Dear South Africa – meet a privileged white woman

Dear South Africa…

This is an interesting one. i was sent this story and asked if i could share it anonymously.

And only realised when i copied it in here that it was a two-parter [i had initially missed the second part]. Which adds a whole different layer to the first part of the story and i imagine different people will have different reactions to it.

But at the same time it gives a glimpse of someone stepping towards, of being bold, of entering a #NotOnOurWatch moment with conviction, while at the same time being able to see the humanity within the perpetrator [which is a piece i think so many of us miss when confronting the idea of racism and prejudice] – it’s a Both/And over an Either/Or and anyone who knows me well will know that is an area i have been leaning much towards of late.

But what do you make of this? i would love to hear your thoughts in the comments…

= = = = = = = = = = 

Dear Brett

I am a loyal and keen follower of your blog. In many ways, I think the paradigm shift I’ve been experiencing has been inspired and supported by what I read there. I am trying so much harder to think and speak a different way and humble myself in the face of so much historical injustice. it’s hard but oh so good!

And finally, yesterday, I found my voice to put into action the words and thoughts and emotions that have been swirling around my head since said paradigm shift. I think it may be a good follow on from your post today or perhaps a ‘Dear South Africa’ post. I am going to write about the incident/experience and send it to you. It would need to be 100% anonymous 🙂 And if nothing else or no one else reads it, I’d like to share it with you as you have given me the words, language, and concepts to organize my feelings on this topic.

I think you will find it interesting:) (Well, I hope you do).

Thank you for your major contribution to the current belated and increasingly-important rhetoric in our country.

Kind regards.

Privileged White Woman

By a Privileged White Woman

I shall pass this way but once therefore any goodness I can do or any kindness I can show let me do it now. For I shall not pass this way again.

(I’ve since learned this is based on a quote by William Penn but for most of my life it was stuck up in my Grandmother’s bathroom.)

There is something about queuing in South Africa that highlights our differences far more often than our similarities. Especially in Checkers, soon after payday. On a Sunny Sunday morning in our rural town, accompanied by my pre-teen son I found myself in such a queue. The current customer together with the cashier was painstakingly counting out coins for a purchase for her employer. This, I surmised from the products on the counter. The next person in line was not happy and the huffing puffing sounds she made had clearly been going on for a while. Her heels snapped sharply on the tiles as she marched to the manager to complain loudly how unacceptable this all was.

Nothing changed (quite rightly) and soon the customer was finishing up. And it was nearly the next customer’s turn. But she just couldn’t let her irritation go. She kept proclaiming how this was ridiculous and no one wants to help her ever (how surprising, I thought sarcastically) and then she said these words ‘and you know they just ignore you’ [*1]

THEY. US. THEM.

I feel the colour rising in my cheeks. This is not ok. All this was directed at the middle-aged man behind her. His bemused smile was starting to irritate me. It just looked complicit. It seemed to say ‘well, what do you expect?’ And at some stage, he pointed his cracked smartphone camera over the cashier’s hands (what were his intentions? To whom was he going to show this legal, normal ordinary transaction to? What were they actually doing wrong? At this point I’m feeling like this may be a very similar incident to the infamous ramekin incident which still makes me angry just thinking about it).

As I summon courage [*2] the woman looks over at me. Her blue eyes roll a bit and she shakes her head. She thinks I agree with her. That we’re on the same team. She is including me in this situation, on her ‘side’!

I’ve now had enough so I catch her eye again and half-whisper to her, over the man’s shoulder:

‘Don’t be rude to people just doing their job.’

Her eyes widen. She does not expect this. She briefly glances at me then quickly away. At first view, I LOOK like I should be agreeing with her. She is clearly shocked that I don’t and this has, momentarily, taken her breath away.

She looks back and protests at me ‘But we’ve been waiting half an hour!’

I respond – ‘They are doing nothing wrong, you could have joined another queue.’

But we are in THIS one, she argues.

I incline my head. ‘Still… don’t be rude.’

I’ve never been this brave in my life. But suddenly I’m taking center stage in this show. It must be my son beside me. His name means ‘defender of men’. Am I teaching him to defend those who need it? To not behave in a certain way? I’m not sure at this point but his presence emboldens me.

Then her anger grows: ‘And besides, you should be quiet and mind your own business.’

