A Piece of Hate Cake…

April 18, 2012

When I saw the Swedish minstrel cake fiasco this morning, I literally could not believe my eyes. It was one of the most disturbing things I have seen in a while. It was so completely offensive, on so many different levels. And then, of course, people’s responses to it online added to the offense, many trying to excuse the racist act by saying the “artist was a black man”, as if that makes it any better. It’s inexcusable.

For those of you who have no clue what I’m talking about, pictures and videos have emerged from a tax-funded, Swedish World Art Day party that took place on Saturday, where the Minister of Culture, Lena Adelsohn Liljeroth, performed a clitoridectomy on a cake negatively depicting a black African woman in a minstrelesque-type way. Apparently, this piece of “modern performance art” done by Makode Aj Linde was made to raise awareness of the plight of female circumcision in Africa. At best, it tragically made a mockery of the cause, and managed to stir up outrage and pain that has been inflicted on African women for hundreds of years.

Putting aside the racist overtones for a moment, it does not take a genius to realize that not only did this event bring absolutely nothing positive to the plight of female circumcision, it went further, adding insult to injury, by the negative depiction of the African female. It made me sick to my stomach to watch the artist, with his actual head (in black face) connected to the cake, pseudo-screaming as people cut into the body of the cake. The jolly faces, laughing, and enjoyment of the party-goers do not reflect people who are aware of the seriousness of genital mutilation. As a matter of fact, they seem to be having a great time, and enjoying some cake. This brings the level of disturbance up a notch for me. Watch the video for yourself:

Not only did the alleged “message” of the “performance art” completely miss the mark, but the cake in and of itself was a repulsively racist minstrel parody of an African woman. It reminded me of the 1800s, when Saartjie Baartman was stolen from South Africa and taken to Europe as a sideshow spectacle. Europeans, young and old, paid money to gawk, point, gasp, laugh and jeer at Saartjie’s naked body, exhibiting features the white people were not accustomed to. Saartjie was dehumanized and humiliated for the entertainment and enjoyment of others. And of course Saartjie was unfortunately not the only one subjected to this inhumane treatment, as the tradition of “black mockery for white entertainment” went on for hundreds of years, even taking different shapes and forms.

I imagine the Europeans who gawked at Saartjie Baartman looked very similar to the faces found in the crowd of Swedish cultural elite, as Liljeroth, the self-proclaimed “anti-racist”, feeds the “African” a piece of her very own body; smiles, laughter, camaraderie, and not one single look of protest, disgust, or opposition.

Arguments that “the artist is black, and that makes it alright”, or that “performance art is an extreme medium known for shock factor” are outlandishly absurd. The people who say things like that act as though things are being blown out of proportion, “It’s performance art. What’s the big deal?!” I suppose a generation of people raised in an intrinsically racist system, where even Bugs Bunny occasionally dressed up in minstrel black face, have trouble seeing the harm in this. Photographer and activist Dwayne Rodgers tweeted, “The big problem is the “right” everyone seems to have to play with very painful images of Black people.”

I wonder what the response would be if photographs and videos emerged of a group of Germans laughing and eating whilst standing around a Holocaust victim cake. I think people would be a little offended, to say the least. I suspect total outrage would be more like it. And if the person who baked the cake was Jewish, would that make it any more okay or right? Of course not! Because there is history there, and it would be completely insensitive to even imagine such a thing.

I’m not sure what is more disheartening to me, the fact that preposterous racist occurrences like this continue to happen in these modern times, or the fact that so many people are so quick to defend them, seemingly wanting to hold on to that “right” that Dwayne Rodgers speaks of. As if a Minister of Culture taking part in something like this isn’t bad enough, Lena Adelsohn Liljeroth herself has tried to justify, rationalize and make excuses by saying that the event is being “misinterpreted”. Right. Sigh. Liljeroth’s out of touch, “let them eat cake” mentality is ironic to say the least.

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Guns and Words, and Words About Guns…

February 19, 2012

You know it’s time to vote for a new president when Facebook is overrun with political banter. Statuses, pictures, posts, articles, videos, and other forms of cyber-soapboxing flood my newsfeed, stretching from the left to right. Pro-life, pro-choice, homophobes, gay rights, small government, big government, healthcare this, healthcare that, tax the rich, lockup the poor…oh, and yes, guns, guns, guns. Many Americans, especially Southerners, love their Second Amendment Right to Bear arms, and some take it very seriously.

Not this kind of bear arms.

Growing up in the American South I was exposed to my fair share of guns as a kid. Back then I thought they were cool. My neighbor and I were always building forts in the backyard and shooting imaginary enemies with plastic guns. My Great Uncle was an FBI agent so he would bring special edition, FBI issued guns on family vacation and let me shoot them; couldn’t get much cooler to a kid like me. My grandpa had an old GMC Jimmy that he would drive out to his “Lake Land”, and he velcroed  a sawed-off shotgun to the dashboard. Talk about Southern swag.

As a teenager one of my good friends had a bunch of guns, and we would always go out and shoot them. We also made homemade bombs, but that’s another story for another day. Around that same time my fourteen-year-old neighbor took his own life with a shotgun. It was devastating for this small town, to say the least. To this very day my eyes get teary if I think about it for too long. At the time I didn’t blame the presence of a legally owned gun. I blamed Kurt Cobain.

It’s easy to shift the blame, to avoid painful feelings, when someone’s life is taken by a gun that was meant to protect the family, most especially if it is a young person’s life; Kurt Cobain, video games, Slipknot, rap music, movies, anything that takes away from the fact that the gun was readily there and available for use. However, no matter how we spin it, guns are used to take life; that is their sole purpose. The National Center for Health Statistics reported that The majority of gun-related deaths in the United States are suicides, with 17,352 (55.6%) of the total 31,224 firearm-related deaths in 2007 due to suicide. That’s sobering.

