Diary of a born-again student

Things are starting to settle down a bit around here. We haven’t had take-outs for supper this week...yet. In fact, yesterday getting groceries and preparing dinner seemed far more attractive than usual. Something familiar that didn't take much thought. I could just cruise through on automatic pilot.

Some days my head has felt ready to burst. A few days ago I sat down with a cup of tea and the Sudoku puzzle - anything that didn't need words. I'm starting to understand why my adolescent son communicates in grunts. With all that is going on with his body, plus school it’s all that he can do to piece together words for food or a lift.

Last night he was doing his Maths homework with a friend, via SKYPE. One of my courses is completely computer-based and has had me waking up nights with my stomach in a knot.  To address my technological inadequacies, I have found someone who is sympathetic to the challenges of the “mature woman” to do some computer coaching with me. 

After three sessions I feel like we have done some feng shui for computers and simplified matters. My daughter was greatly puzzled by the fact that he had whipped out a pen and paper to explain things to me, but that is exactly the level that I needed to start from. 

I have been telling the kids, much to their amusement, that I am going to be sooo clever by June...either that or I’ll be crazy! To put a positive spin on the stomach in a knot part, I am trying to convince myself that, come the end of the semester, I am going to be blessed with a six-pack – which is also one of my son’s goals in life. I am starting to notice a bit of regression on my part...

Queen of Queens

http://www.sactwu.org.za/events/55-spring-queen

This week as part of my Public Culture course, I visited the District Six Museum Homecoming Centre where they are running an exhibition of the Spring Queen pageant. The Spring Queen festival has  been organised annually by the women factory workers in the clothing industry since the 1970s. In June or July each factory chooses a Spring Queen who would then participate for the Queen of Queens title in November of that year.

My first reaction to the idea of a Spring Queen was of a demeaning beauty pageant, a cattle parade, objectifying women. It was an appeasement, a consolation, something to keep the “poor Coloured” workers happy. I grew up in the days when there was a white Miss SA and a coloured Miss Africa South.

I came away with a different perspective – one of unity among the workers, a diversion from the daily grind of working in an industry which is notorious for poor wages. Typically the women who work in the factories are single parents, often with a number of children. One of the workers who had worked at a factory which had recently closed down, related her experiences of the pageant.

“People see us as factory workers, and that is all you are worth,” she said. The pageant offered the young women an escape from reality, a fairy tale – “even for one day you can feel like Princess Diana”  - she told us. She used phrases like “very exciting and very beautiful”; “you feel like millionaires”; “an exciting and happy time”. There were opportunities to further a modelling career or a bursary to study further.

While she was talking, her colleague, an older woman, who had been sitting quietly observing, slipped me three photographs, slightly crumpled and dog-eared.  They were all of her in costumes, possibly ten or fifteen years previously. In one photo she wore an elaborate pink creation, looking indeed like a princess.

When I whispered my admiration to her, she smiled proudly as she put the photos back into her bag. In that moment I realised how much participating in the Spring Queen pageant must have meant to her. For a brief moment, someone had looked at her with different eyes.  She had felt special. She had been acknowledged.

The exhibition is on at 15 Buitenkant Street, Cape Town, until the end of February. The centre is open form 10h00 to 16h00, Monday to Saturday. 

We Say Enough!

Yesterday thousands of UCT students and staff marched in protest against the scourge of violence that has become part of our society. Marching does not seem like nearly enough to be doing but after witnessing the recent spate of violent crimes, I felt that I had to do something.

I was struck by a recent article in the newspaper which pointed out that a few years ago we were all shocked by the violent abuse and death of a young girl, Valencia Farmer, and yet here we are again in the same situation.

Carrying placards, mostly dressed in white, we marched and chanted, up from the middle campus to congregate on the Jameson steps on the main campus. When we were addressed by the vice-chancellor, amongst others, I couldn’t help thinking back to the struggle days. And, indeed, he reminded us that ordinary people had brought apartheid to an end and that it was time that we stood up again to bring about change.

We need to demand our rights, to make ourselves heard, to voice what it is we want the government that we elected to do. It is important to use whatever platforms that are available to us to get this message across and to keep up the momentum of what others are doing.

WE SAY ENOUGH. STOP THE VIOLENCE AGAINST WOMEN AND CHILDREN.

You may also like:http://saaray-livinginsa.blogspot.com/2013/01/stop-abuse.html

Cycling for Red Cross

RadiologyFM - YouTube:

'via Blog this'


You may also like:http://saaray-livinginsa.blogspot.com/2013/01/making-difference-cycling-for-red-cross.html

Surviving School

Do you know those Tom and Jerry cartoon images where Tom has stuck his finger into a plug socket and is bolted up into the air, every hair on his body standing on end? Well, that's how I have felt for the last ten days. 

At my very first lecture last Tuesday I thought I was in the wrong place! All around me students who looked 19 (but couldn't possibly have been since this was a post-graduate course) spoke with American accents and the lecturer was explaining elementary things like where District Six was and that the boxer in the black and white photo from the 1950s was actually Nelson Mandela, not Muhammed Ali.

It made sense when I realised that the course was being run in conjunction with Brown University and that there was a large contingent of exchange students attending. The clarity lasted about five minutes before we were being told about setting up websites, creating Tumblr accounts and joining a Face Book group. All this would be used to monitor and assess our involvement!

