Hi friends. I hope that you are all well. My mood is certainly improving now that the weather is. hehe
It's been a big couple of weeks for South Africa and South Africans everywhere. April 27th, 1994 was the first time ALL South Africans were allowed to vote in the national elections and the first time the African National Congress won. On April 27th 2014, we celebrated 20 years of democracy. It was also the first time we, as a new democratic nation, were celebrating our freedom without Nelson Mandela here to share in our joy. (I must warn you that from here onward, this post may be mushy and sentimental. I can't write his name without tearing up.)
I remember bits and pieces of that first democratic election. I was a teenager and in high school. My parents were going for Hajj (the holy pilgrimage to Mecca and Medina that every Muslim must do at least once in their lives) and my brother and I were going to be home alone. My mother was really worried. Here were my parents embarking on the most important spiritual journey of their lives and they had no idea of what to expect when they got back. Civil unrest, maybe war, definitely some kind of revolution. And as Indians, where would we stand? What would happen to us? Ever the practical one, my dad stocked our kitchen cupboards with canned foods and long-life milk and said that if things got dangerous, to stay indoors. But nothing awful happened. The ANC won. Nelson Mandela became president and thanks to him, the country avoided civil unrest.
That was then. Today, the country's leaders are greedy and corrupt. Our current president is certainly not a man 'of the people' - unless they're his own people. He has squandered millions of Rands and has left millions of people disillusioned and apathetic. Nobody wants to vote for him or the ANC, but who else can they vote for?!
Last Wednesday, voting was open for South Africans abroad. I didn't know who I was going to vote for. I knew who I wasn't going to vote for. I woke up that morning and it was cold and rainy and I didn't feel like going all the way to Manhattan just to make a mark on a piece of paper. But I did. Because I told myself that I would be a better, more responsible person. And because after attending Madiba's memorial service, I promised him that I would do more to fight for freedom and justice.
As I stood at the voting booth at the embassy in New York City, I remembered my dad telling me how unforgettable it was for him - his first time voting in 1994. He was in Medina and they had made special concessions for South Africans to vote in their hotels. This was the first time in his life that he got to have a voice, and he did so from the holy land. What a proudly beautiful moment that was for him. And here I was, having my own little moment in NYC. My eyes welled up with the thought that my grandparents, uncles and aunts had lived and died in SA without ever getting to do what I was about to - make a simple 'X' on a piece of paper and hopefully change the future.
I know that my vote alone cannot change South Africa. But if we all remain indifferent, we cannot make any difference whatsoever. We owe it to ourselves to vote. We owe it to Nelson Mandela, to Mahatma Gandhi, to all the people who fought for us and all the people who died for us to have the right to make an X on a piece of paper.
Friday, May 9, 2014
Friday, April 25, 2014
Episode 4 - Little brown babies
Hey folks. Spring is finally in the air in the Northern Hemisphere and so while I may be thinking about cleaning, getting outside, exercising and really just dusting off those Winter-induced (metaphorical) cob-webs... to others Spring is about rebirth and new life. And to my great chagrin, my creating new life. As most of my friends and family seem to enjoy reminding me of late: I'm not that young - oh horror of horrors - I'm in my mid-thirties! My time is running out. My clock is ticking. My eggs won't last forever. Quite honestly, my eggs should not be anyone's business but my own, right?!
Society has this way of making us feel like we don't fit in if we don't follow the formula. Really, I don't think I've ever fit in. I've always been the 'brown' sheep (see what I did there?! hehe) of the family, the circle of friends, the town. The natural progression of life, as deemed appropriate by 'society' is that you're supposed to finish high school, go to college, work hard (to pay off your ridiculous student loans), meet someone, marry, keep working super hard (so you can buy a house), buy a house, have babies, and then live happily ever after. And the happily-ever-after picture includes your parents and parents-in-law because it does not matter what you have done up to this point - it is only once you have endowed them with grandchildren, that you have truly made them proud and happy!
I have never fit into this mold. I didn't go to university when all my friends did. I traveled and worked and saved up. (And straight out of high school, you never really know what you want to study anyway. I recommend allowing your kids to take a gap year after high school. Many people think it's a waste of time, but so is spending two years at university and then dropping out because you're unhappy with your subject of choice.) So, when I was finally graduating from college, my friends had already met their significant others and were planning their weddings. Again, instead of the people around me applauding my different path, they kept reminding me of how behind everyone else I was.
