What the President might have said ...

This picture of Nelson Mandela with a/his dog surfaced some time before the remarks by President Jacob Zuma about the different cultures of animal ownership between black and white South Africans.

The holidays, this year, have been dominated by remarks made by President Zuma regarding the way in which white people, apparently habitually, treat their domestic pets better than they do the black people around them.  The President’s mistake, as far as I can see, was not the observation itself – which may or may not upon investigation, prove to be true.  The real problem with his remarks, in my estimation, was the way in which he gets himself entangled in notions of “culture” which are not only spurious, but extremely dangerous.

The ex-governor of the Reserve bank, Tito Mboweni, tells a story about when he was working as a young man, as a gardener in a white person’s home – before Limpopo was Limpopo.He says that round about lunch time – in the heat of the day he would hear “the Madam” calling “Titus!  Titus! Come and get your lunch!”  That was the signal for him to run like hell, because he had to get to the stoep to protect his lunch, before the dog got it.

His lunch would be three very thick slices of bread with jam on them, served on a chipped enamel plate.  There would also be an enamel mug of extremely sweet, milky tea.  “The Madam” had never thought to ask him whether he actually drank tea, and whether he liked sugar and milk, or not.

When he tells this story – and I have heard it often – there are often shrieks of laughter from black people of a certain age, who recognise the scenario, and squirming embarrassment from whites, who recognise their mothers or their grandmothers in the story as well.

It is just a fact that people will not fail to notice when domestic pets are treated way better than they are as people.  They will not fail to notice this because there is a perceived natural hierarchy in the universe, with the humans at the top.  The life of a human is seen to be much more valuable than the life, for instance, of a dog and therefore there is enormous resentment and indignation when the dog appears to be getting the better deal.

The corollary of this is that because humans are perceived to be on top, they can do what they like with other forms of life and treat them as they will or desire.  So, we can starve the animals in our care (whether they be horses on farms, or dogs or cats); we can let them die from neglect; we can beat them if we want to; we can stone them when they come across our paths.  Why?  Because we are the boss of the universe.

Clearly, the truth is that both of these extreme frames are wrong.  It has bugger-all to do with that hallowed thing called “culture”.  Stoning a dog, because it irritates you - or because you can - isn’t some great statement of African culture – it is just despicable inhumanity.  Neglecting the plight of a farmworker while pampering a kitten is exactly the same thing.  These things are not cultural, they are the best examples of how ugly and revolting human beings can be.

Whether it be the revolting regular practice of slaughtering bulls with spears for fun in Spain, or whether it be the equally revolting annual practise of killing bulls with bear hands in Kwazulu-Natal; whether it be the neglect of a dog under one’s care or the neglect of human beings in one’s employ – these things are not cultural – they are just wrong.   To baptise a practise as “cultural” does not make it right, it does not somehow allow the practitioner to escape from criticism or critique.  It cannot be a cosy hiding place for acts of cruelty and barbarism.

So, let us be clear – the perennial acts of neglect of human beings, compared with the penchant for pampering pets is going to be noticed and it is going to be paraded as yet another example of ongoing oppression. (Of course, to presume that this is something which is entirely racially based, is just remarkably silly).  But on the other hand, to presume that human beings have the right to dominate and subject (and if so desired, torture and neglect) all other forms of life, is crass and backward.  Do not expect that this is going to go un-noticed either. Neither perspective is cultural.  Both should be condemned.

The President’s recently expressed view is nothing unique to him.  I have heard it expressed as an almost defining characteristic of white people, by many black people.  (And I have also heard the opposite expressed as a characteristic of black people, by many whites.)  Where these are simple prejudices, they are at least something one can attempt to deal with, either by education or by argument.  But where they get entangled in the concept of “culture”, they become dangerous and extremely blunt weapons of analytical destruction.  Culture is, mostly, a fearful and terrifying thing.

What about the Ancestors?

I remember that day very clearly. An excited call from my partner, Leon, saying “We have got a child”. I went into panic mode. I had made my position very clear, both to him and into Social Welfare. I wasn’t going to have just any child thrown at me. I wanted to be sure that I could “bond” with the child first – not that I had the vaguest idea of what that might mean.

