South African Diva

Fun for One.

2009-07-11T15:21:00.000-07:00

What is your particular joy in written words?

No, not the ones that march across your brain single-file, colorless and droll, with no back-beat. Those would be work emails, newspaper headlines, instructions, lists, reminders, actionable anythings. Not those.

The written words that only appear in your conscience with a voice -- a secret, new voice that would change the world if someone could just hear it too. The voice that has its own pace, coercing your rushed practical self into another way of being in order to participate in the experience.

We have the magazine voice. Ooooooooh, she says playfully in full frivolous mode. She darts about the page with glee, reading the snippets beneath colorful pictures with delight. Fashion for some, food for others, crafts, home decor, gardens. This voice weaves through the texts, brushing through some like passing through long grass in a breeze, smoothly, and with her eyes on the horizon, on more exciting things just over the flip of a crinkling page. If she's heard it before, which is so often the case with magazines, she flies by as regretful as a life lived with joy. She playfully collects ideas in an inspirational moment of passion, undeterred that her spark of genius or pleasure may evaporate into the ether when she turns the last page, or an external voice of husband, child, or knock-at-the-door blows her back to where she came from.

The classic novel voice. A beautiful, resonant sound that patiently cajoles my mind into a calm unhurried pace and leads me to a place of peace and beauty. This voice systematically points out the subtle nuances of a sentence, unfolds the ideas quietly and makes me wonder. She tells me to read the lengthy descriptions as they are of intrinsic value. She sets her lips firmly and refuses to speak when my mind loses patience and begins to devour the sentences quickly, skittering along the long paragraphs, seeking a quick thrill. Sometimes I can have read an entire page before I realize that she is silent, that I have heard nothing, and may as well read the page again. This is when she waits for me to pause and consider granting her my patience. When I do succumb, she rewards me with a quiet pleasure, a beautiful rhythm that calms me as the gentle picture unfolds. In retrospect, I am always enriched by her timeless turn and pleasantly satisfied that a beautiful classic lives in my mental library, deciphered and loved.

Children's books. She can be big, small, loud, gabbled nonsensical, musical rhyming galloping joy. She can be a he, or a tree. She can be disguised as a loving teacher of lessons, manners, and conqueror of mole-hills. She makes unbelievable sounds, puffing up into incredible flying balloons or courageous tiny hedgehogs, twinkling stars and rainbows of imagination. She is never the same twice, and nor is her audience.

Books of faith. She is whispered aloud by elderly people fingering the tissue pages of their battered bibles; she seems magestic on the faces of those focused on a line of their religious teachings, whether Christian, Jewish, Hindu or Buddhist. I sense her tone of authority as she speaks to the mothers reading out loud in their faith: Mothers, teach your children well.

And then, trashy or sentimental romance novels, grizzly detective stories, tales of fictitious war and adventure -- all theater for the mind. Many voices, images, self-absorbing drama and pure escapism at its best. Ultimate fun for one. Indulge yourself any way you like, and laugh, cry, be thrilled, outraged, depressed, uplifted or just plain feel happy to be with this crowd of characters in your mind.

And no one around you watching, can see a thing.

Ode to Glamour.

2009-06-21T12:21:00.000-07:00

Today I considered the glamour of those I chose.

Family -- the unchosen -- sometimes spark anger, disappointment, frustrations, feelings of being taken for granted. So in counteraction -- here, my friends --you all are at your finest, in no particular order:

Chloe, in shorts and full make-up, talking about her dance-hall days in the 1940s; Sara's soft grey bob, Southern Belle accent and gold lame sneakers; Nandini's wrists encircled in fine gold Indian jewelery when her hands are still; Courtney in a high ponytail mood; Nicky in siren red and smiling; Reena's hair falling over her face; Mike in shorts and an apron, cooking for a crowd, olive oil in hand. Janine H. smelling of Chapstick and sunshine the full promise of summer made tangible on her golden legs. Nolan's peachy country girl skin misted in a cloud of Camel smoke inhaled like Marlene Dietrich. My two tiny Jewish friends -- Lynda, spiritual and serene yet drinks Jack Daniels like a cowboy; Sharyn spunky and rock-and roll, devastating in a prim, white blouse. Kim, Miami beach babe, self-depracating laugh at herself. Erna, always December 31,1999 at any restaurant.

Tracy's bubbly laugh that sucks you into her joy, Paula's pretty feet, her toenails painted. Maggie W, genuinely shocked and enjoying it. Sune, with her emails full of country values and observations in a big City. Zoyon, the person most comfortable with silence I have ever known. Betsy peering over those wicked reading glasses, Karen's tone and expression when relaying tiny details we all miss in children.

Liz and everything about the ocean; David in Ramon mode; Fusun telling a story at the dinner table, lilting and gentle. Wilhelm, one of the few whose every aspect of life screams foreign movie-like glamour. Maggie M. more beautiful in real life than in those fashion magazines. Ben explaining performance art; Celia's droll take on reality, and Sam, an effervescent fizz and an expert at friendship.

I know I missed some of you. Inspiring all, I say.

Catching my breath.

2009-06-14T12:20:00.000-07:00

The tightness is loosening. Slowly. But it has begun. My throat is unclenching and the squeezing around my heart is relaxing. I lost my balance, my tuned chakras, my feet lifted off the ground unexpectedly.
I just got really tired, and pushed on instead of stopping. The momentum of life shoved me forward and on.
My girls wrote tests, aimed for the end of the academic year and bore down with purpose. I made a lot of it happen as it should. And they were wildly successful. Plays, recitals, sports, parties, graduations, goodbyes, thoughtful gifts, notes, sincere thanks. Late, late nights and early mornings waking up before the beep, anticipation of a crowded day springing my mind into early overdrive. Fleeting affectionate glances at a spouse frowning in constant concentration and industry. Overscheduled, overworked, overplanned.

I was too busy to notice much. And yet... my girls stopped wanting to practice their music every day as they have done for way more than a year. I pick up my guitar and strum a few chords, but I can't sing. It is as if I have no voice. I focus on my lesson coming up and not what I am doing in the moment. I apologize profusely to my tutor. I can't sing, I can't play. She looks at me kindly and says music is your soul, it needs a rest. Art is your true self and it is tired into silence. Let it catch its breath.

I drink peppermint tea. I actually feel better.

I read with focus and start creeping into the alternate universe. It is a start.
I think about summer and food.
We are in Sonora for the weekend, the beginning of the school summer vacation. We go to the farmer's market early on Saturday morning and I buy plump peaches and apricots surrounded by a warm cloud of their own sweet scent. I smell each one pressed to my nose. Pure. Like ice water from a mountain stream and not from a plastic bottle in the fridge. I buy garlic, dusty and bunched in limp ponytails, their leaves still attached. I look at the farmer's hands and imagine him yanking the garlic out of the damp soil. How satisfying that must be. Shiny, elegant eggplant looks lacquered deep purple, just as it should. I mentally pair it with the chubby tomatoes, thickly sliced and honest. Green beans, stiff with freshness and snap, colored summer squash frilly and whimsical. Almonds and walnuts, growing in acres all around Sonora, shelled and proudly labeled with gold stickers bearing family names. I buy a large bag of salad leaves from a gentle man whose eyes seem grateful when I point at a cushiony bag of greens. Spring mix, he says with a shy smile. I look at the tiny crowns carefully selected and plucked with care. Bitter, sweet, peppery.

We sit on the curb and drink coffee from the coffee lady.
Peruvian blend in a styrofoam cup. No milk, just half-and half, she says unapologetically.
I decide to share my huge double almond croissant with Henk. They had just brought a tray down from the French Patisserie downtown, and I watched the young man weave through the people holding it high above his head, the terry cloth dish towels flapping to reveal larvae-like lumps languishing in butter and sliced almonds. Jenna and Sarah eat butter croissants and snow cones. The wind picks up and globules of warm rain plop down on the square. No-one seems to notice. I duck my head under an awning, my face dangerously close to some cherries and smile at my husband. Time to go.

I get home, eat some of the fruit and roast some garlic and eggplant. The heady smell loosens my chest a little.
The kid up the street saunters over with his weedwacker. The afternoon air fills with the smell of cut weeds and grass. He is fourteen, flushed and jaunty, his mind filled with the possibilities made real with a little extra cash of his very own. I watch him from the deck. He stops and shyly tells me he has saved the wild sweet peas growing all around the house. I thank and praise him in my mom voice, while marveling that this country kid knows a sweet pea and its value.
Jenna and Sarah fill a plastic tumbler with blooms and put it on the table. Someone knocks it over and there is water dripping down onto the floor. I clean it up, refill the cup and put it back. No irritation. I am feeling better.

I put on some country music this morning. There is a sad little song I would love to play. Maybe today, after lunch.

Beach of Dreams.

2009-04-14T18:01:00.000-07:00

I am sitting under a gently swaying palm tree, ten feet from the ocean, contemplating the necessary ingredients for a lip smacking Mai-tai. It is peaceful, with a smattering of groggy people about and the ululating ocean the only notable sound in the salty afternoon air. All around me blood pressures are dropping, tensions are melting and grateful sighs are softly escaping into the balmy island air of Maui.

