WHY AM I BLACK?

A colleague of mine the other day asked me why I insist on boxing myself and calling myself ‘black’.

‘You’re brown, you’re not even black,’ she revealed to me. She’s one of those people who insist she doesn’t see race, blah blah rainbow nation.

But she’s also one of those people who see black as just a skin colour, it appears to me, and black is so many things to so many people. I don’t see absolutely anything wrong with defining myself as black; it’s like being a woman or being a Christian.

I love being a woman, not just because it’s a gender I happened to be assigned at birth, but I embrace everything about being a woman.

I love the fact that I have a nurturing nature, that I am strong, that one day I can have short hair and the next day it can reach my bum and I love that my body is strong enough to carry a baby. I love feeling beautiful, sexy, and emotional.

Of course there are negatives to being a woman, a black woman, especially in this country. You’re vulnerable to criminals; you are not always given the respect you deserve and for five days every month you are your body’s mercy.

But would I change being a woman for anything? No. I love being a woman.

I also love being a Christian. I love believing in a higher being than myself, I love going to church, praise and worship and I enjoy all the blessings God has bestowed on me.

Of course there are challenging moments where I feel despondent, but does this mean I want to stop being a Christian? No, of course not.

Which brings me to being black. Black for me is not just a skin colour, which was one of the degrading and humiliating consequences of a system like apartheid in our country. People just look at your skin colour and decide you’re not good enough based on that. There is a whole culture I love to being black. Of course, it’s different for every person.

My blackness is inextricably linked to my upbringing. I grew up in a township on the East Rand called Katlehong and that’s where my blackness was cultivated.

I learnt being black is about community, about sharing and about looking after each other. I learnt even in the thick of trouble in your life, to smile and to always keep your head up. I learnt never to look down on people, because one day it could be you.

As a black person, I learnt that each life is important and valued enough to have a dignified funeral that is planned for. I learnt that every older person in my street was a mother or father figure and that they had a duty to look after me and chastise if need be.

I learnt dances I could never have learnt living in the suburbs and ate delicious food that only a black hand could conjure.

But are there annoying things about black people as well? Yes, of course.

I still get annoyed with black people who want to have huge funerals when we are limping through tough economic times, and yes I get annoyed when Exclusive Books in Soweto closes down because black people aren’t buying books and reading when they can afford it and yes I get very annoyed when you go to a restaurant and the black waitress treats the white patron better than you.

But does that mean I’m going to stop being black? Of course not. Because black is more than just a skin colour to me, it’s who I am. As long as I am not using my blackness to victimise other people, I don’t see anything wrong with this.

So, yes, I am a proponent of the rainbow nation but as long as I can still have the choice to define myself how I want. 

Louis Theroux’s America’s Most Hated Family in Crisis

Having never been privy to his previous work, I set about to do some background research of documentary film-maker Louis Theroux; and I discovered he had made a credible name for himself by attempting to understand fringe communities:  shunned, condemned to  the side-lines of mainstream society.

The son of American travel writer and novelist Paul Theroux, has cozied up to porn stars,  trudged through the controversial world of swingers and has convincingly absorbed himself into the world of black nationalists, to name a few adventures.

In this documentary, he re-visits an American family embroiled in controversy, owing to their extreme, bizarre beliefs on homosexuality and their unpatriotic attitude.  Under the tutelage of surly acerbic leader Fred Phelps, the Westboro Baptist church has stepped up to more daring actions and has grown their public profile, despite their diminishing numbers.

 In the previous instalment , Theroux attempted to coax insight out of the peevish leader, but Phelps brutally chided Theroux for what he termed ‘stupid questions’ and refused to elaborate on his beliefs.

The church is made up entirely of the Phelps family and the day-to-day running is left to Phelps’ daughter, Shirley, who is mother to 11 children. One of their trademark actions was to picket outside the funerals of Iraq soldiers, aggressively reminding the families of the bereaved that their loved ones died because they were fighting for a nation that condones homosexuals. Death, the church says, is God’s punishment for wayward beliefs.

The documentary begins by capturing members of the church picketing at a busy intersection draped in shirts that convey the basic message of the church: ‘God Hates Fags’. But they are challenged by another crowd stationed across the protesters that yell obscenities at the church, the mildest being ‘Go back to Kansas, you a**holes!’

