Whiteness in Rural South Africa (a poem)

She was just a child.

She didn’t know.

She didn’t know that, although my skin is lighter than hers,
our bodies are no different.

That the oppressive midsummer South African heat,
would affect me just the same. No more worthy of note. Not significant.

She didn’t know.

She reached over and grabbed a pamphlet from the usher.
and fanned…

I felt my body stiffen in the cool breeze of her creation.
The child ignored the suffering of a hundred Black South Africans to provide some form of
oasis,
reprieve,

for the one. pale. face in the crowd.

My mind drifted from the woman that we came to put to rest and began to a new mourning.
To mourn a death, less corporeal,
yet no less fatal.

The death that happens when one’s soul willfully suffocates
because it believes someone with a different face, with different skin, with a different gender
is somehow more valuable…

More deserving of protection, comfort,

of
AIR.

She is just a child.

She doesn’t know.

She doesn’t know that her teacher is telling her lies.

The lie that a history filled with the exploits of Europeans is somehow more important
than the lives and triumphs of her tribe.
The lie that the West is the best: music, movies, clothes, culture, religion…

She doesn’t know.

She listens patiently to reminders of how “lucky” and “blessed” she is for the arrival of this
new, American teacher.

Not because of this teacher’s degrees or credentials.

Not because of her passion or love.

…Because she is White and from the West.

“And you must learn to talk with the White people in their own accent
otherwise they will not hear what you say nor want to talk to you.”

Because it is so important to appease the White man by stuffing your culture down inside of you and hiding it away.

I think I might throw up. I close my eyes…

My mind throbs with echoing screams of,

“Don’t believe their lies!”
But I know she can’t hear me.

I want someone to add the vibrant colours of African sunsets to her White-washed walls.

I want the words of Lillian Ngoyi, Madiba, and Biko to
            bounce
                                    endlessly
                        down
        the hallways
                                    of her soul.

She doesn’t know. She doesn’t see. She must learn. We must teach.

If not for our sake, then for hers.

As my mind spirals, a curious touch brings me back to the present.

“I like your hair,” she says, as she gently pets the ends of my strands.

“YOUR hair is also beautiful – omuhle! So beautiful!” I reply.

She smiles—so proudly—and skips away before I can speak again.

I sigh.

Did I say the right thing?

Has she enough pride to arm her against the next barrage of lies that try to make her feel small?

Will it ever be enough?

_____________________________________________________________

Reflection:

Whiteness. I am a white person. Wherever I go, I bring my whiteness. And that means different things in different places… Ever since we learned that we would be serving in rural South Africa, I have been thinking, “What will/does my whiteness mean in THIS place, in this context?”

I was struggling with putting my experiences into words until, inspired by the awesome blogging styles of Kyle and Aeriel Ashlee, I listed my feelings in a free verse poem. The poem highlights two actual events that have occurred in my village. I started a poem about a month ago and am nervous to share it with the world. In fact, I wasn’t sure that I was going to share it until today.

Today, I had a conversation with two incredibly brilliant learners in grades 5 and 7. The topic was the impact of having a white teacher in their school. I said that white people are no more special than black people. They said that I was lying. They rattled off a list of disparaging comments about their own race in comparison to whites. We went back and forth trying to disprove each other’s comments. Finally I said, “I have taught learners in America and South Africa of many different races. You two are some of the most clever learners I have ever taught. Your race does not matter.” The younger learner replied, “No, it can’t be. White people are more clever than black people. It is true.”

…My heart broke. My emotions flooded and rolled over each other in waves. Despair. Anger. A desire to throw away every English/Euro/US-centric book in the school and fill it to the brim with isiZulu literature and tribal heritage. A sense of helplessness. A sense of direction—to craft my curriculum to highlight black Africans and cultural pride. A sense of overwhelm. Guilt. Sadness. Anger.

I am still figuring out what my role will be in debunking these BS lies. I am not sure what it will look like, but I know that I cannot sit by and do nothing.
 

