Of Black alumni and other apartheid memories

The recent invitation to the launch of the University of Cape Town (UCT) Black Alumni Association, has me thinking about my time at UCT in the early 1980s. 

My fondest memory of my grandfather, who was  a delivery truck driver, was of him coming home, his pockets jingling with coins, which were to be deposited into the little money box in his cupboard for my "education". By the time I was ready for university, he had saved enough to pay for the first year of tuition. Being accepted at UCT engendered mixed emotions in me. I was the only person in my class at school to be accepted at UCT, (not many students from my year did in fact go to university) and I was proud to be the first person in my family to make it to university. But this was tempered by the humiliation of having to apply to the Department of Coloured Affairs for a permit to attend a "white" university. I was granted permission on the basis that the university for "coloured people" did not offer the course I wished to study. 

To say that attending UCT was a culture shock, is putting it mildly. In addition, I was based on medical campus which was known to be more conservative than the main campus.  Out of a class of 25, there were three of us who were "not white" and only two people who had blazed the way before us, as the first "non-white" occupational therapists to graduate from UCT. The only "white" people I knew were the Irish nuns at my school and one or two teachers who had passed through. So there we were, like flies in a jug of milk!

I think the general feeling among "black" students was that we should do what we came to do (be educated) but not engage in the "normal" life of university since our acceptance there was not normal. For example, we were discouraged from using the university cafeteria since we weren't generally able to eat in whatever restaurants we wanted to. We were also discouraged from participating in sport since how could we play normal sport in an abnormal society?

I cannot say that I experienced any overt racism in my class - we were a small department and generally got on well with each other. There were many parties at student's houses which, in itself, was almost schizophrenia-inducing since it was by no means normal for me to be socialising with "white" people. There was one girl who I became quite friendly with and I spent a lot of time at her house which, ironically, is about 5 minutes from where we now live, in a previously-"white" neighbourhood. However, I was shattered when she and her family  returned from their holiday in the US and reported that their American family was so impressed that their daughter had "a little coloured friend". Those words were like a slap in the face, like I was some kind of novelty. 

Going about the day to day life of becoming an occupational therapist was also fraught with the intricacies of apartheid SA. When it came to clinical practice in the hospitals, we were not allowed to treat "white" patients. In my third year I was posted to a very difficult placing in a psychiatric hospital which I struggled with - however, I could not be placed in the relatively easier ward that my fellow students were going to in the general hospital, since the patients there were "white". 

In spite of these obstacles, I graduated and was offered a job at the hospital that I dreamed of working at. I spent almost fifteen years loving what I was doing as an occupational therapist. I have two friends from university who have travelled the paths of studying, working, marriage, motherhood and more over the years with me. Both of them are still working as occupational therapists, one in the US and the other here in SA. From time to time I bump into other alumni and it is always good to catch up. 

I do believe, though, that my time at university could have been so much more, and I could have embraced much more of what such a prestigious university had to offer, if it were not for the times we were living in. I'm not sure that I want to be part of the Black Alumni Association. I'm not sure what it is hoping to address - a support for all of us who have bitter-sweet memories of our time at UCT? Perhaps there are some "white" alumni who would also like to be a part of that healing?

Look at us now!

A little while ago I read an article in the newspaper about an archaeological finding in SA that has been hushed up since the 1930's. The finding is thought to be about a 1000 years old and includes gold artifacts and glass beads from India, proving that the early inhabitants of the area must have been established traders. The finding was suppressed because it was contrary to the Apartheid policy that Africans were uncivilised.

Sometimes out of the blue, I realise just how oppressed we were - how controlled every aspect of our lives was and how successful Apartheid policy was in controlling us. We don't realise the miracle that democracy is, that we have overcome the brain-washing of more than 40 years to be where we are today. Certainly, the Apartheid curriculum for the "Department of Coloured, Bantu or Indian Affairs" did not allow for any independent thought.

I was thinking about this after helping my daughter edit her History essay a few days ago. She was to discuss "the impact of internal and external factors on the economic challenges of post-colonial Africa" - quite an interesting discussion ensued about the social and political factors following the independence of African countries from European colonial powers. I am constantly amazed at the subject matter they cover at school these days. I am not sure how many of us realise how much more progressive the school curriculum has become.

A year or two ago she had to design a protest T-shirt for an art project - not so long ago being in possession of such an item of clothing would almost guarantee arrest! And it is not only during Art and History that they are being enlightened. They read literature by African writers, study Human Rights in Life Orientation (we are one of the few countries who do) and the eugenics of race in Biology. My son at junior school is similarly being encouraged to hear both sides of the story and to think for himself. He is certainly not learning the same version of the colonisation of the Cape or of the Zulu war, that we were forced to learn. He learns Xhosa as easily as he learns Afrikaans - no baggage attached.

