Tomorrow, Jenna will be ten years old.
And yes, we are having a party. Friends, cake, games, swimming and hot dogs.
I love, love hot dogs.
I know they are rubbish food, but I am one of millions who will swear they can mark out their lives in hot dogs. I know everyone thinks hot dogs are American, and epitomize everything good and bad about this society. You know the bad -- fat, piggy kids, lazy mothers, preservatives and saturated fats -- and the good -- cookouts, family, friends, party, fun, celebration, outdoors, festivals and amusement parks.
But the African hot dog most certainly does exist.
They are not quite like their American cousins -- a little skinnier, toned down, a little more basic really. Usually a fairly humble bendy vienna sausage nestled in a smallish white elongated bun, and smothered in tomato sauce, or ketchup, depending on which country you speak from. They don't get the royal treatment of grill marks, relishes, onions and gourmet mustards. They don't cost much, and can be bought at a vendor who fishes the warm viennas out of some boiling water where they are heated through, and pops it into its bun, wrapped in a scant napkin.
It is a great and ongoing mystery to me and my brethren as to why exactly Americans grill hot dogs. We just don't get it. We grill steaks, lamb chops, pork chops, marinated chicken, boerewors (a spiced local sausage, hopefully homemade) and exotic kebabs.
A South African braai (barbecue) is all about the great, succulent grilled food, and then the beer and company.
For us, the humble hot dog just fills an empty spot in a satisfying fashion. Not really a celebrated food, we say. Not fit for company.
And yet if I think about it, I remember when growing up, fast food joints and take-out spots were virtually non-existent. Exhausted mothers picked up supplies for hot dogs at supermarkets and headed home to feed the kids at the end of the week. Ditto for maids-day- off nights. When hot dogs were served, everyone relaxed. Parents' expectations were low, bad table manners were ignored, kids could lie around or horse about. Dinner was straightforward.
Frequently, hot, sticky Durban summers were packed with pre-adolescent friends at our suburban pool, piles of white buns and lukewarm viennas, gaily accented with bright bottles of ketchup and potato chip packets. Instant kid food readily available without much grown-up intervention required. Adults stayed in calmer, cooler shadows with wine spritzers and olives.
When I was thirteen and broke my arm with a resounding snap on the beach, my mother took me to the emergency room across the street. The huge community hospital, Addington Hospital, must have had the best in-patient view in all the world. All I really remember was feeling weird because someone had wrapped their ketchuped hot dog half in my t-shirt --for safekeeping I guess -- when I undressed and ran off in my swimsuit. I smelt and felt like a hot dog for hours while I waited, and kids showed up mangled and screaming from motorcycle accidents.
In high school, upon strict instruction to come up with a booth, game or carnivalish side-show for our annual fund raiser, my assigned partner and I unenthusiastically decided to man a no-frills hot dog stand. No gimmicks, fair price and good quality buns. (There is no such thing as a good quality vienna.)
To my astonishment, I sold three hundred hot dogs in just over an hour. Our target was exceeded, and my lifelong fascination with a simple, good commodity, marketed and sold to the masses was stirred. Humble hot dogs were a hit.
At sixteen, my friend Janine and I (I know, I know) would take a bus to the beach, hang out all day, and on our way home, stop off at the hot dog stand outside Durban's City Hall and feast on the meaty, bread and ketchup concoctions. Pure heaven. A day of sand, sun, friends and the utter bliss of being sixteen and free, was completed with a hot dog on the steps of the bustling city square. The world was fascinating and rich, and it responded to our colorful nubile presence with delight and pleasure.
Through the years of young adulthood and poverty, hot dogs featured as emergency food, quickly swallowed outside busy nightclubs in the wee hours of the morning. Cheap, quick and delicious fuel for a night of pouring drinks behind bar counters mobbed with beautiful people determined to have a good time.
And now, I am to my dismay, a mom to a ten-year old.
And when there are kids, there are hot dogs.
These days, on the rare occasion that I venture into Costco with champagne-tastes Henk on a weekend, we always order a round of hot dogs for everyone, and nod our mutual approval and delicious satisfaction as we eat them with the throngs on the plastic benches in the store.
We always smile at each other conspiratorially, compliment each other's cleverness at discovering the best hot dogs in the country, and always smugly marvel at the price. A buck fifty of pure heaven on so many levels.
