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.

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

Respect your food.

Anyone who tells you hunger is a physical need and not an emotion has never been hungry. It eats into a poor society, and overrules all other needs, ideals and motivations.
And yet, in our American land of plenty, we do not teach our children to respect food.
We neither teach, nor learn, the true value of food. Most of us want too much, eat too much - the more convenient, processed and fatty the better - and then throw the rest away. No wonder we are fat, unhappy and unhealthy.

We are missing the fundamental principles usually taught in third world, poorer countries. In these societies, sharing is not primarily a magnanimous self sacrificing gesture. It is more about the other -- the sharing of resources, and food in particular, is the giving of the essential to another.

Much emphasis is placed on respecting one's body in this culture. The value of the body God gave you is touted in every women's magazine, and is the sage-like affirmation behind many an Oprah show. Yet I would guess that in many instances it is not that we are disrespecting our bodies, but rather our food. After all, how many extremely overweight women are beautifully manicured, coiffed and carefully made up?
What if these women percieved a medium sized plate of fresh vegetables, slice of roast beef and a scoop of rice as a treat of nutrition and plenty? What if a soda was regarded as a fizzy treat for extremely hot weather, tap water the norm for thirst? What if an orange and a thick slice of bread was universally considered a substantial and satisfying lunch? These are the truths of third world countries.

Our disrespect allows us to eat alone, quickly, encapsulated in the semi-privacy of our oversized cars. We eat in secret, surreptitiously. We should be eating with friends, family or colleagues, when relaxing, with pleasure and a hint of celebration. We should share our food, divide what we have to give enough to all, and in the process we will nourish our souls and bodies.
Twinkies swallowed on your way home from work in your car is disrespectful. This is not enjoying cake, but guiltily cramming a cellophane wrapped chemical concoction down your throat. Make a chocolate cake at home once a month, share it with a handful of good friends or family and talk, laugh, exclaim how good it is, taste the chocolate and love that went into it. There will be no guilt, there will be joy, there will be enough and not too much. There will not be unnecessary seconds.

Our first evening in the Bay Area, we shared a multitude of Chinese take-out boxes with a small group of friends. There was three times more food than we could have eaten, and afterwards, our hostess opened the trashcan and dumped half eaten containers of food into it. I was stunned at the waste.
The following day we picnicked in a park with a few delectable clamshelled and paper bagged treats from a nearby Whole Foods. After lunch, I wrapped up the untouched leftovers and automatically offered them to a group of homeless men lounging in the sun nearby. My friendly offering was greeted with contempt and chilly refusals. I was chagrined, embarrassed and confused. Was I supposed to throw it away? We took it home for later.

At Jenna's school there is a bin for recycling plastic bottles, which the elementary school kids dutifully use as trained, but they dump full trays of heavily subsidized cafeteria meals into enormous trashcans. There goes unopened milk, cellophane wrapped burritos and the obligatory healthy piece of fruit that everyone puts on their tray and no-one eats. The custodian appears when the bell rings, and lugs out the bags to the dumpster. I feel sad and ashamed. I remember my evening rituals in my home in Cape Town.

Every evening after dinner, I would scan the contents of my kitchen and sort food into plastic bags. Left over bread in one bag, left over dinner and scraps in another. I would double bag it, and leave it in the shade outside my front gate. The predawn scavengers, mostly women and children, would slip through the streets, rustling the bags and taking the best scraps. The rest would be left for the next wave of hungry.

It would serve us well to remember the value of good food. That does not mean finishing a huge plate of food in front of us that we do not really want, because the children in Africa are starving. It is to remember to share, take as much as we need and no more, because the children in Africa are starving.

Greetings from Gabs.

Yesterday a pile of postcards arrived in the mail, bearing pictures of baby elephants, giraffe, hippos and baboons. "Greetings from Gabs", my brother wrote in salutation, my evening frenzy-time at home with the little girls suddenly dissipating in the energy of humor, affection and sibling connection spilling off the colorful cards. My adored younger brother is in Gaberone, Botswana.

Botswana.
One of my most favorite places on earth. My dream life. Africa at her best, rawest, most ravishing, dramatic, unpredictable, harsh, and surprisingly forgiving.

My first night in Gaborone was many years ago. It was a dusty, bedraggled oasis in a vast African Savannah landscape. I flew in on a tiny commercial airplane on a business trip and ended up at the only large hotel in the city in those days, a Southern Sun tourist special. These hotels were Las Vegas Wannabees in the early nineties, with thick carpets, staff in Star Trek-like uniforms, and the round-the-clock ring, tring, tring of small scale casino games and gambling.