Theroux returns to the headquarters of the church where it is revealed that there have been a few defections from the church and he also discovers that the Church now believes that president Barack Obama is the anti-Christ.  And as Shirley fully explains “he just fits all the descriptors.”

About all the people leaving, Shirley assures Louis that ‘every person that goes leaves with a heavy burden.’

The most enthralling part of the doccie for me was Theroux’s telling conversation with Lauren Phelps, a family member who has been expunged, who now betrays the doctrine she believed so strongly four years ago. The transformation from the young girl who believed having a boyfriend was perverted; to a more confident woman whose face is decorated with a rebellious piercing is extraordinary.

But when she confides in Theroux about leaving the family because she was corresponding with someone online, even her hard exterior cannot detract from the pain laced in her voice. She is just a young girl who misses her family and is saddened by the reality that she may never see them again.

‘Some people lose their parents to cancer, or car accidents or other things. I’ve lost my parents to a cult,’ Lauren says with a heavy-laden voice.

While it certainly is interesting watching the Phelps trip clumsily on their own beliefs, what kept nibbling at me was the overwhelming desire for humans to think that they are special and want to feel like the chosen ones. We all do it, while not as extremely as the Phelps.

People always like to believe they are the exception and this is expressed none too clearly with the Phelps’. If you’re a homosexual, or tolerate homosexuals, and you’re not one of us you’re going to hell.

IF CREDIT WAS A HARRY POTTER CHARACTER….

For those of you deprived of the magic of the Harry Potter series, wonderfully penned by British author J.K Rowling, the basic premise of this epic tale is the classic good guy (harry) versus bad guy (Lord Voldemort).

But, I’m afraid, this simple explanation betrays the unforgettable twists and turns and memorable characters that made this amazing story imprint itself on my heart for over a decade.

But the main thing that weaves the story together is magic. Wands, potions, broomsticks, witches, wizards and goblins; this book is filled with all of it.

Reminds me of our own magic we have created in the real world: credit. That supernatural being that promises you whatever you want right now, but you don’t have to pay for it right now! And when you do finally get around to paying, you are allowed to pay in bits and pieces. Perfect.

But, as with most great villains, they operate under a veil of secrecy and deception. They are never what they seem; they always hide their true intentions and the greater they are at hiding them, the graver the consequences for the target.

Enter Credit: the offspring of an evil man with a horribly hooked nose that could not be removed no matter how hard they tried and disgustingly long toenails. Credit’s mother was a bitter ageing gymnast who never realised her Olympic dreams and instead in her old age was saddled with horribly brittle bones.

Credit did not enjoy his childhood. He had no friends, owing to the hooked nose he inherited from his father coupled with an enormous head he tried to hide under even bigger hats. Being short did not help Credit’s position.

When his parents died, doctors said it was a car crash but Credit knew that they killed themselves. He received a sizeable chunk of money and stayed in an orphanage. One day, after manipulating one of the House mothers at the orphanage, he managed to get himself a toy car.Not just any toy car either, the toy car that every boy in the orphanage was dying to have.

He enjoyed the popularity the car brought him as everyone asked to borrow it, even though it had to be played with under his supervision. One weak boy in particular, became extremely infatuated with the object. He borrowed it every chance he got for the next two weeks.

As the excitement of the toy faded and Credit’s popularity began to wane, he started to get bored with it and started to look for something else.

But the weak boy continued to play with the car, day after day. Eventually, cunning credit had an idea. He went to the weak boy, ostentatiously carrying the car and said: “I’ve seen how much you love this toy car. I’ll sell it to you.”

The weak boy was instantly filled with euphoria, but it was dampened by the reminder that he had very little pocket money left.

“Okay,” Credit said. “You can pay me back late. Just give me what you’ve got for now.”

The weak boy gave Credit the little money he had and as Credit grabbed the coins, he was filled with an unexplainable power. For him, it was like magic. The wonderful sensation he felt when he took other people’s money, even though he didn’t really need it, was indescribable.

Over the next few months, every time the weak boy received his pocket money, Credit would greedily be lurking in the halls waiting for his cut. Credit enjoyed the crestfallen look on the weak boy every time they met.

After a while, the weak boy fell out of love with the toy car he had been so enamoured with, but he still had to pay back Credit in full. No matter what plans his friends made, he couldn't afford it so he stayed home. He missed a trip to the fair where one of his friends fell out of a ride and broke his arm, he couldn't afford to buy a ticket to see his favourite music group when they came to town and eventually weak boy became a recluse because anything he was invited to, he didn't go.
He knew he couldn’t do anything until he paid Credit back. He was miserable.