Happy Birthday, Jenna. Have a hot dog on me.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Masonto.
Masonto is a name derived from the Zulu word for Sunday, Amasonto.
Finally, a day of rest.
Hardly.
My memories of Masonto span almost my entire lifetime. When I was as young as my memory will allow, she was square and solid, untidily wrapped in a usually grubby house dress, barefoot with corn rows sticking off her head haphazardly.
I have no idea of how old she was -- old enough to have two strapping sons, and then a little doe-eyed one, nicknamed Bambi for the rest of his life.
Young enough to play hours of hide-and-seek with us children, sent down the street to my grandmother's house in the hot afternoons when my mother would rest.
There were brown bread avoacado-and-vinegar sandwiches at the melamine kitchen counter, hot tea with a scoop of my grandmother's prized condensed milk, and then we were shooed outside into the boisterous hands of Masonto. She always smelled of chicken fat and hair oil, and never, ever sat still or kept quiet, for that matter. My head fills with the sound of her shrieking laughter and animated conversation when I think of her.
She was the younger sister of my childhood nanny and maid, Somblugu, and the two of them could not have been more different. Somblugu was Chopin, Masonto, the Rolling Stones.
She cooked, cleaned, babysat, dished out advice, fought raucously with a wayward husband I never did see, and whom eventually finally disappeared in a manner only whispered about in the presence of children.
She cared for everyone -- the waves of yapping little dogs my grandmother always seemed to love, kids from all corners of the family, my quiet grandfather and his clockwork coffee-breaks and pipe-smoking meditations, and my aunts who lived there until they married. She pressed outfits for monumental dates, helped to paint toenails scarlet and scrubbed feet with a pumice stone. Grooming seemed to have been her specialty. Whenever I appeared before her with my tousled teenage head, she would grab a comb and rush at me, begging to be allowed to worry out those snarls that seemed to trouble her so.
She was loud music, crude jokes and good natured bantering. She ran the dickens out of her little hand cranked Singer sewing machine on a Saturday afternoon when we were bored, my mother was visiting in the house, and the homemade cake had been eaten. She sewed narrow little strips of scrap fabric into squares, and made multi-colored quilt-like mats. I loved them but never could understand what they were really for.
She was the backbone of that house.
When Jenna was a few months old, Henk and I went to Durban and stayed at my grandmother's house. We slept in one of my aunt's old rooms -- her giant old porcelain dolls stacked on top of a huge wardrobe. Masonto stepped right in and cared for Jenna as naturally as breathing.
She brought us tea on a tray in the morning, and changed the baby's diaper. She was as comforting as my grandmother to me.
Our ambitions grew, and our small family moved across the globe. My grandmother grew old.
Mostly I heard of her health and happiness. After all, these are the questions we ask about our loved ones when calling from ten hours away. She was being well cared for and living with my lovely, youngest aunt. When she moved in with my aunt, all I heard about was how she was resisting the move and then how happy she was when she settled in.
What about Masonto? I asked.
Oh...... she has gone back to the township, I heard. What does that mean? Did she have another house? I never knew. I only thought of her and loved her within the framework of my grandmother's house and her quarters in the back yard.
What happened to her? Does she have enough money? Who is taking care of her? My mother responded in anger, with no answers. I don't understand what I am hearing. Is this guilt, shame or frustration I am hearing? I can't decide.
I am not in Durban, South Africa. I cannot read expressions, feel undercurrents or press family members for answers. No-one says anything, and I am distracted once more by my daily rituals. It bothers me.
A while later, in the middle of a lengthy conversation with my mother over the phone, she tells me that Masonto has died.
I think, she was not that old at all!
She was locked in her house and burnt alive for being a witch, my mother says. She sounds unshocked. I am stunned. Her sons stood and watched her screaming in the house, my mother says.
I don't know what to say to her anymore.
She sighs, and begins a litany of negative Masonto words that I do not hear.
I remember her lifelong service to my extended family. I remember her enormous soul.
I grieve.
I am horrified and sad.
I hear nothing from my family. Their silence is deafening. They are good people, but they say nothing.
Am I also a good person who says nothing too?
Finally, a day of rest.
Hardly.
My memories of Masonto span almost my entire lifetime. When I was as young as my memory will allow, she was square and solid, untidily wrapped in a usually grubby house dress, barefoot with corn rows sticking off her head haphazardly.