I arrived at sunset, and was quietly and efficiently escorted to my plush room.

I immediately dragged the heavy curtains open, resolving to order a drink to celebrate the sunset, and a burger to sidestep the jazzy restaurant downstairs.
My drink arrived quickly clinking in hotel-grade crystal, and I breathed in the utter peacefulness of complete harmony as an astonishing orchestra of life made ready for bed. The modern hotel soared above the low buildings of the ramshackle city.
It was built on the outskirts of Gaborone, wrapped in rolling banks of lush, irrigated lawns, bright green and garnished with colorful puffs of bright bougainvillea bushes. The cooling air was thick with the sound of fat insects burrowing in the lushness.
Beyond the ornate borders of the grounds, Africa reared her battered, noble head. Dusty scrubs of brush and the garbage scraps of poverty stretched out toward the quietly buzzing city. The acacia trees, twiggy thorn trees and hardy Kalahari Savannah rolling out over the horizon, awash in the forgiving orange light of fading sunset. The harsher sounds of wild animals, calling bush birds and the scrabblings of survival in a dry parched earth cascaded over the clearer, nearer preparations for night.

Dusk. Time for a bath and some unhurried planning for the following day. I waft indoors from the tiny balcony and come face to face with the biggest spider I have ever seen in my entire life. I tend to exaggerate when it comes to insects, but I swear this was a whopper. As shrieking will not help me, I angle to the bed and gingerly pick up the phone for help. The politely bored attendant promises to send someone up to remove it. I stare at it, my heart racing, and consider my limited options of escape. I do not know what I will do if it jumps up at me. Will it jump? Can it jump?

There is a discreet knock at the door. I hold my breath and creep over to the door, convinced the spider is going to leap onto my face like they do in those horrible movies we watched as thrill deprived teenage girls.
I carefully open the door and there is a rotund lady, probably from housekeeping, holding the smallest plastic dustpan and little brush. Honestly, the profound absurdity of this tool of capture made me giggle with anxiety. She brushed past my obviously useless expression and looked around for the offending creature. They saw each other, she charged out the room with an African squeal and curse, and in all the commotion the spider scooted out the door. As soon as I saw the hairy legs move onto the plush hall carpeting I slammed the door shut.

I wasn't brave enough to open the door or follow up with housekeeping to see what had happened to the spider. I just hoped that by the next morning the coast was clear, the muzak soothing me to the elevator as I swished off to greet the African dawn and her people.
And then the real adventure began.

The Farm That Winter.

I remember sliding around on the back seat of my grandfather's canary-yellow, diesel Mercedes Benz.
Boredom, thick sadness, and anxiety forcing me to methodically count the passing telephone poles as we drove along the rural highway to my maternal grandparents' farm in the Drakensberg Mountains. It was winter and the mid-year school holidays. In hushed tones and few words, my mother had arranged for us to spend three weeks on the farm in the bitter, crisp cold.
My throat was tight with suspicion, as it had been a few months since my father's death and a short, rumbunctious character with an odd pudding-bowl haircut seemed to arrive unannounced at our house at unusual times of day. My mother's new friend was forceful, loud and most unwelcome.

My grandfather was silent as he nosed the huge car up the mountain passes, and after a few hours, he pulled over at a concrete picnic table under a typical African thorn tree and quietly handed out hard boiled eggs and sandwiches. The wind was biting cold and he handed me a steaming thermos cup of black coffee, whisky fumes burning my nose. I hesitated, and he insisted with a kind, yet impatient gesture. My first swallow of strong coffee and whisky cleared my sinuses and made my eyes sting, but I felt cheered, grown-up and much, much better.
I was eleven.

My pillowy grandmother greeted us with hugs and cinnamon biscuits. Soetkoekies, the crispy molasses and cinnamon flavor of childhood dipped in mugs of hot, milky tea. She spoke of my tall, quiet, reserved father too often, and avoided all talk of my mother and home.
We fled into the mountains and hills. As dawn awoke the doves in the enormous conifer trees that dwarfed the farmhouse, our bare feet hit the frosty, hard earth and we roamed the farm from the frozen streams, woody, bare orchards to the pastures, paddocks, paths, huts, coops, barns and vleis. We ran from dogs unused to white people, shrieking toddlers fascinated by our blond curls, and surly bulls and mules.
We ran in packs with kids from the labourers' smoky compounds, and poked at snakes, giant ants and transparent scorpions. We rubbed huge earthy cow noses, chased sheep for fun and antagonised the fierce domestic goats that chased us vigorously, bleating in indignation.
My grandmother never attempted to keep track of our whereabouts, but scolded the bony, dusty compound children in Zulu, and warned them to keep us safe.