Of course, nonfatal gun accidents also happen. According to the National Center for Injury Prevention and Control, there were 52,447 deliberate and 23,237 accidental non-fatal gunshot injuries in the United States during 2000. Also pretty crazy. Tons of Americans get maimed and killed by guns every year. But the Second Amendment supporters adamantly swear that guns are not only a right, but a necessity; mostly for three things: hunting, to protect the family, and to be ready to rise up against the government.

Ok, I get the hunting one. Now, with all the guns I’ve fired, the only things I’ve ever shot were tin cans and impromptu targets. I’ve never been hunting. The only thing I’ve done that’s even close to hunting was when I was about eleven. I got a new BB Gun, and I decided I was going to go out and “hunt me a squirrel”. I stalked the neighborhood varmints, and eventually got one in my sight. I carefully aimed and fired my weapon. The little BB went flying through the air and BOOM! My first shot connected with the squirrel’s skull.

My squirrel victim immediately began convulsing and jumped from the telephone pole it was on to the electrical wires. It twitched, and flipped, and freaked out as it tried to run across the wire, until it jumped to a tree, bounced off, and fell to the ground. It laid there for a few seconds, twitched some more, convulsed a lot more, and then jumped up, running off in a twitchy manner. I felt so bad, and so guilty. If I’m honest, I almost cried. So, yep! That was the end of my hunting career. But I know that many people love hunting, and like I said, I get it. I’m not against it. It’s just not for me.

That brings me to the “protecting the family” argument. Valuing family as I do, I also “get” this one. I don’t necessarily agree with the argument though. Many illegally-owned guns are guns that were stolen from legal gun-owners’ homes. I’m not saying that’s right, or ok, but it’s true. Also, in my life, I have heard far more stories of people (and their family members) being injured or killed by their own guns, than I have about people who have been able to protect their families with them. I’m not saying it doesn’t happen, I’m just saying I haven’t heard many, if any, of those stories.

Living in South Africa for ten years, especially doing the work I did (working with youth at risk), I was confronted with violence of different forms on a daily basis. Guns were one of those forms. I’ve had guns held to my head. I’ve driven through gunfire. I’ve heard gunshots from my home. I’ve taken a gun out of a cop’s hand when he was misusing it, abusing a child. I’ve seen gangsters joke around and play with loaded guns. I’ve also lost a great deal of people who I cared a great deal about to gun violence, and the vast majority of them were kids. And all of those deaths were brought by illegally owned guns; illegally owned guns that were meant to be in the hands of a legal gun owner. For a Second Amendment advocate, this may be even more evidence as to why they need a gun to protect their family. But for me, the more guns that are out there, the more people die, period.

Then we have the “we need guns to protect ourselves from the government or rise up against it” argument. Ok, this is the one I get the least. It made sense when America was first colonized, and the average man wore a wig; when the biggest weapon was a cannon, and bullets were little balls and it took a couple of minutes to reload a gun. But, in these modern-day times, with all due respect, do people really and truly believe they are going to be able to rise up against the government with handguns, and/or even legally owned automatic weapons? The government has tanks, and planes, and helicopters, and missiles, and nuclear weapons. So yeah, even with a barn full of guns, unfortunately, if we were to have to protect ourselves from the government, I’m pretty sure we’d be screwed…like, overwhelmingly so.

I know those people disagree with me. That’s ok. My main point is this, I hate guns. I really, really do. And these are all just my views. I don’t expect you to believe them with me, and I’m not trying to convince you to either. I’m just sharing them. The amendment I value more than the Second Amendment is the First Amendment: the freedom of speech. I think words are much more powerful than guns. Because when all is said in done, it is words that start wars and bring peace. Some of the most revolutionary people of our time used non-violence and words to combat violence they were confronted with; ironically, many of those very people’s lives were taken by guns.

But what is more powerful? The fact that someone, arrogant enough to believe that they have the right to take life they cannot create nor give back, is able to pull a trigger, from a distance, and kill a person? Or the fact that the words of that murdered person will forever live on, beyond their grave, and continue to speak powerfully and bring life, even after death? I would go with the latter of the two. Sure, guns have been used to protect life, but they cannot bring it, or give it back. And although misused words can bring death, words used in the right way, for the good, can literally shape, form and bring life into any situation, even if the person who speak’s them is killed by a bullet to the head. So yeah, paper beats rock, rock beats scissors, word beats gun.

“I believe that unarmed truth and unconditional love will have the final word in reality.” - Martin Luther King, Jr.

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What Racism?

January 16, 2012

This has been one of the strangest years of my life, living in the U.S. after ten years in Cape Town, South Africa. I could write a million different blogs, with a million different angles on this year alone, but for now, I’ll keep it focused. I want to talk about racism. And I figured Martin Luther King Jr. Day was a good day to do it.

Of course, in my ten years of living in South Africa, especially in the circles I moved in, I was confronted with racism on, pretty much, a daily basis. You could say it was one of the underlying “themes” of my life in Cape Town, that impacted most, if not all, of the situations I found myself in, whether it was acknowledged or not. One might say that would be “expected” in South Africa, only coming out of Apartheid in 1994. But we know South Africa does not hold the copyright to racism, and it is a global issue. This last year living in America, I haven’t been able to get the topic and existence of racism off my mind. It seems to have settled in there, and refuses to leave until I hear its plea; like the plight of anti-racism’s very own Occupy Protest, taking place in my brain. So, I’ve been listening.