St. Valentine’s Turtles

Baby sea turtles… We got to see baby sea turtles dig their way out of the sand, scuttle their little bodies down the sand, and get swept away by the ocean!  It was like something out of National Geographic or Planet Earth. Here’s how it happened…

Meet Crush! He was the first baby sea turtle to make it to the ocean.

Michelle and I got a WhatsApp from a fellow volunteer on Monday, “Hey!  Want to see sea turtles hatching on Valentine’s Day?”  What a great way to start the week!  Come Friday, Michelle and I are riding in a safari truck with four other volunteers as our guide navigated the unmarked, sand roads to arrive at the ocean.  When we got there, we were greeted by an eco-guide who works with Ezemvelo Wildlife.  From the start of mating season until the last nest hatches, the guides patrol the beaches on the lookout for poachers, and, for those who are more inclined to see nature in action, to provide some information about sea turtles.

Six Anxious Travelers and Two Trusty Guides

We learned from talking with the guide that there are three species of sea turtles that next along the Eastern coast of South Africa.  The two our group was likely to see that night were loggerhead sea turtles and leatherback sea turtles.  The guild told us two key pieces of information that would help us identify between the two types.  (Get ready to push up your nerd glasses.)  Loggerheads have a harder shell than leatherbacks.  Loggerheads also alternate their flippers when they crawl across the sand (kind of like freestyle swimming) while leatherbacks crawl by moving their flippers at the same time (kind of like the breaststroke). 

The guide told us we’d have to wait until a little after sunset before we’d be able to spot any hatchlings.  We learned that it takes the sea turtles about five days to dig to the surface from where they are hatched.  The baby sea turtles wait just under the surface until the sand is cool enough to race across the sand.  This is just the beginning of the incredible journey baby sea turtles make to get to the ocean where they hopefully grow to become adults… they risk succumbing to scolding sand, phantom crabs, kingfish, birds, and sometimes trash dumped by humans. Talk about epic!

While we waited for the sun to set, we snacked on some PB & J’s, played on the beach, and enjoyed the pinks, oranges, and reds of the changing sky. Michelle was literally doing cartwheels in anticipation of seeing sea turtles.  She was adorable.

Michelle Playing on the Beach

When it was time to go searching for the sea turtles, the guide led the way.  He kept a sharp eye along the sand dunes for evidence of any disturbance.  Within minutes of starting our walk along the beach, the guide spotted three baby sea turtles digging their way out of their nest.  It was amazing!  There we were, on the coast of the Indian Ocean, witnessing nature happen. 

Look how tiny Crush is!

We followed the sea turtles all the way down to the water to see them off as their journey into the big blue began.  Michelle was giddy the entire time.  (Did I mention that sea turtles are her favorite animal?  A couple of years ago, Michelle half-jokingly said we should get one as a pet.)  The guide said we could use the flash on our cameras, so we took lots of pictures.  Michelle took some video at one point, so we hope you enjoy it.

  

Champ struggles to make it past the waves and into the sea.

After the initial sighting, we continued to walk along the beach for about another hour with no luck.  On our return trip, the guide spotted one more turtle making its way down the sand.  Michelle and I watched in awe at the sea turtle’s determination to get to the water.  The guide told us that it was a “slow night” for sightings because he saw a couple of hundred baby sea turtles a few nights earlier.  We didn’t mind though.  We could have seen only one sea turtle and that would have made the whole trip worth it.

At one point while Michelle and I, along with our fellow volunteers, were walking along the beach, I commented, “We live here…” and we let the words sink in.  I find it amazing what the world has to offer, from its people and their cultures, to glacier-covered mountains, to plants and animals and their awe-inspiring acts.  Earth is such a cool place. 

Champ, nice and dry, before his ocean dive.

What made the night truly special was bearing witness to life springing into action in the company of my partner and friends.  I’m grateful for this opportunity to serve in South Africa; not only for the learners I get to see everyday, but for the adventures that are rounding out my experience.

Happy Belated Valentine’s Day!

Patty and Guillermo enjoying a lovely walk on the beach together.

Melanin: What’s Up Your Sleeve?

Grade 6 Learner, “Mr. K… What’s in your skin that makes it look like that?”

