Cornflakes

The other day I was sitting on my family’s front porch, chatting with two of my sisters – Latoya and Jabu, who are 14 and 16 respectively. This is one of my favorite parts of the day. Both girls are beautiful, smart, and sweet, and I really enjoy getting to hear about their and their friend’s perspective on big things like the school system, HIV, poverty, alcoholism, immigration, and all the rest of it. But even better is just having two friends who I can sit around and be silly with after school. We talk about Generations and movie stars, and their favorite musicians. They show me the latest dance moves, and I demonstrate over and over how bad my dancing is. Is it strange that two of my closest South African friends are 14 and 16? Maybe, but as I get further and further out of the exceedingly homogenous (age, socio-economic, and, yes, racial to a large degree) experience that was college I’m learning that that matters less and less. They’re my friends because I love the time that I spend with them.

Which is why my blood ran cold when, after sitting together quietly for a few minutes, Latoya looked at me and asked in perfect seriousness: “Ses Nomvula…is it true that white people are better than black people?”

What can you say to a question like that? What could I say? I can’t think of anything more calculated to break my heart. I asked her if she thought it was true. She said, “Well, no, but Bonga [the 8 year old sister] does. She asked mom to buy her Cornflakes because she sees white people eating them on TV. She says white people’s food is better. That’s what I thought too when I was her age, but I don’t anymore.” So we talked for a bit about the differences she sees around her. Why the white people in Malelane all seem to be doing so well, why the black people around her in the village are so poor. About the schools, and Apartheid, and the systemic brainwashing that has taken place over hundreds of years. (“But most white people in South Africa are rich, aren’t they?” “Well yes, richer than most people here, but only because they stole everything.”) Most people in the village feel the same way. They know that, technically, they are now equal in the eyes of the government. They see that there is a black president, a black government, that doors that were closed are slowly opening, but that can’t replace 300 years of, well, being told that white people are better. I am consistently offered the best seat in the car, the best plate of food, the seat of honor at whatever function. Sure some of this is because I’m willing to come volunteer and help out for a couple of years, but when I think about how many 24 year old women from the village would be offered the same perks or choice offerings of whatever, the same deference, the same ease of access, well of course she wouldn't.

But mostly, it all comes down to this: An 8 year black girl old lives in a rural village, in a cinder-block house with a tin roof, no running water, and days when there is no electricity because the money has run out. Everybody she knows lives them same way – many of them much worse off (at least she has shoes). She watches a happy, wealthy, white family eat cornflakes for breakfast in their perfect home. What would you conclude?

Obit

"I listen to feminists and all these radical gals. ... These women just need a man in the house. That's all they need. Most of the feminists need a man to tell them what time of day it is and to lead them home. And they blew it and they're mad at all men. Feminists hate men. They're sexist. They hate men; that's their problem."

Jerry Falwell, this camps for you.

(and from now on I'll get back to talking about Africa, I promise)

Mother's Day

You know what the best advice I've ever gotten is? The tiny little phrase that manages to pack in more "hell yes, here's something to live your life by" and less trite cliche per syllable than nearly any other?:

"Honey, don't forget: It's easier to ask forgiveness than permission"

Thanks mom. Your words and actions inspire me every day, in Davis, Ventura, South Africa, and everywhere inbetween. I love you.

Party Hard

Last week was my birthday, and I am now 24 (which is just weird. I'll be 25 when I come home, which is even weirder). I had mentioned to one of my teachers in passing about a month ago that my birthday was coming up while we were driving somewhere. She said, "Oh but you must be at our school that day, we will sing to you!" I laughed, and so did she, and then we kept driving.

So, on my actual birthday, I found myself in a kombie full of grades 4-6 learners on our way to the nearest piano to practice "Funniculi Funnicula." As we pass my key school where that teacher works, I saw her out on the road waving her arms around and trying to flag down the taxi. It stopped for her, and we said hello, and then she talked to one of the other teachers a bit, said something to the kids, and then told me that the next day I had to be at her school to help out their choir (which, incidentally got first place at the competition and will be continuing next week. Awesome.) As we're talking I all of a sudden hear 20 learners burst into:

"Happy Birthday to you, Happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Nomvuuuuuuuula..."

She had apparently told all the kids to sing happy birthday to me, just like she promised. I cracked up. (Although, some of the fun of having all the kids sing just to me passed when they immediately followed up by singing along with the radio's remix of "f*** you you ho." Seriously, wtf Africa).

Anyway, I figured that that was my birthday sing along and that things were all taken care of again until next year. So, the next day I wandered into my key school, where all of the teachers were acting...a bit shadier than usual. I was constantly deflected from the office, told to go hang out in the grade 7 class (where, when the teacher dissapeared for the 3rd time in 15 minutes, I spent an hour or two playing Anagrams and Hangman with the kids). Despite the fact that I was specifically there for a choir practice, the choir didn't seem to be actually practicing.

Finally, at about 11, one of the teachers called me. "Nomvula, come here, we are having a staff meeting." I walk into the classroom, and there were all my teachers sitting in a row, my host parents up front, a giant pink sparkly cake (I immediately though of Emily) and the words "Happy Birthday Nomvula Sambo/Rebecca!!!" written on the blackboard with pictures and multicolored chalk. They had thrown me a surprise party!!! There were speeches, candles, singing, and even a gift. I'll be honest, when it was my turn to give a speech I started to cry a little.

It was so amazing, not only that they would take so much time and effort to do this for me when I don't even know what I've done for them yet (my favorite line from a speech: "Nomvula has done so much for us, I can not even list them all one by one" while I thought to myself, "funny, neither can I.") but because for the very first time I felt like I was being seen as a person. They weren't celebrating the white person's birthday, they weren't just happy that I was there because I'm different, they were throwing a party for my birthday, me as an individual person whom they like on a personal level. I know volunteers who have been at site for two years and still don't feel that way. Some people feel like they are just dolls, without dimension or feeling to the people around them. But now, with only 8 months on site under my belt, to at least a few people I'm just me. Still a white me, of course, that will never go away I think, but at least me.