I wiggle my toes in the sand, and focus on the delicate patterns the frothy surf etches into the wet caramel colored sand. I flash back to younger feet wiggling in identical looking sand on a beach somewhere near Durban, South Africa. The beaches of my childhood. The same tepid sea water, clouds as defined as those in a child's crayon drawing. The same hypnotic patterns of nature, always changing, never ending. I was an eternal daydreamer, conjuring up intricate worlds of the future, sometimes realistic and possible, sometimes pure Dr Seuss and the Places You'll Go. My daydreaming took flight on the windswept, lonely beaches near Durban. My companions lost in their own reveries, books, conversations or games and the spaces large enough to wander off alone without being missed, a sandy figure on the horizon, head down and toes poking at a rock pool. I would sing, practice twirls and eyelash batting and manipulative secret smiles, and be intrigued and strangely placated by the new yet recognizable details of life and motion performing a grand opera in no need of an audience on the edge of the breaking waves and jutting rocks.

I dreamed of the places I'd go and the people I'd meet. I dreamed of the witty conversations and dramatic landscapes of my paperback novels. I dreamed in exquisite minute detail -- the laconic arching of an eyebrow by a chiseled lad in cricket whites somewhere in England --and sweeping generalities, the fabulous coastlines and towns of Europe and dancing and swimming and the magical music penned from the souls of interesting people. I dreamed in scenarios, never a chronological plan. No soul mate, fairy-princess wedding dress, faceless children and picket fence, (although I always imagined there would always be a dog smiling with loose lips and silky ears, panting happiness.) Memories seem to come to us in a similar manner. Ask anyone for a synopsis of their past or plans for the future, and they tend to falter, struggle along in stops and starts, and end up veering off into a scenario that captures their interest or ignites a long forgotten love or pain. As children we live in the moment, unconsciously and gratifyingly. As we mature, our expectations of the world and of ourselves change and we spend more time trying to control our environments, futures, time and life paths. But we also learn quickly that much in life is beyond our control. Sometimes it is luck or plain misfortune, the unpredictable actions of others both good and bad, and sometimes we just make mistakes. But we adapt and dream another dream, some more easily than others.

The shushing ocean coaxes my thoughts back to that misty place of dreams and plans, and I realize with certainty that these days all I wish to do is plan one day at a time. That life will definitely surprise me with the big stuff, but that if I live one day at a time with grace, love and genuine caring for others, the little scenarios of life will be drenched in true connections, heart-felt humor and beautiful images for the soul. So I am thankful for the warm, lovely people I have around me this vacation. The time to notice how much my girls have grown this year, to notice Henk's sweetness again in these unhurried days and to appreciate the life and interest in the eyes of my friends. To be reminded how much fun it can be to share -- thoughts, ideas, songs, jokes, meals, walks, fruity drinks and towels. A delightful reprieve from our over scheduled daily lives, and enough time to breathe deeply.

I peer up from underneath my straw hat and see my ten-year-old in the distance --twirling and singing on the rocks, her pureness taking flight across the Pacific Ocean.

Playing with water.

2009-03-21T18:32:00.000-07:00

It's been a while since I've blogged -- work, kids, family, illnesses and a touch of drama has made me distracted and choking down ideas I normally would have aired on this wide ether.
But this week I had some fun.
I got to plant my feet on the ground, grab a thick fire hose attached to a shiny red engine and squirt a powerful stream of water onto some random stuff in the training area in the back of a fire station. It almost lifted me off my feet. I had visions of being lifted up comically and dousing my colleagues in water - fortunately they had thought of that and someone added some heft to the back. For a moment, I felt light again, a distinct change from the way I had been feeling these past few weeks. My weeks of spending more time sitting at a desk, pushing papers around, typing stuff and sitting around meeting tables has slowed me down, filled out my bottom. My tailored pants are unforgiving and a stark reminder of the consequences of more calories in than out.
I am working at Mountain View Fire Department, admin section. The nuts and bolts of the job is not very exciting, but the environment is quite a change for a girl from Durban, South Africa.
The firemen, engineers, captains, investigators, inspectors, Chief and Marshall are all quite an experience for me. They have taken some getting used to and understanding, but I think I am finally getting the hang of this alternate universe. Mostly, they all take their work very seriously, and all seem to genuinely want to serve.
This week, the new staff got to tour around and poke our noses in where they don't really belong. The firehouses gleam, and the firemen's quarters are clean and neat. They do their own cleaning, cook their own food -- which yes, the buy with their own money -- and clean toilets and firetrucks. Their dorms are rudimentary, and they have a fairly large area where they push weights every day. These guys have to be strong to haul hefty victims out of burning buildings. It is a job requirement to be strong, fit and quick. Necessary for survival and success. And then I realized that this was precisely what was bothering me most about my spreading bottom. The need to be strong, fit and quick for survival.

I have spent my life being quick enough to dodge a "grabber" on the street, duck away from a flasher, slip past a drunken fumbler when I worked as a waitress, and more than once outrun a dangerous person. I have been quick, light on my feet and agile, as I was never strong enough to defend myself physically. When I needed to run like hell, I could and did. It made me stronger than the big guy, the sick guy, the crazy guy.
But now I live in a world slowed down, where no-one runs but kids, and ambling is the norm. Reflexes dull, sixth senses grow quiet, and the world seems more benign. I sometimes look at the world around me and wonder what will happen when disaster strikes -- when panic ensues, chaos, and the crazies, violent and opportunistic pop out of the cow-like bewildered crowd in our city.
Will I still be able to run like hell when I need to?

So I'm back on the treadmill -- just in case. I'm part of the city's disaster team now. And, was the playing with a firehose as much fun as it sounds? Hell, yeah!!

Buddy.

2009-01-25T22:00:00.000-08:00

Life never ceases to surprise us, does it?

Just when we automatically thought our government would always be run by aged, white men and occasionally enjoyed entertaining the notion of some day having a female commander-in-chief, our friends and neighbors surprise us completely and Bam!
Today there is a serious young black man whom we call "Mr President, Sir."

I feel so honored to have witnessed the swearing in of two monumental presidents, Nelson Mandela and now, Barack Obama. Almost fifteen years ago, many white South Africans looked into the face of Nelson Mandela and saw a reflection of their own greatness on a different colored skin. This week, it seems many white Americans saw their hopes and lives depicted on the strong face of their own black man. He hasn't promised them the world, but merely his very best effort with their help, and that seems to be more than enough for them.

What is it exactly that makes people look beyond race, age, and appearances and reach out to one another in trust when there doesn't seem to be any real common ground?

We were an oddly incongruous pair, Buddy and I.

I was an invigorated, energetic, mini-skirted fluffy blond twenty-four-year-old with a shiny new job and matching shoes. A rotund, kindly-faced, continuously fatigued black man sighed in the office next door to me. Buddy greeted me with polite good morning good humor for the first week or two, whilst I scurried about getting acquainted with a brand new set of politicians, staff and procedures.
Then one day, when I began to feel secure enough to drink my morning coffee without the accompanying frenzy, Buddy popped in and gently placed his crumpled morning paper on my desk.
A morning ritual had begun, along with an interesting friendship.

Forty-year-old Buddy had a traditional African marriage, and a small collection of knobbly-kneed children. We never worked together on any projects, or discussed any technical or work-related issues. Rather, our morning conversations were of our lives, of growing up and out. We chatted easily and openly, and the vast differences in our realities, perceptions and experiences never failed to delight and entertain us.

He relished my horror in his childhood descriptions of trapping and skinning squirrels for food -the very same type of squirrels which tourists fed overpriced peanuts in the parliamentary gardens. He was intrigued by my independence and education as a young white woman, and listened to my reasoning and ideas on social issues and legalities with an open heart. I in turn learned to better understand his passion for the poor, his support for affirmative action, and how his paternalistic culture dominated his reasoning on many levels. We seemed to learn that we did not have to agree with one another to understand one another. Life experiences had made us completely different people and yet we loved the same jokes, loved walking, and a fine whiskey on the rocks.

Mostly, I remember we laughed a lot.
What a fine memory to have of someone so different from me.
Finding a jewel of common ground and purpose with another seemingly so different can change your life.

And as my five-year-old calls it, "Rock Obama is President. Rock Obama."

Plastic Houses and Pretend Money.

2009-01-11T12:03:00.000-08:00

This Christmas break, we spent some time up in our house in the Sierras, and we played Monopoly every night.

I think the last time I played I was about twelve, perhaps thirteen. One needs a crowd to play a decent game, and usually our little family of four falls horribly short, with Sarah having the Monopoly attention span of a fruit fly. But not this particular week. We had two grandparents, a boisterous uncle, an even tempered girlfriend, two parents and two kids in the mix.
Throw in some fairyland snow, a tiny house, a wood stove, a generically carpeted living room floor, a sagging Christmas tree and a frazzled cat, and one has all the elements needed for a challenging game o' Monopoly.

Everyone dives for their favorite piece - a shoe, horse, "lucky" wheelbarrow, or ship. Paper money gets laid out in careful rows or wadded up in a sticky hand, hot and clammy from carpet wrestling.

At first everyone feels flush. Many streets are purchased. Then, money gets tighter, rentals received on owned streets seem trivial, and the sighing and discontent begins. Players start compulsively counting their dwindling funds. Baleful glances are exchanged.
Initial complicated negotiations and exchanges begin to be discussed in short bursts. Money gets less, deals get complicated and arguing commences. Within a short period of time, someone is protesting loudly about being bankrupted, or cheated. Soon, discontent reigns, and one person,-- in our case, my brother Francois -- is winning hands down with hotels, houses and everyone else's money. Every time.

