There are some stuff happening right now that’s a bit much for me to handle. I can feel things may slide back into a maelstrom if I don’t stop it …
But do I want to stop it?
I saw two good friends today. Uri and my darling Glen. It’s the first time in months that I saw Glen again (fucking dodgy grammar, please find it in your heart to forgive me). And I was able to vent to Glen about some of the kak that is hitting my fan at the mo. Uri, well, I kept mum. It’s not as though he won’t understand, but he’s so good at pinpointing what’s wrong, it makes me want to cry. Argh. And I hate crying when I’m wearing mascara.
So I bought myself some pwetty things to make my heart sparkle again. I got new skanky red shoes yesterday already. They’re my new fuck me shoes. Every girl should have a pair of FMSs. Today I got new jeans. From Edgars, nogals. But they’re no-name jeans; I don’t do labels. I’m a label snob. It makes me look thin and pwetty! I’m so very thrilled with myself.
And then I got some new red wine glasses at Clicks. I’m far too easy to please. I don’t have to spend a lot of money; I spent R200 on the jeans and the shoes. Only!
Yes, I know I shouldn’t use shopping as therapy. Yes, I should tackle my problems instead of dodging them. But what if I just can’t? What if I’m having nightmares from them? What if my paranoia is so bad I refuse to believe what people tell me? Who can help me?
A friend of mine introduced me to Racialicious, a website devoted to debunking myths about race and, in some instances, about sexuality.
Now, Toby always used to claim “I’m not racist, I’m dating a coloured girl!”. At some stage even I believed it. Slap me! So reading this article once again made me very grateful for pulling the plug on him. Yes, I’m racist. I’ll be the first person to admit it. What I dislike intensely, is when people claim they’re not. Admitting you have a problem is the first step towards recovery, right? But I think many people do not really want to recover. It’s nice, I know from personal experience, to sit with a friend who shares your hue and view, and expound on all the minor (or major) differences between the races.
Hell, I frequent a very South African website called Bruin-ou.com and you should see some of the comments!
So, what does this make me? I refuse to date coloured boys. I do not find them very attractive. I do not see myself with one, ever. Eeek. Is admitting that one is racist, enough? Should I try to find a cure for myself? Is there a cure?
Let me count the ways I do not want to date my own race:
- Most of them – I have yet to meet some who do not fall into this category – are blerrie religious
- They’re not cut in the right way. You know…
- They themselves (gross generalisation, I know) would never dare/care to date outside of their race
- They speak “like dis”. Well, most of them, anyway. The ones who don’t, mangle Afrikaans, so I just can’t win
- They think Gatsbys are part of haute cuisine
These are all (except for the religious one) very superficial, shallow, narrow minded fears. I’m sure I could over my initial repulsion in the same way I got over Victor’s hairy back and dodgy teeth… But the religious thingy magick… Like, woof, bru.
I don’t know why I make the mistake of telling people about this blog. I should really stop. People close to me shouldn’t be allowed to know of all my exploits, sexual or otherwise. I should relay these intimate details to them over time. I think a five-year period constitutes a decent amount of time.
WWVD (paraphrasing What Would Jesus Do) if he finds out I’m actually a big, chubby racist? Would he choke on his muesli (he doesn’t do cornflakes), or would he take it in his stride?
See, a new girlie joined our company this week. I already knew she’s coloured, I just didn’t know anything else about her. Monday morning was spent getting all excited about this new addition to our staff and, by the time I got to the office, I had already envisioned what good friends we’ll become. (I still love you very much, LA!!)
I walk up the stairs (there is no lift or anything to ease the pain of the single flight of stairs to work), hurriedly trot to the door, open it and … bam! I’m confronted with the new chickie sitting in one of the tub chairs, looking very forlorn. My first thought was not “Wow, she’s quite pretty”, or “Good god, she’s dark of complexion”. No, my first thought was “Thank god she’s got straight hair”.
Yes, folks, it’s true: coloured people are pretty big racists. But don’t believe everything I say just because I happen to be your favourite coloured slash atheist (Did you notice the pretty Scarlet Letter?)slash straight-forward, tell it like it is, shoot from the hip and be damned blogger.
See, straight hair is something almost all of us want. Those who were not blessed with straight hair, pray to Jesus or Allah or someone for straight hair. Or we blow-dry our hair until it resembles a wig. Why do we do this? Um… so that we’ll look white(r)?
(Coloured) People with straight hair score instant brownie points as being smart, pretty and sociable, even if that description only suits their dog.
I’ve been trying to outsmart my biases for a looong time, but have yet to have some semblance of success at doing so.
Whether this chika is really as smart as her straight hair suggests, is a matter for another blog post. Let’s just say that I abhor the way the youngsters communicate. Perhaps it has nothing to do with brains, but it does reflect poorly on the way others perceive you. Viva full, complex sentences in an MSN message!
Tonight I once again realised how far away I am from being the quintessential Coloured girl: I don’t cook, or not readily; I have all my front teeth and do not want to remove them; at the ripe old age of 25 I am still child-less, and plan to remain thus; I stay in a la-di-da area and have regular dinner parties where my guests consume less than a bottle of wine and I do not have a Coloured boyfriend.
