On sadness, joy and closure

A year ago today my family suffered the tragic loss of my dear brother-in-law, Malcolm Jacky Brown. Perhaps because I ran out of words to explain my terrible sadness, I wrote three short poems. 

Sadness

Sadness is an emptiness

you cannot fill with fun

a pain that is birthed 

by a desperate idea 

of nothingness

Joy

Joy rolls in at high tide

crashing into white

erasing the writing on the sand

making a clean sweep of yesterday's rubble

from before

to once again

Closure

Clouds covering the sun

ending the play of a summer day

packing up the memories in a basket

vowing to return

knowing you really never will

Malcolm Jacky Brown

1965-2012

She is someone's daughter

Perhaps it is because I am a teacher and a mother and a woman that was once a girl, that I see every girl-child as my own. I feel proud of every girl's accomplishment. I want to shield every one of them from the folly of youth and the apathy of adulthood. In Cinderella, I am the fairy god-mother. In Snow White, one of the benevolent dwarfs. In Sleeping Beauty, I am the good witch. In the Wizard of Oz, I am the house that falls on the Wicked Witch of the West. At work, I do my best to educate our girl-children and, every now and then, I watch the media and see other people's children make a mess of things and wish I could wave a magic wand and make it right. There are girls with a magical talent that makes them shine and then crushes them under the weight of fame, like the Sea Witch from the Little mermaid, stealing Ariel's voice and leaving her ordinary and lonely.

I am shocked by what I see and even get a little judgmental. But then I remember, we're all someone's daughter. Someone held that little girl in their arms and wished for her all the good things in life. Then their wish was granted, and their pretty young thing became a star. Loved by many one day and ridiculed the next,
she remains their little girl.

At 19, I was that girl. I guess I would have done anything for attention and a spot in the limelight. Reality grounded me. God saved me. Education taught me. Love rescued me. Life was kind to me. I survived my youth unscathed. So when I look at that little girl, gyrating her hips and embarrassing herself on such a grand scale, all i can think of is that someone or Someone is waiting for her to come home. And when she does, I hope we will all have the grace to forgive and recognize in her beautiful voice the gift that she is to the world.

Abigail and I love listening to songs on the radio. She knows more of them than I do, now, but we each have our favourites. When our song comes up, we dance in the car like it's nobody's business and we sing, loud enough to drown out the traffic. Mylie's "We can't stop" is such a catchy, cool pop song, that at first I missed the vulgarity. The line that made Abigail stop and listen was "We can do what we want to".

"Is that true?" she asked.

"Wh..a...t?" I screamed out of breath and struggling to hear (the music was so loud).

"Can we do what we want to?"

I turned the music down. Well, I answered, I can just stop the car, get out of the van, turn up the volume and dance in the street. You CANT. I can. Mom, YOU CAN'T. That would be SO embarrassing. But I can do what I want to. You can't. So you just answered the question.

Mylie Cyrus when she was 8,
Abigail's age

Sometimes, children figure it out. Sometimes, they need our guidance. They always need our love. They always need grace.

I hope we can extend that grace to someone else's daughter.

A tale of two trees

My parents were born in Sicily, South of Italy, in the 1930's, blissfully unaware of the world at war around them until they were a little older.

Tell-tale photos of my dad at four years old reveal a skinny boy sporting the obligatory black shirt of the fascists and outstretched arm salute.

My mother, the youngest of eight in a  blended family, radiates innocence and beauty in her long blonde curls and piercing green eyes.

He worked harder in his dad's successful asbestos sanitary-ware factory than at school.  She was the only girl in her class at school, bright and bold.

His dream was to be a great artist. Hers was to fly airoplanes. He became an accountant.  She was the first woman in her family who chose a career outside the home, in banking.

They were friends for many years before their respective dads died. This shared tragedy brought then together and they were married in 1963 on a hill in picturesque Taormina, Sicily,  in a church carved out of a rock face. She was 27. He was 32.

