I was awkward, brown, less experienced than this white kid with his Spartan horse, and very self-conscious of those tight pants I had to wear. I basically sucked at every minute of it. And I was well aware of the fact that my sister and I were being spoken to rather differently than white students. They were engaged with like the humans they were, whereas I always felt like we were being addressed as though we might be a little stupid or slow. I didn’t know what this meant back then, but boy, do I know now. Anyway, I hated it, but I never expressed my dislike because I realised what hard work it took for my dad to be able to send us to these lessons. No one else who looked, walked and talked like us was doing it. The opportunity had never been available to my parents to begin with. I was grateful, still am. Also, in my family, one knew better than to deny or oppose any kind of education. Disobedience was an open initiation to a vet klap.
But I would like to moan about one thing here: I swear, I always got the oldest, biggest, laziest horse. Those white kids got some poster-worthy equines. This did not add any love to the equation (or equestrian, for that matter). A part of me still believes learning to ride a horse was a political point that my dad was trying to make – if white people could do it, so could we. True, right? Why the hell not.
The tennis lessons, I think, were less political. The idea was born of an observation in a tiny passage at our childhood home in Laudium. I was bouncing a found tennis ball with a broomstick. Mad skills, I tell you. Mad. My dad noticed and decided these mad skills were deserving of an actual tennis racquet and lessons. It was the most fun I ever had in my whole life. It was the only extramural I looked forward to. Running around in the sun, playing the occasional round robin and participating in tournaments organised by our then coach Jennifer – rumoured to be a former South African player. I was going to be a professional, luminous-yellow-ball buster. A completely unrealistic ambition in retrospect, now that I know how the world works. My sister and I were once again the only kids of colour at our lessons. I didn’t think about what this meant at the time. The meaning of it now does not bode well.
There were no players of colour on the pro-circuit either. Not that I recall; Top Sport certainly didn’t broadcast any of their matches if there were. We were, however, blessed with strong women like Martina Navratilova and Steffi Graf. Steffi’s game was always cautious and measured and guaranteed of a win, but I loved Martina more. Win or lose, she kicked ass and took names. And then all of a sudden their careers on the court died, just like my dreams, and that was that. Still, I thought that maybe I could one day be the coffee-coloured star in the Milky Way of white women tennis players.
When we weren’t going for this lesson or that, we had to sit at home and do extra maths. Instamaths, to be specific. Instamaths is a collection of rectangular books that come in different levels and colours. Oh, the joy of solving problem after problem. Every time my dad came home with a new booklet for my sister and me, he acted like it was Christmas morning. Who needs toys when you can have recycled paper filled with numbers? I feigned enthusiasm; they were gifts, after all, and I did not want to seem bratty. But I still want to throw up at the thought of it. I’m pretty sure, though, that my sister, who is a lot smarter than me, was sincere in her delight.
Obviously these books landed on the same pile of useless efforts I have amassed since. I was no better at maths than any other extramural. I still needed extra maths tutoring all through high school. My Instamaths days in adolescence counted for nothing and one day I will reimburse my dad for all that money. Not today, though: first I will make up for all that time wasted when I could have been training to be a professional tennis player. The one thing I thought I could be really, really good at.
I didn’t want to be a mathematician. I didn’t even like school. I hated it. I’m pretty sure going to school is responsible for my certified depression. I wanted to bash balls and be a bloody star. This seemed like a realistic dream to me. More realistic than being a rosette-wearing equestrian or toe-tortured ballerina. Far-fetched, I know. The headline was never going to read: Little Girl from Laudium with the Big Backhand. People from Laudium didn’t do anything really. Kids waited until they were a certain age, then got married. Before that, they cruised the streets in their parents’ cars looking for people to marry. The Dawjee household operated differently. We did our sums and comprehension practice and played the piano. Watching Egoli to perfect our Afrikaans was considered a treat. Tennis seemed to fit perfectly with my abilities. It required fitness, a strong arm, a good pair of eyes and excellent coordination. It did not require an exceptional intellect. There were no report cards for tennis, and no exams (in the formal sense). I could do this, I thought.
But then piano lessons started eating into everything. They came with biannual printouts from the Trinity College of Music, showing results that once again paled in comparison to my exceptional sister’s. And before you knew it, I was several sad certificates in and fifteen years old, too old to even think of going pro on the court. Then, one piano teacher’s death and a few more sad reports later, I was seventeen – basically part of the geriatric society in professional tennis. Goodbye Wimbledon, hello strawberries and cream and religious Centre Court viewing on TV every winter. Even though I enjoyed playing the piano immensely, the bitterness of never being able to walk onto a lawn court sometimes washed over me like Jeyes Fluid, strong and nauseating. Piano lessons are where tennis champions go to die. Such was the dramatic disposition of a naive child. Torture, I know – playing the piano instead of tennis.