I have no idea of how old she was -- old enough to have two strapping sons, and then a little doe-eyed one, nicknamed Bambi for the rest of his life.
Young enough to play hours of hide-and-seek with us children, sent down the street to my grandmother's house in the hot afternoons when my mother would rest.
There were brown bread avoacado-and-vinegar sandwiches at the melamine kitchen counter, hot tea with a scoop of my grandmother's prized condensed milk, and then we were shooed outside into the boisterous hands of Masonto. She always smelled of chicken fat and hair oil, and never, ever sat still or kept quiet, for that matter. My head fills with the sound of her shrieking laughter and animated conversation when I think of her.
She was the younger sister of my childhood nanny and maid, Somblugu, and the two of them could not have been more different. Somblugu was Chopin, Masonto, the Rolling Stones.
She cooked, cleaned, babysat, dished out advice, fought raucously with a wayward husband I never did see, and whom eventually finally disappeared in a manner only whispered about in the presence of children.
She cared for everyone -- the waves of yapping little dogs my grandmother always seemed to love, kids from all corners of the family, my quiet grandfather and his clockwork coffee-breaks and pipe-smoking meditations, and my aunts who lived there until they married. She pressed outfits for monumental dates, helped to paint toenails scarlet and scrubbed feet with a pumice stone. Grooming seemed to have been her specialty. Whenever I appeared before her with my tousled teenage head, she would grab a comb and rush at me, begging to be allowed to worry out those snarls that seemed to trouble her so.
She was loud music, crude jokes and good natured bantering. She ran the dickens out of her little hand cranked Singer sewing machine on a Saturday afternoon when we were bored, my mother was visiting in the house, and the homemade cake had been eaten. She sewed narrow little strips of scrap fabric into squares, and made multi-colored quilt-like mats. I loved them but never could understand what they were really for.
She was the backbone of that house.
When Jenna was a few months old, Henk and I went to Durban and stayed at my grandmother's house. We slept in one of my aunt's old rooms -- her giant old porcelain dolls stacked on top of a huge wardrobe. Masonto stepped right in and cared for Jenna as naturally as breathing.
She brought us tea on a tray in the morning, and changed the baby's diaper. She was as comforting as my grandmother to me.
Our ambitions grew, and our small family moved across the globe. My grandmother grew old.
Mostly I heard of her health and happiness. After all, these are the questions we ask about our loved ones when calling from ten hours away. She was being well cared for and living with my lovely, youngest aunt. When she moved in with my aunt, all I heard about was how she was resisting the move and then how happy she was when she settled in.
What about Masonto? I asked.
Oh...... she has gone back to the township, I heard. What does that mean? Did she have another house? I never knew. I only thought of her and loved her within the framework of my grandmother's house and her quarters in the back yard.
What happened to her? Does she have enough money? Who is taking care of her? My mother responded in anger, with no answers. I don't understand what I am hearing. Is this guilt, shame or frustration I am hearing? I can't decide.
I am not in Durban, South Africa. I cannot read expressions, feel undercurrents or press family members for answers. No-one says anything, and I am distracted once more by my daily rituals. It bothers me.
A while later, in the middle of a lengthy conversation with my mother over the phone, she tells me that Masonto has died.
I think, she was not that old at all!
She was locked in her house and burnt alive for being a witch, my mother says. She sounds unshocked. I am stunned. Her sons stood and watched her screaming in the house, my mother says.
I don't know what to say to her anymore.
She sighs, and begins a litany of negative Masonto words that I do not hear.
I remember her lifelong service to my extended family. I remember her enormous soul.
I grieve.
I am horrified and sad.
I hear nothing from my family. Their silence is deafening. They are good people, but they say nothing.
Am I also a good person who says nothing too?
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
What a day for a Wedding.
The news is abuzz with the same sex marriages being conducted all over our part of the woods today.
They started yesterday with two elderly ladies, Phyllis and Dell, tying the knot after being together for fifty five years. They stood quietly in front of a pink and white frosted cake when they came out after having taken their vows. One was in a walker, but both were beaming patiently. All the people who love them supporting them and happy, happy for them.