They moved North to Milan, where I was born (my sister followed 13 months later) and then to Pavia, for the same reasons people move from Cape Town to Johannesburg - opportunity. He became an insurance inspector. She gave up a promising career to raise me and my sister.

In 1974 they boarded a passenger ship in Genova called the Lloyd Triestino and made their way to South Africa. It seemed like a good idea at the time but, in reality, tragedy awaited them. After two weeks in the foreign land dad was incapacitated in a horrible car accident that nearly took his life.  He lost his business and was unable to work for almost a year.  Mom headed for familiar territory: banking. A year later our beloved aunt who had made the trip with us suffered a brain hemorrhage and died.  She was 28 years old. It devastated our family, my mother in particular.

Dad went to work at the Alfa Romeo where I believed he had the most glamorous job in the world.  We regularly enjoyed the luxury of gorgeous company cars in sleek Italian designs. When the Alfa Romeo left South Africa in the mid eighties, dad was the only employee left behind to tie up loose ends, a credit to his trustworthiness as an employee.

In the ninetees we moved to Cape Town. First my sister and her husband were transferred to the "mother city".  I followed two years later.  Mom and dad found Johannesburg a miserable place to be alone and far from their children and grandchildren.  They joined us a year later and settled in a small flat in Fishoek.  Dad, retired, started painting again and joined the artsy community of Kalk Bay. His paintings flew off the walls at galleries due to their accessibility and commercial appeal.

After her sixtieth birthday, mom took the estate agents exam and became an agent. In a year she experienced so much success that the tiny agency that had  been kind enough to hire the little old Italian lady expanded their offices. Mom could sell houses, it seems. Dad discovered he could sculpt bread dough and baked novelty breads between paintings.

Eventually mom joined a bigger company and they moved to the West Coast.  The selling continued to attract awards for mom and dad's pizza became legendary.

They bought a two-bedroom ground floor flat a few blocks up from the beach.  One day dad found a tiny sapling. He told my mom that the sapling would become a big old tree. He carefully watered and nurtured it until it grew a little stronger.

At around the same time, mom took a little palm out of the pot it had outgrown and planted it in the garden. It too began to grow.

Dad began to experience cardio-respiratory problems in his mid-seventies.  Mom stopped working and nursed him till his passing seven years later. We scattered his ashes in the ocean in Blouberg, at one of the spots he and his wife of 49 years enjoyed eating sandwiches in the years preceding his death.

I had taken over their flat when dad took ill. Today, in the garden, the two trees remain both extraordinarily tall and prolific. It seems they refuse to stop growing. They are a constant reminder of the legacy of perseverance and determination that my parents have left to me and my sister. As I prepare to sell this place, for practical reasons, I cannot help but feel nostalgia and regret at having to part with the two trees in my garden.

Last week was the anniversary of their wedding, which took place 50 years ago, on the 31 July 1963. 

A convenient truth

My seven-year old, Abigail, lost another tooth this morning. It was hanging by a thread of connective tissue to her gum and caused her great discomfort all week. Worst of all, it prevented her from chewing gum, her favourite pastime.

She chased me round the house all morning with a soggy bit of tissue and finally I stooped to wrap my fingers around the offending chunk of enamel and pulled. A grimace, followed by a bloody spit, and it was all over, bar the excitement of putting the tooth under the pillow and waiting for the Tooth Fairy to arrive with R5 in exchange for the loot.

Now, I am one of those Montessorian mothers who does not encourage too many fairy tales.  I will not allow Santa Clause/Father Christmas/St Nicholas to do for me what I can do myself on Christmas Eve: put the present under the tree and eat the cookies. The Brothers Grimm are always mitigated after the final lie: "And they lived happily ever after." It goes like this:

"Did you enjoy that, Babsi?" I ask, using a well-placed term of endearment.

"Yep," she says, looking distracted. Mine is one of those little girls who prefers jumping up and down on the bed to a bed-time story.