Fast forward to a few years ago (when most people my age had kids in primary school already) when I finally got married... in my thirties! I had, by then, heard it all. And even though it was meant to sound like advice or pity, it was just plain nasty. How sad it was that someone so smart and so pretty couldn't find a man. I wasn't looking hard enough. I should drop the whole tough, independent thing - men don't like that! It seemed like everyone was convinced that I just wanted to be different or that I was trying to spite the institution of marriage by not being wed any sooner. I really just hadn't met anyone worthwhile until then. Could that have been a possibility?! Luckily, I found a man who appreciates the old, tough, non-baby-bearing me just as I am right now.
Funnily enough, I have always wanted children. Since I was thirteen and my first niece was born, I have wanted to be a mother. I mentioned that in a conversation with some friends once, and was called selfish. Granted, these friends have chosen not to have children ever and prefer pets to kids. But then I was talking to a friend who has so many kids and not a single moment to herself, and she called me selfish also. I don't get it. Who's right? And who is wrong? The woman who chooses to have cats and dogs over children thinks she's better than everyone else, but so does the woman who has 4 children and no sleep. And somehow, the woman who has been responsible and waited (and wants to have kids but maybe just 2) is the one being called self-centered and judged for her choices.
Yes, as a woman gets older it gets harder to conceive, but these days there are so many options. In-vitro, egg donors, adoption. And I generalise and say that society judges us for having too many babies or not having babies sooner, but really, 'society' is made up of our friends and family. My husband and I have spent time trying to explain ourselves and our choices, but ultimately, the operative word here is OUR. I've learnt that no matter where you go, no matter how old you get, no matter whether you come from a brown family or a white family, the pressures are all the same. Instead of getting frustrated every time someone brings up having kids or not having kids, I try to laugh about it. If someone has a cat or dog and says they'll never have kids, I say that's probably for the best. And if the person has 3 or more kids, I say that they probably have enough for the both of us. :)
Society has this way of making us feel like we don't fit in if we don't follow the formula. Really, I don't think I've ever fit in. I've always been the 'brown' sheep (see what I did there?! hehe) of the family, the circle of friends, the town. The natural progression of life, as deemed appropriate by 'society' is that you're supposed to finish high school, go to college, work hard (to pay off your ridiculous student loans), meet someone, marry, keep working super hard (so you can buy a house), buy a house, have babies, and then live happily ever after. And the happily-ever-after picture includes your parents and parents-in-law because it does not matter what you have done up to this point - it is only once you have endowed them with grandchildren, that you have truly made them proud and happy!
I have never fit into this mold. I didn't go to university when all my friends did. I traveled and worked and saved up. (And straight out of high school, you never really know what you want to study anyway. I recommend allowing your kids to take a gap year after high school. Many people think it's a waste of time, but so is spending two years at university and then dropping out because you're unhappy with your subject of choice.) So, when I was finally graduating from college, my friends had already met their significant others and were planning their weddings. Again, instead of the people around me applauding my different path, they kept reminding me of how behind everyone else I was.
Fast forward to a few years ago (when most people my age had kids in primary school already) when I finally got married... in my thirties! I had, by then, heard it all. And even though it was meant to sound like advice or pity, it was just plain nasty. How sad it was that someone so smart and so pretty couldn't find a man. I wasn't looking hard enough. I should drop the whole tough, independent thing - men don't like that! It seemed like everyone was convinced that I just wanted to be different or that I was trying to spite the institution of marriage by not being wed any sooner. I really just hadn't met anyone worthwhile until then. Could that have been a possibility?! Luckily, I found a man who appreciates the old, tough, non-baby-bearing me just as I am right now.
Funnily enough, I have always wanted children. Since I was thirteen and my first niece was born, I have wanted to be a mother. I mentioned that in a conversation with some friends once, and was called selfish. Granted, these friends have chosen not to have children ever and prefer pets to kids. But then I was talking to a friend who has so many kids and not a single moment to herself, and she called me selfish also. I don't get it. Who's right? And who is wrong? The woman who chooses to have cats and dogs over children thinks she's better than everyone else, but so does the woman who has 4 children and no sleep. And somehow, the woman who has been responsible and waited (and wants to have kids but maybe just 2) is the one being called self-centered and judged for her choices.