No-one can quite understand it. He crows with delight, strokes a non-existent scrooge-like beard, and relishes his successes. Everyone else is just fed-up. Some losers go for broke, take huge risks and lose everything. They end up depressed and homeless and wander off to seek solace in chips and dip. Others try negotiation, pay-back schemes and clever, conservative methods of getting back on their feet and into the game. Sometimes it works, and they hang on a little longer. But eventually they too end up hunched over the browning guacamole. Sometimes the winner falls for the charms of the pleader, especially if beloved eyelashes are being batted at him. His charity keeps her going longer, but eventually she too succumbs and ends up with nothing, having squandered not only her money, but personal charms too.

Winner takes all. The shrewdest, most focussed, most ruthless seems to prevail in Monopoly. The young and stupid are quickly thrown out. The soft-hearted negotiator loses out, and the distracted with half a brain in the game is almost always gone first. The winner owns all their assets in a bewildering flash, and no-one really seems to know how it happened. Yet the all powerful winner seems to know exactly what he did and chortles with satisfaction, refusing to share his secret to success, albeit seemingly complicated. Just keep your head in the game, he tells me knowingly. Think rationally, and don't scare easily.

I guess I'll try that this year. Think rationally, and don't scare easily. Perhaps even season my days with a dash of optimism. There sure is enough to get depressed about. We read and hear about it every day. The dark, papered-over store fronts increase in number every time I drive to the store, and the browning christmas trees toppled into gutters and awaiting the wood-chippers give me that distinct morning-after feeling. Visual reminders of endings prevail. But now I am seeking out some inspiration to fuel motivation. Yesterday out my window, I saw a misguided tree had burst out into its feathery pink blossoms. What an uplifting spectacle of new beginnings in the middle of winter, and compliments of nature, not the media or the economy.

Perhaps I shall try to shift my focus from plastic houses and pretend money to real flowers and sturdy trees. At least, for now.

Merry Christmas and a lucky, blessed 2009 to you.

2008-12-25T21:24:00.000-08:00

My first year of blogging has almost drawn to an end. I am grateful for all the support, comments, debate and stories from all of you, my friends and family. Stay tuned....

Grace.

2008-12-08T21:08:00.000-08:00

I've been thinking about it lately -- or rather, I have had these moments of the recognition of grace recently. For me, it is a moment of perfection. Undeserved, unplanned and utterly magical in some way.

We recently spent a week off the coast of Mexico on a tiny island close to Cancun, La Isla Holbox. What an experience and adventure it was. We flew to Cancun via Mexico City, traveling through Guadalajara. Eek -- an oversight on my part as Mexicana Airlines reminded me very much of the brightly painted metal wall hanging I have in my kitchen of an African airplane festooned with crates of livestock and assorted oddities perched on the roof. The smiling multi-colored people on my wall sculpture differ however from the disgruntled passengers on the Mexicana planes who missed connections, sprinted between terminals and tried to negotiate seats with disinterested airline staff. But Grace smiled upon us, and granted us stand-by seats on a connecting flight when we sat in a dejected heap in front of the boarding gate of a plane heading to Cancun, along with a collection of other miserable passengers. We got to Cancun, cheered that our transport to the ferry would still be there to meet us. Our luggage, however, never made it that far. We passed through customs, and I offered a full luggage search when and if it ever arrived. The customs guy stopped me. Looking at me seriously, he asked me how many bags we had checked. I replied and he sternly instructed me to push a large blue button. I looked in surprise as a green light blinked above me. "True" it said. I noticed a "False" just below it, comfortingly dark. Some sort of primitive lie detector test? He gave me a satisfied nod, and said, enjoy your stay. Grace, I thought.

We piled into a van and headed into the unknown with a friendly driver who didn't speak a word of English and smiled broadly at my attempts at Spanish. The road seemed as straight as an arrow, running through the lush vegetation, with no street signs and a huge tropical sun setting on the horizon. We weaved across the empty road as our driver texted enthusiastically with his free hand, driving like a bat out of hell with the other, no doubt late for an important date as we had arrived three hours late. Fortunately, there were no other cars on the road for miles. And then, suddenly he would screech to a practical halt and gingerly lumber over an enormous speed bump placed strategically at the beginning of tiny villages and clusters of falling-down buildings. I noticed how dogs, scooters, bicycles, carts and people would scatter to the safety of ditches and verges, horns would be honked, much merry waving would be exchanged and after a farewell speed bump, we would be tearing off into the paved distance once more.
At some point, the driver told me in broken English that we would be taking a"short cut." He stopped in front of a large bush, and promptly turned the van into a ditch. We bumped through some brush, drove over a few lumps of earth and edged our way along in a thicket of beautiful local flora. Suddenly we came face-to-face with an official looking taxi bumping along the same track. Great, traffic issues in the short-cut. There was waving and maneuvering and we were through the bushes and ready to dash out of the thicket and join the road. The driver turned off the a/c and music, and listened intently for traffic. All clear, and we accelerated onto the tarred road. We were on our way once again. Is it still far to go? I asked anxiously, noting we had been driving for almost two hours. Oh, yes! he said cheerfully, and cranked up the music. No traffic, a beautiful Mexican sunset, and an unknown destination. Grace, I thought.
We arrived at Chiquila in the dark, and with a firm handshake and a smile, the driver dropped us at the ferry landing, waving a hand at a homely looking woman who was to get us to the island. She smiled encouragingly, and whipped out her cellphone. A call was made, and in my limited Spanish it sounded as if she was trying to arrange a boat trip to the island for us, as the little Ferry would be leaving later, and she wanted to save us all the wait. We sat on the quay next to a tiny, rusty boat. Some men arrived, hopped into the boat and graciously helped us into the boat, after gesticulating that they were our ride to the island. Henk looked alarmed, and the kids thrilled. We roared off into the dark, four men, a little girl in a puffy jacket who belonged to someone there, and a crooner. Honestly, we just left the quay and a young man picks up his guitar and strums out a song that got more emotional the further we got from the shore. Henk pointed out the sole life preserver hanging from the boat, smiled and shrugged. Here we are in the dark on a tiny boat in a foreign country with our two children, no belongings and it is warm, exciting and pretty exhilarating.
Grace, I thought.

A week of island life with talcum powder beach sand, turquoise water, sunshine, tropical showers, a brightly lit sky ablaze with stars, friendly fishermen, and food that makes you glad to be alive. We got our bags two days later, and had survived with only a bar of soap and toothbrushes bought at the island grocery store, such as it was.

Grace, all round.

And then we got home, and I thought, well, grace is easy in exotic places and times. And then suddenly it was my birthday and I was with a group of lovely friends and one of them sings Happy Birthday like a nightingale. Instantly, I am five years old and thrilled at the experience of seeing Snow White on the big screen as she sings with the birds in the opening scene of the original Disney movie. The delight and wonder of that sound rushes back to me, and I am no longer turning 40 and jaded, but five and utterly delighted at the world.

Grace, in ordinary life.

National Day of Listening.

2008-11-14T08:35:00.000-08:00

Did you know that the 28th of November will be the first National Day of Listening in this country?

Amazing what you hear when you are a fan of public radio.... It is one of the pleasures in life for me, as I can listen whilst I do more mundane tasks like cleaning, laundry, driving and picking up the house.
For months now I have been listening to early morning snippets from a non-profit organization called "Story Corps". They have made tens of thousands of oral recordings of Americans of all shapes and sizes, ages and creeds. A conversation is like a person's handwriting. It is as if we have a personal window into the essence of the people when we hear their conversations with each other. This year after Thanksgiving, they are encouraging Americans to interview a loved one, neighbor, relative, regular at a soup kitchen, or anyone they care about.
Sit down, ask someone about their life and record it for posterity. It is amazing what you may hear when you take the time to listen.

Media dips into its bag of tricks every day to grab our attention. The hysterical furor and tone of newscasts, interviews and constant" breaking news" permeates our daily lives. Every single event, no matter how trivial or important is given a dramatic, serious weight in the multi-media information IV we attach ourselves to every day. We no longer hear conversations between people. We are used to being spoken at, not spoken to or listening to. We can pick to only hear the people and views we agree with and support. We ignore the ordinary or familiar, the stories of the elderly, preferring high drama.

Story Corps is attempting to change this a little. It is a simple method whereby two people have a conversation, usually about something small but significant to them, which is recorded and filed in the American Folk Life Center at the Library of Congress for future generations. It is an audio preservation of now.

From Story Corps, I have heard the voices of the elderly, the gentle humor and patient love they have for each other clear and strong in their wavering voices. Memories of times long gone; seemingly archaic in our rapidly changing world where technology completely reinvents itself every ten years.
The audio nature of the interaction lets us hear those inaudible things we all know so well. An undemonstrative middle-aged man speaking to his old grandmother about his childhood. She raised him in hard times, and she remembers these years fondly but pragmatically. He remembers the love and opportunity for a young boy to grow into something big, but he cannot say it in fancy words. He thanks her in an awkward, sincere manner. She responds with restrained gratitude for the acknowledgment. Their love for each other is loud and clear in the air between their sparse words. A real relationship we can all understand.

