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.