Today there were many people at City Hall -- mostly nerdish or ordinary, lumpy or plain, mostly middle-aged or older. Plenty of spectacles, gray hair, no hair, wrinkles and pot bellies. Yet all these people beamed, cried with emotion, grinned and generally looked elated. They spoke of love, family, and their concerns and big, big love for their children.
They just want to do right by them and each other, they say.
Some spoke of needing to be next of kin when their partner's life is in jeopardy in the hospital. Late in life, they want to be sure that they can be there for each other. A grandmother proudly declared that she now had a legal tie to her grandchildren that she loved so dearly. Her new daughter-in-law's kids were now legitimately part of her family. These are their thoughts, concerns and fears.
The gay community is known to be flamboyant, outspoken, radical and certainly far from conservative.
But all I saw and heard about today was conservative, ordinary values and family ideals. The right to be equal before the law; the right to care for your partner in life, and the frightening and inevitable life-and-death situations; the right to succession and providing well for your children -- the social contract of marriage seemingly taken so lightly by adored celebrities who marry and divorce within weeks repeatedly, and yet today taken so seriously and gratefully by the gay families on the fringes of our society.
I hear Pamela Anderson plans to wed Tommy whats-his-name for the fourth time and Kid Rock (Husband number three? four? ) refuses to give up his hopes of a reconciliation.... Why is this OK with these gay marriage opponents, and not the gay couples who just want to make their longstanding commitments legal?
Guess whose kids are more messed up.
I have yet to hear a sensible argument against gay marriage.
In a country that supports so many freedoms, and goes out of its way to be respectful of religions other than Christianity, the opponents to these unions seem uninformed and sanctimonious. The institute of marriage that they wish to preserve is only really found in small parts of the world and has only been in this particular guise for a ridiculously short period of time. Arranged marriages anyone? You needn't look far.
Yes it is true that I am certainly in favor of equal rights for all.
It resonates within me, bringing to mind flashes of instances where I was not considered good enough merely because I was born a woman.
Those feelings of powerlessness and unfairness remain with me, and this discrimination served no purpose other than to disappoint and anger me. Why would I wish these things on anyone else?
My congratulations to all the new husbands and wives today.
May you and your families flourish.
They started yesterday with two elderly ladies, Phyllis and Dell, tying the knot after being together for fifty five years. They stood quietly in front of a pink and white frosted cake when they came out after having taken their vows. One was in a walker, but both were beaming patiently. All the people who love them supporting them and happy, happy for them.
Today there were many people at City Hall -- mostly nerdish or ordinary, lumpy or plain, mostly middle-aged or older. Plenty of spectacles, gray hair, no hair, wrinkles and pot bellies. Yet all these people beamed, cried with emotion, grinned and generally looked elated. They spoke of love, family, and their concerns and big, big love for their children.
They just want to do right by them and each other, they say.
Some spoke of needing to be next of kin when their partner's life is in jeopardy in the hospital. Late in life, they want to be sure that they can be there for each other. A grandmother proudly declared that she now had a legal tie to her grandchildren that she loved so dearly. Her new daughter-in-law's kids were now legitimately part of her family. These are their thoughts, concerns and fears.
The gay community is known to be flamboyant, outspoken, radical and certainly far from conservative.
But all I saw and heard about today was conservative, ordinary values and family ideals. The right to be equal before the law; the right to care for your partner in life, and the frightening and inevitable life-and-death situations; the right to succession and providing well for your children -- the social contract of marriage seemingly taken so lightly by adored celebrities who marry and divorce within weeks repeatedly, and yet today taken so seriously and gratefully by the gay families on the fringes of our society.
I hear Pamela Anderson plans to wed Tommy whats-his-name for the fourth time and Kid Rock (Husband number three? four? ) refuses to give up his hopes of a reconciliation.... Why is this OK with these gay marriage opponents, and not the gay couples who just want to make their longstanding commitments legal?
Guess whose kids are more messed up.
I have yet to hear a sensible argument against gay marriage.
In a country that supports so many freedoms, and goes out of its way to be respectful of religions other than Christianity, the opponents to these unions seem uninformed and sanctimonious. The institute of marriage that they wish to preserve is only really found in small parts of the world and has only been in this particular guise for a ridiculously short period of time. Arranged marriages anyone? You needn't look far.
Yes it is true that I am certainly in favor of equal rights for all.