A gay brother talks to his younger sibling about standing up for himself when attacked as a young man. He is pained by the memory, but seems genuinely surprised when his brother tells him calmly he always admired his convictions. Two very different men appreciating each other, without fanfare. A special moment preserved for all to experience. A graceful glimpse of humanity.
Two sisters chuckling uncontrollably at the memory of dance parties during the Great Depression. Two war veterans, a dad and a son; one with ghosts from Vietnam, the other with demons from Iraq. These are the people we walk past in the grocery store every day.

Take a break from your on-line news feed and consider the mundane. It will certainly lift your spirits.

www.storycorps.net

Howard Herships and Steve Kirsch.

2008-10-23T09:37:00.000-07:00

What a cringe-inducing story I read in the newspaper this week. I literally felt ashamed for the two people involved. Two silver-haired gentlemen in my area, a Mssrs Kirsch and Herships are fighting a prolonged, expensive three year battle in the courts over a $650 scratch on Mr Kirsch's Toyota RAV 4.
The one guy is super wealthy, and the other a poor veteran, but also a legal know-it-all. Fifty three court appearances so far. They say it is a matter of principle. No, it's not. It's about each one's individual principle. It's about being right and the other guy being wrong. They are both smugly photographed, looking awfully happy about the publicity. How utterly embarrassing. What a legacy these guys are creating. Expensive wasted public resources, court time and public services aside, these pillars of society are behaving like spiteful children.
Imagine if instead of behaving like some, they actually helped some instead. I'd love to waltz their petty mature faces down to my local elementary school where they could use some of their collective superior skills and copious wealth to provide breakfast for the kids who come to school hungry, a tangible problem visible on the faces of our bobble-headed little children. I see these kids every day, and their numbers are growing. Shameful, I say.

When I was a kid, I distinctly recall the notion of life not always being fair. Remember being punished with your siblings for a wrongdoing when you truly had nothing to do with it? Parents casually grouped kids together and everyone was liable and punished for pranks and transgressions en masse. And they were not interested in your protestations. Dang, the unfairness of it all stung like hell. But, we survived and moved on and never really held any grudges. It was all just part of life. One never knew -- perhaps the innocent party would be someone else next time..... Raucous classrooms were punished together, no explanations allowed. It didn't matter who was right or wrong.
We learned that life was sometimes fair, and sometimes not. That sometimes being right prevailed, and sometimes it just did not. We learned that being right and losing did not mean the end of the world. We learned that life did, in fact, go on or more importantly, move on.
I once drafted a report for a superior at work, who never bothered to read it, changed the name on the bottom to her own, and submitted it to a parliamentary committee for consideration in the National Assembly. Right, no. But yet, knowing that unfair things could happen to me, I never reacted immediately in anger and indignation. Instead, it gave me that breather to think. And then act smartly instead of in retaliation. Think of the times you have given yourself this gift. This is the kind of thing we need to teach our children.

Mr Kirsch has a terminal disease. Any elementary school kid can tell you how hollow his wished-for victory will feel to him on his deathbed when time has run out and he spent so much of his life energy on proving someone else wrong, purely for the sake of it. What a disappointment to himself and his family.

Comfort.

2008-10-05T09:23:00.000-07:00

We are up in the mountains this weekend, and autumn is beautiful. The morning air is crispy, but not yet cold enough to turn bare feet achingly numb. A hot mug of coffee is all the comfort one needs to stay toasty in a fluffy robe.
It rained yesterday, gently, all day. The unusual sounds of rain on the roof and clunking down the metal gutters kept poor Larry the cat unsettled and alarmed for most of the day. No wonder -- I read in the paper that the last rainfall to actually wet the roads was on March 15 this year. Our last proper soaking was in February.
Of course, we live in a desert, but we forget this having surrounded ourselves with urban life, gardens and abundant sprinklers. We have judiciously wrapped our lives in comfort.

Comfort. An American way of life, and considered a necessity. When we first moved here, it astonished me to discover the myriad ways in which this society pampers itself. It was in many instances a delightful surprise. Consider the bedding. Wow. Our first visit into a cavernous store to purchase bedding was a revelation. Never before had I seen such a luxurious array of pillows, sheets, comforters, mattress pads and down-filled puffy things.
Things we take for granted in this country do not exist in others. I discovered the notion of seasonal linen. Flannel for winter, brushed soft cotton and thick, sinking down comforters. Crisp, cool cotton or linen for summer, light and airy. Angel fleece and cashmere throws to wrap yourself up in like a cocoon when necessary or to tuck chilled feet in when mildly cool. Socks of the most delicate cashmere and fluffiest of fleece. Pouches of luxury to pull on at will. I stocked up -- my days of scratchy, scant socks were over, and as anyone with poor circulation will attest, there is no greater mood pepper than warm feet. Every year I send my frail grandma a brand new pair of ultra luxurious memory-foam, non-slip pockets-of-heaven slippers that only cost a few bucks. Serious bang for my buck.

The central heating took some getting used to. Suburban homes in South Africa are heated with mobile oil heaters that are dragged from room to room. They are expensive to buy and even more costly to run. And that of course is only the tiny fraction of people who can afford to pay for heating. Most people just bundle up wherever possible.
People eat soup and drink tea at home or at work, the Starbucks concept being practically non-existent. The thermostat controlled forced air in our home wakes me up every time. The sudden blast of warm air clicking on and off just cannot find a spot of every day comfort in my psyche. We have found a way around it, and now merely turn it off at night, firing up the furnace in the early morning so that the kids can dress for school in warm air and comfort.
Every South African adult can relay in excruciating detail those icy winter mornings of pulling on cold, inadequate school uniforms in bedrooms where the only source of heat has been abandoned beneath the blankets of one's childhood bed. No-one forgets that cold - briskly dismissed by parents trying to get you out of the door on time for shrill school bells. My kids will probably never know this cold, and I know many of you are smiling in memory of those dreaded awakenings.

Our cars over here are pods of luxury. They are enormous tanks of hot or cold air, music, leather seats - frequently with built-in warming pads, telephone access, navigation assistance, plenty of cupholders for drive-thru food and drinks, and even TV/DVD screens to keep the kids happy. Mobile comfort with added security and airbags. We move from heated/cooled homes to heated/cooled cars to heated/cooled stores and offices. Preferably in sweats it seems.
Try wearing flattering, stylishly cut clothes after a few weeks of fluffy elasticated sweats and ultra cushioned sneakers. High healed leather shoes feel like walking around in ice-skates, and every single thing feels scratchy and restrictive. Unlike South African women, many American women choose to feel comfort over feeling pretty. The South African gals would rather not feel ugly than feel super comfy. Cultural difference.

Some of my favorite American comforts are reliable free shipping, organic fruit on sale, inexpensive fresh fish and seafood, international foods at the local grocery store, affordable books (my absolute favorite), the unbeatable customer service at Amazon.com, cheap pedicures -- hand painted toe-flowers optional, cheap gas (trust me, this still remains true), gallon jugs of affordable milk, public parks, a designer lipstick for a few dollars, affordable cashmere, wireless in Mountain View, the Fire Department and firemen who hand out pencils and stickers to kids wherever they go, block parties, festive Christmas gatherings, Halloween trick-or-treaters and kind old people who dish out the candy enthusiastically to little goblins and witches. American appreciation for home-made things, well-supported parades and community events. And of course the bedding.

Media is awash with opinion, commentary and analysis of the economic crisis and politics these days. Fascinating. I have learned more of American history, trends and patterns in these few weeks than ever before. Seems like everyone is speaking up, and of course everyone has an opinion. The media seems to be trying its damndest to get all and sundry to panic as much as possible, and politicians are being exposed as self serving, narcissists all round. No surprises there. Yet ordinary people carry on as before, with more worries and less money. The kind remain kind, the selfish remain selfish. Levels of happiness in the street seem about the same to me.
Today I read a report on the absolute latest research on the study of happiness and surprise! they have discovered to their disbelief that the average American's happiness depends almost completely on human affection and is almost completely independent of how much money anyone has. Anyone can tell you that money does not buy happiness, but it is gratifying to be able to relay to another how the kindness and affection of someone has impacted your life. I was laid up in bed recently recovering from a surgery and the outpouring of giving, care and selflessness of my family and lovely friends was bold, lavish and immensely nurturing. My love for them all has deepened, and what can be more comforting than that?

Human affection knows no culture or economic status. We are looking forward to our family visiting from both sides this Christmas, and presents and outings are furtherest from our minds. Conversations, simple walks, card games, horsing around and family meals around the table are what we wish for. Both us, and our eagerly awaited guests. No-one remembers the gadgets or wrapping paper. Everyone remembers the jokes, stories and melding or clashing of opinions, the true down-to-earth comfort of family, the ones you could not choose to be in your life, but are there anyway and remind us of our humanity.

The Wishful Art of Happiness.

2008-09-13T10:21:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, I had the intriguing opportunity to casually quiz a fabulously wealthy woman about her life. We were at a small gathering, making chit-chat, and watching our children cavort in a custom designed swimming pool. We are about the same age, height, build, and have young children. But these people have "more money than Oprah", quipped a spunky girlfriend with a snort. Hmmmm..... I dove right in, albeit casually. What do you do with yourself? Do you work? Lounge about, sipping margaritas, with a bevy of staff at your beck and call? Or not? She seemed quite charming and outgoing in a foreign European sort of way, and we talked easily. Honestly, I liked her. Her life, not so much.

