Have you ever woke up one morning and discovered that life had suddenly changed?
Those familiar people that surrounded you and things that you once brought you so much pleasure now lay wasted, in ruins around your feet, only to bear emptiness that echoed back within your soul?

This happened to me…it was happening day by day, slowly like the movement of time...and there wasn’t a thing I could do to stop it. I thought I was losing my mind.
I prayed night and day, and day and night, still I just couldn’t shake this feeling of dread that shrouded me like a cloudy Detroit afternoon. “No time day.” This is what we call it. No time days is when there is no sun, just clouds and you can’t tell what time it is during the day. All of my life I tried to do what was best for me by what others told me. All of my life I had this need to be in charge…take control of the situation, and take control of the people in my life. I was raised a fighter, strong and not to take shit from nobody… and I didn’t!

Well it must have been the seasons of the changing heart. I just couldn’t start out 2005 living the same old way, doing the same ole things in Detroit; Is this it? I said to myself. Is this all to life? I started crying like rain for no reasons; looking at my life…not happy. I was supposed to get married…couldn’t, wouldn’t, didn’t do it.

This man I had only known for a short amount of time, went from sticky sweet to very demanding. This man was demanding I separate myself from my best friend for nearly 23 years. This man was demanding to be raised over my children to a position that he had not earned…but when he made demands that I put him before my mother, I crushed the idea of marriage and squashed him in the process. I did this in such a hateful way it scared me. He cried and begged me to reconsider our marriage plans but I didn’t budge. The relationship of my children was crumbling before my eyes. It seemed I was put in a precarious position to now have to suddenly choose between him or my kids.

My once peaceful home and turned into a battlefield of anger, crying, slamming doors, folks not speaking to each other for days on end, living in the same house. My children refusing to take dinner with us…this was the last straw. I just couldn’t take this anymore.

For months and months I endured this living hell in my own home. I took this matter up with pastor and the church. I prayed for a miracle. I prayed for a big change to come into my life. I prayed for my children’s lack of respect for me in my own house. I prayed that the Lord would open a door for me to step through…and he did.

I suddenly received information through the mail to consider teaching overseas. I went on the Internet found the website. I talked to a woman, and she immediately put in contact with her boss, to make a long story short. I was hired in three day and offered a position to come to Africa and teach English Literacy in South Africa, at a school called Hendrik Verwoerd High School.

No one took me seriously when I said I was thinking about going to Africa to teach. No one took my restlessness to heart.

December 31, 2004

Final Countdown

Every since I was a child I had this need to meet all types of people…this desire to explore new places, and try interesting and creative things. My friend Belinda for years, and y e a r s has gently accused me of being eccentric. My response to her accusation is always the same. Exactly what is eccentric anyway? Is eccentric refusing to come to work wearing only western style clothes? What!? I can’t enjoy bright and exotic colors like purple, red, pink, and blue swirling, and swooping through my suit? Is eccentric wearing your hair to please yourself?

Or maybe eccentric is wearing the wildest pair of earrings you can find to a meeting? Eccentric must be planting flowers in the rain? Or walking down the street in the middle of a storm snow eating ice cream? Eccentric has to be enjoying a good laugh you’re your students. Using learning tools that empower students to think for themselves and solve problems, while actually enjoying class. Well Belinda, moi bon amie, if eccentric is enjoying my own unique lifestyle and being proud of it…then I am eccentric.

Letter to Mama

Mama has been surprisingly reserved towards me about my decision to go to South Africa. But I can read the signals of fear in her eyes; I catch high tones of worry that dawdles too long in the air from the tone of her voice. And I follow the lines downward leading to turned up lips, and see them quiver slightly, and I brace myself for the curt, jabbing, digs of, “God be with you... more power to you sister!”

I wish somehow I could talk to my Mother. I said talk not plead. I want to say to her…”Listen, Mama,” and I’d take her hand in mine. “I feel my life is in turmoil. Mama, why I can’t you of all people see what has been presented before me? Don’t you see…what a great opportunity this is for me to grow culturally, to network, and meet people from all over the world! Mama, there are vase majorities of people that need leadership, training, motivational empowerment and life skills to help them grow and achieve their goals too. As a culture we have so much…but how much do we really need Mama? How many of us are really willing to sacrifice our comfort, pay, and time to go into the unknown and help people that you don’t even know. I don’t know what the hell I’m getting myself into. I don’t have a clue if they will accept me or not; but it doesn’t really matter because what little faith I have it will be enough to carry me. Mama, please, you don’t have to agree with me but please, please, I need you to support me.

Mama, God is my first strength, and you are my second strength. Have faith in me!”




January 02, 2005

It was another dreary, Detroit, no-time day. Mortiz drove me to the airport. I was crying hard by then. As usual he worried about getting a space near enough to drop-off me and my luggage. He fussed over the possibility of me losing my passport, and carrying my purse loosely dangling-off my shoulder and arm. Mortiz looked very handsome to me taking control of the scene. He wore a nice gray hat, with a soft white sweater, underneath garnished a grayish shirt that set-off his sweater and pants. Mortiz’s pants were wine-plum colored, and flowed richly when he walked. His full-white beard hugged elegantly about his narrow face. His blue eyes noticeably sparkled, but I knew he was a little frighten for me but resisted the impulse to let it show…this was remarkably unusual for Moritz and I appreciate him mightily for that gift. I hugged and kissed him for a longtime. Before our good-byes ended, I knew I was now exclusively on my own. And I missed Moritz already. I did not know I would miss him so. Moritz is an unusual man, our relationship is even more unusual. It was 5:30 p.m. My departure time wasn’t until 7:05 p.m. I made my way through the zigzag line through the security check, down the escalator, and onto a series of moving sidewalks to Northwest Airlines gate 34 and waited to board my plane to Amsterdam, then to South Africa.

It was a long flight. On the visual screen overhead was a digitized map the charted our course. The computerized plane dipped further and further south towards the writing that blip that said Johannesburg. I dozed off and on for a couple of hours. Night had fallen and we flew swift as an arrow through the darkness. Our journey seemed endless. People on the plane started chattering lively. Soon we were served a good meal. It could have been cat food, and I would have eaten it right up. Below faint snippets of light dragged us into brighter, more profuse patches of light. The points of light now streamed together to create continues threads of light that peeped, and twinkled through thick trees and rolling hills. Just then white lighting coiled in every direction across the sky, and the plane trembled from the quake of thunder. Then someone on the plane said, “We are in Johannesburg.”