I peer down at the learner, seeing that he clapped an eraser on the back of his hand.  Left behind was the chalk dust from a day’s worth of teaching.  The chalk dust contrasted sharply against his dark skin.

I ask, “Do you mean what is it that makes my skin light and your skin dark?”

Grade 6 Learner, “Yes, sir.”

…

I love the curiosity through which children, especially young children, view the world around them.  Further, I appreciate the innocence with which children ask questions.

When I first arrived at my primary school, there were several learners in creche (pre-kindergarten) who would regularly run up to me, rub my forearms with their hands, and then gaze at their fingers.  I didn’t understand why they liked doing it, but they had smiles on their faces every time.  Eventually, the creche educator told me that the learners were rubbing my skin to see if the “white” would come off.

…

I looked back up at the rest of the class, and I could see I had their complete attention.  They wanted to know how I was going to respond.  I walked to the chalkboard and wrote the word “melanin” on the board. 

…

As a biology major in college, I learned about melanin and the way it shows up in the human body.  In short, melanin is a protein that protects the body from getting burned by the sun’s rays.  The closer people live to the equator, where the sun shines more directly, the darker their skin.  Conversely, people who live closer to the poles will have lighter skin because the sun’s ray hit the earth less directly. 

Growing up in the US, I learned that talking about skin color is taboo.  Don’t do it unless you want to offend someone.  As a student affairs educator, I learned to facilitate conversations with university students about the social impact of one’s skin color, including the power and privilege associated (or not associated) with it.

…

I explained melanin to the learners, and I conducted a demonstration.  I held up my arm and asked the learners to look at my skin.  I then rolled up my sleeve to show them the farmer’s tan on my upper arm.  Their shock was audible.  The learners found it fascinating that my skin could change color.  The next thing I knew every learner in the class was rolling up their sleeves to see if their upper arms were a different color than their forearms.  It was quite a site to see them inspecting their arms.

…

While I’m confident that at least some of my learners have met white people before my arrival at the school, I’m also confident that most of them have not had a significant interaction with a white person.  Given the history of black-white relations in South Africa, it wouldn’t surprise me if learners are taught by their families to be careful with how they interact with white people.  After teaching for a month, though, it’s becoming evident to me that the learners are becoming comfortable enough to ask me questions like the one above. 

If I was in a US classroom, I would be concerned about how to navigate questions like this for fear of backlash by parents, administrators, or even fellow teachers.  However, there’s a certain freedom that comes with teaching in a South African classroom that allows for dialogue about taboo topics.  Here I am, a white guy from another country, in a classroom with about 50 black, South African kids.  I have questions about the way they do things just as I’m sure they have questions about the way I do things.  We can learn from each other.

Learning from each other is in alignment with Peace Corps’ three overarching goals.  Goal #2 is about “promoting a better understanding of Americans on the part of the peoples served”.  In addition to talking about skin color, I hope to have conversations with my learners about the US and its culture.  Thinking beyond the US into a larger context, I hope to have conversations with my learners about the world, what makes us different and what makes us the same.  I want to expose the learners to difference in the hopes of sparking a greater interest in how people from all walks of life can live and work together, instead of only being a curiosity.

Goal #3 is about “promoting a better understanding of other peoples on the part of Americans”.  While I’m in South Africa, I hope to learn as much about South Africans and their diverse cultures.  I have already started to see through writing this blog that the reciprocal teaching is having an impact on the way my family and friends view this country.  I hope I continue to provide insightful observations to everyone back home. 

If there are questions you, the reader, would like to ask or if there are topics that interest you, please let me know by leaving a comment below or emailing me.

Ancestors: A Reflection

South Africa…

The connection between the living Zulus and their passed ancestors is evident in many ways: from naming traditions, to tribal allegiance, to overt ancestral consultations. There is a certain belief that the skills and wisdom of your fore-parents is passed on to you, without apprenticeship or guidance. Part of the journey of our lives is to unearth the wisdom that they have planted within us and use it as a guide.