It resonates within me, bringing to mind flashes of instances where I was not considered good enough merely because I was born a woman.
Those feelings of powerlessness and unfairness remain with me, and this discrimination served no purpose other than to disappoint and anger me. Why would I wish these things on anyone else?
My congratulations to all the new husbands and wives today.
May you and your families flourish.
Monday, June 16, 2008
It Is How We Show Our Love.
This week, a tiny baby in Africa died.
Before her new American parents could bring her home.
She never knew them, but they already loved her and wanted her desperately. A wisp of a life in a harsh, primitive, poor and desperate country almost, almost came to the Land of Free and Plenty. And these good people grieve. They mourn the loss of her life, their new family, hopes, aspirations and future.
Her phantom extended family grieves for her in America. She means something to a whole bunch of people. They honor her short life with their grief, and acknowledge with their mourning that she was worth something. In fact, a whole, whole lot. To them, she was worth everything.
Grieving is how we express our loss, and show that the life of another was important to us.
It is how we show our love.
It teaches us humility, patience and sharpens the focus of our own lives. It is one of those things that startles us with a clear reflection of our selves -- our fears, vulnerabilities, deep compassion and empathy that overwhelms us, and ultimately, our sense of humanity. It is the person we call ourselves, when we want ourselves to answer.
So now, I will grieve with my friends for the tiny life lost.
I only knew of her, but from what I heard, she was grand.
Before her new American parents could bring her home.
She never knew them, but they already loved her and wanted her desperately. A wisp of a life in a harsh, primitive, poor and desperate country almost, almost came to the Land of Free and Plenty. And these good people grieve. They mourn the loss of her life, their new family, hopes, aspirations and future.
Her phantom extended family grieves for her in America. She means something to a whole bunch of people. They honor her short life with their grief, and acknowledge with their mourning that she was worth something. In fact, a whole, whole lot. To them, she was worth everything.
Grieving is how we express our loss, and show that the life of another was important to us.
It is how we show our love.
It teaches us humility, patience and sharpens the focus of our own lives. It is one of those things that startles us with a clear reflection of our selves -- our fears, vulnerabilities, deep compassion and empathy that overwhelms us, and ultimately, our sense of humanity. It is the person we call ourselves, when we want ourselves to answer.
So now, I will grieve with my friends for the tiny life lost.
I only knew of her, but from what I heard, she was grand.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
The Common Good.
This morning I was listening to a report on NPR whilst drinking my first eye-opening cup of coffee of the day. It was a profile on the current education crisis in South Africa, and was exploring the reasons why a fairytale democracy established fourteen years ago was producing five hundred thousand high school graduates a year who could barely read, and whose only real skills were fit for menial labor.
They interviewed principals who expressed frustration with falling-down buildings, a huge lack of supplies and materials, and the enormous cost of feeding so many children every day.
Feeding?
This should not surprise me, but once again I was reminded, in no uncertain terms, of the impact of a dearth of social services, poverty, and hunger on the children of the poor. A principal explained that children would only attend school if they were fed, as there was no food at home. Their other motivations for learning were clearly absent. He justified the school's policy by saying that no child can possibly learn on an empty stomach. As true as this may be, it struck me that these children seemed hopeless, having no faith in a better future with an education.
In the apartheid days, almost all the education resources were directed to the white population with american-like schools with irrigated sports fields, tennis courts, large swimming pools, well educated and motivated teachers, and almost all of it was free. School fees were paid, and crisp, quality uniforms purchased at large expense by parents, but everything else was practically assumed to be the right of every young white child. Books, pencils, pens, paper, folders, classroom equipment, auditorium soundsystems, flood lights, stage lights, microphones and film projectors. All were a given.
In contrast, the far fewer black schools also had uniform requirements, but kids paid for their own supplies and equipment beyond the absolute rudimentary, and kicked balls on dusty lots and concrete. No pools, courts, irrigation and lights. Fifteen percent of the population had almost all of the resources.
Well, fourteen years ago this all changed. Different new education systems and models were tried. Most failed. People were unhappy. The privileged white population typically responded negatively to the loss of all this privilege. The black population was predictably optimistic and hopeful that public education would improve drastically for them. Each family, black or white, wanted more for their children.