Credit, on the other hand, was ecstatic. He had found his calling; and he knew that from that moment on, his calling in life was to steal the futures of as many people as he could.

Credit knew that there were less people who used money to serve themselves, but instead, chose to serve money.Credit never fell in love, and he never had any family and friends.

If he was a harry potter character, he would be worse than Lord Voldemort.

And that’s really evil.

My big black conglomerate fantasy

In his hilarious, critically-acclaimed “Kill the Messenger” 3-continent comedy tour, Chris Rock said one of the reasons he wished Barack Obama would win the 2008 presidential election was so that he would have substantial motivation for his kids to aim high.

“I hope he win, I hope Barack win. Just so, that as a black parent I can stop giving my child the ‘you can do it’ speech,” remarked a witty Rock. He went on to compare how a black person had to fly to where the white person could walk.

I suppose he had a point. Living in a world that’s often black or white, it’s very hard to keep your spirits up when your optimism has no place in reality. Perhaps it’s a similar situation when trying to encourage entrepreneurship amongst black people in South Africa. We lack enough success stories where political connections, BEE deals, tenders and under-the-table fees are not involved. We also don’t have enough mainstream big, black businesses that illustrate the power of innovative ideas and how you can turn them into savvy corporations.

But I have a particular fantasy that constantly teases the edge of my mind, patiently trying to find a gap to slip through. It often happens when I am in the car on my way to a results presentation or a media briefing for some JSE-listed or big private company.

My mind usually surrenders and I find myself wondering what it would be like to attend a results presentation for South Africa’s biggest black-owned conglomerate. I picture the CEO to be a tough-as-nails looking guy, who looks at people suspiciously over the rim of his glasses.

And then a picture of a short, pregnant, dark-skinned woman filters through, who has the most fabulous eyelashes, to be his CFO. I see the two of them sitting side-by-side at a short, table covered with a white cloth and filled with loose papers. The CEO and CFO holding a microphone in each hand and unintentionally take turns reaching for their glasses of water in front of them.

Seated in the front row, will be members of the board, who also happen to be part of the family that founded the company from scratch and now have a permanent place in the JSE Top 40.

The CEO then begins his presentation, explaining the increases and declines in different divisions and discusses some of the hurdles the company faced in the economic storm.

After completing his presentation, the pregnant CFO stands up and quickly goes through the numbers, distracted only by the noise of something dropped by a clumsy journalist in the audience.

The communications officer will stand up at that point and field questions from the media, shareholders and other interested parties.

 After all that, the chairman of the board, an old woman whose black fur hat hides her grey, thinning hair will walk slowly to the front of the room with a microphone in her hand, assisted by her walking stick, and address the crowd.

“I am so proud of my son and my niece for taking such good care of the company my husband and I founded 40 years ago,” she says in a voice jaded by exhaustion.

“My husband would have killed to be here.”

Polite laughter fills the room. It’s not funny but rather morbid since her husband died of cancer two years ago, but she’s a formidable old woman whose faculties were once the envy of the industry. Plus, for her, every breath is a countdown.

After saying a short speech about the satisfactory performance of the company, despite tough trading conditions, she thanks the various members of the board, also her family, the senior executive as well as the shareholders.

The communications officer appears once more, adjourning the briefing and inviting the media for a light lunch and the opportunity for one-on-one interviews.

Just before getting a glimpse of what kind of food was laid out in the next room, I’m always brought back to reality somehow: either by the signal of a bbm on my phone or the impatience of a joburg driver.

Thus ends my fantasy of South Africa’s big black conglomerate:  the black version of Pick n’ Pay, or Famousbrands.

Do I think South Africa will ever have one?

I don’t want to claim to have the perfect solution to a horribly complex situation, nor am I going to waste time berating black people, like Chika Onyeani served up in his book Capitalist Nigger, because no matter how tempted I am to slip into black-bashing mode, I know that as a black woman with a degree and a job I love, I am not the rule, I’m the exception.

I have moments where it all seems possible, where if this changed, or that was moved or if that was tweaked a bit, it could be possible.

What always fills me with hope is when I think back to a time when making a South African film besides Leon Schuster’s slapstick comedies seemed impossible, but now we are able to look back at the creation of South African classics, like Tsotsi and White wedding.

So, yes, I think it is possible.