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.
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