"Of course, it's just make-believe. There's no such thing as a talking wolf or fairies, right?"

"Okay."

There is one exception, however, to all our reality checking. The Tooth Fairy. I did not introduce her/him to our home and consciousness. Abigail did. She found out about her/him from school and a movie featuring Dwayne Johnson. I tried my best to change her mind about her/his existance, but there was something about this that made it a convenient truth: the Tooth Fairy puts cash under your pillow.

Back to this morning. Abigail wraps the bloody tooth in toilet paper and places it next to me. I am on the phone. I acknowledge crumpled toilet paper with the part of my brain not focusing on language. I pick it up and throw it in the not-so-flushed toilet.

What followed can only be described as the joys of motherhood. Abigail was distraught and proceeded to put her hand, followed by her forearm, followed by her braided hair into the toilet to retrieve the tooth. I scream, she screams. I scrub her hands with soap and then apply a generous amount of hand sanitiser.

Ten minutes later the tooth is under her pillow, waiting for a New Year visit from the Tooth Fairy and an earning of R5. This will be spent on Dentyne Sugar Free Strawberry chewing gum, no doubt.

I have my own stash of convenient truths: one being that no matter how much I indulge over Christmas, it will all change on January 1st, when an overdose of discipline and will-power will undoubtedly kick in and I will start my healthiest, slimmest year ever.

Somehow, I know, that unless I make some inconvenient changes, the Tooth Fairy will win this round. She (wink) will definitely be making the rounds this New Year's eve.

Happy New Year everybody!

My Justin Bieber

My Justin Bieber was Trevor Rabin. If you know instantly who that is, I can assume a number of things about you: you are either a middle-aged South African with excellent taste in music or a middle-aged American with excellent taste in music.

Trevor was a rock star in every way. Tall and handsome with shoulder length hair and a ready smile, he had the voice of a cigarette-smoking angel and the ability to write songs that said exactly what I felt about everything, all the time. I loved him. I thought about him all the time, mouthed the words of his songs with precision (but struggled with memorizing the times-tables) and believed without doubt that he would one day be mine.

You see, I truly believed that my love for him would one day mysteriously draw him to me. I would be at his concert and our eyes would meet and he would know that we were destined to be together. There could be no other possibility and there was no alternative plan.

Rabbitt circa 1974 - Trevor second from the left

Trevor Rabin was the front-man for an awesome South African band called Rabbitt. This was the 70's so we only saw them on television and live concerts, if we were fortunate enough to have parents who allowed us to attend actual rock concerts. I was too young in the 70's and my parents were too strict, but i could not wait to be 18. This is when I would attend a live concert and I would make all Trevor's dreams come true, in an instant.

There was no twitterverse to notify us of his every move or a facebook fan page for Rabbitt. We were called, er, fans. Today perhaps, we'd be ... Bunnies? Not as catchy as Beliebers or Little Monsters, perhaps, but hey, neither Justin nor GaGa were conceived when we loved Rabbitt. This was a magical time when stars were just that. Stars. Untouchable, unreacheable and mysterious. The only thing you really knew about them was their music and their songs and whatever they chose to reveal in the occasional interview. 

But for all the mystery, my one true love, Trevor Rabin, would find me.

I don't really know when I stopped believing. A some point boys became young men, with clutching, clumsy hands and beer-breaths. They were better friends than boyfriends and soon even Rabbitt  was replaced by Michael Jackson, Bob Marley and Tears for Fears (the greatest 80's band, ever).

Rabbitt was never welcome on the world's stage because of sanctions so Trevor Rabin left South Africa and joined Yes, another great band with a famous number one single Owner of a Lonely Heart which oozed nostalgia every time it played on the radio. In 1984, Yes received a Grammy award for an instrumental piece called Cinema. In the same year, Trevor Rabin was severly injured and endured a splenectomy after a swimming accident. Unbelievably, a very large woman dive bombed him in a hotel pool and landed on his midsection, causing extreme injury to his abdomen.