Later in the week I was in a lecture on African Non-fiction Literature. This time the class was smaller and there was only one American voice, but listening to these young ones talk, I had the distinct feeling that I have missed out on a few steps...like studying English language and literature...

We are a group of diverse writers in the Creative Writing seminars and I am sure that we will learn much from each other and the many established authors who we will be meeting during the course of the year.

 Everyone assures me that I will be fine once I get into the swing of things. I just need to find a way to channel the adrenaline which seems to be coursing through my veins, clearly my body has been preparing for flight. My brain, however,  has prevailed and here I am gearing up for the second week. 

Orientation

If the walls could talk...Jameson Hall on Jammie Steps

The flashes of panic I was having about my impending academic journey had evolved into a more pervasive sense of bewilderment by the weekend.

Part of the bewilderment is that nothing is actually as it was – the library is not where I remember it, for example, and you can't drive down University Ave. And places are called by different names: The Steve Biko Lecture Theatre, The Molly Blackburn Hall...who would have thought? I feel like I have entered a parallel universe and someone has messed with my memory.

I was unprepared for the emotion I felt climbing up Jammie steps on Thursday on the way to the postgraduate orientation session. Thankfully, at 830 in the morning there were not many students around to see the middle-aged woman with wet cheeks pausing to soak up the moment. It seems like a lifetime since I first ventured up there.

It’s a long way from handwritten assignments in the Occupational Therapy department on the other side of the cemetery below Groote Schuur Hospital. At the orientation, someone from the library was talking about consultations by appointment, the writing centre person about developing writing and the IT manager about computer labs with uncapped bandwidth and free on-campus access to wireless.

Later I noticed that the change in student diversity has been as dramatic. Now it is only age that may make me stand out from the crowd but I am willing to believe that at UCT I will be treated with suitable irreverence. At least no one here will call me “Tannie”!

I haven’t met my whole group but probably the majority are half my age...and have been studying English and language and literature in the time that I have been raising children. I am envious of the ease with which they engage with lecturers and the certainty with which they are making choices.

After two tries, I have survived the registration process and am now in proud possession of a student card. I look forward to the week ahead when “all will be revealed”. Now I just need to remind my family that the toilet-paper fairy has left the building...!

As time goes by

When I was at university in the 80s, I took notes by hand, and rewrote them at night struggling to decipher my feverish scrawl at the small desk behind the door in the room I shared with my sister. My sister surrounded her bed with a ring of salt to ward off evil spirits which she feared may have come in with the black bag of bones I had brought home for my Anatomy studies.

But I digress. Back in the day, it was acceptable to hand in assignments which were "neatly hand-written" if you didn't have access to a typewriter. Computers were still a dream, like democracy.

My dad owned a small grey Olivetti typewriter. Every evening he would sit at the kitchen table and pound away at the black keys using two fingers to write his reports or exam papers.  The tick-tack-tick-tack rhythm of the machine interspersed with a “cling” and a “swish” as he got to the end of the line, was calming, like a bedtime story, when we were too old for a nightly installment from “365 Bedtime Stories”. Sometimes, when he wasn't busy, I would get to use it for a special assignment, correcting paper at the ready...and carbon paper for copies.

I was thinking about this while trying to decide what courses to do this year, now that I am planning to charge up the brain cells. “You can look everything up before you go to register,” said my daughter. For once she didn't roll her eyes at my technological challenges as she downloaded the faculty handbook and guided me through the 400 pages.

“Are you sure you need to go to orientation all day?” she asked. “You’ll probably find your way around just fine.” Well, having not spent any significant time on the main campus the first time around, I do need a bit of help trying to “navigate the administrative maze of post-graduate studies”. I would hate anyone to have to spread salt to still my spirit if it takes to rambling around the ivy-covered buildings! 

Images of Switzerland

Sharing History

I first heard Elif Shafak speak on one of the TED talks. Her gentle, accented voice drew me in to her story. She spoke about growing up with her traditional Turkish grandmother who was a healer in the community. People would come to her with warts which they wanted to get rid of. Her grandmother would draw circles around the warts and, in time, they would shrivel up and fall off. She made the analogy that when we draw circles around ourselves, or build walls to isolate ourselves from others, we are at risk of shrivelling up and dying.

It struck a chord with me, having grown up in apartheid SA and experiencing the walls that the government built around our communities in order to cut us off from each other. If we don’t interact and learn from each other we run the risk of shrivelling up and dying – if not physically, then at least in our attitudes, beliefs and compassion for each other.

I was delighted to be able to hear her speak on more than one occasion last week in Davos. As a child she straddled two worlds – the modern, western world of her educated mother, and the traditional, superstitious world of her uneducated grandmother. In her books she allows space for both voices.

Many societies have a rich oral culture which is deemed to be “lesser” because it is women who are telling the stories.  History is remembered differently by different people and who is to say what is important enough to provide a window of understanding on what went before? 

Listening to her speak I realised that in SA there are many stories which need to be told so that we can get on with the process of healing and move forward. Sometimes all that is needed is for our experiences to be acknowledged, to feel that our voices have been heard. We all need a voice.