Being a Black Woman

9 August is Women's Day in South Africa.

A friend once complained on her timeline about being a Strong Black Woman because she didn't feel strong. And that broke my heart. So, this post is dedicated to her and all the Strong Black Woman I know.

Being a black woman is SO difficult. We are so used to cutting themselves down. We make ourselves smaller. We learned (and I hate that we did) to just fit into the world that we were born into: this world that never made room for us; this world that didn't think we needed room.

It's so strange when I think about the Black Girl that I was and how afraid I was to be just that. We learned so young that being a Black Girl would keep us out of certain places; would only get you to a certain point; would never be enough. We live in a world designed to make me feel small. But we are not small.

Maybe we're not Magin, but we are:

Resilient
Learned
Historied
Forgiving
Angry
Kind

We're all the things that the world needs.

I love my black woman-ness. I love my raised fist and my anger and my true belief that I am more.

And I want that for all all women, not just the once who look like me. I may not change the work like Winnie Mandela, Michelle Obama or Jacinda Arden. But I walk around with my blackness and it's real and it's strong. I love that.

I know that Black Women are doing well because we survive in a world that is designed for us to fail.

And yet we don't,

We fly.
We create.
We govern.
We empathise.
We fight.

We are strong.

That Wedding Thing

For as long as I can remember, I have always wanted to be married.

And not in that way that young girls have been taught to be “wife material”. My role model for wifedom was always my mom: one of my earliest memories is of her walking me to preschool, after which she would catch two buses to get to work. I have just always wanted the idea of what marriage would bring: unconditional, unrefined love. I wanted the house with the hubby and the kids because I genuinely believed (and, god forbid, still do) that it would be kinda nice.

I look at my friends from high school, and it has made me think that perhaps I may be a little behind. They own houses with their long-term boyfriends. I see posts on social media of engagement parties and weddings and not-so-cute-but-they’re-mine babies and think that maybe my life plan is not where it is meant to be. At this point in her life, even my stoic mother had three children.

But I am beginning to understand things a little bit more now that I am old. (And by old, I mean too close to 30 to celebrate birthdays.) I recently had a conversation with a potential husband-suitor, and he told me that he wouldn’t get married until he felt that he was financially secure. And I was a bit upset that he didn’t think that love would carry us through the “rough years”. I always thought that I would marry a man who would be quite content to spend the first three years of our lives together living in the back room of an understanding older cousin.

Unfortunately, my parents were naïve enough to send me to a liberal arts school that made me think beyond the norms that our society endorses.  I began to think about what I wanted from marriage, and what my male peers/counterparts/comrades (choose your politically-affiliated word) think marriage is. For them, it’s the moment where everything comes together; for women, it’s the moment where everything begins.

I should probably preface the next part of the article by saying I. Am . A. Feminist. Sure, if your value system coincides with Napoleon’s, this word may make you squirm.  But let me assure you that, as a feminist, I believe purely that choice should be universal, not gender-specific (sorry, Trump).

For most women, marriage is prescribed: it’s sort of the thing you do after your parents (read your father’s pay check) have paid for your educational interests, and now there’s sort of nothing else to do so, hey, why not? Of course I’m not bashing them women-folk who CHOOSE to be housewives, but generally speaking, women have believed in ‘Beauty and the Beast’; how we are gracious enough to let love happen to us accidentally, instead of by choice.

So my thoughts on marriage and love have changed a bit. Sure, I still want to be married. But when my partner talks about being “financially stable enough to get married”, I see that as being a challenge for where I see myself. I want to be in a place where I can offer as much as he offers, whether that is in terms of finance, or my independence. I want to see marriage as another accomplishment, as opposed to the goal.

Because, I am all sorts of amazing. I didn’t need Beyoncé to tell me to stand in formation. I’ve been in formation for the last twenty-nine years: grafting and planning the life that I want to live. And that life definitely includes marrying a man who looks like Don Draper and acts like Matt Damon. But I don’t need that. I want that.