I must have looked like a nut case, with my winter coat on, mouth open, and eyes bugging out of my head existing the plan. My butt hurt like crazy and my legs were stiff--riding in the U.S. Embassy van the whole journey on my way to this magical place called Pretoria, I remember myself saying, “Wow, they actually have streets lights! And smooth roads…” There was a heavy, conspicuous silence, then a snicker…then all out hee-haw, foot-stompin’ laughter from everybody in the van, including me. In a haze I noticed a clean, quiet, and safe neighborhood. I chuckled to myself, and was thankful it had running water and indoor plumbing. I halfway expected a mud hut with dirt floors. Of course I had pictures send on a CD, but…one can never be sure. The team scheduled an early food shopping trip for me about 10:00 a.m., Monday at a place called the Jakaranda Pic & Pay.

January 04, 2005

I could hardly contain my excitement about actually being here in SA.
The next day we went shopping. I was very impressed with my first shopping experience in SA. It was nothing like I imagined. I was looking forward to the pungent ripeness from the open air market that I heard so much about from my friends in America. They went on and on about how the meat dangled from rusty pointed hooks, and how the flies were sheer terror. The insects swarmed freely about the meat to nest and lay their eggs. The eggs eventually hatched and the meat was literally infested with hundreds of white maggots. “Don’t eat the meat!” I can still see the white of their eyes flashing. “They don’t cook like we do. They eat their meat rare…and the temperature isn’t high enough to kill the bacteria in the meat.” I was scared to death and giving up meat for sure, and then I heard…

“Don’t drink the water! It’s swimming with worms!” I couldn’t give up drinking water for 10 months, so I decided to purchase a water purification kit, and only drink bottled water. If push came to shove I could always seek help from the US Embassy and secure clean drinking water from my local government agency.

I was a jumbled-up mix of excitement and terror about what lay ahead for me. Apprehension mounted in the bit of my gut. I was beginning to feel a little woozy. I had worked myself up into a frenzy of nerves. ”Jesus help me!” I thought, “What have I done? I fully expected to see a bizarre collection of voodoo-love potions, oils, and medicines peddled by the local neighborhood witchdoctors, and half-naked, young Africans dancing, spinning swatted in brilliant brightly colored clothes, casting their magical spells on unsuspecting American foreigners; I imagined chocolate African maidens, bare-breasted, with their young strapped to their backs carrying baskets gracefully upon their heads to and fro in the market place.

Instead of feasting my eyes on pure Africa in its true and natural form of spellbinding beauty, in one of many authentic open air markets, I found myself shopping with Robert and Francine in a modern food center, with a regular standard issue basket comparable to Kroger back in the states, listening to Michael Jackson jammin’ on the “boom box.”

January 06, 2005

It was extremely hot today, but I was too excited to give due to heat. It is a time for great change for me when I gazed up at the massive concrete, nondescript structure that loomed before me. The Apartheid Museum would change my outlook on my shallow perspective on South Africans, both black and white.

Standing in front of the rather plain museum, baking in the 90 degree heat in January, let me know I wasn’t in Detroit. This would be a new adventure; no member of my family has ever been in this place. I alone will witness for them and bring back the stories of these people. At that moment in time I felt special, privileged and sadden that I could not share what was for me one of the greatest cultural awaking of my life, with not one of my friends or family members back home. So I did the next best thing…I shared with the folks around me Robert and his family, and Francine.

We walked and eyed sometimes in heavy silence the stark reminders of apartheid angled into the shape of the hangman’s noose, that festooned lazily from the ceiling like scores of thick tree snakes. I mechanically read the endless names mounted on the wall plaque.
I then saw a face that sent cold, tingling, shivers up my spine. It was the sweet face of a fair-skinned young boy, with thick brows, rather small brown eyes, a pyramid shaped nose, and wide attractive mouth.

He was the last mother’s son to fall victim to the hangman’s noose in 1986. I stood what seemed to be a longtime studying the photo of this boy. I slowly pored over the article that chronicled the last dreadful scenes of this young man’s unfortunate and brief life. I read the quotes, and wept inside for his tragic ending. I wept for him and his family in my heart. The reason why this boy caught my eye and tugged at my gut is because he had an uncanny resemblance to my own 16-year-old son Enin. I fingered the picture and let my fingers slide across the glass that protected his photo before moving on. My entire journey throughout the museum was fraught with depression. Each display seemed to build upon the other; playing out a woeful tale of oppression, abuse and the horrific exceedingly graphic display of human suffering.

Lord Jesus! I never saw anything like this before in my life, maybe in a fiction movie…but never would I believe human beings could be so hellishly brutal to one another. Defenseless people shot in front of your eyes, dangling from ropes; being literally eating away by dogs, held by police. Young babies…children, teenagers shot by riot police. But the most grotesque scene of them all was this one…that nags at my soul. It was a young man’s body burning in the middle of the street…and with hollow eyes both sides watched as the black smoke and flames consumed him. At one point in the museum, towards the very end of out tour there were three massive screens and each screen was showing a battlefield of black warriors marching, singing, and dancing there way to either freedom or death. They were young and fearless, with eyes ablaze with glory and their fits clenched. Some upheld the banner of their flag of South Africa as they march off to victory. I cried like a baby. Another screen showed row after row of caskets lined up. People linked by the arms, waling and crying, burying their dead warriors. I couldn’t take it anymore; I walked out of the room. It was a bitter education that every American should learn, but nevertheless a necessary one I suppose. Amen.


First Encounter
Assembly Hall

In the assembly hall I remember thinking to myself…”this is it”! I stood up in front of about 890 screaming South African high school children, setting with their legs tucked dutifully beneath them in the assembly hall for the first time at Hendrik Verwoerd High School.

When I was introduced by the Headmaster I rose up to my feet and waved to the curious, but enthusiastic audience. They all clapped and hooted in delight. I felt more like a rock star or a television talk show host, than teacher. It was a ridiculous display of undeserved exultation…but like the sugary, jubilate taste of sweet candy…I just let the flavor roll over my tongue. Empty calories thou they were and the flavor will not last, but for that moment in time it tasted extraordinarily delicious!

