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.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
2 comments:
There were tears in my eyes when I read your description of being so fully seen by Mandela. This is a rare occurrence in our daily lives, that we are seen as more than our roles, our conversations, and our behaviors. We have a hunger for being touched at our very essence, and great souls like Mandela seem to shed the conventional relationship trappings and connect with us intimately, right at our core. Once you have been seen in that way, you can never be truly invisible again. The challenge is to find the unknown others who are willing and able to see and be seen in this way. Thanks for the post. It gave me the motivation to resume my own search for being seen.
On a light note, as one of your South African friends, I shall ignore the Americanisms that have crept into your, as always, brilliant writing (when you lived here color was spelt colour)!
In my humble opinion Nelson Mandela will never die. Even now - in vivo - His essence lives through you,and every single other person he has touched (and he has touched MANY). You, in relating your story, will always keep him alive. Heck, after all, you are still his girl!
Post a Comment