Turns out she has a lot of help. Nannies, cooks, cleaners, personal trainers, etc etc. She doesn't work because she doesn't need to, but instead spends a lot of her time creating works of art. She tells me she hired a bunch of prominent artists to teach her all they knew. They showed up at her art studio, custom-built at home, and taught her their stuff. O-kay. I never even considered the fact that this could be possible. Now, she is designing and creating works to be displayed in their new home, currently being designed and planned in a gorgeous spot in Silicon Valley. I glance over at our pot-bellied kids looking like porpoises with goggles on. They shriek and play Marco Polo -- just like they do in any other pool. I know those little faces and personalities like I know my own, and love them more than anything I can think of. Her daughter calls to her, showing off a dive. She bubbles over with gushing praise, the kind given by absent parents, lacking ease and familiarity. My intuition tingles.

I ask some more. No, she never cooks. Hardly ever drives. Pays for the very best schools, but doesn't ever pack a lunchbox, wrestle with a juice box, pick up broken crayons, feel overwhelmed by your children but take a deep breath and remind yourself you are the adult and they are to go to bed RIGHT NOW so that mommy can have a glass of wine. Nope. No washing sticky hands, dipping cheese sandwiches in glasses of milk, or slurping pasta at the kitchen table.
What would you do if you could afford to outsource your life?

Then I think about the things I have learned from other people. The only time I have paid for knowledge was for formal education, and then I probably learned the least in those circumstances. The useful stuff I learned from people who cared. How to cook, how to change a flat tyre, how to pick a pair of flattering jeans, how to type, how to read a budget, how to get parsley to grow. I learned from love. I messed up, they laughed at my frustrations, or guided me gently along the right path. Their knowledge and lessons, a gift.

We come home and I curl up on my big old couch and nurse a cup of tea, with my feet comfortably tucked into my husband's lap. The kids are playing with mermaids in the bathtub, and the television is dark. We chat about the day. He reminds me of his belief in true happiness being found in the small details of every day. Years ago, he tried to convince me of this, but I just didn't get it. He told me ten years ago that his happiness depended more on the tiny details of every day, like what he would have for lunch, or with whom, rather than having a million dollars in the bank.
I understand that now. But I am now in a position to understand it. Now, I can see that sipping tea on a couch with someone I love and trust makes me so much happier than would sitting in a mansion, opposite a man who doesn't speak to me nicely in public.
It makes me happier knowing the names of the mermaids in the watery mermaid house, than it would having a nanny fish my girls out of the tub when they become prunes.
One day I will savor the memory of a hot morning breath peering into my face at 7am to see if I am awake and ready to hear a new composition on her tinny xylophone.

The thing is, it is easier to focus on the small things that bring lasting happiness when the really big things are already taken care of. Sure, a cup of coffee with a cherished friend who really cares about the minute details of your life makes you feel fabulous and loved and relevant. But this will only happen if you aren't fretting about the big stuff. And that would be - objectively having enough. Enough money to pay your rent or mortgage, enough food for the month, enough people in your life. It is the fine tuning of these basic things that bring us happiness. Friends that feed your energy, not take from it all the time. A job that is rewarding, not just financially viable. But many ordinary people have to struggle for these basic, big things. I guess it would easy to suggest to them to focus on the little pleasures they already have, and I'm sure many of them do try to. But understand how hard this may be when the big things are looming over your head.
So sure, the little things matter, but boy it helps if the big things are already in place. Personally, I love cliches. They are repeated for good reason. Yes, health is the most important thing in life, every cloud has a silver lining, and just putting lipstick on a pig, does not make it anything other than a pig.

Money doesn't buy happiness, but really, enough to cover the basics gives us the breathing space to make the small choices that make life a feast.

Laduma!

2008-08-30T21:21:00.000-07:00

Summer has worn herself out. The party is over, and the kids are back at school.

But what a grand summer we have had this year. My girls overdosed on the luxuries of not having to get up to a hectic schedule every day and had enough time for dreaming, sleeping, reading and playing their music. They also spent their summer perfecting their dolphin kicks and cannon-balls. The weather has been glorious with a typical wind-free balmy and dry season. We ended up going to movies only once and watched almost no Netflix movies and television. We went to Monterey, the Children's Discovery museum, and listened to the San Francisco Symphony play for free in the park. Sarah composed her first violin piece, and Jenna patiently practiced her new Classical guitar moves. Naturally we all still sighed, and some stomped off in a huff when we tried to play ensemble pieces. Hmmmmm -- we have a ways to go, as the Americans say!

I am not a huge sports fan, but the Olympics were intriguing. Mostly, I read about it in the paper. Last Sunday morning when Master Phelps was on the front page, I said to Henk it is surprising to me that such a national sports hero doesn't have a fabulous nickname. If he had been South African, he would not have got off so lightly. Oh, no.

He would have been rechristened something suitable. No formal Namby Pamby Michael Phelps would be heard or written about. So I thought, let's check out Wikipedia for possible nicknames. Blank. Then I googled the question. Well, I found one page that asked for suggestions, but had no responses. Some radio show ran a competition online and got one entry which was declared the winner -- the Phelpinator. Seriously lame, people.
Apparently the Chinese call him "The flying Fish" in Chinese, which is terribly cute and witty if you are, or understand Chinese. Kudos to you guys.
If he had won so many gold medals for South Africa, he would never forget it. His nickname would be chanted at meets, it would be yelled in greeting every time he passed a stranger.
As a multicultural nation, we are fond of nicknames, and of course the African languages, of which we have nine, lend themselves beautifully to fun and quirky names.

South Africa is gearing up to host the finals of the Soccer World Cup in 2010. The soccer world will experience Cup Final Soccer ala African style for the first time ever, they say. It will be the first time in its history that an African nation hosts this big sporting event. If you are there, or watch the game, here are a few pointers.
Our team is called "Bafana Bafana". Go ahead and say it. Fun to say, isn't it?! It means "The Boys The Boys". And my personal favorite: "Laduuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuma!"Literally means goal. But with much more panache, I think.
You will hear the loud elephant trumpeting of the fans. These are plastic horns that bellow like Buffalo and are easy and fun to use, making every grown-up feel like a kid again. Go ahead and buy your own Vuvuzela for the game. Fellow fans will eventually give in and ask to have a go on your "Voove" as they're known locally. Be a sport and lend your voove to the guy. Originally, they were Kudu horns, used to summon African villages to meetings, but before long they were so popular at Soccer games, that one enterprising company mass produced them in cheap plastic and a cultural phenomenon was born.

You will hear names like Sibusiso Zuma aka "Zuma the Puma";Phil Masinga aka "Chippa"; and my personal favorite, Mr John "Shoes" Moshoeu. When he gets the ball and zips along the field the crowd roars "Shoe-oes"; Shoe-oes!". Men and women finally united in a love for shoes. Nirvana. So I am holding out for the day that we get to host the Olympics, and give some African nicknames to the American stars. Think Brangelina is unique? Just wait.
Oh, and I forgot to mention the under 23 national soccer team, the "Amaglug- glug". Sponsored by a large petroleum company, of course. Get it?

Free Washing Machines

2008-08-13T22:05:00.000-07:00

This morning I was listening to a convoluted discussion about America's Health Care System.
Messers McCain and Obama are both making big promises to remove the fear of not having a trained medical professional save your life when you or someone in your family gets horribly sick.
Over here, we are all familiar with the pitfalls and expenses of the health care system. The only truly interesting part of the discussion was not the promises of free services, tax breaks and health care for all, but rather the fact that someone mentioned that although the health care system is significantly worse than 16 years ago, the Democrats and Republicans offered exactly the same solutions then as they do in this run-up to the election. Hmm --- smacks of free washing machines.

When South Africa heralded its democracy in 1994, it was obliged to do so with the industry of good old politicians. Of all descriptions and ethical tendencies.

Occasionally, as a junior member of staff, I was summoned to deal with the awkward delegations who had arrived at the Houses of Parliament for their washing machines.

These were rural people. Usually elderly, wrapped in blankets, the harsh poverty of their lives carved into their faces in jagged lines. They were almost always quiet and dignified, and definitely more than patient. They arrived and waited. They stood quietly to one side and waited and waited. Everyone around them got uncomfortable.
A junior staff member was sent to speak with them.

I learned they had spent all their money to take a bus to the Capitol. They had arrived without money, food or anywhere to stay. They arrived, trusting their leader whom they believed in completely, would care for them, make good on the promises of food, jobs, health care and schooling, and -- give each one of them a free washing machine. Honestly, I have never seen people so set on not leaving without this promised luxury.
At first I had been incredulous and a bit amused. These people live in huts without running water, not to mention electricity. Then, it was just sad that they had been duped.
I knew the politicians they were waiting for. Their childlike expectations humbled me and made me angry that they had been manipulated in this manner on the rural campaign trail.
But it was not my place to do anything about it. I tried my best to get food and accommodation for these people and hoped for the actions of ethical elected leaders.
Sometimes, the government paid to send them home -- but naturally there was never any sign of a washing machine.

This played out a few times that year. It always ended the same, and I guess word eventually spread of the phantom washing machines. They stopped coming.
But I have retained my nose for free washing machines. If it sounds too good, it is. If a politician promises you something that seems impossible, it certainly is.
And if a politician takes advantage of a weaker person, there should be outrage and vocal opposition. The weak in our society must be protected by the ordinary, strong, educated and healthy adults who have the responsibility to dictate to our leaders how our personal world will be governed.