The staff of about 40 high school teachers is naturally 100% Afrikaans, with not one African, Indian, or Asian teacher. The greeting that I received from about 95% of that staff was frankly as cool as the burg winds.

Row Call!

In the very beginning I was hopefully optimistic that in time my openness and outgoing personality would surely allay any fears that I was suddenly going to abscond with their jobs, and transform Hendrik Verwoerd into Dr. Martin Luther King High. My goal is to win friends and influence proactive behavioral change, and pave a wide road to open communications channels for constructive dialogue on how to achieve a greater level of academic success for the students or what they call…learners in SA. The racial breakdown is about 40% mostly African with some Indian and other cultures groups, and 60% Afrikaans--Some of the learners live in the townships like Mamelodi rolling to school on trains, hauled by double-decker bus, and the fearlessly and famous travel by the notorious taxis service everyday. Others stroll from up 30th street to 18th. Little did I know these learners would be my saving grace, my lifeline to the complex culture and subcultures of South Africa.

At times I wondered… what the hell I was doing in this place? Was I really fooling myself actually thinking my presences would mean anything to these people? I knew from the very first staff meetings being conducted almost purely in Afrikaans that my work was cut out for me. Then I remembered the caveat my Christian brother issued to me “Joann…you will have your work cut out for you…” spoken in sincerity at my going away party.

The words swirled and swooped like kiddy alphabets in the back of my head. Thank goodness there were roughly five “brave heart” staff members that gravitated to me from jumpstreet. They swooned around me like birds of prey and with a laundry list of sometimes endless questions about America. “How do you like South Africa? Is South Africa better than America? Is America better than South Africa? What do you eat for breakfast in America? Does America have Coca Cola? Why do American’s have to do everything in such a big way? Did you vote for President George W. Bush? Do you know any famous people? Does America have our Kellogg’s Cornflakes?” This question was practically interesting to me because Kellogg’s Cornflakes is produced in Battle Creek Michigan.

But the most frequent generalizations and stereotypical comments that I heard over and over again from teachers at Hendrik Verwoerd is this, “Why are all Americans so arrogant and pushy? Americans think they know everything!
They try to be better than everyone else.” These types of questions are ridiculous traps. Firstly, there is no factually proof, or specific evidence presented to backup claims that American’s know everything? Secondly, how the hell do I know!? I’m seldom presented with balance or logic to substantiate a halfway decent argument, so I avoid these traps. I learned early in the game, that most of the time, it’s not the whole of America that’s the immediate problem, or threat… It’s me. One teacher asked me the first week of my introduction at Hendrik Verwoerd, what my qualification were to teach here? She asked, so I told her. This woman’s face turned beet-red; she pulled down a long face, and fell silent, and never said another word to me thereafter.

In the weeks and months ahead I made a slow and painful acclimation the Afrikaans culture. During the day I put on my happy face and learned to endure the autocratic management pulse at Hendrik Verwoerd High School.

The morning staff meetings spoken in Afrikaans daily prayers spoken in Afrikaans: small talk, spoken in Afrikaans. Laughing in Afrikaans? Now, I’m freaked out. I feel so shutout most of time at school. Often it’s the little things that make us human. I don’t get to enjoy the intimacy of “small talk,” to listen to the busy office chatter about what the kids are doing after school; family issues about wives and daughters, about hobbies, and grandparents…birthdays and weddings. I don’t get to enjoy the softer side of things. Sometimes it’s the little things that help me through hard times. It’s like being invisible. To be invisible is just a step above being called a nigger! But, at least they acknowledge your presence. I had a rather usual experience, not at school, but with a very nice lady that befriended me at the Jakaranda Lodge. Out of the clear blue sky, she innocently posed this question during one of our many afternoon lunch dates…”So, do they call you an American Nigger?”

Surprisingly I didn’t make a big to-do out of the situation. There were no evident signs of hostility in her tone, and her body language was relaxed, not stressed. I took a deep breath and posed this question to her. “What is the absolute worse, most degrading name someone from another culture can call you…find that word yet? Well being referred to as a nigger does it for me.” She tossed her dark hair back, blinked nervously and apologized; we never mentioned the conversation again.

January 10, 2005

First Day of School

Hendrik Verwoerd High School- 8th grade English Class

My first real day of teaching was full of questions, questions, questions, questions pelted at me of eager students that rifled off. There was so much energy in my 8th and 9th grade students or learners as South African educators call them. They applauded when I came to class. It was so funny. Instead of a teacher, I felt like a talk show host. I loved every minute, because I knew this courtship wouldn’t last so I made the best of it by making a strong, positive, first impression.

The students grilled me on American pop culture, the differences between South African and American students, crime, poverty, computer technology…you name it. They were so hungry to learn anything and everything about my wonderful America; and I am the gateway to her open shores. The honeymoon lasted a couple weeks. Some of the shine grubbed off when they discovered I came to teach American English Speaking skills. And they were expected to listen, learn, do homework and participate in interactive classroom discussions forums…yeah!


8th grade learners model in small groups the “chunking method” a new strategy that teaches students to define materials by using key phrases or chunks to summarize, compare & contrast, study for examines, and write papers.

This instructional method is currently to be introduced to my 8th and 9th grade English Language classes as part of the current curriculum.

February 25, 2005

Showtime

“A Call to Freedom” first international Black History Month presentation at Hendrik Verwoerd High School was a fantastic success. It was a wonderful feeling to see all that hard work from every student pay-off. The kids danced, did marshal arts infused with poetry, dramatic expressive reading…and this one students named “Logical” did a very humorous poem, where he was just as a bum, a happy-go-lucky, rag- a-muffin in tattered rags, but talked of his new freedom like a lover. His joy and infectious energy touched every member in the audience; his work brought us light hearted humor and fun.

We successfully orchestrated the very first “International Freedom Celebration,” at the historically white Hendrik Verwoerd High School here in South Africa. It was a united South African and American celebration of heritage and heroes of the past, present and future through a dazzling spectrum of talent in the areas of: dramatic poetry, essay reading, and African dance. The children really pitched up, and I was thoroughly disappointed at the meager outcome of students and faculty that showed up for our grand performance. One of the key members of the US Embassy came to me after show, while everyone was chattering over refreshments in the American Corner, and whispered in my ear, “Where were all the white people?”