So I went to see this child, which they thought would be right for us. He was lying quietly in his cot at the far end of the room, sucking his finger. I looked at him. He looked at me. After a while, I put out my finger and he took hold of it. And at that moment – that instant – I knew that this child was mine. I knew that I was his father and he would be my son.

When we adopted our children, the legal wording of the adoption order was, for me at least, very important. It said that this child was now “as if born to you”. The ancestors of that child (and the state) for whatever reason, handed him over to me and my partner. Our children were not “abandoned”. They were consciously and lovingly handed over. Those children are now mine - “as if born to me”. These two black boys now have two white fathers.

And it happened quite naturally, fairly early on, when I was asked by one of them about the identity of an old white lady in my photograph album, that I explained that she was my mother. “Your grandmother”, I explained, “she died a long time ago”. And we moved on to the next set of pictures. “And that is your Aunt, and that is your cousin…” and so it went.

Both the children refer to Leon’s parents, who are much more to them than pictures in an album - as “Granny” and “Grandpa”. And Leon’s parents make no distinction between our children and the children which his brother has produced biologically. Our ancestors are now the children’s ancestors. They have no others.

Of course besides anything else, the question of culture has also come up fairly frequently. Just because of the fact that these children happen to be black and me white, do I need to start doing a course in gumboot dancing? Should I rush off and get myself circumcised? Should I have a regular supply of Mopani worms in the house to make them feel secure? This is as crazy as it is bizarre and it reveals, I am afraid, just how far we are away from a really non-racial society, where colour is the least significant thing about a person.

No, we are not there yet. And yes, I have no objection to “exposing” my children to cultures other than my own. I also have no illusions about the difficult path they will need to tread. They need to be secure, not in some fantasy culture from somewhere else, but in their own skin, for who they are. And force-feeding them Mopani worms will not make it easier for them. It may make it a whole lot worse.

A death at the office

Well, I have said it many times – the 2010 FIFA World Cup is not for sissies! Some months ago, we purchased six LED screens at some quite considerable expense. We had to go out on tender. It took months and months. Before that, there were negotiations with District Municipalities about which local municipality would be the recipient of these screens. That took months and months and months!

And what was the intention of these screens? Well, twofold really. The first use would be for the screens to serve as count-down clocks to the 2010 FIFA World Cup. This would create excitement about the impending tournament (how little it takes to get people excited apparently.

But the second usage would be for legacy. They could be used as information boards; they could be used for advertisements and income generation for the local municipalities; they could even be used as big screens for mini Fan Parks for the future.

Now, the tender processes of government are agonizingly slow, and often do not produce the best results. This, in my estimation was one of the best examples of the worst results. A company we had already used, very successfully, for the supply of one LED screen, had to be knocked out of the process, for reasons I forget. But, I want to emphasise, that we had very good service from them. So now, we had to go with another company. This company has given us the worst service imaginable. But apart from anything else, to actually change anything on these screens is a complete nighmare!

So, the other day, we noticed that even though the screen outside our office was counting up – i.e. this is the 12th day of the 2010 FIFA World Cup – it was 12 hours ahead and days were changing at Midday, instead of midnight.

So, we ranted and we raved and eventually someone came to fix the clock. On his way out, he dropped dead outside the lift on the first floor. I was not there, but it was apparently very dramatic.

Now, two things happened. After the medical emergency people and the police were called, the news quickly spread that a man had died on the first floor. Black people in the building went into what I can only describe as “funeral mode”. Something deep inside them made them want to sit with the body. To “respect” the dead person. So there they came and there they gathered – sitting with the dead body. To such an extent that it eventually needed to be announced on the email that the 1st floor was now out of bounds, because there were too many people there!

White people on the other hand (and here I include “coloured” people as well, as part of the same kind of cultural milieu),fled. They couldn’t be seen for dust! If they found themselves in the unfortunate position of the lift doors opening on the first floor, they would suck in their stomachs and hide in a corner of the lift. They wanted to be as far away from the dead body as they possibly could be.

And then, after several hours, the wife of the dead man was brought to the scene. For whatever reason, and who knows what it was, the black guardians of her dead husband were shocked to hear that what she seemed to be most concerned about was that he had been carrying Dollars and she was worried that the Dollars might have been taken from him!

So, this is the way it played out. There was this white dead body lying on the floor, outside the lift. The black employees – or several of them – felt in some way culturally bound to come and “look after the body” and show it “respect”.

