologists claim that all human life began in Africa.  If this be the case then all people are African. 

What is long ago? 

Part Two – The Impact of Being Local

Johnny Clegg and Ladysmith Black Mambazo are local musicians.  Each year these local musicians entertain more in foreign countries than they do at home in South Africa.

At the time of writing Johnny Clegg is performing to full-houses on different legs of his 2012 world tour. 

In America Michael Jackson remains an American Superstar.  In South Africa Johnny Clegg is a local entertainer.  During 1988 Michael Jackson cancelled a show in Lyon, France after it became apparent that Johnny Clegg had sold more tickets than he did for a performance on the same evening.

In Stockholm, Sweden, during a world event, the South African Afro-fusion group, Sakhile (to build), were the entertainers of choice. To the majority of South Africans Sakhile were unknown - celebrated by the world, but relatively unknown at home.

Our affirmation is disempowering.

Part Three

Why are we surprised when others come to tell our stories? If we continue to talk ourselves into being less than we are then others will continue to do for us what we better can do for ourselves.

In the film “Cry Freedom” Denzel Washington tell the Steve Biko story; whilst Morgan Freeman is Nelson Mandela in Invictus, why?

Big budgets are used to pay these known actors.  Big budgets were used to make these actors known. Why are the same big budgets not used to create new actors, actors drawn from people, people who then can tell their own stories?

The American actor, Idres Elba portrays Nelson Mandela in the soon to be released adaptation of Long Walk to Freedom. Why?

Is it possible that Richard Attenborough, or Guy Richie; Steven Spielberg perhaps, or Oliver Stone would call on John Kani and Marius Weyers to play Martin Luther King Jr and Winston Churchill respectively? No, because those people tell their own stories. They create their own Denzel Washingtons, but us we allow them to tell our stories - why?

On the other hand Meryl Streep was Margaret Thatcher…

I don’t think that it is right, even here, in the “Motherland”; where our obsessions include fixing the past whilst, and possibly the Italian-American, Al Pacino, is in training to play Winnie Mandela.