The Hostiles

I was invited back in January to go on a 3-day “Hotel Tour” with about 35 kids and two other female teachers from the cooking school. On the bus, the kids had completely segregated themselves into small agitated clusters of all black, and all white, positioning themselves for the mayhem that lay ahead. The once cheery shrill of excitement, harmonious laughter and animated body language gave way to a rising tide of aggression, nit-picking, and reckless eye-balling across the aisles as we rolled towards our sleeping destination to something called hostels.

The Game

The situation had escalated from bad to worse overnight. The trip to SunCity was stormy to say the least. But the teachers didn’t choose nary a side or curium to the residual run-off of mistrust and accusations that deep fried in the back of the bus.

At SunCity the battle ground was staged. It was hot outside and only a matter of time before a major confrontation exploded between the rivaling students. I had no idea what the ruckus was all about, and guess what! I didn’t care. I set my sights on seeing a little somethin’, somethin’, and having a good time, and that’s exactly what I did. I climbed up scores of spiraling steps that led to hidden dark paths inside the woods; made some new monkey friends with my chocolate candy bar, we ate and had a few laughs. They introduced me to the folks, I gave each a little piece of chocolate, but after the candy was gone…so were they.

The girl’s shared two barracks one to the east and one to the west of my bunker. I was strategically positioned in the middle of what would turn out to be a war zone. To the east were Afrikaans and African girl sharing a bunker; to the west were all Afrikaans girls that shared their bunker. Below were the boys who for the moment were completely out of the picture. It didn’t take long before I heard yelling and screaming of the east bunker; one of the Afrikaans’s girls just couldn’t take the name calling anymore and she just broke down and demanded they all stop acting like little 3rd grade children and grow up. I rushed in with a start; hot on my tail was about 8 girls from the other bunker. Immediately an argument ensued. I rushed in with a start; hot on my tail was about 8 girls from the other bunker. Immediately an argument ensued from all side of the bunker. The screaming was so loud and furious it brought the other teacher’s leaping to their feet and at once. Some of the boys in a panic stormed into the overcrowded room by now engulfed in sheer chaos. The boys were immediately shooed away then the real fun began. Girls from both bunkers were crying and quarrelling in multi-languages. I had never seen anything like this before back home. The two Afrikaans teacher’s went after the ones that were visibly shaken. Other girls ran out of from the bunkers frantically sobbing both black and white sending text messages home by cell phone begging their bewildered parents to come and fetch them. One of African females got completely belligerent in my presence and threatened to “whip on” another girl.

I stood between them and scolded her for being disrespectful to me. She tried several times to out talk me, telling me in a dramatic fashion pointing her finger at me, what her “Mama” told her; but I wouldn’t have any of it.

Finally, the three of us managed to calm things down. In the meantime, the boys refusing to be out done picked a b a d time to play a joke on the girls in both bunkers. They found two trapdoors leading to both bunkers and decided to make animal howling noises, while scratching on the ceiling. Slowly the trapdoors begin to rise and the already delicate situation turned into a stampede as everyone fled from both bunkers screaming bloody-murder.

Early the next morning at breakfast, kids were already packaged and ready to go home. I walked in on a very heated conversation. This time it was with one of the white boy’s and a black female. “You whites are always disrespecting us. We never call you out of names. We never say…’you whites this or you whites that!’ why do you always have to bring color into the conversation?” It was the same young woman that pointed her finger at me earlier doing the talking. The young man replied, “It’s not about color! We almost joke and talk like that…it never bothered you before…?”

“It does bother me…it does bother us! We just suppressed it and never said nothing! Because we always hoped that you would correct your error, but you never did and you never will! But today you know why, so tomorrow when you speak to me, when you speak to an Africa. You will remember to speak with respect! Not saying to me or anyone…’you blacks always do this or you blacks always do that!’ Now you will stop…huh?” By then all the kids gathered around the two. I said nothing. For he first time I understand what was going on. The kitchen staff signaled for us to sit down to breakfast. Floret, her two children, the other teacher, and her two children finally joined us. They said nothing to me, as me and Floret locked eyes. After the kids had been served I lined up to get my plate a few spaces behind Floret. The woman serving the food asked me what I wanted. I asked her what this particular dish was. Suddenly Floret swung around, slammed her plate down and angrily said to me in front of all the students, “What your problem n o w Ms. America! The food isn’t good enough for you either?!”

“Actually, I was addressing the lady and not you! But if yo really want to know, well then, I’ll tell you. This slop isn’t even good enough for my dog to eat!” All the students stopped eating; the woman stopped dishing food; everyone held their breath as we fought openly in front of the students. “What did you say!” she demanded. “Oh, so you’re better than us South Africans are you…you can’t get our food?” By now some of the students in the back were on their feet. “You know what!” I threw my hand up in her face and said, “Look lady! I don’t have time for this nonsense…talk to the hand!”

I stormed out and marched towards the bus. In the aftermath of my departure the place went ballistic. I put my bags on the bus and just cooled my heels. Slowly the kids dragged towards the bus in a sullen silence. They were visibly hurt and angry more so with me then their real teacher Floret. The students that huddled in my bunker last night could not bring themselves to even look at me and that unexpectedly hurt.

I got off the bus and set myself. The bus was full and the kids were buzzing with curiosity and disbelief. In a few minutes Floret and I were face to face. It seemed or little scheme worked perfectly…a little too perfectly for me! I wanted to burst out laughing but kept up the front…as the bad guy.

We were nearly nose to nose. She was facing the bus. “So, are they looking?” I said. “Yes, all crowed at the windows.” She replied.
“We must now wave our hands in the air, and shake our heads as we talk.”
“Right!” she agreed pointing her fingers in my face.

We talked about nothing for a few more minutes, and then she left and headed for the bus. I towed in beyond her and seat down heavy in my seat, next to hers.

Floret then stood up, grabbed the microphone on the bus and a hush washed over every face on that bus. Before she began, she reached over and took me up by the hand and we both stood side by side.