One thing I’ve taken note of is how much racism plays a role in day-to-day American life, whether covert, overt, systemic, or what have you. It’s here, and it’s ugly. Another thing I’ve taken note of is how unwilling so many people are to speak about or engage the topic in any way, shape or form. Many have adopted the attitude of “we’ve just got to move on”, and they’ll even say that if we speak about racism, we are just making it worse. In a lecture about “Post-Racial Politics”, Tim Wise says there is no other social ill that we would adopt that kind of mindset with; like, “Oh, I know crime is bad, but if we just ignore it, it’ll go away,” or “AIDS is only a problem because we speak about it so much!” Kind of silly, really.

Vast majorities of people really and truly want to try to act like racism is not a problem, and therefore refuse to bring up this “tired, outdated topic”.

However, contrastingly, the very same people who are so unwilling to speak about the topic of racism are often the very same people you might hear delivering an emotional rant after a race-driven news story or life experience; possibly the same people who might say, “I’m not racist, BUT…” and what follows is the most racist statement ever. Yeah, “THOSE people”. Racism is still alive and kicking, and strong. It affects us all, whether we realize or acknowledge it. We don’t seem to want to speak about it. But if provoked, a beehive of emotions are stirred up. What’s up with that?! Why do we try and avoid something that plays such a enormous role in our life?

I think the answers range from simple denial, to people not knowing how to speak about it, from false senses of entitlement which leads people to believe there is no need to, to people being unwilling to stir up the emotions required to engage such a historically heated topic, and the list goes on. For every person who is unwilling to engage the topic, you will probably find a different reason as to why. Much like how individuals develop certain mechanisms to avoid unwanted emotions or experiences, devices otherwise known as Defense Mechanisms.

I’ve been thinking a lot about Defense Mechanisms lately. Freud theorized Defense Mechanisms as “unconscious psychological strategies brought into play by various entities to cope with reality and to maintain self-image”. There is a long list, and they range from extremely unhealthy to more healthy reactions to unwanted emotions, grouped in four categories: pathological, immature, neurotic, and mature. Freud developed the theory based on the behavior of individuals, and it is obvious how individuals apply defense mechanisms to the various responses stirred up by the topic of racism. But the more I have thought about the list of defense mechanisms, the more I have seen how society as a whole (or at least large sub-groupings), and its shared collective brain, seems to have adopted these same mechanisms when it comes to the topic of racism.

For instance, two examples of the pathological mechanisms are Denial and Distortion. Denial is obvious: people who merely refuse to admit racism is even a problem at all. Where as an example of Distortion could be white people who say things like, “Oh come on! Slavery and all that happened years ago! There’s no way it’s still playing a role now! People just need to move on! If anything, black people have it better than white people!” An example of a more mature mechanism would be Humor, a tactic comedians like Dave Chappelle and Louis C.K. apply, using extreme, race-driven anecdotes to highlight the ignorance and existence of racism.

Whether people want to admit it or not, racism still has a dominating presence in America, and it is most definitely not going anywhere, unless we are active and intentional in fighting it. It cannot merely be ignored. We can use various mechanisms, whether as individuals or as a society as a whole, to avoid the unwanted feelings and emotions the engagement of this topic stirs up, but avoiding the real issue only allows it to grow bigger and bigger. I long to see genuine, honest dialogue about the existence of racism; conversation that doesn’t just stir up emotions and leave people heated, but a dialogue that stirs all of that up, and leads us down the road to forgiveness and healing. Denial will take us no where.

Please feel free to comment below, and engage the topic if you would. Also, here are some of of the main Defense Mechanisms (Definitions and information about Defense Mechanisms sourced from Wikipedia Article), if you are interested in looking at them through the filter of how groups or individuals apply them to avoid unwanted emotions stirred up by the topic of racism:

Defense Mechanisms:

Level 1 – Pathological

Delusional Projection: Grossly frank delusions about external reality, usually of a persecutory nature.

Denial: Refusal to accept external reality because it is too threatening; arguing against an anxiety-provoking stimulus by stating it doesn’t exist; resolution of emotional conflict and reduction of anxiety by refusing to perceive or consciously acknowledge the more unpleasant aspects of external reality.

Distortion: A gross reshaping of external reality to meet internal needs.

Splitting: A primitive defence. Negative and positive impulses are split off and unintegrated. Fundamental example: An individual views other people as either innately good or innately evil, rather than a whole continuous being.

Extreme projection: The blatant denial of a moral or psychological deficiency, which is perceived as a deficiency in another individual or group.

Level 2 – Immature

Acting out: Direct expression of an unconscious wish or impulse in action, without conscious awareness of the emotion that drives that expressive behaviour.

Fantasy: Tendency to retreat into fantasy in order to resolve inner and outer conflicts.

Idealization: Unconsciously choosing to perceive another individual as having more positive qualities than he or she may actually have.

Passive aggression: Aggression towards others expressed indirectly or passively such as using procrastination.

Projection: Projection is a primitive form of paranoia. Projection also reduces anxiety by allowing the expression of the undesirable impulses or desires without becoming consciously aware of them; attributing one’s own unacknowledged unacceptable/unwanted thoughts and emotions to another; includes severe prejudice, severe jealousy, hypervigilance to external danger, and “injustice collecting”. It is shifting one’s unacceptable thoughts, feelings and impulses within oneself onto someone else, such that those same thoughts, feelings, beliefs and motivations are perceived as being possessed by the other.

Projective identification: The object of projection invokes in that person precisely the thoughts, feelings or behaviours projected.

Somatization: The transformation of negative feelings towards others into negative feelings toward self, pain, illness, and anxiety.

Level 3 – Neurotic

Displacement: Defence mechanism that shifts sexual or aggressive impulses to a more acceptable or less threatening target; redirecting emotion to a safer outlet; separation of emotion from its real object and redirection of the intense emotion toward someone or something that is less offensive or threatening in order to avoid dealing directly with what is frightening or threatening. For example, a mother may yell at her child because she is angry with her husband.