And then South Africa began spending a massive part of its budget on education. Money was pumped into the system at an alarming rate. In 1994, the government spent a total of almost R32 billion on education. In 2006, this had increased to R92 billion, which is almost 18% of total government spending. Today, 5% of the national GDP is spent on education.
So -- where is all the money?
Or rather, where is the tangible proof that all this money spent has given the vast majority of South Africans a better education or at least, an opportunity to do so?
Why doesn't NPR speak of South Africa's bright new future and success with education?
We should be brimming with hope, not so?
Perhaps it has something to with the residual culture of haves and have-nots.
The haves hang onto what they have, strive to have as more as possible, and don't share with anyone. The have-nots struggle to get the little they do have, seem to have less and less all the time no matter what they do, and hate the haves. No-one shares.
There is no common good.
There is no unity and a common community. The haves have their own communities that are exclusive and preserved, and the have-nots also band together for security, and sharing of limited resources. But the preservation of self is supreme. For individuals, rich and poor, and government competent, or not.
When we first arrived in this country, I was astounded to learn that a massive 65.6 million people volunteered at least 50 hours a year in 2005. These numbers have been growing steadily, and today more than one third of the adults over the age of 18 in the United States volunteers at least five hours a month in their communities.
Regular people, old and young, big and small, foreign born or not, English, Hispanic, European, Southern, Midwestern, urban, chic, homely, friendly, cranky, educated or not, rich, poor and in between, volunteer their time and services. They are in schools, hospitals, public places and services, parks, libraries, facilities for victims, the poor, addicts, and the hapless.
They do whatever it is they can. Complicated, clever things, and simple things like guiding confused, upset people in the hospitals.
They see this city, county and state as theirs. All of it. The good and the bad. Their health systems, public places, security and services. They do not distinguish between parks and public places for haves and have-nots. They believe everyone in this country has a right to these things, and more astonishingly, everyone helps. Americans are some of the busiest, most industrious people in the world, and yet all these people find the time to help out.
It didn't take me long to buy into this social contract, and for six years I have volunteered for various things and organizations.
I have spent many hours at schools and have learned that my time has been well spent helping my own children get a much better education, and knowing for a fact that I have impacted the future and thinking of a lost soul in first grade who persevered with English, and together we finally read our first book from cover to cover.
One poor child learned to read because someone else's mother stepped in when his own could not - the folk who believe in the common good help out when the ones who should be there for their children are putting food on the table so that these kids are fed before school.
Everyone wins.
The notion of the common good could save the kids of South Africa.
The man on the street of all colors would demand results from a government who is still fending for itself first and foremost.
The haves and have-nots would need to preserve their environments, upgrade them and get rid of bad elements and people who harm their resources. They would be emotionally invested in their world, towns and provinces. Everyone should be angry when a store-front is broken, a park vandalized and things stolen from public places and facilities. These things should belong to all and everyone should care.
But so far, this is not happening.
There is much blame, and little ownership.
This fairytale country has yet to have a happy ending.
They interviewed principals who expressed frustration with falling-down buildings, a huge lack of supplies and materials, and the enormous cost of feeding so many children every day.
Feeding?
This should not surprise me, but once again I was reminded, in no uncertain terms, of the impact of a dearth of social services, poverty, and hunger on the children of the poor. A principal explained that children would only attend school if they were fed, as there was no food at home. Their other motivations for learning were clearly absent. He justified the school's policy by saying that no child can possibly learn on an empty stomach. As true as this may be, it struck me that these children seemed hopeless, having no faith in a better future with an education.
In the apartheid days, almost all the education resources were directed to the white population with american-like schools with irrigated sports fields, tennis courts, large swimming pools, well educated and motivated teachers, and almost all of it was free. School fees were paid, and crisp, quality uniforms purchased at large expense by parents, but everything else was practically assumed to be the right of every young white child. Books, pencils, pens, paper, folders, classroom equipment, auditorium soundsystems, flood lights, stage lights, microphones and film projectors. All were a given.
In contrast, the far fewer black schools also had uniform requirements, but kids paid for their own supplies and equipment beyond the absolute rudimentary, and kicked balls on dusty lots and concrete. No pools, courts, irrigation and lights. Fifteen percent of the population had almost all of the resources.
Well, fourteen years ago this all changed. Different new education systems and models were tried. Most failed. People were unhappy. The privileged white population typically responded negatively to the loss of all this privilege. The black population was predictably optimistic and hopeful that public education would improve drastically for them. Each family, black or white, wanted more for their children.