“I want to tell you all something, Joann and I were only acting. We wanted to demonstrate to you how painful and hurtful it is to see people that you love and care about carry on in such a disrespectful manner; deliberately mistreating each other breaking apart friendships and trust along he way.”

I chimed-in and added, “It was very difficult to play the bad guy! But what else could we do? You gave us no other choice. This was by far hardest part I’ve ever had to play. Especially after bonding with so many of you last night, we just ran fresh out of options. It was a deceitful and unkind trick to subject y’all to such unacceptable and unprofessional behavior. But it worked! You guys stopped fighting. Now didn’t we look foolish? Weren’t you disgusted and embarrassed? Didn’t you feel helpless for a moment? Now think how we felt seeing you engage in such craziness. How long did it take you to forge these friendships that you have with one another four years? And it only took a couple of minutes of reckless behavior and mean words to destroy it? Was it worth it? What it worth it? From the looks on your faces, I think not. Shame on you!

Immediately heads dropped and tears began to fall like rain. Floret regained the mike and I sat down. She spoke to them now in a caressing tone befitting for a mother to her child for about 15-minutes. She instructed the bus driver to depart. What a scene; I will never forget the scores of pulled down faces, and droopy, puppy-dog eyes of those kids as long as I live. There was not a dry eye on the bus; even the bus driver cried.

Needlessly-to-say, the rest of the trip was perfect. We made several more stops along the way, but you know…some of those kids to this day refused to believe that fight was staged. I have not regained their full trust again. I guess everything has its cost.

Hillbrow!!

I’ve been in SA for nearly 6 months now. Today is Thursday, June 24, 2005.
A coworker took me to a community shelter near downtown Jo’burg in a rundown, crime-riddled Ghetto, on a street called Hillbrow. This experience I had today is something totally new and desperately heartbreaking. It was rather cool today, but sunny with blue skies. I felt intimidated by the thick gaggle of joyless people aimlessly wondering about in the streets, bobbing in-and-out storefronts, and with keen and sharp eyes like beast of pray-- tag cars, looking for victims, on-lookers like us. I was cautioned on more than one occasion to tuck my purse well underneath my legs in the front seat. SA is notorious for “smash and grab” crimes. They wait until a car is stopped at a robot (traffic light), hit the window with a spark plug, break the glass, take what they want and hot foot it.

They even have a place called “cell phone” corner now guess why? My friend, a soft spoken, Christian woman pointed out some of the sights. “You see those flats?” she pointed at the countless shabby building that stood like giant dominos with white dirty curtains hung in each window, dawdling in the wind. “Forty people shared a flat. I told you…you must smell Hillbrow.” I looked up and saw three drunken happy men, joyfully dancing on a small veranda, looking down at me grinning. I wanted to laugh but didn’t dare. On every corner makeshift vendors sold oranges, apples, whatever produce they could find to passer byres. People, mainly men bomb-dived stopped cars hoping to unload: cheap watches, cell phones, wallets, stuffed animals, and an assortment of goodies before the light, sorry robot changed green. “Make sure your purse can’t be seen!” I was warned again. “They send signals to their partners working the cars pretending to sell goods. While one is talking to you, another comes up and on the other side of the car and steels your purse” It seemed like they all move at an animated, movie speed, except for the children. They seemed to move in slow motion; every frame frozen in my mind. My tour guide and friend told me at night there are so many, many children that wander the street alone. They are homeless and sleep under canopies, in door wells, on porches, on old funky mattresses tossed on the streets. “They run away from home. Most of them hitchhike from Zimbabwe to Jo’burg looking for work; they have no paper work, birth certificate or record of citizenship. Needlesstosay these children are easy marks for sex trafficking, drug dealers, and junior gang recruits. But beware; don’t be so quick to bleed for them. I was told by my friend who is a social worker here in South Africa; some of these kids rather stay on the streets rather than go back home…wherever home is.”

She went on to disclose that many of the children are hooked on drugs, and sniff clue because it’s cheap and easy to get. I felt sick to my stomach; it was so many; they were everywhere! I was cautioned these seemingly unassuming naughty street kids were dangerous and unpredictable and attacked in packs.

The misfit throwaways dawdled freely in the midday sun. The children seemed to be in perpetual dancing motion; like stick figures they danced around street poles, balancing on corners--pooled in small tribes in dirt parks, pitched up against broken down fences, and in settlements around the Metro Evangelical Service (MES) building waiting to get food for the evening. Now the MES is an amazing place. It’s an oasis in the middle of a gritty often unforgiving concert and steel urban jungle. I was given a quick and dirty tour of the facility, operations, and key admin officers. I was pleased to see MES youth officers engaging a group of about 60 kids physical exercise, games, and after school activities. I was impressed by South Africa’s spirit of volunteerism—in the areas of food, clothing, and crafts. There was also a care center for the terminally ill—most of the patients were dying from AIDS. What these urban warriors do is actually roam the streets searching for the dying homeless. I was told the story of a woman that never slept in a warm bed. At the very end of her short life she stayed at the MES care center. The very last words from her mouth were “In all my life I have never been treated so kindly. I never imagined that I would die in such a beautiful place. Thank you. “

There are blessing here in South Africa too. For me, the blessing is gift wrapped in its proud heritage, diversity, and the way these people are able to blend tradition with modern day culture. I l o v e it! I knew zip, I mean n o t h i n g about South African culture, when I stepped off that plane. Now, I’ve barely learned enough to rinse the sour taste of ignorance from my mouth. But it’s a start. When I first came here, I wondered why everyday African people didn’t speak to me. I had to always greet them first. After about twenty different theories and explanations coming from Afrikaners, Colored, and other Africans that I socialized with at church and Embassy functions, I felt reasonably sure the answer was buried somewhere in the middle. One Afrikaans version declared, because of my light skin tone most Africans think I’m a Colored woman, and years of apartheid government conditioning has trained the pre-apartheid generation, to wait and be recognized…in other words, they are showing respect towards me when I grant them permission to speak. The African version was simple. It was because I didn’t act African, Colored, or Afrikaans, and I dressed different. People in Pretoria are not friendly; the blacks, whites, and colored are naturally suspicious of each other. It’s easier to be rude and live, than speak and run the risk of getting robbed or killed.