Trevor Rabin circa 1984

Clearly we were never meant to be.

Trevor continues to be a prolific songwriter, writing a myriad of film scores and collaborating with many outstanding musicians. He has been married to the same woman for thirty years. I suspect she is a very thin person.

This week I attended the much anticipated Justin Bieber concert at the Cape Town Stadium. I took my beautiful daughters Abigail (7.5) and Simone (25.5). I made our t-shirts and braved parking nightmares and impossible crowds to watch him render his hits with all the talent and grace he has been blessed with. It was a squeaky-clean concert, professionally executed on almost all counts, and we had a lot of fun. I was glad to have given Abigail her first Big Concert experience. The scrawny guy is really very talented. But all I wanted to do was put my arms around him and give him a big hug, tell him it would all be OK in the end, sit his bony bum at my table and offer him a great big plate of spaghetti with Nonna's secret sauce and watch him eat till he was full and saucy in the face. And tell him, again, that it will be OK in the end.

I cannot imagine the pressure of being that young, that famous and that scrutinized  I knew what he'd had for supper the night before the show, just by standing in the queue at MacDonalds. But this is his dream and, like he said during his show, if you will just believe, anyone can go from singing in their single-mother's kitchen to doing whatever you dream of doing. I almost believe him. 

Trevor Rabin in a recent pic -
still a handsome dude

I still admire Mr Rabin. But I have no regrets about not becoming his missus. I have lead my own rock star life. My children think I am impossibly beautiful. I get hundreds of messages on Mothers Day, mostly from other people's offspring. One of my children believes I am a gifted chef (she says she has her own cookbook on speed-dial) and the other believes my singing is heavenly. I am living my dream (even though it is dream number 3). 

Abigail, your dreams will change. You may really want something and not get exactly what you want, or not even know you want something, and get it anyway. In the words of another rock-star, Bono, God always answers prayer. Sometimes, His answer is no. 

And as for me, I am still a Belieber Believer.

The Chronicles of Hair - Vol1

When Abigail first came home, her hair was styled in bunches all over her head, tied with colourful bands, like a giant pincushion on her head. It wasn't so much the style that bothered me, but the smell. Not good.

It was her first weekend at home and I was ill-prepared for a chubby toddler with stinky hair. For instance, it had not occured to me that little children require small towels and child-sized blankies. I had only big, bulky towels and I drowned her in white fluffiness.

But the hair! I took off the bands and loosened the bunches. Soon I unveiled the source of  the smell. In this bunch, a piece of soggy bread. In another bunch an unidentified yellow substance, vaguely resembling egg. Lots of grease. Lots of yuckiness. The result of living in a home with seventeen other little children, all requiring attention from over-worked and underpaid care-workers.

I called my friend Tamara. I told her I was going to cut off all her hair. I don't remember what Tamara said exactly, but there was some degree of horror on the other side of the phone. I took the only tool I had: a large pair of kitchen scissors, and started cutting.

Clean-cut and happy to be free from the heaviness on her head, Abigail was unaffected by the loss of her crowning glory. And little did she know it was the start of a Great Hair Adventure.

From there, we went on to dreadlocks. First of all, I felt closer to the hero from my teens, Bob. He would have been proud of my rasta child. The dreadlocks were cute, cool and most of all, easy! My friend Ncumisa explained that you could achieve much with a wet facecloth rubbed in a clockwise direction in the bath at night.

Eventually the dreadlocks became fuzz-attractors. I had not yet discovered hair products. The locks went from black to brown to gray, from spiky and funky to limp and clumpy. Then a friend's son mistook her for a boy. The dreads had to go.

Out came the kitchen scissors and snip, all the dreads were gone. Simone helped me mix and apply relaxer to the remaining hair. In just half an hour Abigail was having her hair blow-dried into a sleek, straight bob, very smooth.