On the other hand, apparently, the man who had died was supposed to be going overseas the next day and had gone to the bank to get Dollars. These were apparently in his pocket. But what the black people sitting around, being respectful to the corpse heard – not having that piece of information - was that the wife was concerned that they might have robbed her husband’s corpse.

Who knows why she said it. It could have well been part of the confusion which profound shock brings. It could have been anything. But that is what got heard across the racial divide. (It was reported to me, some time later, I have to say, by a black colleague - and in good humour).

Such is everyday life, in a country - and with a people - which has effectively been robbed of its humanity. We are on the verge of bidding farewell to the hundreds of thousands of foreigners who have visited our shores to watch the soccer. At the same time, there are persistent rumous of threats being made to black African foreigners, whgo happen to be living here. We are, all of us, damaged. That is just the truth.

Getting the thing I wished for

So, being Easter, I went to hear the Messiah last night at the beautiful Cairp Tahn City Hall. It is a really magical building, with frosted decoration on the ceiling and booths, and grand chandeliers which have a thousand light bulbs. The stage is backed by a massive organ. The woodwork is wonderful and the seats suitably uncomfortable for a building of that age.

Now, I always have mixed feelings about going to the Messiah. I mean, apart from the fact that one has heard it a gazillion times, you never know what you are going to get. I have sat through Messiah’s with a “cast of thousands” – which sounded like Messiah for the very hard of hearing. Then, on the other hand, I have had Messiah on authentic instruments played and sung by males only, wearing wigs. That was an equally strange experience.

I have wept in the Messiah. I have fallen asleep in the Messiah. I have regretted going because I was bored out of my mind and I have wondered why I thought, even momentarily, that I wouldn’t go, because the experience was so wonderful.

So last night, I went, with this “lucky-dip” mentality. Last year, there was a counter-tenor singing the Alto part that was spectacular. This year a mezzo that I had heard before and has a harsh edge to her voice and a tendency to have so much vibrato, that she frequently quavers right off the note – so I wasn’t expecting very much. Nicholas Cleobury was conducting, though – so it stood some chance of being, at least tolerable.

Curiously, there was a row of empty seats in front of me. I looked around the Cairp Tahn audience. Predictably white. A dot, here and there, of another colour but mostly, blindingly, depressingly white.

It started. Cleobury was taking it at quite a cracking pace. The tenor was lyrical and sweet – “Comfort ye, my people”. Suddenly, one of the side doors burst open and in walked a row of young , hip, gum- chewing, black, (I would say) 20 year olds. One of them had a T-shirt which read “Reaching your full potential IN GOD”.
They had the extensions; the dreds; the shiny African-American relaxed and gelled look. They carried bottles of Coke and they seemed intent on sitting in the row in front of me. They showed no sign of guilt or embarrassment at their lateness. They sat down. They giggled at the irritation of the people around them. They whispered loudly to each other, then they settled down to enjoy the performance. They conducted the air. They twiddled their fingers at the string sections. They lip-synced the words, (when they knew the words). If there was the slightest hint of a beat, such as in “Why do the nations rage”, for instance – they jived along with the music, while mercifully still seated in their seats.

Sometimes, with some of the less well-known recitatives and choruses, they started sending and receiving text messages on their phones and passing them to each other to read. They opened their coke bottles with a loud hissing sound. In a word, it was profoundly disturbing. At the end of part one, there was a moment’s indecision on the part of the conductor. They clapped. There was some lacklustre support for them from one or two others in the audience. They complained to each other loudly, that “these people are scared to clap!”

During the interval, I thought about what I was witnessing here. On the one hand, I have long complained about the complexion of Cape Town Symphony Concert audiences. On the other, here I was complaining where black youngsters sitting in front of me didn’t know how to behave!

On the one hand, it is a question of them simply not understanding the conventions. On the other, it is precisely the conventions which have kept people like them outside the concert halls and attending hip-hop events instead.

The point I reached, eventually, was that it was infinitely better for them to be there – visibly enjoying the music of a European composer who died 251 years ago, to them not being there at all. I am not saying that they shouldn’t shut up and sit still during the performance. What I am saying, is that all that kind of stuff can follow.

Trans-racial togetherness

After much to-ing and fro-ing we were invited to attend what was described as a “trans-cultural” adoption group yesterday. Now, what might a “trans-cultural adoption group” be, you ask me?