And then South Africa began spending a massive part of its budget on education. Money was pumped into the system at an alarming rate. In 1994, the government spent a total of almost R32 billion on education. In 2006, this had increased to R92 billion, which is almost 18% of total government spending. Today, 5% of the national GDP is spent on education.
So -- where is all the money?
Or rather, where is the tangible proof that all this money spent has given the vast majority of South Africans a better education or at least, an opportunity to do so?
Why doesn't NPR speak of South Africa's bright new future and success with education?
We should be brimming with hope, not so?
Perhaps it has something to with the residual culture of haves and have-nots.
The haves hang onto what they have, strive to have as more as possible, and don't share with anyone. The have-nots struggle to get the little they do have, seem to have less and less all the time no matter what they do, and hate the haves. No-one shares.
There is no common good.
There is no unity and a common community. The haves have their own communities that are exclusive and preserved, and the have-nots also band together for security, and sharing of limited resources. But the preservation of self is supreme. For individuals, rich and poor, and government competent, or not.
When we first arrived in this country, I was astounded to learn that a massive 65.6 million people volunteered at least 50 hours a year in 2005. These numbers have been growing steadily, and today more than one third of the adults over the age of 18 in the United States volunteers at least five hours a month in their communities.
Regular people, old and young, big and small, foreign born or not, English, Hispanic, European, Southern, Midwestern, urban, chic, homely, friendly, cranky, educated or not, rich, poor and in between, volunteer their time and services. They are in schools, hospitals, public places and services, parks, libraries, facilities for victims, the poor, addicts, and the hapless.
They do whatever it is they can. Complicated, clever things, and simple things like guiding confused, upset people in the hospitals.
They see this city, county and state as theirs. All of it. The good and the bad. Their health systems, public places, security and services. They do not distinguish between parks and public places for haves and have-nots. They believe everyone in this country has a right to these things, and more astonishingly, everyone helps. Americans are some of the busiest, most industrious people in the world, and yet all these people find the time to help out.
It didn't take me long to buy into this social contract, and for six years I have volunteered for various things and organizations.
I have spent many hours at schools and have learned that my time has been well spent helping my own children get a much better education, and knowing for a fact that I have impacted the future and thinking of a lost soul in first grade who persevered with English, and together we finally read our first book from cover to cover.
One poor child learned to read because someone else's mother stepped in when his own could not - the folk who believe in the common good help out when the ones who should be there for their children are putting food on the table so that these kids are fed before school.
Everyone wins.
The notion of the common good could save the kids of South Africa.
The man on the street of all colors would demand results from a government who is still fending for itself first and foremost.
The haves and have-nots would need to preserve their environments, upgrade them and get rid of bad elements and people who harm their resources. They would be emotionally invested in their world, towns and provinces. Everyone should be angry when a store-front is broken, a park vandalized and things stolen from public places and facilities. These things should belong to all and everyone should care.
But so far, this is not happening.
There is much blame, and little ownership.
This fairytale country has yet to have a happy ending.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Perceptions.
We don't see things as they are. We see them as we are.
-Anais Nin
Dinner with a beloved, perky and effervescent friend. She chats in snippets about her childhood in New Mexico, a mysterious, Milagro beanfield place in my ignorance.
She speaks of her colorful childhood with fondness and light, and yet candidly remarks that memory is really only fiction because of perception. Her sister, just one year younger has a completely different tale of their childhood.
Perception.
An August Sunday afternoon in Mountain View. Henk is working start-up hours, we are settling into our first empty home in the USA, and it is hot. A restless four-year-old is stomping through the rooms, agitating me in my early pregnancy nausea. I resolve to find the nearest park, trees and place to play outdoors. Jenna and I head out to Rengstorff Park, spotted earlier in the unfamiliar streets.