So far my biggest disappointment is ironically the hostility from African females. Other than my business relationships with professional African sisters at the Embassy, I haven’t been able to make any solid connections. Now at the local Jakaranda “PIC & Pay” the checkout woman are lovely, but the woman that clean the floors are fiercely territorial and rude. Let me give you a example. I was shopping at one of the meat counter, now I was there first. Here comes this woman dragging a bucket and mop, I’m reading the label and she just started mopping the floor as if I wasn’t there.

I stopped reading, looked at her for a few minutes hoping to get her attention. She ignored me, so as gently as I could I said, “Excuse me but I’m shopping in this spot, but I’ll be finished in a few minutes.”

She abruptly stopped, shot me a look that could wound a rhino, mumbled something unsavory under her breath and dragged herself, the bucket and mop only a few feet away. Another time at the same Pic & Pay, I was standing in front of the fresh veggie, two African woman where just standing there almost on top of me chatting way. They literarily blocked the aisle; when I made a motion to move with my shopping cart they both stopped, looked at me blankly as if to say…”Who do you think you are lady! Are you crazy interrupting our conversation!!” I’ve had this treatment from African women over and over again throughout the store, and in different shops in the Jakaranda Center. However, the African men are extremely nice and helpful. I have never had any trouble from black or white men working there.

The reason why I come back is because the management staff seems to go out of there way to provide good quality service. The same type of attitudes seems to permeate throughout the private business sector as well. I don’t know what the problem is…

So why was I losing sleep over this….? I was under the naive and foolish impression that these South African people, my so-called brothers and sisters would greet me with open arms. I was silly enough to believe that because my skin is dark, through that blackness was enough to secure our historical bond as distance kinsman. Hello!!

Through personal experience both male and female have looked at me as the whole of America. Somehow they want to personally be held accountable for all of South Africa’s woes…poverty, AIDS, illiteracy, crime—it’s because your rich country will not help us…the drug problem is just poor South African children mimicking Americans--On the flip side Afrikaans for the most part, away from my work environment, they have been extremely gracious to me. I find them friendly and open to discuss social, political, and educational issues without someone wanting me to single-handedly solve their problems.

To be fair and honest I have encountered hostility from some Afrikaans folk, particularly white males from groups: males over 50 and males from 20-25 age range. I almost came to blows with a young man (white) that tried but failed to run me down, on one beautiful Saturday morning. I was on the clock, looking good, feeling fine, came to a stop. I stopped, stepped down on the curb, this fool runs the stop sign and turned on two wheels around the curb…missing me by only inches. I lost it! This was the third and last time somebody white person tried to hit me. For the sake of maintaining my dignity of being a church going Christian woman, I won’t divulge the details…but what I will say is he stayed in that car, once he felt the wrath of Washington!

Whether they make a conscious or unconscious effort to accept me or not it does matter because “I’m coming up! And I’m comin’ out!” Being here in SA is equivalent to living back in the 1960s when blacks became African Americans and “Affirmative Action” rights were put into places in government, private industry, and educational institutions to help people of color whom had been systematically and historically denied better paying quality jobs influenced by racism and a lump sided constitution. In countless conversations I’ve had with white Afrikaans males the common theme is

“A white man can’t get a good job in the government anymore! They (the new black South African government) are taking food out of our mouths by forcing us out of our jobs. Our high paying jobs and given to less qualified blacks that don’t know what their doing. The country is going to hell in a hand basket under the curse of Affirmative Action. Time and time again you see it played out on the news.

The high ranking positions in municipalities are handled by mostly unqualified blacks with only a 12th grade education. Look at all the problems with the water, garbage pick-up, and postal services. The entire system is failing because of sheer gross incompetence at the senior management level. Look I have nothing against blacks getting their fair share, but not at the expensive of my job! What about me? What about my rights? Who’s now going to take care of me and my family? Who the hell cares?”



Meet and Greet

July 01 2005

I met a very interesting man named Nichol at a restaurant called Café 41 not too long ago. This chap seemed nice enough and we begin to talk. He told me he owned quite a bit of property in the area, taught college, and worked for the FBI occasionally in the US. I met Nichol frequently at Café 41 in the weeks to follow. He talked and I listened and learned about South Africa from a wealthy educated white man’s point of view.

“Listen Joann,” he began. “Let me tell you this. You’ve been taught how poor blacks are here but I’m here to tell you some of the richness people on the planet are black South Africans. The blacks are the majority here. The blacks have the money! The President knows me by name.

Blacks in South Africa are extremely clever business people. I know them by name. I’ve been to their houses; I’ve eaten at the dinner tables. Blacks are very brilliant and successful people. Americans want to believe that nothing is going on here in
South Africa but HIV/AIDS, and the war on poverty, sex trafficking and selling tuc.

But there is something else going on as well. I have seen this; I know what I’m talking about. Blacks are being put into jobs that make the white man work harder.”

I didn’t understand what this man was talking about and he read my face.

“The reason why I say this Joann is because many of these blacks don’t how to do their jobs. They come with a degree, dressed in a suit and tie and just sit. It adds undo pressure and stress on them which has led in a dramatic increase in the number of suicide related deaths among young black professionals. It seems some don’t understand basic working principles and work concepts, which subsequently means the white guy sitting next to him has to essence has to do his white job and the black job too.

I tell you Joann, it’s going to cost South Africa in the long run plenty if they continued to replace jobs with color and not quality.”

Nichol was such a great reference source at first, and then suddenly he stopped communicating with me. It seemed he just dropped off the face of the earth.

Meeting Nichole really gave me a fresh new respect for white South African males. However, I still find some older Afrikaans males tend to be brutish and fearful of growth and change for all South African people. Since April 1994, South Africa has gone through tremendous change. It’s been a bumpy, rocky road but for nearly four hundred years white South Africa has had the power.

It has only been 11-years under the new administration of black South African leadership and the whites are claming foul play…”we are the oppressed people with no jobs, and no future here in South Africa.” I heard a businessman say on SABC News.