Dissociation: Temporary drastic modification of one’s personal identity or character to avoid emotional distress; separation or postponement of a feeling that normally would accompany a situation or thought.

Hypochondriasis: An excessive preoccupation or worry about having a serious illness.

Intellectualization: A form of isolation; concentrating on the intellectual components of a situation so as to distance oneself from the associated anxiety-provoking emotions; separation of emotion from ideas; thinking about wishes in formal, affectively bland terms and not acting on them; avoiding unacceptable emotions by focusing on the intellectual aspects (e.g. isolation, rationalization, ritual, undoing, compensation, magical thinking).

Isolation: Separation of feelings from ideas and events, for example, describing a murder with graphic details with no emotional response.

Rationalization (making excuses): Where a person convinces him or herself that no wrong was done and that all is or was all right through faulty and false reasoning. An indicator of this defence mechanism can be seen socially as the formulation of convenient excuses – making excuses.

Reaction formation: Converting unconscious wishes or impulses that are perceived to be dangerous into their opposites; behaviour that is completely the opposite of what one really wants or feels; taking the opposite belief because the true belief causes anxiety. This defence can work effectively for coping in the short term, but will eventually break down.

Regression: Temporary reversion of the ego to an earlier stage of development rather than handling unacceptable impulses in a more adult way.

Repression: The process of attempting to repel desires towards pleasurable instincts, caused by a threat of suffering if the desire is satisfied; the desire is moved to the unconscious in the attempt to prevent it from entering consciousness; seemingly unexplainable naivety, memory lapse or lack of awareness of one’s own situation and condition; the emotion is conscious, but the idea behind it is absent.[citation needed]

Undoing: A person tries to ‘undo’ an unhealthy, destructive or otherwise threatening thought by engaging in contrary behaviour.

Withdrawal: Withdrawal is a more severe form of defence. It entails removing oneself from events, stimuli, interactions, etc. under the fear of being reminded of painful thoughts and feelings.

Level 4 – Mature

Altruism: Constructive service to others that brings pleasure and personal satisfaction.

Anticipation: Realistic planning for future discomfort.

Humour: Overt expression of ideas and feelings (especially those that are unpleasant to focus on or too terrible to talk about) that gives pleasure to others. The thoughts retain a portion of their innate distress, but they are “skirted round” by witticism, for example Self-deprecation.

Identification: The unconscious modelling of one’s self upon another person’s character and behaviour.

Introjection: Identifying with some idea or object so deeply that it becomes a part of that person.

Sublimation: Transformation of negative emotions or instincts into positive actions, behaviour, or emotion.

Thought suppression: The conscious process of pushing thoughts into the preconscious; the conscious decision to delay paying attention to an emotion or need in order to cope with the present reality; making it possible to later access uncomfortable or distressing emotions whilst accepting them.

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Nelson Mandela: You will always live in my heart!

January 27, 2011

No words can ever express my gratitude for the life lived, sacrifices made, and example shown by the life of Nelson Mandela, so I will simply say thank you, enkosi, siyabonga, ke a leboha, dankie! You are the great Lion of South Africa, now it’s time to rest on your throne.

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World Cup…Xenophobia – Love the world. Slap Africa.

July 14, 2010

I saw a status on Facebook this morning that really resonated with me, “How can one country make you so happy and so sad all at the same time?”. I share those sentiments exactly. South Africa has just come out of the proudest month of its post-Apartheid existence. Against many odds, and with the sharp eyes of the critics glaring down at us, South Africa shined bright in the eyes of the world; the spirit, enthusiasm, and unity behind the World Cup was tangible and electric, the delivery was impeccable, and FIFA boasts that it was the best World Cup in the history of their tournaments. And now, with that victory barely even under our belt, the threat of Xenophobic attacks again looms.

Are these rumors true? Are we going to see another mass slaughter of African foreigners? Well, whether they happen or not, as millions of overseas foreigners leave the country with positive feelings after a wonderful World Cup, last night the news reported that the main border between South Africa and Zimbabwe was four times busier than normal, with terrified, frustrated Africans, fleeing the country “never to return”. This makes me sad. I have many thoughts about this Xenophobia, some conflicting. Here are some:

I think the media is responsible for the “size” of the Xenophobic attacks the first time around, back in 2008. The first attack happened in a specific area, with a specific group of people. I do not believe the “movement” (if you can call it that) would have spread to other areas in the way that it did. Sure, the anger and feelings were already there, which obviously led to it happening in other areas, but I do not feel like it would have turned into what it did without the media coverage.

I do appreciate the media, this time around, for covering a story last night on how many of the foreign owned shops in the townships are now standing closed (due to looting and fear of violence), and local residents are complaining that they have to travel farther, and pay more to buy groceries. The one lady expressed that she does not care who owns the shop, as long as she can buy stuff.

I think the reasoning that “they are stealing our wives and taking our jobs” is totally absurd. First of all, many of the foreigners (and we’re talking certified doctors, lawyers, and other professionals in their country of origin) are willing to take jobs that locals do not want, and work for less. Though this might not be acceptable, it is ridiculous to get angry at the person who is willing to honestly work; take your beef up with the employers rather. And the wife thing, come on! Let’s not speak about women as though they are pirate booty or something. They are not anyone’s to be given or stolen. They can choose for themselves. So if South African women are choosing more foreign men, maybe it’s time for South African men to man up, treat women with more respect, romance them a bit, stop cheating on them, and win their hearts. Thinking they are your to be “stolen”, is probably the beginning of the problem of why they are choosing other men.

On that note, I know plenty of white (international) foreigners, with both South African jobs and wives, and husbands for that matter, and not one single one of them was attacked. Why?

