I Am Not White

I am not White.

I understand that to some of you, this reality is glaringly obvious. It would be far too ambitious to justify my pigmentation as the bronzing work of the sun or the almost-black shade of my eyes as contact lenses. Getting (and keeping) my hair straight is a gargantuan task - there are three ladies who live in my house and I am convinced that were we to request a detailed breakdown of our daily electricity usage, 65% would be allocated to hair dryers, straightening irons, hot air brushes and other such hair-deadening devices. And while these physical qualities may confirm my non-whiteness, they seem to have no bearing on what a large percentage of people think about me - and my tolerance has been exhausted. 

This is not a Rant; it is simply a Clarification.

My parents never taught my siblings and me about race. It was a decision they made before I was born, that they would not force their children to be limited by a world that was too unimaginative to see beyond labels and stereotypes. This is one of the many decisions that they made that not only moulded my social development, but also afforded me a rare ability to be indiscriminately resentful towards most people, based less on skin colour and more on the Took-ish foolery of most human beings. 

Although I was born in the Wild '80's, perhaps the most uncertain time in South African History, I was ignorantly unaware of the political unrest around me. The first memory I have of interacting with children who looked different to me was at a nursery school in the rough streets of Berea, where I spent my prepubescent years . My best friend had blue eyes. My second best friend had sleek black hair. The other children were my loyal subjects, and I their righteous Queen. I made no distinction between the brown kids and the pink kids; I bullied each child equally. This is not to say that my siblings and I were unaffected by prejudice. I am sure we were. We were just taught to believe not that people were racist, but that they were rude, which, when it comes down to it, is probably the more accurate description of the two.

For all his charm, my father was never a romantic. His version of a proposal was to ask my mom-to-be if she had any debt (she didn't). They started their married life in a room in Florida, and their only possessions were a bed and a TV. From the very beginning, they knew they owed it to their children to be better. Even though they lived in a world where people like them hardly ever got lucky, they vowed that their kids would never be in need, and that they would create (yes, CREATE) opportunities for their children to prosper. 

My parents' success is not the product of BEE or their status as 'struggle heroes'. My dad has no political connections. The surname 'Beukes' is not happily accepted around boardroom tables where affirmative action candidates are being discussed. Both my parents were raised by single mothers who worked in factories. They lived in small houses, along unpaved streets. My mother never had anything new, or something that was all hers. There was no money in her house for selfishness or entitlement. My father was the youngest child, and because of the rules of hierarchy never had his own bed, let alone a door to slam when he was annoyed and needed to get away from the stress that comes with being a teenage boy. He slept under a the table in the kitchen, which was the only available space in his home. They walked to schools where they received an education that the government deemed suitable for people of their social status. They sat in the back of the train; couldn't use the toilets in public places; were kicked out of the good libraries. 

The story of my parents is not unique, but it is special. Because their story is the prologue to mine. My father and mother have spent the last 30 years sacrificing for me, for my older brother and my older sister. They went without many of the things that they wanted so that we could get the things that we needed. Instead of spending money in bars and boutique stores like most of their friends, my parents put money away for our education and our future. They said no to fancy cars and personal gain so that we never went without. They could not afford to study beyond high school, but they educated themselves so that they would know the answers to the questions that little people ask. My dad did not grow up with Enid Blyton's stories, but when he read them to us at night he knew the voice of every member of The Famous Five, every wicked witch, every stoic sultan, every distressed damsel and every perplexed pixie. We did not miraculously end up with a house in the suburbs, private school education and tertiary qualifications. The only thing that separates me from being like so many of the the other brown girls my age with three children from two different men, is my parents' example. Through their actions and lifestyle choices, they have shown me that I can expect, demand, better from life no matter what cards I have been dealt.

White people, I am offended by your assumption that all non-whites are drunkards, corrupt and violent. It angers me when you call a place "dodgey" based solely on the fact that 98% of the people there are black. Our government is not bad because it is black, in the same way that not all white people supported apartheid. I am tired of hearing how the black man cut you off in traffic, or how the black lady in Pick 'n' Pay was so rude, or how that black baby at the movies was just so cute. Telling me I speak well is not a compliment. I am not your quota friend, your parental rebellion or your proof that you are not racist. Being an "okay black" does not make me white. If it intimidates you to meet a brown person who is smarter than you, that's ok. But don't try to validate yourself by making me one of you. I am not.

Black people, my favorite bands are Mumford & Sons, Dashboard Confessional and Coldplay. This does not make me white. I speak English clearly and correctly. This does not make me white. I have an excellent education. This does not make me white. I, too, am not trusted and given suspicious looks when I enter a room. I know what it feels like to be underestimated because I am different. When you jump to the conclusion that I can't possibly be South African because I do not sound the way you expect me to, not only are you being extremely close-minded, but you're also offending me and undermining my parents, because I am a result of their hard work and sacrifice.

Obviously my parents could not protect me from the idiocy of race for very long, and I am not naive enough to believe that race does not matter. I am 'racially aware' because I have to be; because it's what our society demands. We cannot separate who we are from what we are, and I have no intention to do so. This is not a worn-out plea for us to all be treated the same. What I am talking about is more than what I look like. When you perceive me to be a certain way, and try to lessen my brownness, you're trying to deny me of my identity.

My command of English does not make me white. My education does not erase the colour of my skin, or the history it comes with. My upbringing wasn't privileged, it was blessed. This does not make me white. It makes me open-minded. It makes me empathetic. It makes me ambitious and confident. I am not ashamed of my accent, my vocabulary or my choice in music.

I  cannot fit into any of your boxes, so do not try to force me into them. I am proud of who I am, exactly how I am. And what I am is Not White.

"Mislike me not for my complexion,

The shadowed livery of the burnish'd sun,

To whom I am a neighbor, and near bred." - Prince of Morocco, The Merchant of Venice