Subliminal messages

A friend of mine was relaying yesterday's episode of Generations to me when I suddenly thought to myself "I'm going to be one of those parents who are selective about what they allow their children to watch on TV because if this kind of junk programming still exists by the time I have kids, which it probably still will, I do not want them anywhere near it".

In this episode Grace, a young student living with her father, throws constant tantrums because her divorcee father has found new love. Grace's behaviour borders on absolute insolence and make one wonder whether there actually are children who behave in this manner out there.

Somewhere else in Generations Bridget, who is a conniving piece of work, is poisoning her supposed friend simply because she suspects that her husband is having an affair with this friend. Her husband finds out about her schemes and decides to move into a hotel while he files for divorce. So Bridget decides to take the same poison she fed her friend in order to get her husband's attention.

Then there is Kenneth Mashaba, Grace's rich uncle and the bane of Paul's (Grace's father) existence. He is the villain and uses any opportunity he gets to show himself better than his brother, catering for Grace's every whim. You can sense from his actions and the manner in which he speaks about his brother, that he is trying to win Grace over completely- she just sees a doting uncle who cares for her.

As my friend spoke, I milled over these different scenarios in my mind and thought to myself that the messages which are being relayed in this soapie are not edifying nor good for the building of relationships.

Grace is basically saying to all 20-year olds out there that it is okay to be utterly disrespectful towards your parent/s. It is okay to stand in the way of your divorced parent getting into a new relationship and ruining all their prospects of finding love that lasts. And that it is fair to give parents unfair ultimatums.

Bridget is teaching all married women out there the art of suspicion. The kinds of things she becomes suspicious of about her husband are so inane. Bridget's actions may seem crazy to any viewer but imagine the weaker audiences that actually relate soapies to their lives and surroundings? What kind of damage is this senselessness doing to them?

Kenneth Mashaba is condoning family disunity. His character is evil personified and the fact that Grace is so vulnerable to him while seeing him as her stand-in dad, is worse.

Soapies are a powerful medium drawing thousands of audiences into the junk subliminal messages which they perpetuate. The challenge lies with the audience - do you sit and lap up everything that you are fed through this media or do you take what you need and discard the rest?

After the Storm

It's as though the entire neighbourhood was expecting us. Every house had at least two or three people huddling by their front doors, staring fixedly and suspiciously at our vehicle as we slowly drove by looking for house number 14.

Children running carefree in the streets and playfully jostling each other, were a stark contrast to the bleakness that was. Houses stood; some with three walls others without roofs. Further on ahead, the corrugated sheets which used to be someone's house were strewn across a small veld. Leaves, branches and mud, paved the street. Torn clothing lay trapped underneath the dismembered furniture - the situation was desperate.

The family from number 14 had been waiting for us to arrive. The children zipped around us wearing dirty clothes, with their noses running and their hair unkempt. I kept thinking that it was their childish innocence which kept them from internalising the direness which faced their families - they were more fascinated by my colleagues - the white people that had come to their neighbourhood.

We heard about the situation in the township after the tornado hit Grahamstown yesterday morning. A lot of people lost their homes, family members and possessions. We received word about one woman whose house was completely destroyed by the storm and we decided to help where we could.

She and her 3-week old baby were taken in by the family at house number 14. It is a family of six living in a 4-roomed house. We didn't have much resources at our disposal, so we decided to buy the household some supper- at least they would have a meal for tonight.

We visited the site where her house used to stand and found that there was not much which could be salvaged from there. The municipality had come and gone, and social workers had also come to provide some counseling. Now all that this woman could do concerning her house and property, was wait for an answer or direction from the municipality.

We asked what else we could do to help but the damage was so extensive that there was not much that could be done with our hands. We left it there and said goodbye to everyone, feeling rather dejected and hoping that something more would be done to help the victims of that tornado.

Jungle fever in retrospect

A question popped into my mind after I googled the definition for jungle fever . Why is jungle fever a reference about white women's attraction to black men? Why couldn't it have said "an attraction between people from opposite races" or something along those lines?

I find the connotations of the former definition rather racist. Within this definition a black man is synonymous with a jungle, which happens to be a home for wild animals. Is this to say that white women who find themselves attracted to black men are attracted to wild animals?

It was also interesting and infuriating to read that a one of the world's most respected scientists claims that black people are less intelligent than their white counterparts but that's a story for another day.

But really now, am I naive to believe that there is nothing wrong with interracial relationships? Why do people choose to get so caught up in race issues, when race itself is a social construct? It amazes me the speed at which people are so ready to turn up their noses to the mere mention of interracial relationships when we have fought long and hard to get to where we are as a people.

My best friend told me that I should basically quite whilst I'm ahead because white men only date black women in order to be well looked after. She said that white men date black women because black women cook, clean, take care of the kids and know how to take care of their men. She also mentioned that white men love the way black women are so primal - which takes us right back to the jungle fever definition. Suffice it to say she based her skewed observation on one experience gone wrong.

I'm sure to many I come across as one with a neo-colonised mind but quite the contrary. I am just an ambassador for the Kingdom of God where the distinction between black and white does not exist .

