Feel Free to Roam

Monday, January 11, 2010

For The Living Dead - Class (Poetry 1) - Pantoum

Fragmented molecules roaming a seemingly simplistic atmosphere

defecating within the loins of nature

changing existence with their volatile thoughts

vomiting decayed ideals and blindly inhaling sinful virtues.


Defecating within the loins of nature

Leaving trails of rotted flesh and defenseless bones

Vomiting decayed ideals, and blindly inhaling sinful virtues

of carnivorous dictators and cynical democratic bastards.



Leaving trails of rotted flesh and defenseless bones

that insight no mercy from the murky hearts

of carnivorous dictators, and cynical democratic bastards.

The vacant eye sockets of the dispensable poor



that insight no mercy from the murky hearts

of immortal gods, who’ve abandon the prayers of mankind.

The vacant eye sockets of the dispensable poor

go unanswered by the mournful omnipresent creator.



Mankind must cease the devastation of

changing existence with their volatile thoughts

or continue to be consumed by their fecal desires and explode into

fragmented molecules, roaming a seemingly simplistic atmosphere.



One One Duty Build Dam

Sunday, January 3, 2010

Saturday, January 2, 2010

South African Lit Class : Critical View of Sindiwe Magona's Mother To Mother







The implementation of the Apartheid system in 1948 affected the socio; economic, psychological and political structures of South Africa and was directly aimed at black South Africans. In Mother To Mother by Sindiwe Magona, this system of Apartheid is analyzed and examined to illustrate the way in which this regimented form of oppression directly and indirectly contributed to the murder of American Fulbright scholar Amy Biehl. In other words, a comparative link will be drawn to clarify the way in which, the adverse conditions of apartheid created and maintained a system of discrimination and destruction that eventually influenced or changed the lives of all South Africans regardless of color.


Magona utilizes the voice of Mandisa the protagonist to explain the incidents that predated Biehl’s death in a letter to the victim’s mother, focusing on the economic environment influenced by Apartheid: At the opening of the novel, the reader is presented with a personal letter from Mandisa to Biehl’s mother and the rest of the novel is an exhumation of the influences of Apartheid system on Mandisa who is the mother of the accused killer, and Mxolisi. In retrospect all of Black South Africans during the period of Apartheid were transferred to Townships which were grossly over crowded. Though, some were fortunate to render better conditions than others, it was still a challenging task to sustain a family under the economic system of the white communist. In the case of Mandisa’s household, they were fortunate to have both parents employed, which entailed a double income family. However, the over looming poverty and the need to provide for the family removed Mandisa and her spouse from the home, thereby; removing the matriarchal and patriarchal figures of the family. Moreover, total sum of wages earned was still unsuitable for a family of five. The family shared a small two bedroom and the boys lived in a hokkie at the back of the home. Poverty became an ever present gloom for Mandisa’s family. Henceforth, drawing on the historical content of Apartheid, Magona communicates the disenfranchisement and subjection the characters within the novel are enduring, as Mandisa laments;


As for myself, I came to Guguletu borne by a whirlwind…
Perched on a precarious leaf balking a tornado … a violent scat-
tering of black people, a dispersal of the government’s making.
So great was the upheaval, more than three decades later, my
people are still reeling from it. (Magona pg48)

Mandisa expresses the uncertainty and instability that encompassed her as a child and the idea that it is has transcended to her children in present day Guguletu. Such chaos perpetuates into something more, something different and dangerous as in the murder of Amy Biehl: when a society constructs a system of oppression an eventual response will be retaliation or rebellion, as in the case of the youths attacking Biehl and her fellow classmates.

