Multiplying

 We are a family!

Let me start by saying thank you. I read all comments, tweets and emails and I’m encouraged. My ramblings seem to speak to many of you and I hope you will carry on reading. Without further delay, this weeks’ middle class concern is “Should I adopt a child?”

The world population is doubling every two years. South Africa has just reached the 50 million people mark. Logically- no one should be reproducing. On a superficial level, it means more traffic, longer waiting lists for the best schools, less personal space and a smaller chance of finding the right size during sales. Environmentally it means less land, water and food and more pollution and waste. Socially and politically it means, more unemployed youth and more tax to service the 14 million plus South African’s on social grants. It makes me nervous.

Before I get cussed out for linking adoption to overpopulation let me add that there are many factors to consider before assuming the parenting of another being. Every child needs a loving home and parents. With so many unfit parents, I believe there should be a licencing process in which couples apply to some greater authority for permission to have children. I say this in jest but humans have done very well in multiplying and not so well in assuming responsibility.

I am not ready to have my own children but I think adoption is worth considering. Many South African children are in desperate need of families. If I’ve stirred any curiosity, visit Adoption SA or Adoption Voice SA for more information.

Lala ngoxolo

I can't explain the all black attire and sunglasses at a wedding except to say my uncle was barely stylish but greatly loving

My family is from rural Eastern Cape. I mean gravel road, sheep and shepherd, valleys and hills kind of rural. I spent some of my holidays there as a young’un. Pulling goats teats, chasing chickens, listening to battery operated radio and by all means avoiding the long drop. My uncle lived in the serenity of these blue sky’s and green hills. When I visited, it was a true meeting of country and city mouse. I would trade him stories about the metal bird we had flown in for a lesson in herding. He joked that he had once been hit on the head by human droppings from a passing plane. I dedicate one of my favourite poems to him, in the hope that he will dance with the daffodils for all of eternity. Lala ngoxolo malume (RIP Uncle):

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud

By William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company: I gazed---and gazed---but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought: For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.

Somalia: famine, war, pirates

This is Somalia. It is in the horn of Africa (East Africa). Thought a mini- history lesson might be in order since the country is back on the radar. According to the UN, 3.7 million Somalis are now in crises and fleeing the country in search of food and water.

In 1991 opposing clans overthrew President Barre. The country has not had a central government since then (only a transitional government). It is considered a humanitarian disaster due to clan violence, rule of law absence and frequent stretches of drought and famine.

International media is obsessed with Somali pirates. They're not a myth but they're not wearing eye- patches yelling aaargh either. There is still debate on whether there is a direct link between poverty and piracy. There is no debate in my head that with a functional central government, economic growth and social development, piracy would cease to be popular. The pirates hi- jack ships, take crews hostage and demand ransom money. With every hi-jacking, the pirates are getting craftier and more sophisticated- for this reason, I also have an arb fascination with them.

 I keep torturing myself with images of malnourished children and helpless parents. It's easy to conclude that God forgot about Somalia a long time ago. To make donations and keep up to date with progress made in the region visit the World Food Programme website.

The Arts

Young Man Holding Greek Drama Masks by Hill Street Studios

 The National Arts Festival is upon us. I will not be attending this year but I can imagine the energy, spirit and mood.  Cue Newspaper is in full swing, with young journalists running around Grahamstown watching average to great plays. The Green Village is amass with bits and bobs you think you desperately need but don’t. Eateries are filling up with strangers from all corners of the earth. Most importantly performers are stretching, memorising, reciting and possibly washing away the jitters with some gluhwein.

Sadly, my acting career ended with my high school career but the arts remain a crucial part of my social life. Not just theatre of course, but dance, film, music, literature and anything else under the ever expanding definition of ‘the arts’. Typical of all things middle class, it all has the potential to be pretentious: I’ve never been to the theatre under dressed or sat at the movies without coming up with several interpretations of what the director and writer must’ve meant. But there are two sides to every coin.