Two weeks later, there was a strange bald patch on the back of her head. I tried to tell myself it was just the curl returning to her hair, but in reality it was her hair breaking off. After a month I repeated the process. For a day, I was the proud mum of a child with really cute hair.

When I went to pick her up for school the next day, a child with brassy, wiry hair ran up to me and called me mamma. I smiled and wondered who this weird-haired girl really was. As she turned her back to me I saw it. A bald patch. Actually all her hair had broken off at the back and it was orange. It was orange and wiry. I still get shivers thinking about it. She seemed unaffected. Her school concert was in two days.

In the car I told her the kitchen scissors would have to come out again, but this time, I would replace her hair with something she had been wanting for a long time: braids.

I called my friend Ayanda. We met up the day before Abigail's concert at 16:00 hours for Operation Restore Dignity. She introduced me to some skillful Cameroonian hairdressers near Mowbray station, who had learned their craft at the feet of their elders. The plan was to have her hair braided and get home in time for supper.

Five and a half hours later I had swept the entire salon out of boredom. Abigail and I were both starving. But it was all worth it. She looked like a princess.

The Braids - with her Nonna (my mom)

Watching her standing center-stage at her concert the next day, I was glad I had finally made the move to synthetic hair. Braids are really easy to maintain. Then they actually have to be removed.

For this we called Melody, travelling hair-dresser from Parklands, originally from Zimbabwe. She removed the braids and started plaiting Abigail's new hair. There was an hour of tears followed by joy as Abigail saw her corn-rows in the mirror. They were neat.

That was a month ago. Eventually I removed the plaits myself without having to call on my friends  for the how-to. I washed and rubbed her scalp with hair food and finally fluffed out a beautiful afro. I feel like I have graduated from the same hair school as Claire from the Cameroon. I have a bathroom cabinet full of hair balms, moisturising sprays and detanglers. Most of all, I know how and when to use them. I have black friends on speed dial in case of emergencies. I am sorted.

This week I was brushing Abigail's natural, soft afro and nagging her to keep still. Look up! Look down! Stop moving!

Abigail begged me to stop. To which I answered, "Abigail, mamma just wants to make you look pretty, darling."

"But mamma," she said, "I am already pretty!"

Reality check. All the shinanigans were about me wanting to appear to be a competent mommy in a fiercely competitive world of Dark and Lovelies. Ultimately, Abigail feels pretty good about herself. She likes what she looks like. Hair and all. And that is how my child taught me a lesson in self-worth. We really are more than our hair.

Weeping

I was a teenager in the eighties, the darkest, dying decade of apartheid.

Like most who were subjected to this age of overspending and under-caring, I have many silly memories of this period which was characterised by big hair and leg-warmers, frilly shirts, frillier music and egotistical economics.

There were the countless times we bunked school to watch Pop-Shop music videos taped on our Betamax casettes. The unnatural but aching longing to look like Madonna. Not being allowed to leave the house looking like Madonna. Packing secret accessories in my bag. Looking silly, all night long.

I remember understanding the state of the nation for the first time in Standard 9 Geography. What a shock it was to discover that there were more black people living in South Africa than white people. Where were they all hiding? I knew only the domestic worker who worked in our home and the casually employed, nameless gardeners who popped in and out during the course of the year. Apparently, there were millions of black people living a few kilometers away that I had never met - kids my age, going to schools I had never driven past, living in neighbourhoods I had only heard of in the whispered mutterings of the adults and the occasional radio broadcast.

In the eighties my mom owned an exclusive boutique, full of taffeta and puffy sleeves, padded shoulders and glorious sequins. Valentino, Balenciaga, Versace, Fendi ... these were names I grew up with. I wore their designs at a time when brands were little appreciated in South Africa and I really just wanted to look more mainstream. My Matric Dance outfit was real silk of Italian design but I was not the belle of the ball. My friend in black satin, with a big black bow on her tiny derrier stole the show.