July 15, 2005 – The Refrigerator Conspiracy

New South African Friend – Carlton going to the funeral

As the N1 wide track, smooth freeway gradually vanished and gave way to a single, narrow, dust-paved trail, Carlton chimed and pointed to my left…”Look there is my village!” with a kids delight, “Hey, Joann…” he playful bumped me on the elbow, “I was born there!” I smiled softly at his glee, Mokgadi sat in the back sit with the baby in silence. I saw scores and scores of square and triangle shaped dwellings—that looked like oddly cut slices of cake, swatted under tin roofs sloped along the hills that run down deep into the belly of the valley; there were goats mating along side the road surrounding by small gaggles of young children watching; swirls of red dust licked up after the car passed by. We came upon a herd of gazing cattle too near the mouth of the road. Carlton pointed a warning at the cow. “Joann, many people die on the road because of the cattle wandering onto the dark street at night.” I noticed there were no street lights or stop signs or fences to keep the cattle off the street.

Carlton read my mind and explained. “Joann, the people stole the fences to put around their own houses…but in the process they murdered their own father’s who were consequently killed by hitting cattle that strayed onto the road in the dark of night. Those fences were ordered up by the highway safety commission to protect the cattle and drivers from disaster.”
Next, we turned onto an extremely bumpy road with bottomless potholes, littered with broken class, nails and trash. We lumbered up the narrow unsteady road for a small piece more and came to a halt in front of a chain of traditional houses with many village women standing outside cooking over large cast-iron pots literally bubbling over with “pop” or what Americans call grits. And they were arm-in-arm chopping hefty cabbages, and boiling chicken parts in gigantic kettles, the kind I’ve only seen in storybooks.
I was knocked-off my feet. Someone I kept my dignity and didn’t embarrass myself in front of Carlton’s Tribe.

Masakona Village woman preparing for the 2-day death eating feast.







As we got out of the car, Carlton winked his eye and whispered…”Uncle Fanya-Fanya” and left me curiously looking at the village people and them curiously looking at me. I chuckled to myself at all the people eyeing the cooks waiting to eat the food.

Carlton told me the Uncle Fanya-Fanya story. As a poor boy growing up in his village,
there was an old man named Fanya-Fanya. He was blind in one eye and carried an old stick. He would greet each member of the village fondly, but before they could greet him back he would quickly ask…”Do you know of anyone that died today?”

I thought this was a queer thing to ask someone. Carlton replied. “My sister, there will be many Fanya-Fanya at the funeral today. Because it may be the only time of the year that they will eat a good meal and enjoy meat! These people are dirt poor. They have nothing! They bring nothing, only themselves holding a plate. He went on to say that it is traditional when a member dies in the village for the family to tie an ox to a tree for slaughter. If the people peep from the houses and do not see an ox tied to a tree some will not even come and pay respect to that bereaved family. It is our traditional custom to feed house guess for days, sometimes even up to a week if you have money. The longer the body is out of the ground the longer the feast. Rich families serve meats, fruits, salad, breads, cool drinks and even sweet cake!”



Fanya-Fanya house guess waiting to feast. This whole scene was surrealistic to me. I thought I was in a dream. I thought with a little American disgust…”Are all these people here in moaning…or just to eat meat?”
I was quickly ushered into the main house to meet key members of the family. It was a tiny dwelling constructing from a mixture of cow dung and mud like the majority of the surrounding houses. I met Irene’s mother, only surviving brother and other distant relatives. Sadly enough this poor little woman had born four children. She lost one child in 2000, another in November of 2004, and one being buried today.

Almost immediately upon sitting down, I was served a generous portion of pop and cow intestines. I picked up a hefty chuck of meat and put it in my mouth; it smelled fresh. It was hot and steaming, and was actually rather tasty. If I could have just gotten past the smell I could have eaten at least part of it. But it was no way I could get the food down. Naturally at this point I had a small audience taking pleasure in my distress. Mokgadi had a good laugh before having the savory feast taken away and given to more accepting palate which was not hard to find.



The women below enjoy a plate of pop and meat before the ceremony is Irene’s Mother.

To get the heat off me I decided to go outside and help the village women make pop.


Masakona woman in white traditional dress Irene’s Mother.




I thought about my first meeting with Irene. It was heartbreaking….truly heart wrenching. I was not prepared what I was about to see. Carlton and I drove up to a rather drab none descript building. We walked together in the midst of silence to what looked like an old, jaded World War something a lock facility or army barracks. I had no idea this was a hospice ward. I thought it was just a regular hospital because I had nothing to compare it to. Inside was an array of women arranged side by side in a string of beds. Some of the women were sleeping or resting quietly; others wailed and cried or succumbed to bleakly staring into space.

In bed number 27 was an otherworldly skeletal figure sitting upright in the bed. With hollowed-out yellowish eyes…and a crippled anxious smile she greeted us. She wore a simple blue and white standard issue hospital gown. This was Irene.

She could not speak English so Carlton translated for us. Her long fragile hands shook a feeble and faint greeting. She was visibly frighten, but nevertheless glad to see Carlton. The nerves in her face involuntarily twitched, but seemed to relax once we arrived.
I could not help but notice the profound knot planted square in the in the middle of her upper chest. I also noted she lack breasts…she seemed to cave-in from her lower chest down. I kept my mind focused on Irene and not my emotional status. Subconsciously I was acutely aware that these poor sisters were dying of AIDS in this room all around me, Irene included; their eyes cried out to come over and sit and share the word of God with them. I didn’t…I couldn’t get enough strength or courage to pray with them; I felt so ashamed… why didn’t I pray with those sisters?? I was not sure of myself. In my heart I knew it was because I was afraid!

By faith I kneeled down and kissed and gave Irene a big hug. With all her strength she hugged me back. I instantly opened up my Bible and read Scripture while Carlton translated and gave her support and passion through touching her. Carlton was noticeably stiff and uncomfortable amidst all the women more so than I was. I figured it was a cultural thing. Although he is an educated man …there are still some things that just stay with you no matter how educated you are or how old you get. Irene was crying profusely as I prayed and read God’s Word. Afterwards, she waved her hands in the air, and squeezed my hands…Carlton didn’t have to translate… my heart understood what she was staying. We left the hospice ward in a deeper silence than when we entered. Later that night I cried and cried, and wondered why I did not have the courage to walk across that room and pray for all the souls that needed prayer. I vowed to come back and see Irene again.