Jungle Fever

You know- it's really not about race, it's about preference. And even that word "preference" poses some problems to many people "how come you prefer white men over black men?" I have no answer to that question but all I know is that my tendency to be more attracted to white men has been with me for as long as I can remember.

It does not make me any less African, Tswana or black. I can still speak my mother tongue,relate to people of my race and do the things which are exclusive to my people. I just happen to be attracted to white men too. Oh and don't get me wrong, I know a fine brother when I see one and it is not like many have not made my heart skip a beat.

It's funny the reaction I get whenever I mention this idiosyncrasy to both black and white people "gasp! really! why?" Funny how people still find such trivialities so shocking- I blame it on our history. I am sure that they'd all be equally shocked to know that I've never even dated a white guy.

Yeoville

I read an article in a magazine yesterday and a statement was made about how nobody has anything good to say about Yeoville anymore, how it is a place riddled with crime, alcohol and drug abuse.

My heart sank. I used to live in Yeoville for a good 20 years of my life and the memories that I have of Yeoville do not match the words ascribed to her.

Yeoville was a great neighbourhood. Not your average picket-fence stereotype, but a vibrant hub of culture, talent and great diversity.

In '86, you could walk up Raleigh street and get yourself an ice cream from a real ice cream shop.

In '89 you could still get milk delivered outside your door from the dairy, just like they do on tv.

The buzz during the day would trickle over into the night as people would gather for street committee meetings in various homes.

The great artists of today used to hang around in Yeoville, when Tandoor used to rock and Time Square was the buppie hot spot.

We even used have an annual parade!

Kids used to play in beautifully kept parks and their parents would not have to worry about them because everyone used to look out for one another.

White people walking their dogs were not a strange occurrence. Neither was seeing Jay Naidoo buying milk and bread at the cafe.

You could wake up in the morning and take a slow walk through a quiet and clean neighbourhood and just marvel at the beauty that surrounds you.

That was Yeoville and so much more. A part of me has a burning hope that great restoration will take place in Yeoville.

I hope the great vibe returns, the warmth of community, safety and a place of better memories for all the kids that will grow up there.

Soldiering on

I could tell as soon as she took a seat next to me that something weighed heavily on her mind. The canary-yellow scarf which she wrapped around her head like a Muslim woman, hid the disaster that befell her last night when she decided that she wanted a change of hair style for her ball tonight. She told me in the calmest way what had happened, as the creases of her contrived smile began to fade.

A couple of weeks ago she had knocked on my door desperately needing a person to talk to and a shoulder to cry on. As soon as she was done apologising for disrupting me, in what appeared to be my time of study, she broke down and told me about the bad space that she was in.

She was worried about next year - who would pay her fees, what would happen to her poverty-stricken family, what was God's plan for her? She was struggling to find the zeal and enthusiasm which she previously had for her life and her studies. She had even considered taking the shortcut out of her depression and just ending it all.

I listened as she poured out her heart through all her tears. I felt so much sadness about the pain and anxiety that she was experiencing. I wasn't too sure on how to console a woman that bared the equivalent of the world's weight on her shoulders.

The only thing I knew to do was to take her hands in mine and invite the Lord into this situation. I prayed. I spoke to my Father and he heard my prayer. There was such peace that enveloped the room as I asked the Holy Spirit to comfort and counsel my friend. At the end of the prayer it was as though she had awoken from a deep, peaceful and rejuvenating sleep. She was calm, refreshed and positive.

The incident last night seems to have put a damper on her spirit. She told me how she had tried to remove the old synthetic braiding from her hair but all she got instead, was a hand-full of her own hair. She had lost so much hair from removing the braids that she had to wear the scarf to disguise the suspiciously large, hairless patch.

I encouraged her to visit the salon and to get her hair cut evenly to allow for fresh, healthy hair growth to emerge. She seemed consoled by my advise. When I met her later on in the day however, she had a familiar look of desperate sadness on her face. The salon trip had gone all wrong and the hairstylist had failed to understand her instructions. Tears welled up in her eyes as she helplessly looked at me shaking her head from side to side.

Her tears made more sense to me after she told me that she had been trying to grow her hair for years. And now, all that she had to show for her efforts was the remainder of what was previously a healthy head of hair. At that point I felt bad for having a full head of healthy dreadlocks. I felt like any consolation I could offer would not be good enough. But I encouraged her anyway.

I told her to soldier on. Her hair stood a good chance of growing healthily if she would grow it from scratch. I told her that everything would be okay. Once again, she seemed consoled. The tears stopped flowing and a less-contrived smile creased her face. I gave her one last hug before walking away and thinking of how grateful I am for everything that God has blessed me with, including the opportunity to be there for a friend.

When is it gonna be my turn?

To finally have that relationship that I sit and wonder about
To fall in love with someone who is not already someone's
To be proved correct that I too am a candidate for a multi-racial relationship
To be proved correct that hoping for such is not mere idealism
To be proved correct that forever is highly possible
To have a dream, hope, my wish come true
When?