I’m sorry, mommy. True, there was a stage where I would have been feeling pretty shit about all of that, but these days, I tend not to give a damn. Or, when I do, I give less than a damn. See, I have become Coloured in other ways: I swear. Loudly, too. And I use really vulgar language when I do so! Someone would be forgiven for thinking I’m from Manenberg or Bonteheuwel when they hear me swearing! Not that there’s anything wrong with people from those areas…
I realised this a couple of weeks back when Victor and I were at the local flea market. Some kid accosted me, and called me antie. Now, there’s only one person in this whole world I would forgive when they call me antie. But she’s still only two months old… so I don’t have much hope of that happening very soon. This kid who called me antie got the shock of his life (Victor also, methinks) when I shut him up by telling him not to ever call me that.
If you mess with me, you will be forced to re-think your prejudices about me. I have been known to wear properse designer labels (No Levi’s for moi, thank you oh so much) on the odd occasion, but I can also show my earthy side when provoked. So, though I may not appear it from the outside, you would do very badly in a verbal fight with this coloured girl…
You don’t know me; I’m your future self. Twelve years older than you, and still the same size! My darling, today I would like to sit you down, and talk frankly about what is happening in your life, and what is still to come. I promise this won’t take very long, you’ll still have time to finish Sophie’s World today… or are you reading Crime and Punishment today? Sorry, my love, I get confused at times with everything you’re reading.
Though I’m sure you’ve noticed that men like you, you don’t really realise just how amazing you really are, so you settle for the scraps. There’s nothing wrong with the men you chose to have in your life, but they could (have been) so much better. As people, as mentors, as friends, as lovers. There’s nothing wrong with sex on the first date, or sex on the third date, or hell, sex on the seventh date, however, soon you’ll realise that for some men, sex is merely a fun game and it does not mean as much to them as it does to you. You’ll cry many tears over the years to come. Please act wisely and wait until you’ve known the person better.
You’ll lose your virginity at 18.5 years of age. Well done, my darling! It’s a good age. I’m so proud of you. Oh, that boy you were head over heels in love with? He is as sweet as you thought him to be, though you never really knew him. In twelve years time, you’ll chat to him on the odd occasion on something called Gchat and Facebook, both of which still need to be developed in 1995. In fact, you’ll both joke about getting married… though he is slightly religious, so might not be your type.
Your mom is going to give you lots of trouble over religion. Brace yourself. Be yourself. Don’t feel bad for not believing. Well done on being so opinionated, though.
I’m unsure of what to say here, as there are many goods, and many bads. Don’t waste the first three years after school as I did. You’ll live to regret it. Do something, anything! Stop watching Ricki Lake with your mom during the day! Get a loan, even if it means you have to get out of your comfort zone. You’re a great writer. You should hone your skills. There will be a period in your life where you don’t write anything for just over three years…What a terrible waste of talent. One day, at Woordfees, you’ll meet one of your coloured idols. Speak to him about your love for words and ask if you can submit something to his newspaper. He’ll go on to become some fancy editor for that newspaper, so act now while he’s still in love with you. Yeah. He was. Trust me. lol
You are worthy of a great salary. Call centre positions are actually beneath you. Get off your arse and get a proper job!
Go see your grandpa today. He’s worth it. He will live a while still, but he isn’t around in 2007. Try to see the rest of your family, too. You might not like them, but they’re part and parcel of your life, and should be treated as such. Spend more time with your sisters, even though you live slightly far away from them after leaving school. You’ll enjoy it as much as they do, I’m sure!
Don’t be ashamed of being coloured, my doll (and stop freaking out when people call you my doll). Get out of your comfort zone, the one where you’d rather read a book than go to a coloured fete. There’s nothing wrong with reading as much as you do. It’s absolutely amazing! But. Trust me, some years down the line, you’ll regret not having more fun away from the constant books.
There is something that has been bugging me for a couple of years, especially after I moved out of my mom’s house: people think I’m not coloured enough.
Some part of me want to flaunt that otherness, another part of me just wants to cringe and seek redemption. The latter half (or perhaps only 36%?) is urging me to get in touch with my roots. What does that really mean for a semi-urban coloured girl? Should I move into a coloured neighbourhood? Should I merely seek out other coloureds, and hang out with them, regardless of whether I find them interesting enough? Or should I do both and say to myself “Screw it, let’s do it?”
After a bit of soul-searching, I made a decision today. I decided I shall move into a different neighbourhood. It will be my atonement in a way. In other, different ways, it will give save me money (rent should be cheaper) and I could get to know my neighbours once more, perhaps even borrowing some sugar from them when mine is finished. Yes, I know I’m being naive… I’ll probably brush up on my Afrikaans again, depending on which neighbourhood I choose in the end.
Or I could just stay here and be the fabulous coloured in the city girl that I’ve always been. Tough choice.
I woke up in an empty flat just over 20 minutes ago. It has taken me all of four months to accomplish, so I’m feeling pretty chuffed at myself. Though, I’ll be the first to admit that I’m already lonely, and aching to call him and speak to him. God alone knows why.
See, he was my best friend (or so I thought) for a very long time. We did almost everything together: sex, book launches, play videogames, fight, cook, clean, shop, play. Not that there was much playing, but anyway.
It’ll take me a while to get to grips with being alone. I’m hoping that this will re-introduce me to that sweet, innocent girl of just over four years ago, the one who would never have dreamt of throwing someone’s cellphone against his head during the heat of the moment. The one who could never express her colouredness the way I can now. The one who is not yet bitter and still has hope of finding her Mr/Ms Right.
The introduction might take a while but I’m pretty sure it’d be worthwhile.