And my general awesomeness dictates that that’s what I deserve. And you’d best believe that’s what I am going to get.

"I have thrust myself into this maze,

Haply to wive and thrive as best I may." - The Taming of the Shrew

"Give me my Romeo..."

You're smart enough to find the rest.

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

How Easy It Is to Trust Him

How easy it is to trust Him
But, O, how little we do.
We trust that He is all-knowing,
But doubt He’ll see us through.

We trust that He is sovereign;
That He is the King of kings.
We know He holds the universe,
But won’t trust Him with small things.

If sparrows are not an anxious
Because God looks out for them,
When we’re drowning in our troubles
Why won’t Jesus help us swim?

And if He can walk on water
And calm the roughest seas,
Then don’t you think that He
Will help us through our miseries?

If we say that we know Jesus
And trust who He says He is
Then we’re missing out on comfort
That only He can give

When we think that we know better
And we do not trust His will
To save us from life’s problems
When He says, “Peace, be still.”

Instead we worry and we fret
Always trying what we can.
Never trusting, always doubting,
That God has a better plan.

But if God can take a sinner,
Who’s as dirty as can be,
Give him a hope and a future
And change his life completely

How can we doubt He has the strength
To take us through our pain,
And in the midst of our confusion
Let the sun shine through the rain?

God does not say that He’ll remove
The trials that we receive;
He says He’ll get us through them
And that He will never leave.

Trusting in Christ does not mean
Having no problems at all.
It’s trusting God is big
And that our problems are small.

Why stress about the details
When God sees the whole picture?
Not only does He know your past,
But He cares about your future.

How easy it is to trust Him.
O, that we’d trust Him more;
Trust Jesus to carry us in the storm
And not worry about the shore.

The place that He is taking us,
Though seemingly hard to find,
Will bring joy in the morning
And eternal peace of mind.

Let’s let Jesus be our pilot –
Just sit back; enjoy the view.
How easy it is to trust Him
Because Jesus will see us through.

What We Are

I very rarely find it necessary to apologise for who I am. I do not apologise for not speaking Afrikaans. It doesn't bother me that most people don't know which way to look when I tell them that I am a drop-out. I owe no one an explanation for why I dress like a '60's hippie, why I don't like 5fm and why I strategically eat lunch after 14:30 to avoid office-kitchen small-talk. I am by no means suggesting to be without flaws, but I am borderline perfect.

If I am to think of one specific moment in my life that led to my unwavering, and often unwarranted, self-confidence I suppose I can - like most things - blame it on my mother. I was a rather big-boned 10 year old, with wild hair and teeth too large for my mousy gums. And although my taste in over-sized men's shirts (retrieved from my brother's "for the homeless" pile of clothes) left much to be desired for any would-be suitor, I was as happy as the size of my waste band, and equally invincible. I was never a nervous child, and my bravado was sculpted by the hands of an abusive older brother and sensitive-yet-protective older sister. Few ten year olds could be found who were as fond of themselves as I was and as a result I was massively (no pun intended) content.

The first time I can remember that confidence wavering was on a family trip to Namibia. As had become customary of all of my family's adventures, we were running horribly late and only crossed the border as the sun was getting ready for bed behind the quiet African expanse, which in Namibia is any time after 8 pm. We were expected to meet up with my dad's friend (who I later learned was a member of the Namibian government) at a lodge hours before, but arrived with our growling tummies long after the dinner pots had been washed and the cooking stoves scrubbed clean. I was not sure what strings were pulled or by whom, but we were welcomed to have dinner in the restaurant, where the owner would see what he could put together for us.