We returned to the concrete veranda for food and tea, my grandfather smoking his pipe in silence as we ate in the weak winter sunlight. He would tap out his pipe, whistle for his dogs and stride out through the winter-desolate rose garden in front of the stoep.

Then we were off again. We would frequently hike to the springs beyond the shallow, reedy vlei where all the ducks and wild birds flocked like clockwork. Water that tasted of brisk, fresh air bubbled through the golden yellow, velvety clay.
My sinewy grandfather would come buzzing along in the early evening on his off-road motorcycle and brusquely load us on the back, hanging like monkeys on a moving branch. We were cold, dirty, clear headed, and felt the fatigue that only comes from a day well lived.

And then we were returned home to a wedding announcement, chatter, drama, tears, and strangers.

I distinctly remember that I never had a conversation with my grandfather in those three weeks. His quiet, reserved manner had been enough and the pure freedom, quiet rhythms of nature, and calm of the farm had comforted my soul a little.

The Taste of Fear.

Don't let anyone tell you that the taste of fear is merely a literary expression.

Fear tastes like tin.

Prolonged fear tastes like zinc, a little like the aftertaste of one of those herbal cold remedy lozenges. This is the fear you live when you honestly don't know if you are going to survive in your world. The odds are stacked against you. No one can help you but yourself, and although you are trying your best, it may not be enough in the end.

Instantaneous fear is more like adrenalised self preservation. It makes us act in the blink of an eye, giving us a rush of clarity.

Once in the deep dark time after 2am, I was returning home after a long evening barbecue, and stepped into the fluorescent light of the elevator in the foyer of my building. I was lugging a freshly washed party-size glass salad bowl in my denim bag.
Behind me, a police sketch and warning was taped to the mirror, depicting a fierce looking man with stubble and a woolen cap pulled over his eyes. I habitually glanced around the hallway before the doors closed, and saw a fleeting figure emerge from the shadows of the emergency stairs and quickly step into the lift, facing me.

Instantaneous fear. In less time than it took for the doors to slide shut, I recognized the passenger as the sketched rapist behind me, knew I would be trapped with him, and smacked him harder than I ever thought I would with my salad bowl.
He fell out backwards with surprise and I pushed past him and ran out of the building screaming obscenities. He came after me and I took off like a hunted rabbit, screaming at the top of my lungs to attract attention. Then, he suddenly stopped dead in his tracks. For some reason, I stopped too. Then he sauntered off away from me, sneering at me over his shoulder.
I stood ready to bolt.
My downstairs neighbor, an off-duty policeman, came careening down the staircase with his handgun ready and sprinted up the street. I stood there in the middle of the street, hugely magnified senses having stunned me into inaction. A few minutes later, my neighbor reappeared, weaving his way down the street and peering into the windows of parked cars. The knife-wielding man had vanished.
My neighbor's girlfriend appeared, took me by the hand, and led me upstairs to my apartment. The adrenaline was subsiding and I was shaking violently. She went downstairs quickly, returned with a blender, and did not leave until I had finished the banana milkshake she had made with kindness. I remember being light headed with grace and the feeling of escape.

The serial rapist was eventually caught after raping seven women in my neighborhood.
I identified him in a police line-up, respectfully avoiding the eyes of the women there who he had hurt badly.
He escaped from prison whilst awaiting trial.
My neighbor came over personally to tell me.
The taste of tin returned.

Interesting Neighbors

If you were to run into one of my neighbors today, chances are good that you would have a friendly encounter with a stylish, articulate, well-to-do lady.
Refined would certainly be a word you would use in the retelling of the incident.

This has certainly not always been the case.
The ladies I have lived in close proximity to through the years have nevertheless been memorable, and some I still wonder about every now and then.