For example, a colleague of mine has several ancestors who were sangomas, traditional healers who are able to use divination practices in their treatment. My colleague sometimes feels haunted by spirits in his life because he has inherited the wisdom of his sangoma ancestors, but has chosen to teach instead of using those skills. 

Another example is the ancestral consultation in daily events. Ancestors are consulted before weddings, celebrations, and divorce. Our PST host-father convened with the ancestors before embarking on a 2-day journey from home to his work.

To make my own meaning of these stories, I have tried on this new “way of knowing” as one would try on a new pair of high heels. I have attempted, clumsily, to take it through different scenarios and byways to see whether I can gain a greater perspective from a new vantage point.

I offer some of the resonant ideas for my readers here.

Ghana…

I just finished All God’s Children Need Traveling Shoes by the late Maya Angelou. The book describes her time living in Ghana, a country in West Africa. Towards the conclusion of her time in Africa, she describes her visit to Keta. Keta was a Ghanian village that was leveled by the slave-stealers who swept an entire generation away from their homes, leaving rubble in their wake. Although she had never set foot in this village before, her likeness was so similar to their stolen ancestors that some villagers wept at the sight of her.  Her body reacted viscerally, intuitively to predict the terrain of the landscape and its potential dangers lying around the next curve (ex: an untrustworthy bridge). It was as though she held the wisdom of the place within her very soul, untapped until her feet crossed its threshold.

Can it be possible to spread memory and wisdom from grandparent to child, even without meeting?

Louisiana…

Prior to joining the Peace Corps, I was exploring an interest in transgenerational/intergenerational trauma. Transgenerational trauma is the transmission of trauma (especially extreme, cumulative trauma) from one generation to the next. Meaning that you can experience something so horrific that your children’s children can be affected. There is some debate about how it is transmitted (initially, psychologists attributed it to parenting or external factors, new studies show the transmission at a cellular level, others connect it to something more metaphysical). It sounds like a depressing fascination—and it can be—but, sometimes the most important truths are neither cheerful nor comfortable. They wouldn’t be so important if they were easy.

My interest in researching generational trauma was framed and fed by Joy Dugruy’s speech on Post-Traumatic Slave Syndrome, sparked by my experience watching 12 Years a Slave and caught full flame by reading Gather at the Table, by Thomas DeWolf and Sharon Morgan. My family has centuries of history in southern Louisiana and, although they were not the wealthiest of southerners and may or may not have owned slaves (I don’t yet trust the validity of my researching skills to say with any certainty), they were witness to the dissolution of African lives into mere flesh, bones, teeth, and meat to be bought, sold, abused, and discarded. The ripples from the pain and inhumanity of slavery still tremble in the US, 150 years after the end of the Civil War.

The history of American slavery does not feel like textbook knowledge; something stirs within me as though I had been present during its prime. The sensation is beyond words or understanding. I knew I wanted to dig deeper, but I was unsure where to begin. Do other people ever feel this way? Just a few months before we left the US, I found Coming to the Table, a group consisting of the descendants of slaves with those of slave owners seeking to uncover the truth of slavery and healing, and I was finally convinced that I wasn’t completely alone. Unfortunately, I have not explored all of these feelings as much as I want.

Is it possible for the trauma of human degradation, the loss of one's humanity, the memory of those crimes—whether as perpetrator, victim, or witness—to live in our bodies and those of our descendants? If so, what lessons can these teach us about how we live our present lives? Is the connection with ancestral knowledge a constant status (either the result of cellular modifications or the existence of spiritual connection) or more intermittent (connected to a finite place or a specific ritual)? Is there any connection at all?

I’m not sure. But it gives me hope to feel that there may be a wellspring of talents and wisdom, much more expansive than our (meager) lives, which we can tap in our most dire moments. We can use all the help we can get.

________________

NERD ADDITIONS:

The Ancestors and Zulu Family Tradition - Doctor of Theology dissertation by Michael John Nel

Introduction to Transgenerational Trauma  - As originally studied in the descendants of Holocaust survivors

Research that Trauma is Passed "Epigentically" in Mice - Very interesting (and yes, depressing) research about the cellular responses to trauma.