Nelson's takkies. (Sneakers)

Whenever someone from my family visits us in the US, there is always a trip to the outlet mall for a great pair of state-of-the-art brand new takkies, size eleven.


They are for Nelson.

Nelson has been my mother's gardener for thirty years. He was not much more than a child when he started working for my family. He loves the earth. He is patient and nurturing, and still trims the hedge which is now 8 feet tall. He clips each little errant bud with the concentration and precision of a surgeon. He rubs the earth between his fingers slowly, and tells me he can smell the life in it. He moves quietly and rhythmically, with the sun. He rakes slowly, weeds with care, plants gently, speaks little.

And runs like the wind.

At first, barefoot, to catch the bus home at the top of the hill. Then, to avoid the tsotsis in the dangerous parts of the township, who would try to corner him and take his Friday paycheck. Then one day, alongside my neighbor, Edward, a lanky middle-aged British plastic surgeon, training for a marathon.

For at least ten years now, Nelson has run the Comrades Marathon every year. Every year he wins a prize. He still trains with Edward. And every year he sports a brand new pair of takkies from the USA.
He calls them his lucky charm, and feels blessed.

Once the damage is done, it is done.

Once the damage is done, it is done. There is no going back.

This is the biggest fear of many of us South Africans.

Once upon a time, not so long ago, I lived in Cape Town. I had two kindly-soul friends I will call Sweetie Friend and Big Hearted Husband. They had an impetuous little toddler boy, who I will call Mikey, who smelled of grass, rubber balls, pool chemicals and golden retriever. He played toddler games with my robust tomboy toddler, Jenna. He taught her to tackle in rugby, and whack a tiny ball with a plastic golf club. They vocally expressed their love for each other.

One day a "lesbian couple who adopted/ rescued a black street child" moved in next door to them. He had enormous eyes, a big head, and was small for his age. He was watchful and silent, peering through the bars of the 7 foot fence between the properties.

Sweetie Friend tried to draw him out of his shell, and invited him to play. He became less frightened. We moved. Halfway across the globe. Sweetie Friend and Big Hearted Husband were sad. Mikey even more so. He cried. Sweetie Friend encouraged a friendship with Big Eyed Street kid. Mikey cried more. He changed. Something had happened. And then she saw it one day. Big Eyed Kid was sodomizing her son as part of play. This is what he knew.

Everyone changed. Everyone cried. Lesbian parents cried. Halfway across the world, we cried.

One four and half year old from an ordinary suburb, with a dog and a pool, was being treated for AIDS.

Damage had been done, and there is no going back.

The day Nelson Mandela dies...

When I am all pissy and PMS'y and peevish, I do not dwell on my death and funeral and how much everyone will miss me and appreciate me in retrospect, and do a headcount of all the people I know who will come to my spectacular memorial service, like any self respecting hormonal woman would -- no -- I think of Nelson Mandela's death and how my life will be altered forever.
Let me explain.
In 1994 I had the good fortune to land a job at the National Parliament of South Africa, the very month South Africans went in their droves to vote in our first democratic election. Nelson Mandela was joyously voted in as our first black President, a larger than life figure who had spent twenty seven years of his life in prison doing hard labor. It humbled us all that he emerged a free man with a vision of equality for all, peace, co-operation and the rebuilding of a truly fabulous rainbow nation.
Everybody loved him -- all colors, creeds and religious affiliations. He was a symbol of hope, greatness and hell, - he was coooool.

My first business trip to the Union Buildings in Pretoria ( a stately seat of government in the center of the country) was exciting and upon hearing that President Mandela would be appearing that afternoon for a photo shoot with a bevy of Miss South Africa beauty pageant finalists in the elegant gardens, my government staff colleagues and I decided to nip out from our dark meeting room and see if we could get a glimpse of our brand new President.

I remember perching on a wall in the morning sunshine, a safe distance from the sweeping entrance. President Mandela arrived just seconds before an enormous Greyhound bus pulled up and twenty clattering, leggy birds of paradise disembarked the bus and headed off into the colorful gardens. It struck me that not a single one of them had noticed one of the greatest men in history standing right next to their bus, as they quizzically lurched in the direction of the greenery.
He looked up at our motley crue, strode over, stuck out an enormous hand and shook my hand with warmth. "Are you one of my girls?" he asked with a grin. His aide in his armani threads blanched and looked at him. I remained stunned. "Oh come now, Lawrence, she looks too young to even be out of high school. " I introduced myself shyly. He gave me a long look, smiled again, and said "It is nice to meet you, Janine. I hope to see you again soon. " And then he was whisked away to sit amongst the frothy creatures for the cameras.
It was the look that got me. Literally. I felt in that instant that he had really seen me, in my hopes, dreams, aspirations of building something great and meaningful in a brand new country, in some small way. He had seen my essence. I had experienced a great soul, and it had changed me forever.

And that is why I get snippy when I am reminded that he is now a very old man. And the day he leaves this earth will be the end of something I will mourn in private -- and in my sleepless hormonal days when the earth seems strange and scary.

The beginning of something....

10:30 am on a Sunday morning in the dreary, drippy, mountains of the Sierra Foothills. With one bowl of questionable cereal under my fluffy robe belt, I am fired up to blog. Husband smiles graciously at suggestion and heads out the door to run in the rain. (????)
Seems like every Joe Shmuck does it. Could at least give it a go.

So -- if you can stand the South Africanisms, welcome. I figured it would be good to write about those things perplexing to my american friends, the scary stories that I find darkly humorous, and to muse on my years working for and with some bigwigs in the South African parliament from 1994. It's all true -- albeit seemingly a little dramatic and fakeish in this serious academic society I now call home, Silicon Valley.