Barbara.

2008-08-02T11:15:00.000-07:00

I met Barbara one Saturday sunset at the most desirable place to be in Cape Town at this time of day in summer.

La Med was, and may more than likely still be, a great place to have a cold sundowner with a bit of kick, and a tasty seafood snack. You could depend on live music wafting to the airy tables outdoors, a spectacular view of the sun setting over the ocean, and a high probability of bumping into people you know, like and may even care about.

Barbara, a petite, blond, tanned, and blue-eyed German girl was a friendly cocktail waitress who brought our gin-and-tonics, and lingered to chat. When we revealed ourselves to be a bunch of bar and nightclub workers, she charged us only for the alcohol, not the soft drinks, and removed the cover charge from our bill.
Although new to the job, she had quickly learned we were all part of a unspoken club that granted each other favors and special privileges on the infrequent nights we were not working long, hard hours serving revelers to pay our bills.

We stayed until dark, and reluctantly left when the party was ratcheting up for the raucous evening groove. We had clothes to change, comfortable shoes to pull on and floats to count. I waved goodbye, and told her to come by my place of work after her shift for a drink - I would put her on my staff guest list, and the bouncer would wave her in and usher her to the depths of the VIP lounge, a privilege for which social wannabes vied.

She appeared at midnight, her boyfriend, Mike, accompanying her. He was also blond, blue-eyed, sunburned with a very wide smile, and a heavy German accent. They were charming. They were traveling the country together, and had decided to spend some extra time in Cape Town in the summer.

A few days later, she called me early in the morning and asked whether I wished to explore the city with her. It sounded like fun, and I arranged to pick her up in my battered light yellow VW Jetta, which made up in attitude for what it lacked in youth and vigor.

We drove up cobbled, forgotten back streets of Cape Town City, unfashionable and seemingly ordinary. We walked for miles. Up rickety staircases careening up impossibly steep hillsides, and into garishly painted tiny corner cafes which sold spicy, deep fried snacks I was sure were going to poison us.
We sat on an old church wall, and ate ice-cream while talking about unimportant things, and watching the passing lives scuttle by.

Barbara had an incredible eye for minute detail, pointing out quietly ornate architecture made mute in the noisy city. She noticed absurd behavior in people, parents blindfolded by rushing, children protesting the pace and more aware than their protectors. We pulled faces at toddlers, who returned them more ghoulishly with glee and enthusiasm. We bought dates in a paper bag and spat the stones out under a tree in the empty botanical rose garden. It buzzed with insects, and the heavy scent of a thousand roses in full bloom made talk unnecessary. We had a good day.

Barbara told me stories of her travels. She and Mike hailed from a small, conservative town in Germany. She had yearned for the hodge-podge of cultures, colors and tongues of Africa, and the two of them had packed their rucksacks, pooled their savings and landed up in South Africa. They also arrived armed with legitimate, big-rig eighteen wheeler truck driving licenses. They had transported paper plates and plastic cups from coast to coast, industrial printing paper and printing press ink from North to South. They drove the country's vast landscape in the slow trucker's lane, with the truckers' radio and each other for company. They took breaks at friendly truck stops, and bought snacks and supplies at approved rest areas on the company's expense account. On long trips, they curled up tightly for the night in the big-rig's little sleeping cab, their big truck dark and still under some trees in the pitch black of the empty, long highways far from town. She said she heard the soul of the earth in those nights. And the safe voice of a dispatcher was just one button-click away.

She and Mike remained in Cape Town for the summer, and when the weather cooled, they packed their rucksacks, kissed us all goodbye, and bought air tickets to Kenya with their trucking wages. A small German girl had changed my perception of Cape Town forever -- and of course, of truckers.

Happy Birthday, Madiba!

2008-07-19T12:12:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, Nelson Mandela woke up and remembered that on this day, he was 90 years old.

Eighty-plus years ago, he was just a black kid in a racist country who lived in a small rural village that no-one had even heard of. He never looked special, really. Just regular, not too big, not too small, no distinguishing marks or features.

Yet this ordinary kid changed the world as we know it.

He fought for noble ideals, making enormous personal sacrifices. And he succeeded greatly. He won the Nobel Peace prize, and was on the cover of Time magazine five times, and all because he turned a major African country about-face from oppression to democracy with skill, love and genius. Everyone has heard of him. So, whenever I see his face gracing the cover of a newspaper or magazine, I search for the story written with cynicism, complete objectivity, and a little pessimism. As we all know, everyone has their supporters and their opponents, their champions and their naysayers. Well, I'm still looking.

Madiba Magic I guess, or perhaps just the presence of a great soul that no-one with honesty and journalistic integrity can deny.

This week I ripped out the Mandela pages from the Time that shows up in my mailbox every week.
Madiba is graciously photographed, radiating calm, self assurance, and the kind of dignity I strive to have one day. The accompanying article sets out to be objective, analytical, written by a seasoned senior editor, who worked with Mandela on his biography, A Long Road to Freedom. His love for this great man begins to peek through from the beginning, and by the end, is undeniable. Another life touched, it seems.

All around the country, there are celebrations, even a big party in England. There are websites. www.happybirthdaymandela.com. where 30 000 people from Tanzania, amongst others from every corner of the earth, wished him well personally. Celebrities, politicians, important folk. And housewives, bakers, electricians, teachers, bus drivers and children. Imagine that.
Take a look at the messages. They will move you. And hopefully, inspire you.

Inspiration for ordinary people, from ordinary towns, with ordinary families and ordinary lives.

Seems like ordinary has the potential to change the world, as we know it.

The Breakfast Meeting.

2008-07-13T15:29:00.000-07:00

My empty stomach dropped as I stared fixedly at the electronic red numbers counting down in the darkly lit and heavily insulated hotel elevator. It plummeted soundlessly from the sixty second floor down to zero.
The doors hummed shut on a steady sixty two, and then the numbers spun faster and faster until, seemingly giving up, and showing fifty five, forty two, thirty, twenty, eleven, nine, five, four, three, two, one and ping, the ground level.
I took a steadying breath and stepped out, adjusting to the hive of activity before me.

I glanced around the unfamiliar palatial lobby of this grand hotel in Georgia.
I did not consciously acknowledge the complicated, heavy chandeliers, Elton John-style flower arrangements, marble and velvet surroundings. Traditional super-luxuries designed to pamper the affluent Southern visitors.
I found my bearings, and headed for the morning dining room, tinkling with teacups, tiny silver spoons and murmured conversations. The smell of black coffee permeated the air, and made me feel unexpectedly optimistic. An inappropriate emotion, I thought, as I was meeting with a senior, black female member of parliament who refrained from even pretending to like me. My directive was to help her in most any way she needed me to on this particular trip abroad. This delegation of dignitaries from South Africa had set out on a study trip to parts of the United States, and wished to get a first world perspective on a number of similar issues arising at home.

She had married a prominent man of the people.
He was a folk hero, a soldier, a fighter, a charismatic leader.
He championed the poor, exploited, and most of all, the oppressed.
He was loved, and like most enduring folk icons, died young, violently and unjustly.
No-one had really heard of her.
She had three children, and carried an impressive last name on her shoulders. In the new regime, someone gave her a job. Quite a good one, actually. Perhaps she had fought in the back trenches, like most women. Perhaps her sacrifices, and fight for the struggle had merely gone unnoticed and unheralded. Maybe she had given it her all. I did not know.

I did know that I more than likely epitomized everything she had fought against, considered unjust, cruel, and oppressive.
I was young, blond, looked educated, and as though I had not struggled a day in my life. My notorious family name had been a pillar of apartheid, and had to be uttered when one was being either formal or unfriendly. And that was just at first glance.

I saw her sitting alone in a corner of the huge dining room, a generic coffee cup placed to one side and the hand written menu ignored. She peered closely at a notebook in front of her, and frowned in concentration. She sensed my recognition across the room and looked up at me in irritation. Her eyes narrowed as I approached.

I mentally thickened my pale skin, placed an objective, professional smile squarely on my face, and sat down opposite her when she gestured that I should sit down. We had both already decided to keep this meeting efficient so that it could be short.
She began running through her notebook page of key words, and sharply added pointed instructions as she listed her litany of directions for me for the week. I took notes, my neutral expression reflecting no surprise or disbelief when she demanded something unreasonable.

She spoke urgently, with unnecessary emphasis. Her conservative white blouse was buttoned up to the top, and her ethnic hair pulled back tightly into a small, wiry bun at the nape of her neck. It looked like she had resigned herself to a bad hair day. Her severe hairstyle emphasized her wide forehead, unplucked brows, and unexpected narrow mouth. The overall effect was vulnerable, unsophisticated and disconcerting. She wore no jewelery.

I put down my pencil, sat back in my plush chair and wished for more courage in a coffee cup. My fairy materialized, wearing a traditional waitress uniform and brandishing a heavy silver coffee pot like a regal hostess. She smiled at my grateful anticipation as I met her gaze, and wordlessly poured a steady stream of coffee into my cup.
My boss was still talking quickly, reiterating instructions I had already mentally planned and arranged.
The waitress stepped back, and I noticed her elaborately braided African-American hairdo. It hung down her broad back in ropes of colorful beads and stiff, straightened artificial curls. She boasted a womanly cleavage which looked as though it smelt warm and inviting. Her face was buffed and smooth, and her brows dramatically arched and delicate. Her face bloomed when she smiled. She was beautifully chocolaty.