Walking through the restaurant, it didn't take me long to notice that the pale faces were all focused on our small group: father, mother, children and vaguely familiar black man. In my rounder days, I did not know what racism was. I knew that I was light brown, that there were people that were dark brown and that there were still others who were colourless. I also knew that people called these different shades coloured, black and white. But I knew these terms to mean little much more than distinguishing a stool from a couch - both chairs, when you come right down to it. I didn't know that these simple descriptions carried with them a history and a meaning that resonates in the honest soul of every person. I didn't know that there were places where people were treated differently (mostly badly) if their skin colour did not match the one of the man hanging in a picture frame at the front of the room. I didn't notice that the frame in this place was occupied by a colourless face, and that the flag on the walls had been destroyed by most [liberal] Southern Africans in 1994, four years earlier.

I felt ashamed, and I didn't know why. I was 10, and I did not understand what it meant to feel inadequate. But that's what I felt. Suddenly, and for the first time ever, I was ashamed of who I was, and why I was and wished with all my might that I could be someone else. I didn't know why, but clearly something we had done caused these people to feel antagonistic towards us, and I was apologetic of our presence in their space. Without knowing what it was, I knew that we had done something wrong to offend these kind people, and all I wanted was to run away. I wanted to go some place, far away, where I could find my blemish, and fix it. Because if these people could tell what was wrong with me, without even knowing my name or hearing me speak or finding out that I am really good at Maths and English and like to act, well then, maybe everyone saw this problem. And if all these people could tell what the problem was, surely I needed to find out as soon as possible before the kids at school would see the same problem, too. Maybe they had seen the problem, but maybe they couldn't tell me because it was just that bad.

I looked up at my mom, who's left arm I clung to like a sloth on holiday, and noticed something that frightened me even more than realising that there was something wrong with my family. The look in my mother's eyes seemed to suggest that she was not feeling the same shame that had so suddenly and intensely fallen on me. She did not look scared, worried or embarrassed. She looked just like she always did: strong, calm, knowing. My shame was replaced by a strong fear that the problem wasn't my family. The problem was me. Clearly I was the only one that these people were silently detesting, because my mother (who had the power to heal a broken toe with a tiny kiss, who knew how to make even broccoli taste good, and who had the best magic for sore tummies) was not ashamed at all.

I wish I had known then that what I saw in my mother's face was pride; a silent dignity that had been refined by years of fighting for it. I wish I knew then that my mother didn't feel shame, because it's an emotion that she had to learn to shed, and that she was still learning to lose the fear that she had been born with. I wish I knew then that the look I saw in my mother's eyes was the most glorious look that I had ever seen, because then I would have taken a picture and framed it with the same respect and admiration that these people had for the bald man that hung on their wall.

But I didn't know those things, and so I continued to grapple with the fear that I had somehow, in the last 24 hours, developed a cursed disease, and that I needed to be fixed. I stared up at my mother, and whispered (so as not to upset the people whose space we were invading) "Mommy, why are they staring at us?"

I don't really know what I expected the answer to be. Perhaps it's better that way, because if I were to speculate what I thought she would say I probably never would have asked. You see, I had always had a belief in my awesomeness that was more than what we were being told by Disney and Enid Blyton. I knew that God made me, and that he'd made me perfectly, but if I am to be completely honest, that's not really the reason I was so sure about myself. I clearly didn't wear the right clothes, know the lyrics to any of the right songs or tell the right jokes. I was by far not the prettiest girl in my class and although I was fairly bright, my early-onset laziness meant I wasn't the smartest kid, either. I cannot really tell you where my surety came from. I guess I was just born that way. But that night in a small rural lodge, a few kms from the Namibian/South African border, I lost that confidence. I'm not sure where it went, or even what chased it away. But there I was, walking through a sea of displeased eyes, held breaths, silent mumbles and head shakes. If I were to guess what my mother would say, I would have thought, beyond a doubt, that my mother was about to tell me that I had done something wrong and that I should immediately apologise for ruining these nice people's dinner.

I will never forget what she said to me. Partly because I was really shocked by it. But mostly because she found it: she went to the secret dark place that my confidence had gone to, and nurtured her back to strength like she had done many times to me when I had the terrible case of the sniffles. And Confidence came back even stronger than before. And thanks to my mother's words, She has never left.