There is a brief silence then I’m brave again. My husband would say I’m after the last word, as always. And maybe I am.

‘There is never an excuse for being rude. Please DO NOT be rude.’

I sense bedrock shifting and she is now glaring at me. My voice has not altered. It remains as calm as before. I hold her gaze with my own implacable one and feel I can stare forever. There are oceans between us. Of shared history and perspective, of knowledge of what is wrong and right. I will never look away and so she must be the first. Moments later she starts going pink. Looks down and puts her groceries on the counter. I notice there isn’t all that much. One basket actually and the sizes of the items she has chosen are the smaller ones. Her hands are shaking (But so are mine, so I will not feel bad. In fact I don’t feel bad at all. I feel as if I’ve won something.)

Suddenly she looks up. At me, at the cashier, at the man behind her. ‘I’m sorry’ she says. ‘You have no idea what I’m going through.’

Still silence, but peace is descending. Do I sense empathy? Despite her bad behaviour? The fraught atmosphere has softened somewhat. We are all wondering what she is talking about.

Its time for her to pay and she opens her purse. Less than R100 lies in an assortment of small notes inside. Disbelieving, she realises she is short and starts looking at the items and asking about cancelling the purchase, what can be removed? I lean forward. There is absolutely no hesitation. I am realising all of this was meant to be. ‘I will handle it’, I say. ‘How much do you need?’

R50, she whispers. She has gone pinker now. Her eyes are downcast. I’m reaching past my child, opening my purse and shakily (damn hands!) picking out a note.

The man in front of me is also opening his wallet and as if choreographed, two R50 notes are held out to her. Her eyes fill with tears. ‘But I can’t take them both’, she says. ‘Yes you can’, I say. ‘And you must’ the man says. I smile but I am crying too. So is the cashier. The man’s face is red, his eyes are bleary. I feel he may not be able to contain his composure for much longer. Everyone is smiling.

She turns to the cashier and gives one of the most heartfelt apologies I’ve ever heard. The cashier nods back.

The woman leaves the queue, leaves everything to walk to me, to say ‘I am going through a divorce after many years. And my heart is failing.’

And suddenly I see the eyebrow pencil lines where there should be eyebrows. The shaking that has not ceased. The thin arms and the single basket of groceries. Her pale face. She tells me her daughter just arrived and they couldn’t buy groceries. She says she didn’t think things could get worse but now suddenly everything is better. She asks my name, touches my baby on his cheek. She smiles at me, hugs me. Her shoulders are thin under my arms. When she leaves, she is all smiles. She says ‘I cannot thank you enough.’ She is not just thanking me for the money, I am sure of that. The man is waiting for me when I leave the store, arms piled with bags of my groceries, pram ahead. He stops me, looks into my eyes, and says ‘It was wonderful meeting you.’ He is wiping his eyes again.

A friend once described herself as a small person from a small country and in many ways, I could describe myself as that too. And what just happened was small too. But for the 5 people involved it was gargantuan in its impact.

I love this country and what is a country but a place where a group of people live together in a succession of days filled with small moments? And to find a way forward through what we find ourselves in, we have to start small to help ourselves. If it means facing one’s fears and calling someone else out on their behaviour then do so. You will learn through the conflict. Parenting has taught me that every moment in life is a teachable one. I’m learning more than my kids. And hardest is leading them by example. I hope speaking out changed some outlooks if only my own. If it didn’t, it showed me that I have a duty to use my position of privilege (whether that privilege sits uneasily on my shoulders or not) to change situations that I find myself in. For the better and for our shared future, for as long as it takes and as long as we can. It so difficult to know where to start and how. Internally, a point of empathy is a good place. Following your own principles on how to treat people is another one. For me, that place was a queue.

[*1] Side note at this juncture: I’ve read enough and engaged in enough introspection and checked my own privilege and my own small place in this incredible country and community and my interactions with other South Africans and Africans to know that this is not and never will be ok.

[*2] Side note on my own personal courage levels: I hate conflict and have been ashamed of letting so many many other situations like this go. I think I’ve probably been aware of these situations being wrong (on many levels) for about 30 years. (Shameful, I know).This morning was the first time (the very first) that I actually did something meaningful about it. Not just sat alone, angry and frustrated afterward. And ashamed at not doing something about it at the time, as I should have.

[For a series of posts written to South Africans by South Africans, click here]