Several days later on a Wednesday evening, we traveled back to the hospice ward. Carlton and I talked in detailed about Irene’s illness. He told me that not many of the people from the village had come to visit her because they were too poor and afraid of the magic. Irene’s Mother and many of the village people were convinced the hospital was bewitching her…killing her making her die to take her expensive new refrigerator and comfortable bed from her apartment.

I was nearly blown out of the water by this revelation. Again, Carlton schooled me saying…”My sister Joann…stop thinking like an American, you are in South Africa, in a traditional village with simple uneducated people… ” once again bumping me on the elbow which I found most annoying but nevertheless I said nothing, “you must understand these people in all of their lives have never own anything as expensive and luxurious as a refrigerator! So to them it’s a very big deal! Think about it for a minute…if you never in your life had something… that was only set aside for whites in your mind…. And suddenly there is a possibility that you could get this impossible thing…to sip cool drinks in the heat of the summer-- Serve up frozen ice water to your friends…place fresh meats when you can get them in a cold place for storage--it’s a dream come true to these people and you’ll be the first one in the village to have one.”

On May 24th, 2005, we again visited Irene at the hospices ward. This time I felt the spirit of calmness all about me. We gated up the dismal path, then down three short steps, past the stoic desk nurse—continued walking through two wards, until we found a smiling energetic and much healthier Irene with her Pastor. We gathered hands and began to praise God for Irene continued recovery. I left so good because Irene looked so much better than the last time I saw her. We prayed for about ten minutes and just set around her bed laughing and talking when a woman suddenly appeared behind me.
The woman pointed at an elder lady wearing thick glasses on the opposite side of the room. She was smiling and was surrounded by beautifully fresh cut flowers; the aroma just lit up the entire ward with the sweet perfume of lilies and roses.

“Would you please come and pray for my mother Lucy…please?” She said in clear firm voice, pointing at her. I was a little startled at the quest, but picked up my Bible and walked to her bedside. I smiled down at the woman; she pressed my hand into hers and we prayed together. Request after request echoed around the ward. Hands flew up in the air all in the mighty the name of Jesus. The name of Jesus fell from their lips like rain. One woman at the end of the ward was crying very hard. She whispered to me that she hadn’t slept for many nights because she was afraid to die. She was sure God had sent me to her. Tears rolled down her face as I opened up my Bible and read from it. I knew the Lord was at work through me in this place.

I could feel the fire of the Holly Spirit working the room. “I will sleep tonight!” she rejoiced. “I am not afraid anymore. I have nothing to fear this night! God sent you to me because I prayed for him to send me comfort…I have not found sleep because I was afraid to die…but this night I will not cry but sleep! Halleluiah! Praise his Holy Name! Jesus Christ is my rock who shall I fear…? Who shall I be afraid?!” she glorified in his name.

“I will not be afraid.” She looked at me with a peaceful but weary smile; her voice fell into soft whispering words of “Thank you.” Before my eyes the woman had fallen asleep. I spent the next hour praying for all who wanted prayer. We touched and hugged and quoted from God’s Scripture. It was an evening I will never forget as long as I live.

Carlton confessed to me that evening going home that he never knew the women were afraid to sleep. He also told me I was accepted and trusted by these African women because I am a practicing Christian and believer of Jesus Christ-- and American. “What’s being American have to do with anything?” I said puzzled, looking at a new full moon. “My sister Joann,” Carlton began patently, “because it’s absolutely no way you can cast a spell on them. These people are from traditional African culture. It’s more desirable to have a non-African born at your bedside to pray your dying requests up to God, then someone from your own village. Why, because they aren’t sure of their kinsmen’s true intentions. Are they coming to heal them or kill them for their refrigerator and fine new bed?” The next day Carlton e-mailed and said Irene had been discharge from the hospital. It was indeed a miracle.

Getting Ready

We waited and waited for what seemed to an eternity for the village men to return for preparing the gravesite. Suddenly we were summoned to fetch our places. Carlton told me no formal eulogy had been prepared so they hurriedly made a program hovering over the trunk of his car, writing on a sheet of paper with a green crayon, while the body was being led into the main house followed by a long train of village men elders. Masakona elders remember Irene.

Masakona men members only share stories about their beloved Irene in there many native dialects. Carlton a prestigious member of the Klan shares childhood adventures and gives me a grand introduction. He relates to them our friendship and my relationship with Irene. No women are allowed to speak at the ceremony.

Masakona women stand as Irene’s body is carried into her Mother’s house for the last time. They are not allowed to enter the house while the men are praying. The women and men are separated during the entire funeral. No communication was seen between the two groups except for Carlton speaking to his wife, and to me.

Casket led from Irene’s Mother house before going to the gravesite.
Before the casket was placed into the Hurst it was lifted into the air; first the daughter crawls underneath it, followed by the son. Carlton told me this is an African traditional custom that is done to help the kids forget the pain of their Mother’s untimely death. At the graveyard all the women lift the voices in song to help Irene make her transition from this world into God’s Kingdom.


All the men both young and old surround the casket as it’s lowered into the grave. After the body is lowered into the ground, logs are wedged against the walls of the well; thin sheets of tin are placed on the logs. Tis process is repeated until there is no more room to place tin or logs on; dirt is then heaved onto the tin and logs by many young village men. Women line up to cast red dirt onto the pile by hand.
The grave is finally sealed by a fine mixture of cement.



A time for every purpose under heaven….

Life is so strange…often times cruel and unfair. It turns out her home does not have the proper electrical capacity to support the refrigerator. She would have to get an electrical upgrade to connect proper electricity to the house.

The refrigerator is in fact hers free and clear…but there‘s a slight catch. Not only will she have to hire a driver and truck to fetch it… and that’s about 450k’s or 430 miles to Jo’burg one way. About time you add 1900 R in gas, about 400R to pay for pickup, and an estimated 3000R for electrical upgrade, she would come out better selling it to one of the doctor’s thought to bewitching her daughter at the hospital.


Goodbye Irene – 1963 - 2005

I won’t forget you!

I found later that Irene refused to be formally identified and documented as HIV positive. She refused all drug treatment that could have saved her life. She did not want to bring shame on her village or on the name e of her Mother and two children instead she made the choice to die.