My mom, smiling, looked down at me and said in a voice that clearly did not mind ruining those nice people's dinner, "They've just never seen such beautiful people before."

'For such as we are made of, such we be" - Viola, Twelfth Night

“Every day I’m shuffling”

In matric, I was fortunate enough to go on a school trip to France. There were many things that I enjoyed about that trip (lunch on the beach with friends, making it to the top of the stairs at the Arc de Triomphe, cruising down the Seine River), but there were also moments that weren’t so great (being forced to stammer my way though the French language, the glaring supervision of Nazi-trained teachers). One such would-rather-forget-but-will-always-remember incident happened at a bus stop somewhere between Marseille and Paris. Taking a break from bussing through the French countryside, we arrived at a Travel Stop and, on descending from the bus for our first break in several hours, were given time to get some food. We were also told in no uncertain terms that any food that we bought was not to be eaten on the bus.

Now, I have never been really good with rules and, after buying my food, I made my way back onto the bus, hoping that I could inconspicuously tuck into my burger. At this point, it is necessary for me to point out that I was not the only double-0-seven eating her lunch in the bus. All 25 girls snuck onto the bus with meals in our bags, pockets and under our coats. No sooner had the bus doors closed, had Mrs Rover (*named changed to honour the secrecy of the Nazi) risen promptly from her comically small seat, and demanded to know who had brought food onto the bus.

In what I thought then was an heroic act of martyrdom, and now see as a bold act of stupidity, I admitted to being the culprit. I was tried at the Court of First Offenses, and sentenced to eating my lunch in solitary confinement on the pavement next to the bus.

Did it make it less wrong that I had broken the rule because my peers had done the same thing? By that logic, the more murders committed would mean we should give leaner sentences: moral relativity taken to the extreme. But that’s not what it means. I wasn’t less wrong, there were just more people not doing right. My admission of guilt and subsequent humiliation did not purge my devious “friends” (term used very loosely) of their crimes. I was not the sacrificial lamb that could cover the sins of many, because I was in the shameful process of atoning for my own sins. If justice were to prevail that day, all 25 of us would have been burning our behinds on the sidewalk. But the Nazis were satisfied to use one as an example to many, therefore legitimising their inaction and exempting the others from their crimes.

Now, did I share this anecdote because I am hoping for overdue sympathy? Partly. But, I also think I kind of get how Sicelo and Gwen felt yesterday when His Honourable sacked them as Cooperative Governance Minister and Public Works Minister respectively. My emotions are still mixed regarding this action, and perhaps with time I will shed some of my cynicism. Until then, here are my thoughts.

In general, I have two problems with cabinet reshuffling:

The first is that it suggests a lack of specialist knowledge: we keep going back to the beginning when we should be reaching the end. This is the second time in a year that our President has decided to shake things up. Last year, he replaced existing ministers with those who he felt would better serve the country’s interests. (It worries me that we can appoint people as MP’s who don’t recognise their role is one of service in the first place!) In his Press Conference a year ago, the Big Guy said, "We had to change the way government works in order to improve service delivery. Our mission was guided by improving the quality of the lives of South Africans." That reshuffle saw 7 ministers lose their jobs. Ironically, Public Works Minister Geoff Doidge was replaced by Gwen Mahlangu-Nkabinde – as a result of a similar lease scandal that ended Gwen’s career yesterday.

I understand that being President must be a difficult job. Without trying to be smug about it, there really are a lot of responsibilities that are put on one man, and the standard by which we judge the Top Guns is [justifiably] rather high. But let’s, for a moment, consider the extent of the satire that lent to two people being sacked from the same position, for the same reasons, less than a year apart. Not even Shakespeare could summon the kind of creative genius needed to fashion that kind of dramatic irony. How is it possible that the country’s Number One could make the same blunder and appoint an ignoramus in the same position twice? Perhaps it suggests that he who chooses is himself an ignoramus (although I am loathe to insult the country’s most important citizen. Whether we like him or not, his position does carry some weight, and demands some – if limited – amount of respect).