Another aspect of discrimination within Mother to Mother that is reflective of the system of Apartheid is the socio-psychological ramifications. Because blacks were inferior within this system of oppression, they were faced with continuous harassment and often remained disenfranchised. Mandisa’s teen pregnancy forced her to assume an adult identity before she was ready to take on the responsibility of motherhood and wife. In addition, the circumstances under which Mandisa was impregnated also contributed to her initial hate and continuous regret towards her first born, Mxolisi. Again taking into consideration the idea of Apartheid because Magona is utilizing this background knowledge to portray or voice her character's opinions, the mental affect of Apartheid would play an integral role. Such as, the effects of deplorable living conditions, inability to advance beyond social standards as a black in South Africa, fear for life and uncertain future can drastically shift an individual’s outlook on life. In particular, Mxolisi's childhood serves as a clear example of the indirect and direct ways in which Apartheid contributed to his demise. In other words, the burden of guilt that was subjected upon Mxolisi as a toddler. That is the incident in which in identifying his friends (Zazi and Mzamo) hiding spot resulted in them being shot to death in front of his innocent eyes. This traumatic experience certainly rendered him mentally fractured since he refused to speak for two years. Mxolisi develops this idea as a young child that his mouth was not worthy to speak because it brought death to the people who at that time were his center. Henceforth, it was horrifying for four year old Mxolisi to witness brutality under the arms of law enforcement, the individuals who represent safety and protection.


Because when an oppressed person is living in a system where they are no images that promote change and hope it diminishes their perspective of the future: and this was true for Mxolisi. As Mxolisi got older, the affects of Apartheid on his psyche did not improve and though he was a seemingly well rounded individual Mxolisi was engaging in liberal activities unbeknownst to his parents. Though he became a respectable teenager and endearing to the people of his township, it is clear through Mandisa’s voice that her son was troubled. As Mandisa relates:


My son. His tomorrow were his yesterday. Nothing. Stretching long, lean, mean, and
empty. A glaring void. Nothing would come of the morrow. For him. Nothing at all.
Long before the ground split when he pee’d on it, that knowledge was firmly planted in
his soul … it was intimately his. ( pg 203)


So then Mxolisi’s future in Guguletu was already predetermined because it was the same case for his parents and grand parents. Mandisa is trying to capture the mental frustration that her teenage son may have suffered in order for him to deviate from his normal duties and kill a white person. To live a life like his parents, was no longer a choice Mxolisi wanted to accept: a choice that was forced upon you and did not garner any change of positive progression.
Thus there was no future for a black South African;


He had already seen his tomorrow in the defeated stoop of his father’s
shoulders. In the tired eyes of that father’s friend. In the huddled, ragged
men who daily wait for chance at some job whose whereabouts they do
not know…wait at the corners of roads leading nowhere…wait for a
van to draw up a shout, a beckoning hand could mean a days job
for an hour’s wage, if that. He had seen his tomorrows – in the hungry,
gnarled hands outstretched toward the long-dead brazier, bodies shiver-
ing in the unsmiling, settling sun of a winter’s day. (Magona pg203)


This particular statement speaks to the continuous lamentation that is made by Mandisa throughout the text in reference to the transference and inheritance of the burden of the social defects such as poverty. Mandisa’s son Mxolisi’s plight is not separate from the rest of the black South Africans. In actuality Mxolisi is a representation for South Africans his age and generations before and after him. Critically examining Mandisa’s statement this subjectivity of inheriting a defeated spirit is a mirroring image of what is transpiring in the minds and behavior of the inhabitants of Guguletu as comparisons are made with Mxolisi’s father and father’s friends etc. As well as, the underlying feeling of a coming eruption: or even the urgency for a shift or split that is combative and explosive in response to inferior complex that has imprison the lives of the South Africans.


But another important facet is the learned or inherent hatred that develops throughout black South African households. No one takes notice to the consequential damages of expressing little settlements of despise and hate: parents ignore or may not conceive that their children will eventually use everyday” idioms” as their rebellious slogans and justification for the violent retaliations;
AmaBhulu, azizinja! Today’s youth have been singing a different
song. Whites are dogs! Not a new thought, by any means. We had
said that all along. As far back as I can remember. Someone
would come back from work fuming: amabhulu azizinja, because
of some unfairness they believed had been meted out to them
that day. A slap. A kick. Deduction from wages. A deduction, nei-
ther discussed or explained. Unless, a gruff – YOU ALWAYS
LATE! Or YOU BROKE MY PLATE! or YOU NOT VERY
NICE TO MY MOTHER! qualifies as explanation. So, yes, our
children grew up in our homes, where we called white people
dogs as a matter of idiom…heart-felt idiom, I can tell you. Based
on bitter experience. (Magona pg 74-75)