"Where are y'all from?" she asked loudly and confidently. Perhaps our accents had intrigued her. I deferred to my boss, and did not respond immediately. She stopped mid sentence, looked up at the waitress for the first time, and replied with quiet venom.
"That is none of your business."

The waitress gaped like a plump goldfish, turned quickly and threaded her way quietly through the white linened tables. I was surprised and embarrassed. I felt my growing indignation flush my cheeks and I focussed on ending the meeting as soon as possible.
I was not hungry.

I wondered if I had identified more with the waitress than she had.

I left shortly thereafter, and began my day. In parting, my boss mentioned that she had a hair appointment first thing that morning, and would not be available for a few hours. She was off to the best African-American hair salon in Atlanta, Georgia for a new 'do.

Freedom or Exploitation?

2008-07-06T11:42:00.000-07:00

Two of the largest Internet Service Providers in the world, Verizon and Time Warner Cable have joined forces with Sprint, another giant wireless company in the United States, to eliminate access and storage of child pornography online.
They are putting aside their compulsive competitiveness, and have committed money and resources to stamping out the exploitation of our most fragile members of society.

It's a bold move, and over here, it's a first.

Whilst everyone publicly applauds this idea, I am always intrigued by the dissenters, the ones who protest for the protection of freedoms and other notions of this ilk.
Their fear of sounding like perverts is overwhelmed by their fear of losing some fundamental rights to expression, movement and speech.
To most of us, these are abstract ideas and don't pack a punch like explicit child pornography which makes every mother gasp with anxiety and horror, no matter how liberal or worldly.

In 1995, the South African Parliament tabled a bill that changed the regulation and definition of pornography in the New South Africa. It all began with a few controlling boards and bodies in the old apartheid days that needed to be reinvented and redesigned, and made fit and suitable for a spanking new democracy.
The Film and Publications Amendment Bill was born, and seeing that in this ideal new world every person could have their say, public hearings were arranged at parliament so that all interested parties could air their point of view and concerns.

The whole shebang became my first bill to guide through the entire parliamentary process.

Political party members huddled behind closed doors and discussed possible amendments and party policies.
Secret and meaningful glances and notes were exchanged in passages before our Committee met solemnly in dark, teak-and-leather boardrooms. The chairperson heading this group of serious politicians spoke with calm authority and suitable officiousness at all of these preliminary meetings. Political parties were asked to consider all input and submissions carefully, and to draft amendments to the old Act in a timely manner. Procedures, rules, regulations and guidelines were carefully covered and documented.

As for me, Mr Chairman confidently handed me all his correspondence, schedules and assorted documents, and made it all my problem with one winning smile. I was to schedule the public hearings, press releases, meetings, deliberations and all the logistics that were required for these. It was a public hot potato, but he knew I was up for the job he said.

My name and number was published as the contact person for all inquiries and information. Boy, oh boy. The smart man had shifted all the hoopla onto my unsuspecting shoulders, whilst the members of parliament prepared in earnest for this bill.

I got a nice big office with a lot of space and started collecting public opinion.
You can only imagine the volume of calls, faxes, petitions, letters, mail, and surprising office visits that came my way.

I scheduled an entire week of public hearings before the parliamentary committee.
Citizens literally got fifteen minutes of fame, and both left and right, conservative and liberal, jostled equally for the limelight.
I think I may have seen and heard it all that month.

Ultra conservative religious groups sent petitions and hand delivered them with vitriolic zealousness that was at times quite frightening. These pale men and women stood around in the hall outside my office peering anxiously over piles of documents and papers, nervously worried that they may inadvertently spot some real pornography and have to loosen their skinny ties. Their sour fear was awkward in the carpeted passages of our bustling, multi colored New South Africa government buildings. Nevertheless, they got a spot to say their say. So too the local artist who brought large examples of her erotic art into my office one busy Thursday afternoon.

For weeks I answered what seemed like hundreds of calls a day. Each one, carefully planned by the caller to achieve maximum satisfaction. I heard verbosely angry, businesslike calm, emotionally wretched, esoterically nonsensical, religiously outraged, friendly, flattering and cajoling.
There were religious groups of all persuasions, performance artists, the gay community in its many forms, Hustler and Playboy magazine dudes, prisoners, and many extremely odd people.
Every one of them had a point of view, opinion and a strong yen to state their case.

They sat all day and waited for their number to come up during the hearings. I herded them in and out, took their notes, tried to calm their nerves and strong emotions and once even frog marched a tiny man off the stage who inappropriately dissolved into a tirade after his fifteen minutes were up.

Democracy in action. The chairperson always in control, running the show and asking relevant questions. Astonishing mounds of information and opinions. And always, an outstanding lunch served at noon. I quickly learned that this was essential for goodwill, progress and general happiness. I skimped on other things to stay on budget but made sure there was extra dessert.

Amendments were drafted, negotiated and voted upon. A new Bill was submitted to the Houses of Parliament and adopted.
The new Film and Publications Act kicked in in 1996.
Many people don't like it. They say that it infringes on freedoms of speech, expression and movement.
But it distinctly bans child pornography and protects the vulnerable members of our society, and for that, every South African mother, black or white, liberal or conservative, is grateful.

Happy Birthday, Jenna.

2008-06-25T14:22:00.000-07:00

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.

Masonto.

2008-06-19T18:22:00.000-07:00

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?

What a day for a Wedding.

2008-06-17T17:06:00.001-07:00

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.

It Is How We Show Our Love.

2008-06-16T23:30:00.000-07:00

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.

The Common Good.

2008-06-12T16:36:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-06-04T14:59:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-05-25T09:11:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-05-13T20:35:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-05-01T21:09:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-04-21T21:16:00.000-07:00

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

2008-04-06T15:26:00.000-07:00

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?

Kind People

2008-03-29T15:05:00.000-07:00

I have known many, many people in my life -- but I am sure that I could probably name the genuinely kind people I have known.
I think kindness is a horribly underrated quality in society.
Cleverness is admired, wealth-building skills coveted or envied, charm blushingly enjoyed by most women, and confidence respected.

But kindness is the realm of the truly great.

To be kind, you literally have to put yourself in someone else's shoes, put their interests before yours, and then think and act with compassion. That is a whole lot of hard quality steps all strung in a row. Most people can usually manage one or two of those steps at a time. As people we always truly appreciate a kindness, but it is never heralded as heroic or never ends up as a headline.
Yet it is the vital backbone of the essence of human magnificence, but is usually quiet and yet honestly makes a difference.

I doubt anyone ever really forgets a genuine kindness. The actions are generally small, may not be life changing in practical terms, but to the recipient's spirit it shouts out love, life, hope, and a belief in greatness.

Respect the kind people in your world -- life may not send you that many of them. Say thank you, tell them you love them in your own way, and try to be great every now and then and rise up above yourself, and what the heck, be an unheralded hero.

(Musing dedicated to the kindest person I have ever known, Henk.)
xxx

My Friend John.

2008-03-26T20:40:00.001-07:00

A few years ago, My Friend John was murdered in his hotel room in Johannesburg.

He was on a business trip, had recently started working for his dad, and after celebrating the birth of his brand new niece, had gone to Joburg to pay some staff and contractors. He had gone to the bank, drawn money for pay packets, and John and the briefcase had been followed back to his hotel room. He was smothered with a Holiday Inn pillow, and the briefcase vanished. Everyone was shocked, but no-one knew anything. He was 33. And that was that.

But My Friend John had been extraordinary to me.
I met him one bleary-eyed morning, after a grueling Saturday night shift at a trendy nightclub in Cape Town where I worked weekend nights, in a chi-chi bar to pay the rent for my tiny one bedroom apartment in the City. John was a "night worker" too -- he tended bar around the corner, and rented a room in a large commune in the city, along with a collection of transient night service staff that kept Cape Town buzzing after dark.

We were chatting in the ramshackle living room, hyped on coffee, fatigue, and the remnants of pumping music and the revelry of others. The first time I saw John, he was in his underwear, but greeted a room full of strangers with a grin, completely at ease.
I knew I would like him.

We became friends. We went places, on our nights off.
He would show up at my apartment in a borrowed tux, make me put on a showy dress, and we would drive to the fanciest, most exclusive hotels in the City. At the gates, John would emphatically speak an earnest gibberish, vaguely Italian, to confuse the liveried guards into letting us into the exclusive grounds.
Somehow, it always worked and we would sweep into majestic clubs and hideaways for the rich and famous. There we would drink, dance and befriend some of the legitimate guests. The party would begin, and the evening would be boisterous and giddily fun. John could twirl a girl like no-one else I have ever met.

Some days he would show up with a six pack of beer and a bag of trashy novels. We would lie in the heat on my apartment balcony, drink beer and read until our heads hurt.
We would swap bar stories. He always liked my new boyfriends before they had proven they were worthwhile. He frequently dated interesting, hysterical women. He called me "Sista" and meant it. He lubricated my broken heart with tequila when my boyfriend du jour left the country, and carried me home, holding my discarded shoes when the tequila smacked me between the eyes. He made me chili scrambled eggs for breakfast.
He didn't care what I looked like. He only cared that I was happy.