Yes, as a woman gets older it gets harder to conceive, but these days there are so many options. In-vitro, egg donors, adoption. And I generalise and say that society judges us for having too many babies or not having babies sooner, but really, 'society' is made up of our friends and family. My husband and I have spent time trying to explain ourselves and our choices, but ultimately, the operative word here is OUR. I've learnt that no matter where you go, no matter how old you get, no matter whether you come from a brown family or a white family, the pressures are all the same. Instead of getting frustrated every time someone brings up having kids or not having kids, I try to laugh about it. If someone has a cat or dog and says they'll never have kids, I say that's probably for the best. And if the person has 3 or more kids, I say that they probably have enough for the both of us. :)
Monday, April 21, 2014
Episode 3 - Lazy brown girl
I apologise for my hiatus, dear readers. I could make excuses for not writing these past 3 months, but the truth is that I am lazy and an extreme procrastinator. If procrastination was a sport, I would be breaking world records!
I do feel like I should explain myself. After I began this blog, I had wanted my next post to be about Nelson Mandela and what he had done for me personally. I had written a letter to him after attending his memorial service at the Riverside Church... but it was too soon and I couldn't share it with you. Then I went home for a few weeks and thought I would write about the trip and how I always feel like a visitor, no matter where I am. But I needed time to process all that instead of ranting about my feelings, so I put that off.
Next, we packed up our old apartment and moved and I wanted to share that too but it would have been a really boring post, so I waited for something exciting to happen. (Are you seeing the lame excuse pattern here?) And then something extraordinary did happen but I was far too overwhelmed to write about it. I returned to Brasil after 16 years and got to see old friends that I really thought I would never get to see again.
Since that trip, I have found all sorts of excuses for not writing. This is what it comes down to: a) I am lazy, b) I judge myself so harshly that I am afraid to fail even before I begin and c) I should be doing this because it makes me happy. Now that I have learnt this, I am going to try to change these negative attitudes. I am going to start a writing schedule and stick to it (hopefully). I know that I am my own worst critic and will try not to listen to that nasty voice inside that tells me I can't do something.
I could try to blame my laziness and fears on my parents or my siblings or the Apartheid government (haha) but ultimately these weaknesses are mine and I have to take responsibility for them. I think we prefer to blame our shortcomings on someone else so that we don't have to deal with them. I'm not saying we should only focus on our imperfections and flaws. But if there's something in the way of your happiness and success, and that something is you, why not fix it? So, that's what I'm going to attempt to do. No more lazy brown girl!
Saturday, January 4, 2014
Episode 2 - Crazy girl "of color"
Welcome back! I trust that you've all survived winter storm Hercules. They should have called it Boreas or Chione. (A little nerd humour for you.)
I've decided to start with something close to home today. (More figurative 'home' than literal.)
I'm brown. You may have already gotten that from the name of my blog or my picture. The first thing you probably see when you meet me is that I am brown. That used to bother me. "Why can't you see me as a person? Why do you define me that way? I am more than just the colour of my skin!" That is correct. But I have decided not to let it get to me so much anymore. We are a visual people. Colour plays a huge part in our lives. I taught English to Kindergarteners in Taiwan, cute little 2 and 3 year olds who were still only starting to learn Chinese. One of the easiest ways to teach them, considering the language barrier, was through colour. Red is danger. Green is go. Blue team vs Orange team. Using colour makes it easier to classify things. Make them identifiable, without labeling them, per se. So, when I say that I'm brown I feel like I take ownership of the classification that is cast upon me anyway.
Something that I've noticed since moving here (to the USA), is that Americans use euphemisms for almost everything, especially racial labels, under the guise of being PC or politically correct. It bothers me because I have overcome a lot of racial prejudice, first growing up in South Africa and then living in Dubai and Taiwan (which are both stories for another day!). I just thought that things would be different once I came to the Land of the Free. Every person who has grown up in SA has experienced racial discrimination at some level at some point in their lives. Even if we didn't experience the stifling grip of Apartheid first hand, the effects were (and are) still rippling through. Something that has helped us a little to heal and grow into the smiling, happy people we are today, is that South Africans can laugh at themselves pretty easily. Not so with Americans, I'm afraid. Yes, America has had a rough and tragic history of its own. It seems to me like White America still feels guilty for what their ancestors did many, many moons ago, and this can only be reconciled by rewriting history and/or using overly-polite terms when talking to or about "people of color".
Oh man! That term drives me crazy! And it is constantly used to describe me, and any other person in the US who is not white. So, basically, everyone else. It was changed from 'minority' to sound more inclusive and less derogatory, but isn't that term still pointing out the racial disparities prevalent today? How is that different from the label of "Non-White" given to everyone who wasn't a White South African during Apartheid? Now before the hate-mail begins, I'm just trying to point out that sometimes we can try too hard to be polite and politically correct, but it isn't necessarily a positive thing.