And speaking of racism, these xenophobic attacks stir up all sorts of other forms of racism, masked in good will. I have heard so many white South Africans, both this time and last time around, say stupid things like, “I just can’t believe how those people turn to violence so quickly. It’s all they know,” or “I just don’t understand it that black people would attack other black people,” or even, “They just need to stop complaining and being lazy! They have everything these days. They’re just lazy.” I mean, wow! Besides the fact it is completely ignorant, this kind of talk is the verbal form of the xenophobic attacks. Let’s speak against the violence and leave our personal prejudices out of the matter. Besides, the average person making an ignorant comment like that really has no idea what it is like to live in the township, or in poverty for that matter.

I will never justify that type of violence and hatred towards anyone, but I can understand the frustrations of an average South African, still living in extreme poverty, with nothing but empty promises to feed their children. If a South African citizen is suffering, yet lives beside a foreigner who they perceive as “thriving”, then it is hard for that frustration not to boil. But again, these frustrations should be taken up with the appropriate people, the government and not the African foreigners in this case. Unfortunately for the African foreigners in the townships, the government is nowhere to be seen for the most part.

The government needs to step up in a bigger and better way. Not only in acting and speaking out against xenophobia with a stronger front, but mostly in service delivery to those who are still waiting. We now know it is completely possible. In merely six years we saw an entire infrastructure built where little to nothing was before (with most of the work being done in the past 2 to 4 years). We met the tough goals of FIFA. Now it’s time to take that same focus, energy and delivery to the communities who need it most. And the rest of the country needs to chip in and offer the spirit and support it did during this wonderful World Cup.

No matter what, when all is said and done, xenophobia and xenophobic violence is ridiculous and should not be tolerated.

Yeah, those are just some of the many thoughts I have about xenophobia.

I think I know how one country can make a person so happy and so sad at the same time. I love South Africa! I am sure the loving parents of an awkward, rebellious, angry teenager who is trying to figure out his identity in the world, often have feelings of both happiness and sadness about the choices their child makes. That teenager can come home with straight A’s and get a girl pregnant on the same day. Let’s not be one sided, or allow acts of hatred to cause us to hate. Let’s remember that South Africa is an awkward teenager of a Democracy, and rather look on it with love, and try and do what we can to mold and shape it to be a better, more responsible adult Nation. Let’s continue to love each other, this great nation, and all who choose to live in it.

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Kids who aspire to be gangsters, grow to be gangsters who aspire to be kids.

July 7, 2010

“And then I found myself and this ‘dangerous’ gangster in the kiddies’ section of the video shop.”

But first…

Occasionally I get reminders of what a strange world I live in. And when I say “world” I don’t mean the big ball of dirt, water and gas, rotating, slightly tilted, on its axis. I’m talking about my world: my day to day, the places and people I surround myself with, the city I live in, the particular parts of that city I choose to go to, my norms and the norms of those who I choose to place around me, my reality…yeah, that world. Sure, pieces of my world are shared with different people, some parts more than others, and some people share more parts than others do, but for the most part, my world, is uniquely my world. Which bring me back to my original point, that I am occasionally, if not often, reminded of just how odd my world really is.

One of those reminders came yesterday through a gangster who used to be a kid, and maybe still is…

I had a pretty laid back morning with a meeting about a thing. No big deal. My main goal of the day, however, was to get my hair cut. Now, that may not sound like a big deal to you, but it was getting to the point where it was becoming more and more urgent. You see, over the years, the thinner my hair has gotten on top, the more ridiculous it looks when it grows out. I’ve surrendered to that fact, and therefore try to keep it as short as possible, like most balding-to-bald men who maybe don’t want their blank patch running down the middle of their head to be as noticeable as it is on others’ who don’t seem to care at all. Whatever. I needed a haircut.

I have a machine at home. But it is old, and it misses spots, and I didn’t have anyone around to check the back. So a self-cut was not an option. In times like those, or when I am feeling lazy, I usually go to Jerry, the Nigerian barber in Capricorn, the “developing” community that used to be an informal settlement, the oldest one in Cape Town at that, called Vrygrond. Jerry only charges 20 Rand ($3.00 US), and he’s really nice. So, after I had finished my morning meeting, did some emails, ate some lunch, and what-have-you, I headed to Capricorn for my much needed haircut.

I pulled in to Capricorn, turned down the one street, up the next, winded around a bit, and then my car was stopped by a group of gangsters. The one stood in front of my car, placing his hand on the hood and his other in the “stop” position. The others ran to all my doors, trying to open them, two of them coming to my open window. This scene would probably cause the average person to wet their pants; maybe me too, had the circumstances been slightly different. In this instance, I was greeted with smiles. “Come man Ryan, let us in! Give us a ride around! It’s boring here.” Yeah, so these particular gangsters are just the rough, more grown-up, less innocent versions of the kids I have known for years and years. Not a threat, really…at least not to me. I greeted them with the usual handshakes. I bragged to the one about how he has gotten fatter, insinuating that I noticed he seems to not be smoking tik, he smiled, insinuating he appreciated me noticing.

“No drives around today. I got something to do.”

“Where are you going?”

“To get my hair cut.”

The chubby one took once glance at my hair, and then earnestly waved me on, with wishes and promises of future “drives around”, but a true understanding of the urgency of my hair situation. I drove on and waved bye in the rear view mirror, as they all got back to doing whatever they were doing before I drove up. I turned the corner, pulled up on the sidewalk and got out of my car to see Jerry’s barber shop, a four-chair-haircutting business in a shipping container, totally empty. Strange. Jerry’s always there.