Mandisa simultaneously suggests the responsibility that parents including her, might have played in shaping the hatred for whites but also sarcastically criticizes and exposes the malicious actions of white subordinates. More specifically, she identifies the source of where the children would garner hatred towards whites but at the same time questions its validity. In the sense of the disparity that was exercised upon black South Africans such as; reduction of wages without a justifiable reason. It’s as though Mandisa is posing the question to the reader: Why I shouldn’t call you a dog? Why Shouldn’t I be angry? And after you take my home and my food is it my fault if my children hate you too?


The psychological term diffusion of responsibility can be taken into consideration when observing this fractured behavior within the township. No one calls upon the other and everyone contributes to the wrong doing because no particular blame is being assigned. Magona during an interview explained that it was pertinent for her as an author and South African to highlight this problem. As in the idea of chanting words of “One Settler One Bullet” among children should of held more responsibility and the society understanding of the transference of pain from parent to child. The general public needed to understand the socio dynamic dysfunction that was growing in South African household and consequently spreading to the streets, preying on sensitive children such as Mxolisi. (Coullie pg 221)


Some critics as in Reta Bernard do not agree with the assertion or suggestion within the context of the novel that Amy Biehl’s played a role in her death by being naive and presumably ignorant. However, Magona questions this logic by reiterating and focusing on the un-easiness of Guguletu the fact that it was not safe and because of the ever occurring random protest and rioting, Mandisa states:

Guguletu? Who would choose to come to this accursed, God-
forsaken place? This is what I want to know – What I can’t begin
to comprehend. I keep asking myself the same question, over and
over again. What was she doing here, your daughter? What made
her come to this, of all places? Not an army of mad elephants
would drag me here, if I were her.( Magona pg 48)


Giving the circumspect of the social conflict it is plausible to suggest that Amy Biehl’s insistence on going to Guguletu that night contributed to her death but Magona does not want the context of her novel to be marginalized to the idea of race verse ignorance as Bernard seems to suggest. Mother to Mother reaches out to the external conflict that surrounds the victim and the killer, which are the adverse effects of Apartheid. Hence, the reason the author goes in depth to the life of the protagonist Mandisa to illuminate the branded trail that led to the night of the murder.



Indeed, Amy Biehl’s death was a culmination of chronological factors that fused into each other. Specifically, a constructed system of inferiority and superiority will always breathe conflict and that’s what began in South Africa, mini conflicts that eventually exploded into something major, something that eventually made people take notice. Magona’s choice in retelling this story within this context is to call attention to the public’s perception of the people involved in Biehl’s death. To see that Mxolisi is a victim just as much as Biehl, is to completely understand the system of apartheid during that period. Mxolisi and his friends were not in search of a white victim but restitution for lost of his people’s livelihood. Amy Biehl’s death was a symbolic representation of the tragic affect apartheid implemented on the lives of Black South Africans and to some extent Biehl’s presence in the Guguletu is a symbolic reference to the ignorance and naiveté of whites in South Africa during the period of Apartheid. Thus Magona’s Mother to Mother is symbolic quilt that links Apartheid, black South Africans, white South Africans and reveals the tragedy that erupted from a inhumane system of oppression.


Works Cited

Barnard, Rita. Aparthied and Beyond: South African Writers and the Politics of Place. Oxford
University Press, 2007. (pg 143)

Coullie, Judith. Selves in Question: Interviews on South African auto/biography. University of
Hawaii Press, May 2006. (pg 221,222)

Magona, Sindiwe. Mother to Mother .Beacon Press Boston, 1999. (pg; 48,74,75,203)

Mandela, Winnie. and Benjamin, Anne. and Benson, Mary. Part of my soul went with
him / Winnie Mandela ; edited by Anne Benjamin and adapted by Mary Benson
1985.