As part of the Amnesty International Society I took part in the Vagina Monologues in university. I recited “The Hairy Vagina”. My rather conservative boyfriend sat in the audience squirming, after weeks of trying to talk me out of it. He almost managed to convince me it was crazy, except the words ‘You cannot love a vagina unless you love hair’ proved to be more powerful. I uttered the words ‘My first and only husband hated hair. He said it was cluttered and dirty’ and my feminist side reared its head and demanded the audience listen and internalise the message. The audience tensed when I said ‘He made me shave my vagina. It looked puffy, and exposed, like a little girl’. But it was the one’s who tensed the most that came to see the show more than once. My embarrassment slowly thinned amongst the standing ovations. The cast had become a medium for expression; tackling issues of self- esteem and feminine pride. The play was never about me, it was about the power of theatre.

The arts is an extension of our lives, a reflection of our decisions and a creative documentation of history.

16 June 1976

It took me a while to catch onto Twitter but once I had there was no going back. There’s a lot of rubbish to sift through but there are a few gems to be found. One tweet that has stuck in my mind is: “When was the last time the ANC Youth League did something for the youth?” Unfortunately I can’t credit the author of this tweet, although the question stuck, the pseudonym didn’t. With National Youth Day looming I thought it might be time to investigate.

The importance of National Youth Day rises and falls with the amount of media coverage there is leading up to the day. So some years it’s a braai day and others it’s a rare opportunity to reflect, awaken the activist in me and be thankful to the souls that have lead us democratic progress. 2011 is such a year, the mood is sombre. Perhaps it’s influenced by the ANC YL election conference or the accumulation of political events around the continent. Namely, North Africa’s regime change, Ivory Coast’s post- election trials and Zimbabwe’s deepening crisis.

The Hector Pieterson Memorial remains one of my best museum experiences. Besides the architectural glory; the carefully selected images, letters, audio and video snippets combine to reawaken the true meaning of June 16. It’s an emotional experience which may explain why South African youth often shy away from apartheid debates and recollections. To extend your imagination far enough to feel the pain, urgency, desperation and panic that led to the student uprisings is a task. Mike Marais wrote an eloquent paper which highlights that “By the imagination we place ourselves in his situation, we conceive ourselves enduring all the same torments, we enter as it were into his body, and become to some measure the same person with him, and thence form some idea of his sensation”. I wish I’d paid more attention in English class because I aspire to have such an imagination; an imagination which allows me to sympathise and empathise with the youth of 1976 as if it were my own lived experience.

According to ANC YL constitution, the league “shall rally all the youth of our country to play an active part in the struggles of the community and the building and defense of democracy. In doing so, the ANC Youth League shall strive to achieve fundamental social change for the benefit of all young people”. Admirable but I struggle to align the modern ANC Youth League with my sentiments around youth day. News coverage is limited to Malema’s banter, calls for nationalisation and accusations of sabotage. I would really like an answer that illustrates the activities of the youth league in trying to strive for social change.

To elaborate on my first question: where is the vigour and spirit of the league when it comes to attacking unemployment, teenage pregnancy, drug abuse, crime, education and healthcare? Where is the sympathetic imagination for SA’s youth? We are not at the mercy of an apartheid government but we have new battles that require deep analysis and understanding. We need strong, critical leaders that can ‘imagine’ the daily toils and take them on as their own. There is urgency for leaders that can motivate and create an environment in which our potential can be fully realised.

Pick Me

I’m on the hunt for a job. My snobbish side keeps peering out and I won’t click on anything that has “administrator” or “clerk” in the title. Quite frankly, I want a job that acknowledges my qualifications and skills, pays accordingly and wait for it… provides spiritual satisfaction. If you had forgotten, this blog is titled Middle Class Concerns.

My alter- ego doesn’t understand why I haven’t been head hunted by magazines, newspapers, international organisations and think tanks with the prospect of being promoted to Director in the next 2 to 3 years.

Those online resume applications are chewing up my soul. They take 30- 40 minutes to fill up and most of my experiences don’t fit into the categories provided. I have to select Political Science even though I studied International Relations. I have to select NGO even though I work for an NPO, which leads to an assortment of unrelated subcategories like “social work” and “welfare”.