We took care of each other. I, alone in a city and self supporting at 22. John, alone and self supporting at 22. We grabbed life firmly and lived with passion. Once he took my wide-eyed adolescent baby brother to a wild New Year's Eve bash, winking at me as he carefully slipped a few condoms in Francois' party shirt pocket. They returned in the early hours, grinning, condom wrappers still in place.

We got older, established serious relationships and careers. There was no longer place for our pure non-judgmental friendship in our new worlds. Try explaining it to a really significant other. The euphoria and bravado of youth had passed.

And then the article in the paper. Really brief. I made some calls and only heard confusion and pain. No answers. But I dream of My Friend John. He is alive and vibrant and laughing, and when I wake up I can honestly say that I feel that I have seen him again and can feel his bear hug comfort.

Shock and Awe

2008-03-20T20:46:00.000-07:00

Shock and Awe -- the first things I saw when I opened my eyes in the maternity ward five years ago. Remember the dramatic banner at the bottom of the CNN broadcast on that day... I was certainly in shock and awe. A tiny little blonde girl had emerged from my resisting body, radiating peace and life.

And from then on, I have measured out the days of the war in spoons of mother love.
The first year of exciting drama -- sleeplessness and strangeness and everything new. The twenty four hour news coverage of the war the backdrop to the chaos and demands of a brand new life. Both all consuming and riveting.

The first birthday - my sense of accomplishment welled up in my chest, surrounded by a ballooning marshmallow of love that followed the chubby, beaming baby as she swatted the candles on her first cake. Mothers gathered nearby with candles lit, their anger covering the panic and rising fear that was squeezing their marshmallow of love for their children so far away.

I watched my two-year-old -- exhausted, optimistic and delighted in her serenity and purity.
Other mothers watched news broadcasts obsessively, terrified of seeing their babies, but compelled to watch and falling into a year of exhaustion, optimism and crushing fear.

It is our third year and we are all tired. Media fatigue, mommy fatigue. Mothers feel as though all we ever say is No No No and no-one listens. We are the voices of reason in the background. Play fair, don't hit people, don't take what is not yours, share...

Sarah is four and drawing, swinging, and I am on the ground looking at the sunlight through the giant trees overhead as she sings to me and points out the wander of leaves in the breeze. Another mother, and another, drops to her knees at her front door as the uniformed officers stand awkwardly in the bright breezy sunlight and her fierce love for her child cracks her in half.
Different mothers, same love.

Yesterday Sarah was five. We mothers scoop out our spoonfuls of love into our children every day. Yesterday that love showed itself as strong, independent, beautiful, smart and serene. I thought of the moms who wondered where their spoonfuls were going.

Raspberry Sparletta

2008-03-09T14:40:00.000-07:00

The large crowd crammed into the bare room and sitting on the cement floor, was quiet.
The horse flies were buzzing, and the air was thick with heat and anticipation.

We were sitting on cheap wooden chairs at metal trestle tables, and a Senator was listening intently to an elderly gentleman slowly explaining how difficult it was for him to walk the nine kilometers to the rural clinic.

We were on a fact finding mission, six Senators and I, in the depths of the Transkei, where there were few paved roads, little running water, and many tiny rural villages and mud huts, connected by cattle paths and dusty bicycle tracks. The tiny clinic where everyone had gathered on this day serviced thousands of people, and had no decent plumbing, electricity or even rudimentary medical facilities. We were here to listen, observe, ask questions, make recommendations and to ultimately welcome these people to the New South Africa where all were equal, and health care was no longer a privilege for the wealthy or white.

The oppressive heat was not acknowledged by the soft women wrapped in colorful blankets, rocking silently as they patiently waited for their turn to speak -- many of them with tiny babies tucked into the folds of their makeshift nests. I scanned the room as I paused between pencil scrawls in my notebook.
I looked at the faces for any signs that anyone had noticed that I was the only white person in the room. No-one seemed to care. No-one was paying any attention to me. The adults were focussed on the discussion, hope of a better future enlivening their eyes. The silent, skinny children had all fixed their saucer-eyes on a white plastic tray which had been placed on the corner of a trestle table.
It bore a cluster of thick plastic glasses and an ice-cold, frosted, one liter glass bottle of Raspberry Sparletta.

The children were transfixed. Their wanting was palpable, as they subconsciously licked their dusty lips and swallowed dryly. I visualized their pleasure in having a swallow of the raspberry red bubbly soda, recalling simultaneously that we had some warm bottled water in the government van we had traveled in for this community meeting. We would no doubt settle for this on our way back to our lovely hotel in an hour.

Our schedule was pressing, and our time was up. Respects were paid, and thanks extended. One of our hosts graciously gestured to the icy refreshments when chairs began scraping backwards, and tight Senatorial ties were being surreptitiously loosened.
The adult villagers began gathering themselves. The children did not move.

A Senator smiling in anticipation, unscrewed the cap with a hiss, and carefully poured out the soda equally. Glasses were quickly passed down the table, and sugary soda gulped with pleasure and relief. The barefoot children vanished with fleeting resignation, as I watched in surprise.

Puzzled, I looked at my Senators and noticed that of course, they had been - and still were in some way - those dusty children.

The Floating Prison

2008-03-05T20:53:00.000-08:00

I was half-watching one of those typical submarine movies, with the snappily dressed sailor actors clipping out their nautical lines to each other -- the incessant blip-blip sound in the background lest you forget they are meant to be in a submarine.
I was actually looking at the grey painted metallic equipment and fixtures, and remembering the day I truly felt I had experienced what it would be like to be in the bottom of an empty oil can.

I was on a study trip with a mottled bunch of Parliamentarians, who had arranged a tour of a floating prison a few miles off the coast of New York City. Well, I had arranged it in my capacity as coordinator, secretary and anything - else - they - needed person for this widely representative delegation from the National Committee of Correctional Services.
Someone, in his wisdom, had decided that this may indeed be an option or solution to South Africa's growing prison population, despite the fact that this floating prison was vacant, and was vaguely dismissed by our American hosts as a failed experiment.

Nevertheless, my team was adamant and enthusiastic.
We were duly collected by a squat correctional services vehicle, zigzagged across the city, and deposited on a ferry to the ship. Apparently, this enormous ship had been used as a maximum security prison, and had moved from place to place. More than this was difficult to ascertain. Our hosts were certainly perplexed by our visit, vague in their replies, but polite and overtly enthusiastic about lunch that would be served on the ship.

First, the tour.
It was all gray metal, firmly welded in place. It smelt oily, dead, and very empty.
Oddly enough, everything was spotless. The stainless steel surfaces gleamed and the air was clear and dust-free. We rattled through the bowels of the ship, carefully noting the gates, bars, tiny portholes, and gray, gray, gray.
Our awkward hosts could not seem to tell us why the project had failed, what had happened, who had been outraged by this notion, who had escaped or died. Nothing. Only carefully chosen empty, political words, bandied between two teams of professionals.

And then the much hyped meal. The smiling American team shuffled along gray metal benches, facing the black, white and brown faces of the newly minted members of Parliament. Colorful plates of Southern food appeared and it was good. I had not seen a kitchen pan heating up for frying, heard or smelt any cooking. So, I put on a polite face and ate with grace.

The trip back to Manhattan was brisk and efficient. I wrote a brief report, and it seems that the concept fizzled.
I never heard it mentioned in those corridors again, yet I distinctly remember walking around in the bottom of an empty oil can --particularly when there's nothing on but complicated war movies, late on a Tuesday evening.

My two moms prepare dinner on a typical summer's evening.

2008-03-02T21:51:00.000-08:00

Somblugu ambles up the driveway with a plastic bag tucked into her apron pocket. The sun is setting orange on a tropical afternoon, and I am six, seven, eight, nine, ten and waiting for her to call me to come along.
She sing-songs my name, and I run and clutch her dark brown, warm hand as we slowly walk up the hill to the field behind the new preschool and cookie-cutter housing development homes, glistening pink with new paint in the growing suburb. She hums rhythmically as we run our fingers through the long leaves in the waving grasses and weeds, searching for wild spinach and snapping the stems off. We slowly fill the plastic bag. I wander off and lie down in the grass, staring at the sky, inhaling the grassy heat, buzzing traffic and the gentle zulu song.
Then we head home, greeting all the neighborhood servants walking, sitting under trees, and heading to the bus stop.
Somblugu smiles and tells me we have picked a feast of greens. A little chili, potatoes, and the smell of a kerosene stove as the supper pot sizzles.

I head inside and look for my mother in her bedroom at dusk.
She is sitting at her dressing table, combing her glossy hair, frowning, and carefully paints on a coat of bright red lipstick. She squints at her reflection, sighs, and signals with a look of resignation that my bouncy arrival in her bedroom means it is almost dinner time. She gets up, picks up her wine glass and wafts upstairs to the kitchen. She peaks into the fridge to check that the salad is cling-wrapped and ready, dumps another ice cube into her wine glass, tops up the white wine, and heads into the living room to flip through a magazine and listen to the birds beyond the french doors congregating in the tropical trees.
She waits for her husband to arrive, and for her children to become impatient.

Nelson's takkies. (Sneakers)

2008-02-27T21:00:00.000-08:00

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

They are for Nelson.

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

And runs like the wind.

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

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

Once the damage is done, it is done.

2008-02-26T09:40:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The day Nelson Mandela dies...

2008-02-25T13:48:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

The beginning of something....

2008-02-24T10:35:00.000-08:00

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

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