On being a so-called white, so-called middle-class, so-called liberal parent in South Africa in 2008, while trying not to lie and yet preserve innocence: a study in futility
‘Mom, how come all my friends have brown skin and mine is pale lilac?”
I look down into my son’s face, one eyebrow scrunched in concentration. It’s a simple question and simple questions always have complicated answers.
”Well,” I begin, ”well. People have all different colours of skin.”
”Oh,” he says. But the eyebrow is still scrunched, ”like Nkuli’s skin is chocolate coloured and Jordyn’s skin looks like Dad’s coffee?”
This explanation satisfied us both for the moment. But I know the day will come soon when I will have to tell my son that in this country, in fact in this world, your skin colour really does matter.
‘You look like a pig,” my son says to my friend’s sister. He’s right. She has a very piggish nose, she is very round and she is wearing a pale pink, pig-coloured T-shirt. And my son is very fond of pigs; he thinks pigs are cool.
I smile blankly and change the subject dramatically. But later I tell my son that he shouldn’t tell people they look like pigs.
”But she did look like a pig,” he says.
”Well,” I begin, ”well. Women don’t like being told that they look like pigs.”
”Oh,” he says, ”what about boys?”
I tell him that people don’t like to be told they’re fat, even if they are.
”But you’re fat,” he says.
”Yes I know,” I say. I am.
”I like it. It means you’re nice and comfortable.”
And I relish his hug. But how do I explain to him that there’s a kind of lying we do every day, to ease us through life. You look great; of course you don’t look fat; that haircut is great.
CNN is on, the sound turned down. The newscaster talks seriously while the running commentary along the bottom tells us that ”Beyoncé doesn’t want to be called Bootylicious any more.” A backdrop pops up — the stars and the stripes, as talk turns to the election race.
”Look mom,” my son says seriously, ”it’s the soldier flag.”
”Mommy, why is that man sleeping there?”
There is a man sleeping in the doorway of our video shop when we go to put the DVDs through the slot. In my mind, he looks quite comfortable — for a bergie.
”Well,” I begin, ”well. He’s got nowhere else to sleep.”
”He should come and sleep in a tent in our garden.”
”Well,” I continue, ”well. He’s warm and dry where he is. Our garden is very wet.”
Both eyebrows are scrunched. This is going to be a long one.
”Why doesn’t he buy a caravan?”
”Because caravans cost lots of money and he doesn’t have any money.”
”Why doesn’t he work and make money, like you do?”
The principle of working for money has been firmly entrenched in my son’s head. It’s the only way I can stop the guilt when I zone out in front of the PC. I am making money! Hallelujah. ”Well,” I am at a loss, ”well.
There aren’t enough jobs for everyone.”
I fetch my son from school and he is full of news.
”Today we carried things to the art room through Jesus’s tears.”
My son is at a Catholic school (where half of the kids are Muslim).
”What?”
”You know. The rain. It’s Jesus crying.”
It may very well be. There’s a lot to cry about right now. There’s xenophobia, and Zimbabwe, and food prices, and petrol prices, and Eskom, and the United States, and Tibet.
”And why was Jesus crying, love?”
”Because Mish-al and the other boys were being naughty.”
”Are you sure that’s why? Who told you that?”
”Miss Farrugia said so.”
And how do I tell him that you shouldn’t believe everything your teachers tell you; that sometimes adults use children’s innocence to their own advantage; that you should question everything?
Oh my sons. My little blonde blue-eyed Africans. What does the future hold for you?
But …
In the shop, a woman asks my son if Nkuli, my best friend, is his nanny.
”No,” he replies, gazing at her as if she were from another planet.
”Oh, is she your friend?” the shop assistant continues, apparently oblivious to the scrunched eyebrows.
”No,” he replies, gazing at her now as if she were poo on the bottom of his shoe, ”she’s family. That’s better than friends.”
We are returning from a trip to Hermanus. As we come over the mountain my son gets excited.
”Look mom, there’s my mountain!”
He points to Table Mountain with both eyebrows raised, a glow of excitement on his face.
”Yes,” I reply, ”we’re nearly home.”
Karen Jeynes has written for theatre, radio and teenage readers and teaches writing. She co-edited Fab, about the Mother City Queer Project