I think the issue here is that we need to start appointing people into positions who have some kind of knowledge in the role that they are going to fill. For example, it makes no sense to me that the Deputy Minister of Economics (Mahlangu-Nkabinde’s previous position) would take over the role of Public Works Minister. What happened to the Public Works Deputy? What knowledge did Mahlangu-Nkabinde have to fill that role in the first place, when her only other experience was in Environmental Affairs and Women’s committees? I understand the need to get rid of the loose screws, but am I the only one who thinks it ineffective to replace the screws with bubblegum? Deputy Minister of Rural Development, Thembelani Nxesi, takes over the controversial position, with no experience within the Public Works ministry. I do not want to set the former school teacher up for failure, but now he has to go back to the books and learn how to run a ministry that he knows very little about. How well do we think that will end?

My second problem with this constant two-step is that it works too well as a distraction of what is really going on: our government’s inability to nip corruption in the artery. Zuma’s [delayed] expulsion of the two ministers and suspension of Cele makes people feel warm and fuzzy, and gives more confidence in our government than should be warranted. Much like the injustice that befell me on the cold pavement of a French Travel stop, the Three [dishonourable] Musketeers are mere pawns in a chess game much bigger than just three pieces. Granted, they needed to lose their jobs. But let’s not get so blinded by the party balloons and chocolate cake that we do not realise that there are snakes in the grass who are yet to be caught.

It is not enough to fire a corrupt minister, and then send him/her off to some obscure location as an ambassador. Or, in the case of Toni Yengeni, slap him with a light prison sentence and then give him a spot in the committee set out to investigate the very scandal that got him locked behind bars in the first place! It unnerves me that nothing has been said about the millions that these three have stolen from the tax payers. I salute the President for his actions, but the story should not end here.

Kenya had a good year last year. After the terrors of 2007 – 2009, 2010 saw them sign in a new constitution and experience much needed political reform. In the process of rebuilding their nation, the Kenyan government – led by President Mwai Kibaki and Prime Minister Raila Odinga – created an Ethics and Anti-Corruption Commission. The Commission’s mandate and sole purpose is to investigate corruption (http://www.kacc.go.ke/whatsnew.asp?id=197). I call for our government to do the same. Until such a time, I will say ‘Well done for the effort, but I am still not convinced!’

Having said all this, I do believe that this is a good start, although I am not one to celebrate starts. Our country has been going in the wrong direction for a very long time, and it is going to take a lot of retracing of our steps to make things right again. In fact, there is nothing to even suggest that we are on the right path yet. But I do feel comforted that the Public Protector’s job is not just ceremonial, and that the Old Man actually listened to her recommendations (albeit a bit tardy). I also applaud our President for taking action. Let’s not forget that Jackie Selebi had a much longer run than Bheki Cele before he was shot down.

[Side note: I think that it is fitting to mention the exemplary job that Nkosazana Dlamini-Zuma is doing in the Department of Home Affairs. Not all our ministers are bandits, and yesterday Dlamini-Zuma’s ministry had its first clean audit in 16 years. Kudos for a job well done!]

Whether Zuma’s actions were being spurred on by invisible puppeteers (perhaps promoting a school teacher to such a high position was a favour to COSATU), an ill-intentioned step towards Mangaung (it is no secret that Zuma is crossing fingers and toes for a second term) or a genuine interest in showing some leadership (perhaps he is getting weary of the constant reference to his big head), I am definitely proud that the headlines were good news this morning. I can’t comment on where our country is headed, but if we can keep this up, things are looking bright.

We need to be able to trust our government, and hope beyond all hope that soon the people who govern us do not become as the men described by Shakespeare in Measure for Measure: “The jury, passing on the prisoner's life,/ May in the sworn twelve have a thief or two/ Guiltier than him they try.”