A random dude came up to me and pointed over to the Somalian shop, down and across the street, “He says he’s coming now. He’s just sorting something out quickly.” I looked over and saw the back of, who I assumed was Jerry, standing in front of the shop, a shop looks more like a cage because the merchant is locked in and the customers are locked out, doing all their dealings through the bars. There stood Jerry on the outside of the cage. He was speaking with a raised voice at the least, and a Somalian arm kept coming through the bars, from the inside, trying to hit Jerry, who apparently possesses ninja-like skills and remained untouched. The moment suddenly ended, for reason unbeknownst to me, and Jerry turned around and walked towards us.

As he neared I noticed, this is not Jerry, no not at all. He walked up to me with a smile. “You probably expected Jerry.”

I was a bit surprised he knew. “Um, yeah. Yeah, I was. Where is he?”

The guy, not looking a thing like Jerry up close, smiled and shrugged. “I don’t know. He didn’t come in today.”

I looked at him for a moment. Not trusting this stranger’s haircutting skills I said, “Uh, ok, well, I’ll just come back later.

“Cool.”

“Cool.”

I walked to my car and looked down the street at the other Nigerian barbershop, about two blocks from Jerry’s. I weighed it up in my mind. Honestly, I haven’t felt good even seeing those guys since my last real interaction with them. It was a random situation where the one Nigerian barber had offered to by a television from one particular Auntie, and he had come to fetch it but only paid half the price and then refused to pay the rest once he had the television in his possession. I just so happened to visit that particular Auntie on the night all that went down. When I arrived at her house the Auntie told me what happened and asked if I could give her a lift down to the barbers so she could “speak” with them. Of course I didn’t mind! She brought her son and a thug with us. I pulled up and stopped, the thug jumped out and stabbed the one Nigerian barber in the arm and then ran into the darkness of the community. I sat there, not sure what might happen next.

Let’s just say the Nigerians were pretty pissed, and they did not appreciate me being the driver of this drive-by stabbing. I tried to assure them I had no clue that was going to happen. Not consoled in the least, they promised vengeance and the bleeding guy shouted in other languages. I drove away and decided to speak to them when they were more cooled off. I dropped the Auntie and went back to the Nigerians, parked and went in to their shipping container shop. I think they thought I was coming back for more, as the one grabbed a pair of scissors. I lifted my hands in surrender, apologized, and promised I had no clue that situation was going to go down in that way it did. I told them I thought it was just a “drive to talk to a man about a television” kind of interaction. The enormous, bleeding Nigerian patted me on the shoulder, “It’s alright Eminem. We understand. But that one, that one who did this,” he removed his hand from his bleeding arm, “he will die.”

Fair enough, I thought. I shrugged, “Well, I don’t recommend that. But I understand you’re angry. You might want to get that looked at.” He looked at me as though I had spoken the worst of the worst blasphemy. “Me?! Doctor?! My brudder, I am a man! I am African!” I shrugged again, “Whatever. So are we cool?” The big bleeding dude patted me on the back, “We’re cool my nigga.” Um…I started to correct him but decided I should probably just be happy I didn’t have a pair of scissors sticking through my neck, or worse, and I just said, “Cool. Sorry again. Later.” And I walked back to my car, got in and drove home.

I have seen those Nigerians since that night, but I still get a strange guilty feeling when I see them, even though I didn’t know I was going to be a part of the attempted assassination. So, as I stood there yesterday, with Jerry nowhere to be seen, considering going to that Nigerian barber as an alternative, I decided otherwise. I opted for the Nigerian barber all the way in Muizenberg. The problem with that dude is he always tries to charge me the “white man’s” price. A haircut is twenty Rand, just like at Jerry’s, but if he sees white skin or hears a foreign accent the price goes up by at least ten Rand. I have both, so he often tries to charge me forty. I usually manage to talk him down a bit, but rarely all the way to the real price.

As I was driving out of Capricorn I saw someone running beside my car and waving. I stopped. It was Boy, Boy only his nickname but maybe not unironically nicknamed. I’ve known Boy since he really was a boy. He’s got a real sweet spirit but is the usual case of an individual whose actions are molded by the negative environment in which they grow up. He became a gangster, did “bad” stuff, went to prison quite of number of times, but, like many do while they are inside and then sing a different song on their release, the last time Boy was locked up he decided he didn’t want that life anymore, and he decided to change. And so far, he has done just that. I’m proud of him.

Boy, “Yho!!!! I haven’t seen you in forever. Why don’t you ever come and pick a guy up?”

“I’ve just been busy. You look like you’re doing good.”

Boy smiled proudly, “Yeah. I am! I told you I am done with that shit.”

“I’m glad to see that.”

“Where are you going?”

“I need a haircut, and Jerry’s not there.”

Boy looked down at the direction of Jerry’s place in confusion, “And now?”

“I’m gonna go to the Nigerian barber in Muizenberg.”

“Can I come with you?”

“Why not.”

I unlocked the door and he jumped in. I figured Boy coming with me, and us speaking Afrikaans the entire time, could help me get the brown skin discount. On the way, Boy excitedly filled me in on all the positive things going on in his life. I was pleased to hear them. We got to the barbershop, parked and went in. They had no customers, but the usual group of random dudes sitting and talking. The one Nigerian pointed at an empty chair and I sat in it. Boy told me he was just going to go smoke a cigarette quickly. The Nigerians spoke to each other in other languages. When Boy walked out the one Nigerian told me, “He’s very dangerous! A gangster. He just got out of Pollsoor.”

I looked at the guy, sitting behind me, through in the mirror in front of me. I smiled, and then laughed, “Yeah well, I’ve known him since he was a tiny kid. He doesn’t really show me his dangerous side.” The guy laughed. They went back to speaking whatever language they were speaking. Boy came in and we spoke Afrikaans. We all shouted over the sound of the clippers; all speaking at once, not bothered by each others’ conversations that seemed to be colliding in the air. The Nigerian barber tried to do that trim thing around the edges of my head. I managed to stop him just in time. It doesn’t look good on white guys, but definitely not on balding white guys! He seemed disappointed but compromised by trimming my beard, which ended up looking like a beard of a Mexican gangster. I was ok with that.

