K – here’s a new addition to “Things of my place”. The first new addition in 12 years - who would have thought...
My grandfather was a beautiful, honest man. I have his shy and honest genes – the former can be frustrating, the latter dangerous.
In South Africa, we speak about the lost generation – black people who forfeited themselves, their things for the good of all. For me, their adjective… lost, marks an unselfish sacrifice that wasn’t rewarded.
I think there is also a lost generation in the white population – for completely different reasons… but with dire consequences. And for me, here, this adjective… lost, marks a sacrifice of mind, that can have serious and heartbreaking effects.
See, my grandfather was a beautiful person, but he was a racist. He paid for the shaping of the contents of his skull, very hectically.
He loved food. Loved it. A piece of mielie cob lodged in his intestines. Doctors had to operate to clear the blockage. He was 85 at the time. We were told to say our goodbyes because despite him being completely and absolutely in his skull before the operation, such operations are difficult for older people to pull through.
He clung to life for two weeks in an ICU ward of a private hospital. Who he was... his thoughts and fears, shaped his experiences there.
I wrote this poem six days after his death:
He was angry
Pulling things out
Threatening
Saying he was leaving
He looked at me
Said, “I am disappointed in you”
Called it a mockery
A show
…Now my creed
My remembrance of him
The next day he was subservient
A broken horse
A broken spirit
Subservient, not peaceful
He said he was very observant
I believed him
On my last visit
My aunt leant over him
Said “Now you be nice to Ker”
He reaches out to me
Says hello
His words become a cry
Swollen
Weeping
Sadness
Calling for mercy
Pleading
His heart in sound
Gesture
Reaching
A wave
Drawing me close
We become a choir
Singing sadness
No show
No mockery
The nurse interrupts with some pipe
Some thing
The moment gone
Stolen
Institutionalized
Lost to efficiency
Later, I tell him I have seven eggs in me
He says “that is wonderful”
His face matching his words
He is lucid
There
My Jacky Boy
He says “You were dressed in pink last night
You looked beautiful
Everyone was dressed in pink
You were all doing things in front of me that you really shouldn’t have”
We laugh
I kiss him with all of me
Tell him that he is my angel
No mockery
No show
My goodbye
…At his funeral, I wear pink
I cry when it comes
No mockery
No show
31 May 2007
You see, in those two weeks, his vital signs had our hands tied – we could not take him out, despite his begging and pleading. In my Jacky boy's mind, he was stuck in his worst nightmare, afraid and needy and close to death amongst people he did not trust, amongst people he had been taught to fear. He cursed, used horrible, derogatory terms – and patience was lost. His nightmare snowball got bigger and bigger - he felt ever more tortured and terrified and lashed out leading to more to fuel his fears. A tragedy of cause and effect. Seeds planted an age before our time that we must stomach and suffer by…personally. Where were the rule writers, the idea makers at his hour of need?
So yes, my grandfather was a racist… it was the only thing we fought about… but he was so much more than that … I promise… I’m qualified to say after a lifetime of knowing him. His heart was beautiful, shadowed in some places, but beautiful.
I can say similar things about my place - Germiston. Many there are racists and many there are beautiful people and many beautiful people there are racists. It is an innocent place – a naïve place. I married my next-door neighbor who I met when I was 3. My best friend technically lived in the same road as us, and so did his. It is a funny, funny place that Germiston – it has frustrated me and served me well.
You see, life is complicated and it is simple. I want to get through the complication in a simple and respectful and compassionate way!!!!
Read the above to my mom yesterday afternoon. She got quite tearful. Her dad was the apple of her eye. She hates that he suffered for those two weeks. She wanted him to go peacefully as his mother had... in his sleep. She also told me about how he used to cook a breakfast for Patrick, who helped in the garden, and the nurse that cared for my gran when she was close to her death. They all would sit around the table silent eating his always delicious meals (he was a talented cook). She also reminded me that he cooked soup every week for a soup kitchen. The people who visited this kitchen got to know his pots and would wait for them before they collected their food - his soups were legendary and apparently a bit of a problem stirrer at the soup kitchen.
We are all such conundrums. We have so many versions of ourselves - especially in this country - the one Anke Krog describes as the "country of my skull".
OK - Jacky Boy - I am not sure that you were a racist - sometimes what you said made you seem one, but what you did says the opposite. Personally, at the moment, I agree with mama - you might be the Loerie I always see very curios about me and Kes - always trying to get real close to us. X
Read the above to my mom yesterday afternoon. She got quite tearful. Her dad was the apple of her eye. She hates that he suffered for those two weeks. She wanted him to go peacefully as his mother had... in his sleep. She also told me about how he used to cook a breakfast for Patrick, who helped in the garden, and the nurse that cared for my gran when she was close to her death. They all would sit around the table silent eating his always delicious meals (he was a talented cook). She also reminded me that he cooked soup every week for a soup kitchen. The people who visited this kitchen got to know his pots and would wait for them before they collected their food - his soups were legendary and apparently a bit of a problem stirrer at the soup kitchen.
We are all such conundrums. We have so many versions of ourselves - especially in this country - the one Anke Krog describes as the "country of my skull".
OK - Jacky Boy - I am not sure that you were a racist - sometimes what you said made you seem one, but what you did says the opposite. Personally, at the moment, I agree with mama - you might be the Loerie I always see very curios about me and Kes - always trying to get real close to us. X
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