When I was in SA, we had 4 classifications for race: Black, White, Coloured and Indian. If I say that here when talking about South Africa, people start to look a little nervous. Like, "you can't say that out loud." Why can't I? Coloured (in SA) refers to a specific ethnic group of people of complex mixed origins, who are neither Black nor White. Now, if I had said 'colored' (without the u) that would be a different story. Or would it? I've been doing some reading and found it interesting that while White America may be concerned by the word 'colored', Black America doesn't seem to mind it too much. I mean, the NAACP, which is the "National Association for the Advancement of Colored People", has not made a move to change their name.
So, I said Black America and I hope not to offend, but seeing as I have already opened up this Pandora's box of "my thoughts on racial terms in the US" let's just keep going, shall we? I have trouble calling a black person here African-American. I recently read a Facebook post that was going around that shared Bill Cosby's thoughts on the same subject and it turns out that he and I are in agreement. We don't say European-American for white people and I certainly wish that they didn't say Asian-American for anyone who has roots in any country east of India, either. I find myself talking about this quite often of late, and it appears that my black American friends don't call themselves African-American either. They have never been to Africa, do not speak an African language and have no idea of any of the African customs. I do. I am, literally, more African than they are.
If you ask me what I am, I say that I am South African. I never say I'm Indian unless I'm asked what my background is. And then I explain that five generations of my family have lived in SA and that there are many Indians in SA (the second largest population after India), but we are South African. If it is the place I was born and the only place I call home, why call myself anything else? Why claim to be from some place I have never been and know nothing about? Just to make it easy for somebody else?
Dear readers, I don't pretend to have all the answers. Writing this post has actually given me a lot more to ruminate upon. What I do know is that it doesn't really matter what other people call you to try and classify you - you decide what you're comfortable with. You need to take ownership of who you are and don't allow other people's labels to define you.
Trust me. Go out there and own it! You'll be all the happier for it.
-G
** Disclaimer - this post is made up primarily of the author's thoughts, feelings and opinions towards the above subject. It is not meant to offend or insult. It is, however, meant to create awareness and provoke discussion. Please feel free to share your thoughts, provided that they are not offensive or derogatory. **
Wednesday, January 1, 2014
Pilot
January 1st, 2014. Happy New Year!
I've wanted to start a blog for the longest time, but haven't had the courage to... until now. Well, to be honest, I had to get over how much the word 'blog' bothered me. I'm old-fashioned and really like the English language and all its intricacies. I call myself a word-nerd. I prefer spelling words out completely in text messages and tweets (there's another word I'm wrapping my head around). I was that annoying kid in the class who over-eagerly raised her hand to spell out words when asked and who got 10 out of 10 for her spelling and dictation tests. But here I am, attempting to maintain my love for writing in this modern day and age of the Interweb. I will embrace this new-fangled mode of communication, goshdarnit. And with any luck, you and I will both get something out of this. I, like every other blog (hey, didn't cringe this time) writer out there, am hoping to share my thoughts electronically and impart my vast knowledge of life, love and other stuff with as many readers as I can.
I've traveled extensively over the past decade and a half and have learned so much about myself and the world. I always thought it would be cool if I could write about it. Maybe even publish a book one day. But my fear of putting myself out there always stopped me. Until now. Life is simply far too short. There is just no time to be fearful. I'd also always known, from the time I was a little girl, what I wanted to do with my life. I have always wanted to act. But until last year, I never actively pursued my passion. I have spent a lot of time doing other things, making excuses and running away from my true path instead of running towards it. Not this year. 2014 is the year I finally start this blog. Hey and even if no-one reads it, I can pat myself on the back for having done it! But then that got me thinking about so much more, like the Gregorian calendar and religion and the duality of what it means to be me.
If you've read my bio, you'll know that I'm Muslim. And the Islamic New Year started in November. The current Islamic year is 1435 AH. (FYI - The 1st Islamic year began in 622 AD, during which the prophet Muhammad -peace be upon him- migrated from Mecca to Medina. This was known as the Hijra, hence the Latin AH for anno Hegirae.) What got me thinking about this, is how much significance we give to the Gregorian calendar and celebrating New Year's Eve. It becomes a time for reflection as we look back at all that we achieved in the past year and all that we hope to do and achieve in the new year. We write out our New Year's resolutions and promise ourselves that this year, we may actually keep them. But, at the end of 1434, I didn't do that. Why didn't I start writing and posting this on the 1st of Muharram 1435?