Imagine the possibilities if we had all been given the opportunity to stretch our minds, to know and to understand. When I was in Sweden for the children's rights awards, Magnus Bergmar, the founder of the WCPRC, told me that he thought that "an ongoing humanisation of every new generation is necessary for any sustainable development." We need strategies for a better world, he went on to say. I know that we still have much work to do, but I think that we are moving in the right direction and that our children are going to be better humans who will make a better world.

Spanish anyone?

I am blogging to avoid doing my Spanish homework. I have been listening to some audio exercises and wondering whether it is actually possible to learn a new language without immersion. I am slowly entertaining the thought that I should gracefully depart from the class. Perhaps my brain is too slow for Spanish - why do they have to talk so fast? Do we speak English at the same speed? I can make out some words and understand the gist of the conversation but then I get lost on the specifics. If I have to say so, I am not bad with reading and writing but conversation makes my palms sweat and my heart race. 

Why am I learning Spanish? I always wanted to learn a foreign language and presumed that it might be French since half of Africa speaks French. But I fell in love with the Latin energy on a visit to Cuba via Madrid a few years ago. It was April, spring time in Madrid. Everywhere you could smell the new beginnings in the air, everybody was waking up from a long winter. Couples of all ages were spilling onto the pavements to sit and chat and drink coffee. I liked the European-Moorish mix that was evident in the city, in the art, architecture and even in the food. We spent a few days exploring on foot, the many plazas, the markets and the museum, taking a break in quaint cafes and restaurants. 

Cuba was a total onslaught of the senses - the people, the music, the food spoke of passion. Women in sexy, brightly-coloured clothes, sashayed down the streets of Havana to the rhythm of the salsa, girls looking like brides, celebrated their 15th birthdays, boys played baseball wherever there was an open space.  The joy of having survived a hurricane was tangible. Young couples were courting along the Malecon, parts of it recently rebuilt after Katrina.  There was a "devil-may-care" attitude born of the knowledge that at anytime a storm could wash away your home, your life. 

On our return, I decided that Spanish was the language I needed to learn because I was definitely going back to Spain and Cuba someday. Before I knew it, I had found a teacher and opened a door to a new culture and history. I have become more aware of Spanish movies, food, soccer and, of course, Rafael Nadal. I love learning Spanish most of the time but I have been tempted to throw the book at the teacher, on occasion. I revelled in the Spanish victory in the World Cup as if I were Spanish myself, and renewed my determination to learn the language.

There are many benefits to learning a new language - meeting new people, eating different food, trying  a dance class (although I have discovered that I have two left feet in any language!), apparently keeping Alzheimer's at bay. It's a great ice-breaker when you meet a native-speaker and you just seem to be a little more interesting when you say you can speak another language. Oh well, back to the homework!

Trust the process

I have survived the rugby season. This may not seem like a big deal to all the lovers of that game that you play with an egg-shaped "ball" and take off people's heads if they get in your way. I breathed a sigh of relief when my son aged nine at the time, decided that in spite of being at a school that seems to give birth to Springbok rugby players, he would not be going to rugby camp. I cheered for this strength of character that allowed for going against the flow, for being different. I wondered if he would be able to stand up to the inevitable peer pressure.

And believe me, the pressure has been there over the last few years, however subtle it may have been made out to be. I just don't get the game. And I cannot watch it - I see spinal cord injuries happening (a throw-back to my previous life as an occupational therapist). I have tried - a few years ago I got caught up in some of the patriotism when we won something, but I could not sit through the match. (I have to admit, at the risk of being ostracised, that I have yet to see the "tear-jerker" Invictus).

Well, last year there were some rumblings about maybe playing. I pointed out that he would have to make a choice between rugby and his other commitments - horse-riding, hockey, tennis, music, etc. and he decided that perhaps he didn't want to play so badly that he would give up another activity. I did suspect that the desire was in part due to his admiration for a certain teacher. 

This year however, he came out quite strongly about playing and also was very certain that he would manage all his other activities. Now, a little background here, this is a young man who when he was four years old told me that he would not be doing more than three things during the week, and that included school. I was never able to arrange play dates with other mothers without consultation. "Why did you say he could come and play? I had someone yesterday. I can't be busy two days." I take some blame for this need for balance - he was two years old when I started doing aromatherapy, yoga and meditation. He sometimes would find me cross-legged on the mat and come and quietly join in. 

In hindsight, I think a surge of testosterone has been at the heart of this need to suddenly be macho. He turned 13 at the beginning of the year - seems to be all arms and legs and has achieved his goal of being taller than I am. As the season comes to an end I realise that he has managed to play hockey twice a week, rugby twice or thrice and go horse-riding on a Friday afternoon ("because it is a good way to end off my week"). And on a Sunday morning he starts phoning around to organise a soccer game on the field nearby, with maybe some tennis thrown in. What happened to not being busy for two days in a row? 

He chose not to go to Sweden last week because amongst other things, there was inter-house hockey to end the season. "Of course, you know hockey is my thing", he said. "Oh really?", I replied. "Yes", he casually threw over his shoulder, "you know I won't be playing rugby next year." Well, I didn't, but I gave a mental leap into the air. As always, he has known exactly what he needs.