Even though I was still a dedicated Wimbledon watcher, I followed the women’s circuit less and less. No one there understood my story or looked like me. No one could put themselves into the feelings of a young, silly brown girl from a formerly declared township. I became a Sampras fan, because it was easier to have a crush than to try to relate to anything. When Federer started playing and made Sampras old news, I hated him – I hated change. The retiring of a player only reminded me of my own dream deferred. (Now I want Federer to have my babies.) Still, I wondered, where was my superwoman?
Enter Serena Williams. She started playing and the broadcasts started changing. Her story was kind of like my story. Young teen, female. Dedicated dad, pushy but for good reason, wants his kids to be the best, etc. I knew this story. I mean, I didn’t know it in a ‘Gatorade wants to give me millions because I am so awesome’ kind of way, but I knew it. So I packed away my sadness and released my inner Serena. I didn’t make it, but she did and when she plays, I win.
This woman is literally a dream come true, and so now, every time I watch her, I’m reminded that she’s living what was once my potential reality too. Every time Serena Williams wins, she triumphs for me, the girl who was learning how to suck at her eight-times table and playing scales instead of practising her drop shot.
Malcolm Gladwell says it takes 10 000 hours to become an expert at something. That’s approximately three hours per day, every single day for 9.13 years. This leaves people like me with very little chance of being great at anything so late in life. Gladwell’s theory has since been questioned because studies have found that the number of hours varies between domains. For example, practising boardgames or videogames for 10 000 hours will not necessarily make you an expert in the same way that practising some sports for 10 000 hours will.
But when it comes to tennis, the theory rings true. Deliberate practice is a predictor of success in fields that have super-stable structures, like tennis. When the rules of the game remain the same, you can master them. In less-stable fields, such as music, more practice does not necessarily amount to more skill. In fact, 21 per cent less than 10 000 hours is more than enough. If you have a natural gift. Ringo Starr drummed his ass off with the Beatles and remained a terrible drummer.
Maths, like music, is defined as significantly unstructured. I know this makes absolutely no sense because it’s all organised with its theorems and formulas. But I’m not talking about algebra and calculus here, wh
ich themselves – while structured – are just concept upon concept upon concept. I am talking about advanced mathematics. The type of thing people assume you can do if you practise book after book of Instamaths – which is never actually going to be possible, because advanced mathematics, just like theoretical physics, has no structure whatsoever, and is completely abstract and disconnected from reality. Even though it feels like I lost hours of my life practising maths, I was never going to master it because I have no natural disposition for or interest in it. Being a concert pianist was a complete no-go even though I went ahead and got a music degree at the University of Pretoria. Tennis, according to Gladwell’s theory, remains my only hope – but only if I can turn back the clock and redeem my 10 000 hours.
I take full responsibility for the fact that out of the million activities I had to do, I wasn’t spectacular enough at any of them to even think of dedicating that much time to them. The maths thing paid off for my sister: she is amazing at science and anything numbers-related, and she’s put it to good use by becoming a medical professional. My brother dedicated most of his life to the saxophone and he’s a real, actual musician, and has probably amassed well over 10 000 hours now, even though he is six years younger than I am. Me? I find solace in the time that Serena’s put in. Because she’s the master of her trade to the Jane of my none, and she is definitely the hero to my zero.
Begging to be white?
The global map suffocates me, and not by accident. It is an intentional asphyxiation. We can move from place to place to avoid the white privilege that surrounds us, but our strangulation is inevitable. It encloses. It meets us at the bank, it seats us at restaurants, it talks to us on the radio, it plays in front of us on television and it stares at us in print. The ‘whites only’ signs have been removed, but destroying physical evidence means nothing when the ideologies have stayed behind and continue to be recycled.
They’re a constant reminder of a race we’re meant to run, every day. Our lane is filled with hurdles. White people compete too, but in their lane it’s a relay. Each one of them runs a shorter distance and leans on a system of support to guarantee consecutive wins. We’ve been subjected to a crippling variety of disadvantages from the beginning. And the race remains challenging. Mostly because equality is inconceivable and discrimination doesn’t need a lot of imagination. It never has.
In her book Americanah, Nigerian author Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie writes about the difference in racial awareness between white people and black people: ‘Race doesn’t really exist for you because it has never been a barrier. Black folks don’t have that choice.’ There is so much truth in this. When last did you live a day without thinking about the colour of your skin and how you would be treated because of it at any moment? This is not a comment on a lack of pride or ownership of identity. Just because this awareness lingers in the back of our minds does not mean we’re not proud of who we are. Now, how many times a day would you think about the colour of your skin if you were white? Never.
I often wonder what it would feel like to move through the world as a white person. Actually, that’s a lie. I know what it would feel like: easy. It would be so simple. The rules would be my own. The consequences of my actions minimal. My ambitions would be my own as well. They would not be a product of this incessant need to prove myself. I could have as little or as much ambition as I wanted. I would owe the world nothing, yet benefit from the hard work of everyone else. I would carry great pride and no guilt. Entitled to a fundamental right. That right would be power. An embedded kind of power. Its existence established long before my grand entry into the world, its endurance seemingly eternal. I could be as negligent as I wanted, bathe in my own ignorance and have little to complain about, but complain nonetheless just because I could. Now isn’t that a charming little universe?