For a long time, I found it hard to talk about religion, especially my own. I thought it such a difficult topic to discuss without offending or insulting someone. That was me projecting my own fears of being offended. (I have only recently figured out that without open discussion about our beliefs, how else will we learn from and about each other?) Perhaps, that is why 1435 passed by so quietly for me. It was an internal, more spiritual celebration whereas the Gregorian new year is part of a different aspect of my life that is more out there and public.
I usually feel this way - like I'm living a dual life. There's the me who lives in this modern, Western world celebrating 2014 and the fresh new year and all the possibilities it may bring to my acting and modelling career. Then there's me, the somewhat reserved Muslim girl who is in 1435, trying to remain true to myself and my beliefs, while still accepting all that 2014 has to offer.
I'm going to attempt to make sense of this life of G right here, and I invite you to come along if you'd like. If you do decide to join me on this journey, and would like to leave a comment, please be nice and/or constructive. There's enough negativity in the world already.
Happy 1st of January, 2014 and 29th of Safar, 1435. I hope that this is the year you get to conquer some of your fears!
-G
I've wanted to start a blog for the longest time, but haven't had the courage to... until now. Well, to be honest, I had to get over how much the word 'blog' bothered me. I'm old-fashioned and really like the English language and all its intricacies. I call myself a word-nerd. I prefer spelling words out completely in text messages and tweets (there's another word I'm wrapping my head around). I was that annoying kid in the class who over-eagerly raised her hand to spell out words when asked and who got 10 out of 10 for her spelling and dictation tests. But here I am, attempting to maintain my love for writing in this modern day and age of the Interweb. I will embrace this new-fangled mode of communication, goshdarnit. And with any luck, you and I will both get something out of this. I, like every other blog (hey, didn't cringe this time) writer out there, am hoping to share my thoughts electronically and impart my vast knowledge of life, love and other stuff with as many readers as I can.
I've traveled extensively over the past decade and a half and have learned so much about myself and the world. I always thought it would be cool if I could write about it. Maybe even publish a book one day. But my fear of putting myself out there always stopped me. Until now. Life is simply far too short. There is just no time to be fearful. I'd also always known, from the time I was a little girl, what I wanted to do with my life. I have always wanted to act. But until last year, I never actively pursued my passion. I have spent a lot of time doing other things, making excuses and running away from my true path instead of running towards it. Not this year. 2014 is the year I finally start this blog. Hey and even if no-one reads it, I can pat myself on the back for having done it! But then that got me thinking about so much more, like the Gregorian calendar and religion and the duality of what it means to be me.
If you've read my bio, you'll know that I'm Muslim. And the Islamic New Year started in November. The current Islamic year is 1435 AH. (FYI - The 1st Islamic year began in 622 AD, during which the prophet Muhammad -peace be upon him- migrated from Mecca to Medina. This was known as the Hijra, hence the Latin AH for anno Hegirae.) What got me thinking about this, is how much significance we give to the Gregorian calendar and celebrating New Year's Eve. It becomes a time for reflection as we look back at all that we achieved in the past year and all that we hope to do and achieve in the new year. We write out our New Year's resolutions and promise ourselves that this year, we may actually keep them. But, at the end of 1434, I didn't do that. Why didn't I start writing and posting this on the 1st of Muharram 1435?
For a long time, I found it hard to talk about religion, especially my own. I thought it such a difficult topic to discuss without offending or insulting someone. That was me projecting my own fears of being offended. (I have only recently figured out that without open discussion about our beliefs, how else will we learn from and about each other?) Perhaps, that is why 1435 passed by so quietly for me. It was an internal, more spiritual celebration whereas the Gregorian new year is part of a different aspect of my life that is more out there and public.
I usually feel this way - like I'm living a dual life. There's the me who lives in this modern, Western world celebrating 2014 and the fresh new year and all the possibilities it may bring to my acting and modelling career. Then there's me, the somewhat reserved Muslim girl who is in 1435, trying to remain true to myself and my beliefs, while still accepting all that 2014 has to offer.
I'm going to attempt to make sense of this life of G right here, and I invite you to come along if you'd like. If you do decide to join me on this journey, and would like to leave a comment, please be nice and/or constructive. There's enough negativity in the world already.
Happy 1st of January, 2014 and 29th of Safar, 1435. I hope that this is the year you get to conquer some of your fears!
-G
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