Well, this particular group was one where white single mothers, who have adopted black children have got together on a monthly basis – for reasons of support, I suppose. I would have called that a trans-racial adoption group. The fact that they call it a trans-cultural adoption group is cause, I would say, for some concern. It goes back to the substantive matter of whether or not culture is racially defined. This, after all, was one of the fundamental tenets of apartheid ideology – that we are all racially and culturally separate-able and circumscribable. It then took it further. It said that culture was something fixed for all time. It was something which was defined primarily by skin colour, and once defined, it was something one could not escape.

Now, to assume that the culture of the children in this group - because they happen to have black skins - is of a different culture to the parents with white skins, to my mind, is highly problematic. There was even some casual discussion, in the group of nodding in the direction of the “culture” of a particular child. So, I heard that one child’s biological background was Zulu. I wonder what, in reality that is going to mean for the child? Lessons in Zulu dancing? I discovered, when I did a DNA test of myself, that I had Croatian roots - what on earth does that mean in my life, other than vague curiosity?

We were invited to the group somewhat curiously, being neither single nor mothers, you understand. We went, because we feel it is in some way important for our children to understand that they are not alone in the world – that there are other families like ours. But the problem is, what happens when there are some fundamental discordances relating to values? Is that something we want them to be exposed to as well?

As it was, the leader of the group revealed that there was some issue about us being a same-sex couple. Apparently there was some discussion in the group about having men in the group, because there was a lack of male role-models. When our names came up, apparently, one comment was “but do we really want two gay men in the group?” Again, it is really a question of values. Of course, in the real world, our children are going to need to realize that not everyone is accepting of gay men parenting children (trans-racial or not). But do we want to belong to a group where some of the parents are not completely affirming?

It’s difficult. This is, after all, Cairp Tahn. This is one of the most racially divided spots on the African continent. So, there is some sense in taking what is on offer. But does that mean that values need to be compromised as well? I really don’t know. I suppose I also have some missionary zeal left in me, which means that I still feel constrained to convert the infidel, but does one do that in the context of one’s children? That is a question which we will be considering in the next while, for sure.

Trans-racial parenting

My children are black. That is an accident of their physiology, as much as my relative paleness is of mine.

We have, in our employ, a childminder, who comes originally from Venda. Venda is famous for, amongst other things, Mopani worms. One day, I arrived home from work to find my eldest child chewing on a large, seemingly juicy Mopani worm, which he had demanded from her plate. My personal reaction was revulsion – but he seemed to be enjoying it, so no harm was done and I made no comment. I notice that today, 7 years later, Mopani worms do not seem to feature on his list of favourite foods. They could, because they are still infrequently present in our household, but they don’t.

When we were living in Johannesburg, our children attended a mostly black pre-primary school. The accent of the eldest child was that of a non-model “C” black South African. Very unlike mine, which, although not Queen’s English by a long shot, has been accused of being slightly “posh”. Our other son, who attended the same school, seemed to have an accent more like ours. When we moved to Cape Town, it took two weeks before the eldest child spoke in a broad and immediately recognisable “Cape flats” accent. The other maintained what he had before. Both children again went to the same school.

My point? Culture, and everything that goes with it, is learned behaviour. It is not somehow connected to one’s DNA. Their culture isn’t somehow connected to their colour. If my eldest child doesn’t eat Mopani worms, it is not because he hasn’t been exposed to them, but because the dominant culture in which we live, as a family, doesn’t expose him to them often enough for him to want them. If he is now speaking with a Cape flats accent, it is because that is the dominant accent he is exposed to at school and one which appears to help him fit in, whereas the other child doesn’t seem to have the same kind of needs.

When we adopted the children, the legal wording of the adoption order was, for me at least, very important. It said that this child was now “as if born to you”. The ancestors of that child, (and the state) for whatever reason, handed him over to me and my partner. They were not “abandoned”. They were consciously and lovingly handed over. Those children are now mine - “as if born to me”. They now have two white fathers.

Now, just because of the fact that these children happen to be black and me white, do I need to start a course in gumboot dancing? Should I rush off and get myself circumcised? Should I have a regular supply of Mopani worms in the house to make him feel secure? This is as crazy as it is bizarre and it reveals, I am afraid, just how far we are away from a really non-racial society, where colour is the least significant thing about a person.