Thursday, December 31, 2009

Propping Sorrow (Fiction Writing Class)

Part 1

Snickers and slurping, sounds of little molasses tone village girls echoing from the belly of an old cotton tree, nestled in the center of a rundown burial ground. Pale tombs clamber around the trunk of the tree. As though the eerie inhabitants who’ve long been forgotten by their earthly love ones are dying to enjoy the source of the young girls alluring giggles. The girls lily white cotton dresses are adorned with splashes of purple rain drops, dripping from their mouths as they continue to gobble up the sweet tasting ja-moons. An hour ago they were raiding the fruit tree of ‘Old Man Henry’, who lived right opposite the Methodist Church.

After, Sunday school it was customary for the boys and girls to go scaling the fence that separated ‘Old Man Henry’s garden from the church yard. Many Sunday mornings the girls would have their little black plastic bags tucked in their church purses. While the boys would hurry to the fence, rolling up their pants at the knee, making sure it wasn’t snagged by the chain linked fence. It was adorned with broken fragments of soft drink bottles that appeared like shattered pieces of crystals in the golden heat of the mid afternoon sun, if it were not for visible the Coca Cola and Pepsi labels. The shards of bottles were purposefully put in place to deter the children from entering the garden. However, marvelously avoiding any cuts or bruises, the boys would in no time be tormenting the branches and limbs of the fruit trees. The girls would be waiting anxiously to receive the loot and keep an eye out for adults. Soon, they would be down the road, through the back street and out of sight, stuffing their faces with guavas, sweet mouth mangoes and juicy five fingers.

But this particular Sunday Natalie and I managed to squeeze through an opening at the side of Miss Mavis yard which was connected to Old Man Henry’s land. This mission was top secret because of the prize. It was ja-moon season, which is not often, like how the coconuts bear from June to June. ja-moon season only came once a year and before your saliva was dried out by the scorching sun it was gone. Staring at those round globes of purple heaven had us giggling and shuffling nervously between the tall sugar cane bushes near the umbrella shaped cherry tree. Early this morning before church services had started I overheard fast mouth Miss Abrams whispering to Sister Patsy that Old man Henry asked for special prayers after church. Didn’t know what kind of special prayers but the two old farts were laughing up quite a lot. Though special prayers meant Old man Henry would be locked up in the vestibule with the pastor and a few devoted church members four at least an hour. Anyhow, I couldn’t wait to tell Natalie, we had to make use of this golden opportunity. So, in skipping Sunday school that morning we got a head start before the other kids.

Here we were rustling the branches of the ja-moon tree with our Sunday best dresses and not a care in the world. Stuffing our cotton nap sacks and eating at the same time. I tell you you’d had to be there, de old man yard was like a sanctuary, fruits everywhere but we only come fuh one thing, de ja-moon. I was just getting a proper footing on the trunk of the tree when Old Man Henry came shouting;
“you little magga-rats get down from there, isn’t you Shirley Glen granddaughter, come back here I gon tell yah grandmuddah.”
I never felt so much fear in my life, I couldn’t move, I was frozen, staring at the sight of Old Man Henry hopping on his one good knee, cane in hand, rushing to corner us. Much to my surprise though Natalie had already dropped her Nap sack, and dashed through the opening unto the other side. She was screaming for me to get out of there. But all I couldah think now was how I gon keep myself from shitting my underwear and escaping Old Man Henry at the same time.
He nah guh come through here, just run and bore through the old,” shouts Natalie, while holding her gaze on Old Man Henry.

“You run away and lef me, yah lil wretch yuh,” I snarled.

“Look stupidee I deh right here, pass through the hole,” snapped Natalie.

“Look! Look!”

Old man Henry veered off path and made an about turn towards Natalie.

“He coming fuh block de hole, mek a run fuh it now,” yelled Natalie.

“Bruck and scattah! “Bruck and scattah!” cried Natalie again.