I’ve given it some thought and here’s what I would do in that charming universe.
I would walk around barefoot
Not bothering to put shoes on would be a great timesaver. And prancing around in your bare hooves is a great cost saver. When white people don’t bother with shoes in public, they’re never judged for it. If I stood in the pasta-sauce aisle at a fancy grocery store as my authentic self, bare heels firmly on the ground, a lot of people would be physically disgusted.
It’s economics. And it’s racism. A shoeless person of colour in a fancy grocery store surely does not belong there and is probably trying to steal. But white people can go forth and conquer without shoes. I’ve even seen a white person shopping barefoot in Hyde Park, a fancy marble-laden shopping centre in Johannesburg. This person was not buying shoes, obviously. If I were white and didn’t have to bother with the cost of shoes, I would also shop at Hyde Park a lot more.
I would always ask to speak to the owner
You know what happens when I go shopping? I throw a lot of money away. Why? Just to prove I can. I can’t even count the number of times I have been harassed and stalked by store attendants because of the assumption that I could not afford their clothes. So what do I do? Stuff like this: ‘Give me one in every single colour.’
‘Are you sure you want the 100ml Dolce & Gabbana? Have you looked at the price … ma’am?’
‘Yes, I am sure. I will also take 100ml of the Versace, the Armani and the Hermès. I feel like the French deserve my money too. Thank you kindly.’
Now, if I ever encountered that degree of churlish behaviour while shopping as a white person (it never happens to white people, but bear with me), I would – instead of blowing cash – always ask to see the owner of the store. Why? Because she or he is going to be one of my tribe. I would have the confidence to do that. I would be so sure that the white owner would demand I be treated with respect. I would probably get an apology, and a free 100ml bottle of perfume over and above the discount I’d receive on the bottle I was willing to pay for. Most of all, my skin colour would automatically make my money more welcome and reaffirm my platinum financial status.
I would own an empire of socks … or something
Do you know how much it costs to rent a store in an upmarket mall with marble flooring and pillars made of blood diamonds? Do you know how much profit you have to make selling socks (for example) to pay that rent? White people do, and they don’t have to care about it.
If I were white I would open one of these sock businesses. And when I say one, I mean at least one store in each province. White people aren’t rich. They are wealthy. They have something called generational wealth.
Generational wealth means I would never have to worry about ‘risk in the hope of profit’. My sock or hankie or ‘single gloves for the left-handed man’ business would thrive because my generational wealth would see to the fact that everything is paid for upfront, no debts. And after all the start-up costs, I would still have money left over for further expansion. Mostly, I would have fat stacks left over to make everything look cool. My shit would look swanky as hell, and everyone would trust the quality of my products because I was white.
I would embrace trends like boho-chic
I’ve been told on one or two occasions that my general style can be described as ‘heroin chic’. I think that mostly has to do with the fact that I never make an effort to pair things and I’m a bad sleeper so I always have dark rings under my eyes. It’s an involuntary style, really.
If I were white though, I would embrace trends like these intentionally. Like the boho-chic trend, for example. I would boho-chic my way through life so hard without ever having to worry about the fact that I look poor. I would totally pull off boho-chic, hobo-chic and vintage-retro-postmodern-vagrant-sartorial-fleek (or whatever else is cool these days) with the absolute confidence that not a single person doubts the fact that I am extremely well off. I would not even have to wonder about whether or not people were aware of the fact that all my fashion choices were purchased with tons of money, so it’s all good.
When brown people dress poorly, they must be poor. When white people dress
to look poor, they end up on the runway. I’ll have me a piece of that polyester pie, please.
I would correct everyone’s pronunciation
Do you know how many white people have corrected my pronunciation? Most of them have been journalists, which makes this next point even worse, because in conversation with those same people I have been asked to use simple English they can understand. And it’s not because my English is bad. It’s because it’s better than theirs and they don’t know ‘big’ words.
If I were white, I would spend an entire day correcting everyone’s pronunciation of the word ‘croissant’ without ever bothering to learn how to use or even speak words like ‘discourse’, ‘apprehensive’ or ‘ostentatious’. At the same time, I would expect, nay, demand that everyone I interact with understand and speak the language of my people without ever making any effort to do the same for them.
I would name my kids after an animal or a fruit
Whites have a lot to say about the names of people from other cultures. They cannot get rid of this bad habit. It started ages ago and stuck to them like the smallpox they handed out with the blankets they swapped for land back in colonial times. Thing is, they didn’t only take the land, they took the people from the land as well. What they forgot to take, however, were those people’s names. And then they gave them new ones.
So in South Africa we have a whole bunch of months walking around. The September families, the October families, the Tituses – yeah, that’s right, when they ran out of months, they started calling people by the names of the ships they dragged them here on. What’s in a name? A slave by any other name would work as hard, right?
White people can’t ‘name-call’ any more, but their past has ruined them because now, when they have to learn people’s actual names, they can’t do it. Their tongues abandon them faster than the forefathers who left them here.
Sorry, Not Sorry Page 4