Then there’s the experience dilemma. Most positions require a minimum of 3 years relevant experience. I have only been out of university for a year, so when exactly was I supposed to get the experience. Needless to say, one of the reasons I’m applying for the job is to gain necessary experience.

So I’m putting it out to the universe: There are many challenges experienced in several African states such as the development of necessary policy making, leadership and organisational skills.  I would like a permanent job that incorporates research and social development. I am willing and able to relocate anywhere on the African continent, particularly Zimbabwe, Kenya, Ghana or Nigeria. I speak fluent English, type 43 words per minute and am a published writer on the ISS website, have experience as a rapporteur and conference planner.

My personal goals are to promote African led ideas, diversity, independent thinking and recognition of the youth. I have a great deal to contribute in the area of human development because I am willing, able and eager to learn and there is no better opportunity to be part of the transformation needed. My studies and work experience thus far have equipped me with a broad understanding of Africa’s challenges and have stirred a need to find solutions and be part of a more just society.

So… pick me.

Taxi!

 From Cape Town Daily Photo

As my friend Tsego Raphuti and I concluded: you have not lived until you’ve been through a taxi rank. I am not the adventurous type. In fact, you wouldn’t be far off if you described me as having the heart of a chicken.

This past weekend I attended a friends 25^th birthday party and the only way I could get there was by using a taxi from Pretoria to Midrand. I spent Saturday dreading this trip. Although she had given me a guideline as to how I would eventually get to Midrand, I was guaranteed a few unforeseeable incidences and I hate unpredictability. Anyways, if I gave it too much thought I would change back into my pyjamas and make a “sorry I can’t come” call.

I threw on my coat, grabbed my handbag and made one last call to confirm which side of the road I should stand on. Feeling like quite the tool, I raised my index finger to signal that I was going to town. Within minutes a taxi swept passed and stopped 500 meters later to pick me up. I quickened my step, opened the door and sat close to the front so I could ask the driver to drop me off close to taxi’s heading towards Midrand. It was too late to turn back and I say this because even as I sat in the moving taxi, the thought crossed my mind. A few minutes later all 15 passengers were being shuffled around. Three taxis’ gathered at a stop and divided us according to final destination. Such is the unpredictability that puts me on edge. Like fools we were on and off and on again (roll eyes). Non-the less, 10 minutes later I was at the main taxi rank.

Whilst everyone else knew where they were going, I didn’t. The hustle and bustle is enough to bring on an anxiety attack. Where were my Rescue tablets? Straight face, jacket buttoned, and bag under armpit I missioned as if I knew. Early life experience taught me taxi- drivers are big meanies and 15 years later, nothing had changed. How dare I ask a parked taxi driver in the middle of a conversation where to find the Midrand taxis? I regretted asking as soon as the words came out. He looked me up and down and pointed in the general direction of… nowhere. A second opinion led me to right queue.

Relief; to be sitting at the back row, next to a window watching vendors and travellers from a distance. I am pretty sure there were rats scurrying around. You have not lived until you have experienced the filth, medley of smells, activity and somewhat organised chaos at a taxi rank.  All whilst seated next to three bulky men or in between two rotund women. Bless you if your sitting in front and have the responsibility of collecting the money and distributing change to each passenger. Many a horror stories have been experienced in this enviroment. Paul Auster should consider writing his next trilogy at some of SA's popular taxi ranks.

I said a small prayer whilst something on the taxi was being fixed. It could have been the breaks- I didn’t want to know. R 17.00 later, I was in Midrand. Dear Minster of Transport (Joel Ndebele), whilst I appreciate the affordability of public transport I can’t sedate myself every time I use taxi’s. All efforts seem to be going towards the Gautrain and Rea Vaya. I look forward to the safety and reliability they promise to offer but what about the 5- 10 million South African’s that use taxi’s daily? Don’t worry I have the solutions. More garbage bins at taxi ranks, an info center, formal service training for taxi drivers, stands for vendors and most importantly, roadworthy inspections for taxi’s being held together by wire and plastic.