No, we are not there yet. And yes, I have no objection to “exposing” my children to cultures other than my own, (which is the reason, by the way, that we were at a friend’s ancestor do!) But I also have no illusions about the difficult path they will need to tread. They need to be secure, not in some fantasy culture from somewhere else, but in their own skin, for who they are. And force-feeding them Mopani worms may not make it easier for them. It may make it a whole lot worse.

Are my black children white?

I was pleased to be invited to a colleague of mine’s family ‘do’. “Exactly what kind of a family ‘do’ was it going to be?” I asked. “Oh”, he said breezily, “we will be introducing my youngest son to the ancestors”. I looked seriously at him. “Are there going to be any animal slaughters on the front lawn?” I asked as lightly as I knew how. “Because if there are going to be, then I’m not coming”.

He assured me that the hapless goat had already been killed, and that all that was required was for us to gather round and perform some kind of ritual or other. I thought that would be good, and so, with the aid of my GPS, ventured for not the first time into Gugulethu – (or, as some locals refer to it “Sjoojoolehtois”). Without a GPS, I have to tell you, it would be an impossible exercise. There are no street signs. And the streets themselves are named “NY121” and “NY122” etc. Why NY? Oh, it was explained to me, that stands for “Native Yard”.

Anyway, my two children and I – my two very white children with black skins – arrived. The men were in the garage, being men - and the women were in the living room. I seemed to be an honorary woman, so that is where I stayed for the while. I had noticed on the way in, (as did my saucer-eyed children) that there was the head of the hapless, slaughtered goat, lying next to a small fire that was burning on the front lawn. I noticed too, by the by, that the ground of the front lawn was so waterlogged that the house seemed to be floating. Such is normal, I understand in the Native Yard area.

At some point, a grass mat was produced and mother and child sat on it, were smeared with something red (I didn’t ask!) and all of us, sitting in a circle around them, were asked to take with our right hand, two small beads from a bowl and hold them in our left hands. Then the bowl collected the two beads from everyone’s left hands. These were the same beads that were made into a necklace and placed around Junior’s neck. The string of the necklace was bits of rubbed together Achilles tendon of the hapless goat. I was told that he would wear it until it fell off.

Just prior to this, the hapless goat was brought into the lounge in which we were all sitting, boiled, cut up and in a very large enamel bowl. My children looked at me with very large imploring eyes and said, very definitely, that they were not hungry.

When, later, I asked one of the elders, with whom I was sitting (by virtue of my age, I suppose, and the greying colour of my hair), what the bead ritual had all meant, I was told that the right hand takes, and the left hand gives, and so we are all involved in what that child is, because we all add something to him – to his life, to his being.

That, it seems to me, is a pretty important – fairly dramatic sort of statement. I’m not completely sure how it works out in practise, because obviously, the proof of the pudding must be in the eating, but it is a serious enough, laudable enough sort of principal. And it sure isn’t the way my culture deals with children! There is no way in hell that I could call anyone else’s child mine – and there is very little that I could do influence the way that child grows up. I see this in my own family. It is almost as though other people’s children are some kind of sacred domain. I can’t (and don’t) say when I disapprove of their behaviour, nor would it be expected that I should take any kind of responsibility for them, if they got themselves into serious trouble. And if I did get involved, it would not be because I see the children as mine, but because I would have some sort of connection with the parents.

So, I asked – what did Tata Mkhulu (grandfather) think of my adopted children? Are they white or are they black? Should I be worrying about whether or not to slaughter a goat for them, or not? Predictably, he said that they were not genetically mine, and that culture relates to genes. I said nonsense, in the nicest possible way, of course. And that they are as much my children as if they were conceived by me. And, to cut a long discourse short, we agreed to disagree – because our cultures are so completely different.

It all took me back to when I was living in Lesotho, with the dominant culture so vastly different from my own. With me feeling like I was on Planet Zog, and the Basotho behaving like I was just someone who had, over a period of centuries perhaps, just lost my way.

So, should I be slaughtering goats for my kids? And making bead necklaces for them to wear? I think not. Mine and my partner’s are the only ancestors around – and you know what? That’s what these kids have landed up with. And in my culture, ancestors don’t interfere. And to my children’s great relief, the goats are made of plastic.