The barber brushed the hair off my neck, then took off the smock and whipped it in the air. My hair flurried in the air. I stood, reached in my pocket and pulled out a twenty rand. I handed it to him. He looked at the other guy, and back at me and smiled, “”It’s thirty.” I laughed out loud and spoke to Boy as I pulled out another ten rand without arguing, “The white man’s price.” Boy laughed and agreed. I was just glad to finally have my haircut. As we walked out Boy asked me what I was up to and if it would be possible to watch a movie. I didn’t have any pressing matters and said it would be cool. We went to the video shop and as we walked in Boy commented about the poster in the window of The Rock dressed as a fairy, “YHO! I wanna see that one!”

I was slightly surprised at his taste in movies, but was relieved that the poster said, “Coming Soon.” Boy was disappointed. We walked to the New Release section and Boy couldn’t find anything that tickled his fancy. I pointed him in the direction of the Action Section, but he got sidetracked by something that interested him way more. And then I found myself and this “dangerous” gangster in the kiddies’ section of the video shop. He excitedly snatched up one of the DVD covers, “Have you seen this?!” Hoping he was joking but knowing he actually wasn’t, I held back my laughter and smart comments, “Alvin and the Chipmunks? Um, nope. Not, uh, not that one…yet.”

Boy’s eyes lit up. “You wanna get this one?”

Knowing it was not really as much about what I wanted, “Do you?”

“YEAH!!!!”

“Ok.”

Boy silently fist pumped the air.

I thought surely he would be disappointed with this choice once we watched it. But no, we went to my house, watched the little-talking-singing-chipmunks, and Boy seemed to thoroughly enjoy it, laughing quite often. I must admit, I enjoyed it enough as well. And as I sat there on my couch, with this so-called “dangerous” gangster, according to Nigerian barbers, I just thought a thought that I have thought so many times before that moment. When we let kids grow up too soon, allowing them to partake in adult activities that they are way too young to partake in, certain parts of them die young, they lose their innocence. But certain parts of them, the parts that maybe were never allowed to really and truly be a child, never grow up. So we find kids who act like gangsters and gangsters who act like kids. It’s altogether sad and hopeful. And it is most definitely one of the peculiar, yet common, realities in this odd world I find myself in.

Oooooooh eeeeh ooh ah ah, ching, chang, walla walla bing bang. Oooooooh eeeeh ooh ah ah, ching-chang walla-walla bing bang!

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Posted by capetownbrown

Crime Does Not Perpetuate Racism. Racism Perpetuates Racism.

May 26, 2010

Last night’s Sidewalk Talk show topic was racism. It’s quite a heated topic in South Africa at the moment, with recent events stroking the headlines, but in general, I find many South Africans do not want to speak about racism anymore. They feel it’s a tired and worn out topic. They want to “move on, forget the past”. They don’t feel it is necessary to speak about racism anymore because we are a “rainbow nation” in a “new democracy” and racism is “no longer a problem”. But then (say for instance) a political leader gets up and sings a song about killing a white guy, and then a famous racist white guy actually gets killed… you see those very same people, who said racism is “no big deal” totally freak out; the equivalent of hitting a hornets nest with a baseball bat.

You see clips of people on the news, black people lined up on one side with white people on the other, shouting, screaming, threatening, trying to get at one another, smacking and hitting each other if they get close enough. “It’s just better if we live separate! Let them stay that side, and we will stay on this side!” one white girl said, quite frustrated. These feelings and emotions, to that degree, cannot be caused by one event. No, no! Those feelings and emotions are there, maybe only appearing in subtle ways, or coming out in the safety of same-race-company, but they are there. These type of events don’t cause these feelings and emotions; they merely stir them up.

And that’s why it’s important to keep the dialogue about racism going, whether we feel like talking about it or not. And that’s why I did a show about it last night.

So… last night on the show there was quite a bit of input from the listeners, which I am always happy about. One listener sent a text message saying that he felt crime perpetuates racism. I both partially agree and strongly disagree with his statement. The part of me that partially agrees, sees that people allow crime to perpetuate racism. I have personally spoken to several white people, just after they or someone they know has been a victim of crime (the perpetrator being black or colored), and the racist things that came out of the white people’s mouths after that experience were totally mind blowing to me.

They even make excuses and say things like, “I am not normally racist but…” with a terribly racist statement to follow. But the thing, maybe they don’t realize, is those feelings (about the other race) were already there. Maybe they were hiding, or not even known to the person, but they were there. And that negative experience just stirred them up and brought them to the surface.

But that person was already racist, and that situation merely validated feelings they already had, and put them deeper into their mindset, and more outward with their opinion. Because frankly, when it really comes down to it, who cares what color the person was that robbed you?! A stolen laptop is a stolen laptop, no matter if it was stolen by an albino Nigerian midget, or a white person who stained his skin dark brown using coffee grounds. The laptop is still gone, and you will more than likely not get it back.

Some (white) people come with the rebuttal that most crime is done by coloured and black people. Fair enough, most crime is also done by men, but you rarely hear a lady talking bad about men all of the sudden after being robbed by a man. And we know women don’t need an excuse to speak poorly about men! And yes, if we look at the South African history, and the current social issues that are directly linked to the past, and the lack of true repatriation that has occurred, then yes, let’s talk about the link of race and crime, but I guarantee you the conversation will not go the direction you (white person with that particular rebuttal) would want it to go.

So yeah, when the listener, and other people say that crime perpetuates racism, I hear what they are saying, but I actually strongly disagree, and tend to even think that statement in itself is slightly racist. Crime does not perpetuate racism unless you allow the race of the victim and/or perpetrator come into play, and unless it is a race-based crime, the race of either person is insignificant. Crime does not perpetuate racism. Racism perpetuates racism.