As anyone who has lived in the hub of Cape Town, high on the slopes of the looming Mountain and just below the Tampax Towers, will attest to, these rundown buildings attract an assortment of characters.
I was living alone in my first tiny flat when one summery sunset, a tentative knock on the door revealed a stunningly made-up transvestite, sans his wig. He was wearing a tight skull cap which distorted his features, and lifted his perfectly arched brows even higher. He was at least six feet tall.
He borrowed a corkscrew. He was gracious, friendly and a little shy.
I waved to him the next afternoon when he dumped a bag of groceries at his front door and searched for his keys. He made polite conversation in a lilting voice. I admired his legs.
Later that evening, he returned the corkscrew and invited me over for a glass of wine. I met his partner -- a little more petite -- but both with a wicked sense of humor, and an obvious caring affection for each other. The flat was spotless, old like the rest of the units, with a lot of make-up, lotions and potions. Fascinating stuff all round.
I worked nights on the weekends, and would leave home and drive downtown at around 10pm. I would frequently see the lads teetering into a taxi, on their way to work. Many summer dawns we would bump into each other exhaustedly climbing the ancient staircase to the third floor. We had a common aura of sweat, old perfume, smoke, party drinks and dark indoor places. We always smiled, joked in a neighborly fashion and wished each other sweet dreams, Dahling.
I was returning from a trendy club or bar where I worked pouring drinks, and the leggy flashy pseudo-girls from their spot on Long Street, the well-known transvestite prostitution pick-up spot in the center of town. I always looked out for their familiar faces when driving home along that dangerous street, both hoping and not hoping to see them.

Doris lived opposite me in the same building. She was a tiny, toothless woman who wore her hair in a tight gray bun and always wore a floral house coat, regardless of the weather or occasion. She owned a startling number of cats.
She lived with a husband I only ever saw once when he shuffled down the passage to an unknown destination. She was forever tracking down an errant cat, calling in a whispery voice in the peeling hallways.
One day, I found a cat and delivered it to her, along with a spray of Baby's Breath I just bought at the supermarket. The tiny white fuzzy flowers had reminded me of her, and I bought them on a whim, thinking it would be nice to befriend a cat loving neighbor to watch out for my energetic kitten, Piaf.
She had beamed with appreciation, and offered to take care of my cat when I was not home or traveling. A few months later, we were meeting regularly for a morning coffee where her eyes twinkled with interest and pleasure at the daily stories of my life and survival in the city as a young, single woman. She had filled her childless life with cats, and no longer even spoke of her silent husband.
She took care of my cat, surreptitiously nurtured me by doing little things like changing my linen and heating my bedroom before I came home cold in the early mornings. She carefully ironed an enormous pile of laundry that I had earnest plans for one day. I was grateful and pleased. She felt needed. She saved me a plate of Christmas dinner one year and when I got home, I was alone but certainly not lonely that Christmas eve.
I moved to another city, and sent her an extravagant gift when I missed her. She understood, thanked me quietly and told me not to do it again. She slipped back into a silent life of cats, and a short time thereafter, moved.

Tracy lived next door to me in Green Point.
I could lie propped up in bed, and watch the tankers sail by to the harbor. I frequently did. This apartment building was stuffier and more austere than any of the previous places I had lived.
My flat mate was a bubbly short man, with much enthusiasm and very little hair. We got along just fine -- he had glimpsed my girlfriends and had happily given me the room with the fabulous sea view. He had visions of hot dates and I, of hot tea in bed watching the ocean.

Tracy was attractive in a school-girl-plain-Jane kind of way. She always wore baggy jeans, a slouchy cardigan and her hair in an untidy long bob. She always lugged some sort of enormous canvas bag around. We seemed to be around the same age, and I assumed she was a university student. Oddly enough, she always traveled by taxi, which in Cape Town is expensive and questionable. This is probably why I introduced myself to her one day in the elevator and asked her what she does for a living. She told me she writes short stories. And that was it.
But of course exuberant flat mate was intrigued, and attempted to chat her up at any opportunity. One afternoon, I graciously saved her from his potential clutches in the hall and invited her to join me for a short walk on the beach as I had promised to walk the small dog of a friend nearby. She was easy company and I found out that we had grown up in the same town. A week later, I was having drinks with friends in a trendy new night spot in town when I saw her in a stunning red dress and fire-engine stilletos. She saw me and pretended that she hadn't. I was intrigued. Upon closer inspection and being a bit of an old hand at the night games in town, I realized she was accompanying a much older gentleman who looked flushed and hopeful. My sweet neighbor was a call girl. Aha.
I saw her a few days later, and she could tell by my expression that I knew. She looked resigned and said that she was moving. She had saved enough money to head off to richer pastures. She had signed up to a "Ranch" on the east coast of the USA.
She was sure she was going to make a lot of money in very little time. She knew it. She was excited and told me she would return and retire. She was twenty three. She moved.

I wonder about these people. Wouldn't you?