On Saturday mornings I often worked in the shop, manning the front desk and cash box for my mother who took the chance to run some errands for the husehold. I was not alone: Maria, the trusted and much loved help, was always there, keeping the stock freshly pressed and the accessories neatly displayed. She had become my mother's confidant and constant companion during the long slow days when customers were scarse and the few that came in out of curiosity were appalled by the import prices. My mom had promoted Maria from back-room tea-girl to front-of-house assistant out of appreciation for her ability to not only translate indifference into sales, but also because Maria made the silence more bearable with her friendly disposition and pleasant chatter.

On one particular Saturday, I realised just how different my world really was to Maria's. I was at the front desk, doing some reading and Maria was leaning on the central display case, willing customers into the shop. Suddenly, two policeman stomped in, shouting orders at Maria in Afrikaans and ignoring me completely. I was gob-smacked and completely paralysed with fear. Maria cried out and ran to the back of the shop. The policemen ran after her. I heard scuffling, swearing, a few thuds and then silence. The policemen walked slowly out of the shop without acknowledging me at all.

Quiet. A minute later Maria emerged, her face a little swollen and her eyes puffy and red.

"What did they want?" I was shaking.

"They just wanted to see my pass, madam."

Nothing more was said. I was almost eighteen but I had never had to speak to an angry policeman or seen anyone victimised by one. I felt weird, like I was on the wrong side of a game I did not know the rules of. Maria wiped her eyes over and over and eventually, mercifully, our day came to an end and we closed shop. She went her way and I went mine. Just as it should be.

There would be many more incidents and a deeper understanding with time. My naiveté became anger and my anger fuelled a resolve to make things better.

Today the eighteen year-olds are called Born Frees. The year they were born, apartheid died (apparently).

In my experience, most of them are pretty indifferent about politics. Most are bored by stories of the "bad old days". I find this distressing.

So when they want to say something relevant to life as it is lived today in South Africa, I am listening! There is nothing more important than developing your own voice as a young person. To be able to articulate your opinion in a compelling manner is an art and a skill that we must encourage young people to master, especially if they disagree with the mainstream.

If ever there was a time for social revolution it is right now, right here. I want to know eighteen year-olds are not paralysed by fear, or apathy, when they understand they are living in a divided and unjust society. I want to hear how they think, what they see and what they feel.

Perhaps, then, their voices will spark the change that will help us to transcend our past and move forward to create a preferable future for all.

In 1987, in the midst of all the plastic, a couple of young South Africans recorded a demo record, the flip side of which contained a song called Weeping. For two weeks the state-owned Radio Five played the song without interference from the notorious official censors inspite of the fact that the song contained a brief instrumental echo of "Nkosi Sikelel' iAfrika", at that time the anthem of the African National Congress, and, therefore, banned under Apartheid law.

Today the words have even more relevance than they had then. Read them and weep.

WEEPING

Written by Dan Heymann
(Copyright Bright Blue)
______________________________
I knew a man who lived in fear
It was huge, it was angry, it was drawing near
Behind his house, a secret place
Was the shadow of the demon he could never face
He built a wall of steel and flame
And men with guns, to keep it tame
Then standing back, he made it plain
That the nightmare would never ever rise again
But the fear and the fire and the guns remain

It doesn’t matter now
It’s over anyhow
He tells the world that it’s sleeping
But as the night came round
I heard its lonely sound
It wasn’t roaring, it was weeping
And then one day the neighbors came
They were curious to know about the smoke and flame
They stood around outside the wall
But of course there was nothing to be heard at all
"My friends," he said, "We’ve reached our goal
The threat is under firm control
As long as peace and order reign
I’ll be damned if I can see a reason to explain
Why the fear and the fire and the guns remain" It doesn’t matter now
It’s over anyhow
He tells the world that it’s sleeping
But as the night came round
I heard its lonely sound
It wasn’t roaring, it was weeping