Practising what you teach

A second-year English student asked me the other day if there was any advice I could give regarding her studies, and in her aspirations to lecture in the none-too-distant future. Hardly the Dangerous Minds/Akeelah and the Bee moment she might've hoped for, there were a lot of  "um"s from my side. I couldn't think of anything, you know, profound. Or even particularly useful.
     Feeling quite the let-down, I gave the matter more thought.

Amongst the more obvious and practical suggestions, was the suggestion that if she wants to stand in front of a lecture hall full of students at a South African university, she might take the time to invest in local literature as well.

When I look out at a lecture hall, the faces before me are of many hues and from many backgrounds. Understanding the complexity of this country's make-up, of the grossly divergent states-of-being that were enforced within one country, is fundamental for the task.

I'll always remember once, while teaching African Literature to first years, I asked a top student which of the books had been her favourite. It was Zakes Mda's Ways of Dying. She had enjoyed it most because what Mda had written resonated with the world she knew. There is a scene in which Toloki, a self-made Professional Mourner, visits a furniture chain-store for their catalogues. Toloki, with the help of his heart's fondness, Noria, uses these old catalogues to decorate the walls of their newly-built shack and home. Intended as a gift for Noria, the reader is asked to suspend their disbelief when this action momentarily transforms the space they share as if by magic, perhaps by the magic of love. The student told me that she used to do the same with her sister, covering the bedroom walls of their shack-home in similar fashion.

This young, bright woman had floored me, and for reasons I can't say I entirely understand. I had been aware that she was the first in her highschool to attend a university. I also knew that her high grades and hardwork had afforded her the opportunity she deserved, with a bursary that covered all her studies expenses. But it's in the small things, the small and the personal, that I feel a quiet reverence in the presence of others. It is also when I feel confident in my belief that literature, that fiction, is vital to us. She had enjoyed Mda's novel not only because it spoke to her own memories of girlhood, but because she had not expected to find one of her daily 'ways of living' in print, drawn into this tender moment between two characters.

I do not have access to the same first-hand reading of Ways of Dying as many others might have. Similarly, I may not be able to relate to Zoe Wicomb's Playing in the Light as someone who knows what it is to be classified as Coloured with a capital C, and what it might mean to try and avoid that classification. The capital W afforded White-ness  wasn't the same. It did not keep any of my family members from beaches, or bus-seats, or restaurants, or door-frames. It did not separate either of my parents from their siblings. If anything, across the board, it made clear who you could and could not love. But what those who could not be classified as White experienced, that is of a different kind altogether. That said, it doesn't mean I can't imagine. Calling on my imagination is the very least I can do, I think. If empathy can be defined as "the ability to understand and share the feelings of another," then imagination must surely be the means with which we arrive at this ability.

In hindsight, though, I realised that I hadn't exactly taken heed of my own advice. Yes, I regularly read and am moved by South African literature. Recently, I re-read K. Sello Duiker's The Quiet Violence of Dreams and found myself turned inside out by this incredible novel.  The focus of my masters is also a higly personal one, invested as it is in local literature, in the ability of our fictions to alter, or make fluid, the co-ordinates of South Africa's urbanscapes. And yet, Attic Door Loves Books doesn't have a single South African book review to show for itself. Pretty shameful.

Hoping to better practise what I teach from here on out, each month will see a South African book review posted as I dive into the local literary terrain and celebrate the diverse writers this country boasts... so watch this space!

So I guess the question's 'Why?' right...

A dear friend of mine (and one whose infinite wisdom I have come to admire) recounted a story that I've been thinking about a lot lately. The moral of the story was, I think, that it sucks  to be the one with social leprosy, but that  that doesn't matter because sometimes it just can't be helped. And I'd reckon most of us have been there... You're in a room full of people but the situation doesn't seem too volatile. So you relax and you share. Maybe a graffiti poem at a bus-stop genuinely moved you, and you recite it now, having memorised every line for its profundity. Or you find Ben Folds' 'Annie Waits' just so infectious you can't help clapping along... Maybe it's the ad that made you weep, that one where no one wants to hang out with the kid dressed up like two slices of bread because he isn't a Melrose cheese sandwich.  And surely there's not a person in the crowd who can't relate. Kids can be so cruel, right? But then there's the 'oh no' moment. Your earnestness has led you down the road less travelled and there ain't no breadcrumbs to help you find your way back. The faces looking back at you are dumbstruck, some darn right disgusted. You face it. In their eyes, you've just delivered a soliloquy in Klingon... Or, as my friend puts it, you may as well have dropped your pants on the dining room table and relieved yourself In Front of Everyone.
      I had My Moment the other evening. With a night-time job as a waitress, my colleagues and I had just finished up for the night, and it was time for that after-work staple: a glass of wine. There is generally chatter during these wine-drinking sessions. And with the local elections coming up, the conversation had diverted from the standard fare of where to get cheap, black pumps for the job and which beautician tweaks a well-defined brow. (And as an aside, I no longer underestimate these kinds of conversation. They are each and every one an advisable way to stay out of trouble.)
        But Klingon is a funny language. Again, I cannot emphasise this enough: it's the earnestness that gets you. Your eyes glaze over, and there's a strange feeling in your chest that feels a bit like patriotism, a bit like heartburn, and the next thing you know your soliloquy is over and nobody is impressed. Inadvertently, I had handed every single person in the room the burden of apartheid and it's not a dish best served, hot or cold or room temperature. I remembered that these are the post-apartheid babies* I'm talking to, who don't like suggestions that clipped English accents speak on behalf of colonial tongues, and that these accents mean we translate well for the white suburban families who come to eat at our restaurant. In fact, forget breadcrumbs, I'd crossed enemy lines and only an unveiling of the hottest shades for nailpolish this winter could save me now. 

So here I am, with a blog, trying to play in the light (thanks, Wicomb)  as a white South African, trying to be as honest as  I can with this English accent of mine. I hope I don't cause too much offense. It is just that I am in love with this country. Admittedly, she is as disparate, jaded, humbled, whimsical and overwhelming as any lover. But when in love, no one wants to be the cliche. Whatever the language, we look for some way to say how we feel without it sounding disingenuous. That's all.

*Firstly, I can be a selfish post-apartheid baby with the best of them. Secondly, I know and admire a great many wonderful (and white) post-apartheid babies, many of whom are my fellow waitrons.