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Posted by capetownbrown

Lessons of Indulgence Learned Through T-Pain, Me & Clinton, and Some Random Kids

May 23, 2010

About six weeks back I took Clinton to apply for his South African ID Book. Last Thursday he got the text message from Home Affairs saying that his ID Book was ready for collection. He was pumped. I picked him up from school on Friday and we went straight to Home Affairs. Sure enough, after not too long of a wait, Clinton was the proud holder of an official South African Identification Document Book! We decided to go to Steers for some celebratory lunch.

For those of you who don’t know, Steers is really no big deal. I mean, it’s just a fast food restaurant, though I realize it is a tad bit more expensive than McDonalds. But our reasons for going there were not special, and mostly just a matter of convenience because that particular Steers was on our way home. But yeah, I mean, fast food or not, I guess Steers is still a luxury in a country where the masses live in poverty. But still, really no big deal.

So, we pulled up to Steers and got out of the car. On the way in three little boys approached us with outstretched hands asking for “Fufty cents for some bread.” I smiled at the spokesperson of the group, “Sorry buddy. Not today,” and Clinton and I went on in to order our meal. It came to just over a hundred rand (about 13$ U.S.). Wow! Steers is more expensive than McDonalds! We got the food, sat down at a table, and began to eat. Both Clinton and I immediately got sucked in to the television that hung high above our heads. MTV Cribs was on and they were touring T-Pain’s house, “Yeah, yeah! And this right here, this is studio A. I got three studios: A, B and C.” Three studios?!?! I mean, what on earth does T-Pain need three studios for?! Would one not be enough?

Throughout the Cribs tour, Clinton and I continuously shook our heads in disbelief, looked at each other with the “can you believe that junk?!” face, and then rolled our eyes as we turned our heads back to the screen, as T-Pain showed us his cars, his kitchen (that is bigger than my whole flat), his three studios, his game room, his pool, his bedroom, his club (yes, in his house), and so on and so forth. We could not believe this guy, and the likes of him! I mean, wasting all that money on all that stuff!! I mean, the whole of Khayelitsha could live in T-Pain’s bedroom! The nerve! “How can someone live like that knowing there are people living in absolute poverty?!” I complained.

And then something happened. In between the rolling of eyes, sounds of exasperation, and comments of how ridiculous T-Pain’s spending habits are, I looked out the large Steers windows and made eye contact with the three little boys who were still standing just outside, the ones who had asked for only “fufty cents”. They were watching Clinton and I scarf down a hundred-rand-meal with the exact same reaction as Clinton and I had to T-Pain’s overindulgent estate and lifestyle. To them, our spending was just as ridiculous as T-Pain’s was to us. As Clinton and I sat, eating and judging T-Pain with our good-Lord-why-do-you-need-a-flat-screen-TV-in-your-shower’s, the three little boys outside were looking in on us wondering why we could afford to eat such an “expensive meal” without even being able to spare them fifty cents. Maybe thinking, “Don’t they know a chip roll is less than ten rand?!”

And I realized, I may not have six cars, two pools, three studios and a lounge the size of the small town I come from, but my lifestyle, as humble as it may seem to me, can look just as luxurious to others who have less, as T-Pain’s does to me. I don’t have to feel guilty or sorry for it. Maybe just aware. And I have to take the responsibility that comes with the level of lifestyle I live. The whole, “the more you have the more is expected of you” kind of thing. And not judging others is probably a good lesson to learn to. We’re no better than T-Pain, though for a minute, Clinton and I had convinced ourselves we were.

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Posted by capetownbrown

My South Africa

April 10, 2010

My friend Lindsay had to go to home affairs yesterday to sort out some paperwork for her newborn baby. Right when she left she called me to share a funny experience. It was too classic not to pass on…

Like may institutions in South Africa, as you enter Home Affairs you have to go through a big medal detector, after you have handed over your wallet, cell phone, keys, loose coins, and bags to the security guard, and before you risk a possible search and or “wanding” by the next security guard. It’s pretty standard practice. Everyone is used to it by now.

So my friend Lindsay was waiting in line for her opportunity to walk through the plastic-gateway-to-where-ever, but the line was being held up by the gentleman in front of her. He was scruffy, unkempt, possibly homeless, pretty dirty, maybe in his mid-fifties, and just had the general look of having been beat down by life. The man walked through the medal detector and it beeped. The security guard motioned for him to walk back through to the other side, whilst reiterating the need for the man to empty his pockets.

Pretty agitated at this point, the man said, “I don’t HAVE a cell phone, wallet or keys!” as he threw his hands into the air. The security guard insisted that something was setting off the detector. At that note, totally frustrated with the bureaucracy of Home Affairs “cell phone, wallet and keys checking system”, the man reached in his pants, pulled out an object, threw his other hand in the air as if to say “this is no big deal and it’s definitely not a cell phone, wallet, keys, or coins”, and huffed, “All I have is this!” as if to prove his point that the security guard was being ridiculous, and possibly even discriminating against a poor man who has nothing, cruelly rubbing it in that he does not own a set of keys or a cell or a stuffed wallet.

At this point Lindsay looked at the item the man was holding and she could not hold back her laughter.

The item that set off the medal detector was a six-inch butcher knife.

I love this country!!

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Posted by capetownbrown

NICE music!

August 20, 2009

I was in studio today working on a track with Chris, and he played me some music from a group he is busy recording. I was blown away! They are called NICE and that name is definitely an understatement of the quality, musical and lyrical depths, and unique style of this young group. Support them now before they blow up and it becomes a trend!  Then you can say “I supported them way back when!”

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Posted by capetownbrown

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