Before Old Man Henry could make sense out of nonsense, shoveling his one good foot across the yard, I leaped from the tree, ja-moons flying left right and center, I grab Natalie bag and started charging towards the fence.

“Run he gon ketch yah, runnnnnnnn,” Natalie screamed.

Man a tell yuh I neva run so fast in ma life, like a iguana escaping the menacing chase of hungry school boys, I fly pass Old Man Henry. Just as I was about to slip through the fence

“Aye, Ow mi Bamsi,”I squealed.

De man clap a lash pon mi backside but I had no time to deliberate, we took off running through the old pasture and to the burial ground away from Old Man Henry’s house.


Part II

There is not a clear format ever in which we can actually consult on living and living well. Instead, their millions of novels, handbooks and pamphlets from individuals who have managed to discern some idea of what seems to work for them. We have all in some way purchased one of these varying templates on life, in the hopes that they will bring some form of enlightenment, perhaps; change or solve our current circumstances. I am certainly guilty of roaming the lines and verses of biblical doctrines, absorbing the mantras of Mahatma’s Gandhi, mentally scribbling the quotes of Buddhist priest into the deepest spectrum of my cerebrum and exploring the lives of iconic stars. And for a moment I am overwhelmed with this new sense of hope, a reassurance that life is to be enjoyed and it is within its simplicity you can unravel the mantras of happiness.
Yet here I am, imprisoned by tortured thoughts, questioning this idea of life and most importantly its purpose. Less than three weeks ago I was going through yet a normal day of balancing overdue essays and trying to manage my busy schedule on limited time. My phone rang and I totally ignored it because I needed to complete my response on Richard Wright’s poem “Between the World and Me” and I would not be accepting any interruptions. After rushing through the busy streets of Brooklyn, from work, then to classes and finally to work again, I unwind in the humble comforts of my employers futon and decided to check my voicemail. “You have got one new message”, which is not a shocker because of my nonexistent social life. “Candace I have been trying to reach you all day, I didn’t want to leave this on the phone but Natalie is sick and she’s dying, call me”. I would not consider the voice on the other end most reliable under the circumstances. So, I decided to phone my childhood friend, whose studying in Cuba, if Natalie had so much as the sniffles she would know. I dialed the number waiting anxiously for her to answer, a voiced echoed through the receiver but it wasn’t her. Instead, a much more young and childlike female. I said “Goodnight, may I speak to Aneisha please,” after a bout a three minute wait; I heard the familiar voice of an old friend. We swiftly exchanged pleasantries because I was calculating how much my phone company would be stealing from my already shallow pockets. “Aneisha is it true, is Natalie sick, and is she Ok?” "Yes it’s true, Natalie has cancer”. “Cancer how could that be, Cancer!”
I hung up the phone. Apparently, a wart had appeared on her shoulder, where I’m from warts are removed with village remedies such as; attaching a piece of horse hair and it magically drops off or using traditional bush remedies that were passed from mother to daughter. Unfortunately, this did not work for my dear friend and with a credible recommendation, she enlisted professional medical care. The biopsy reported cancer cells in her shoulder.

A week later lying in bed , thinking of nothing in particular, just thankful that it was a weekend and I would finally get to bask in the silken cotton threads of my own sheets and rolling around in my cat hair free plush comforter: instead of that steel cut, stiffened futon at work. I was calm. My mom entered the room and relayed the news that Natalie had pass away yesterday. “I am sorry baby”. I shot up from my bed in alarm of the news that had just shocked my senses and at the same rate I collapsed into bed, saddened but not surprise. Natalie wasn’t doing well, she never responded to the Chemo therapy and refused to eat, it was only a matter of time.
At age twenty-five, less than two weeks away from her twenty sixth birthday, she died. I drifted through the generous times we’ve shared together, as Sunday school girls to teen campers and then young adults. I drifted through the images of the pointless girl fights and misunderstandings. I drifted into the safe space of that old cotton tree, for that moment within that time could hold her tighter or laugh with her a little louder, savor the moments when words such as Hodgkin’s or lymphoma had no hold over her life, just two molasses girls sucking on ja-moons.