We quickly walk the circular path of the manicured park. My heart is pounding and my skin is prickling with alertness and rising fear. I am struggling to identify where the possible threat to our safety is waiting to make its move. A bunch of sweating, shouting Latino men are playing hoops on an open court whilst a boombox thumps in the background. The jostling and shouting -- immediately threatening as an identically dressed band in the parks of Cape Town would indisputably mean real trouble. I pray they will not notice me, and move quickly away towards the swings. I pass wooden tables set with colorful paper plates, foil balloons bobbing in clusters, and smell barbecue and cut grass. I am increasingly disorientated as people shout, children scream and women fuss with tupperwares and giant bags of chips. People are not arranged in protective and recognizable groups, but are spread haphazardly throughout the park, moving everywhere, making it impossible to see who is dangerous, opportunistic and ready to threaten me or my child. I rush Jenna out of the park with relief whilst she shrieks with disappointment.
Over the years, I have got to know some of these Rengstorff Park picnickers.
I have walked behind the swaying Latino mothers on their way to our elementary school in the early mornings, clutching tiny hands and pushing strollers covered with Disney blankets. I have waited with them on benches for school bells to ring, their friendly knowing smiles acknowledging my negotiations with a boisterous toddler and our common motherly rituals. I slowly learn the rhythm of our community. These are gentle women who live in the surrounding cramped apartments, proudly cook their native dishes from scratch, kiss their children in public, smooth their skirts before sitting on the grass and are unharried by fussy infants, their own or those of others.
This summer, I will return to the park with my children. Now, I revel in the Sunday afternoon summer strolls. Men play hoops for good, clean cameraderie and women celebrate life and family with food. Children shriek with delight and the joy of a long summer vacation. There is not much money, but friends, family, music, games, and much evidence of a good time.
Makes me wonder about other strong opinions I have had and believed, believed to be the truth.
The trick is in what one emphasizes. We either make ourselves miserable, or we make ourselves strong. The amount of work is the same.
~ Carlos Castaneda
-Anais Nin
Dinner with a beloved, perky and effervescent friend. She chats in snippets about her childhood in New Mexico, a mysterious, Milagro beanfield place in my ignorance.
She speaks of her colorful childhood with fondness and light, and yet candidly remarks that memory is really only fiction because of perception. Her sister, just one year younger has a completely different tale of their childhood.
Perception.
An August Sunday afternoon in Mountain View. Henk is working start-up hours, we are settling into our first empty home in the USA, and it is hot. A restless four-year-old is stomping through the rooms, agitating me in my early pregnancy nausea. I resolve to find the nearest park, trees and place to play outdoors. Jenna and I head out to Rengstorff Park, spotted earlier in the unfamiliar streets.
We quickly walk the circular path of the manicured park. My heart is pounding and my skin is prickling with alertness and rising fear. I am struggling to identify where the possible threat to our safety is waiting to make its move. A bunch of sweating, shouting Latino men are playing hoops on an open court whilst a boombox thumps in the background. The jostling and shouting -- immediately threatening as an identically dressed band in the parks of Cape Town would indisputably mean real trouble. I pray they will not notice me, and move quickly away towards the swings. I pass wooden tables set with colorful paper plates, foil balloons bobbing in clusters, and smell barbecue and cut grass. I am increasingly disorientated as people shout, children scream and women fuss with tupperwares and giant bags of chips. People are not arranged in protective and recognizable groups, but are spread haphazardly throughout the park, moving everywhere, making it impossible to see who is dangerous, opportunistic and ready to threaten me or my child. I rush Jenna out of the park with relief whilst she shrieks with disappointment.
Over the years, I have got to know some of these Rengstorff Park picnickers.
I have walked behind the swaying Latino mothers on their way to our elementary school in the early mornings, clutching tiny hands and pushing strollers covered with Disney blankets. I have waited with them on benches for school bells to ring, their friendly knowing smiles acknowledging my negotiations with a boisterous toddler and our common motherly rituals. I slowly learn the rhythm of our community. These are gentle women who live in the surrounding cramped apartments, proudly cook their native dishes from scratch, kiss their children in public, smooth their skirts before sitting on the grass and are unharried by fussy infants, their own or those of others.
This summer, I will return to the park with my children. Now, I revel in the Sunday afternoon summer strolls. Men play hoops for good, clean cameraderie and women celebrate life and family with food. Children shriek with delight and the joy of a long summer vacation. There is not much money, but friends, family, music, games, and much evidence of a good time.
Makes me wonder about other strong opinions I have had and believed, believed to be the truth.
The trick is in what one emphasizes. We either make ourselves miserable, or we make ourselves strong. The amount of work is the same.
~ Carlos Castaneda
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