It is easy to say 'find your path', but sometimes it takes a lot of work. What inspired me to write tonight was walking home from the cinema with Angel, Hala and Charlotte. The movie in question was 'The Help'.
It took one black woman to gather enough courage to let her voice, suffocated for years beneath layers of pain, to release its way onto the pages of a book, by a white girl's caring persistence. The best part was when the bubbly maid told her previous, snobbish lady employer: "Eat my shiiit!"
I grew up with a privileged background of a household filled with staff; in my father's and grandfather's home and I recall every single loving member being considered as our family. Some of our best times and laughs was spent in their company. We had a chauffeur who could not pronounce my name; it was different, so he called Hala and me. Halas (with a stretch on the a... Halaaaas!
The first cigarette I smoked was from my nanny, at an early age. Nothing malicious! I am sure she thought rather than persist, let me have a puff or two and get it over my system. Well, perhaps that method does not always work, although the majority of us remember how skilfully we managed to try out our first cigarette without the grown-ups finding out.
On the subject of racism, I recall taking my very young children to a London private sports club in London many years ago. It was the end of summer and our dark tan was glowing amongst the pale skin of the swimmers, inside and outside the pool. As the three of us were occupied with the games and fun of enjoying the water, a boy of barely two years of age, approached us, sucking his thumb, lying on his tube and uttered these insults our way:
"I hate you. I hate you. You're black!"
You could possibly visage the look of horror on my face. What makes a child, almost a baby, utter such words of disgust I thought, unless he heard it from his elders. But my outrage was beyond trying to hide the anger in me and I asked the child:
"Where's your mother?"
At my persistence, he pointed towards a woman, standing by the stairs of the pool. I moved closer in the water and asked:
"Is that your child?"
She nodded, totally uninterested in what I had to say.
But I continued: "Did you just hear what your child said?" And I went on to repeat his words.
The mother simply brushed me off with a hand gesture and uttered:
"Oh! Get lost."
Although this was many years ago, it is sad to think that racism still exists. I am not black, and God knows I try to get as dark as my skin could possibly turn under the sun, but to think how any black person could perhaps bear such insult is beyond me. The best answer to a fool is silence.
I then recalled our trips with my parents and their friends to the most exotic spots of the world every Christmas and Easter holiday while Hala and I were at boarding school.
On our visit to South Africa, one evening, we were driven to an amazing musical in Johannesburg. As I sat myself down in the back seat of the taxi, that new, latest style navy pants, with a slight silky shine I was wearing tore open at the back and I walked out into the theater with my navy cardigan hung around my waste.
Our day tour to Pretoria was memorable with a garden full of tall flowers, so clean and tidy, followed by a drive to watch a tribal dance where uncle Has, joined in their circle to follow their moves. We were in hysterics.
We were a jolly crowd and every trip was filled with laughter and great memories.
On our stay at the elegant President Hotel in Cape Town, all dressed up one evening after dinner, the men retired back to the rooms while my mum Angel and one of the ladies in our group, Hala and I decided to pay a visit to the hotel's very stylish disco in the basement.
We were seated on the navy velvet sofas, next to a German couple, whom we noticed by the pool earlier with their two young off-springs, each accompanied by a Filipino nanny. After a short conversation, they insisted on inviting us to a glass of champagne and went on to boast about their convertible blue Royce Roys which they had brought down for their visit, amongst the lady in the long chiffon dress' tiara and the man's diamond buttons on his white shirt, under his tuxedo. They were fun.
Shortly after, Professor Christian Barnard appeared through the entrance of the club with an entourage. Mr Barnard had carried out the first open heart transplant and was giving a lecture at our hotel to a host of journalists flown in for the occasion.
I noticed a young, fit man in a smart suit approaching. He slightly bent towards me, introduced himself and asked for my hand on the dance floor. I agreed. The music was slow and he drew me towards him, held my left hand in his, next to his chest as we positioned our right arms around one another. That's the way it was done those days!
He also happened to be German, working for one of their reputable newspapers, interviewing Mr Barnard earlier. His flattering words grew my smile wider, while I flicked my lashes gently up and down, looking up at the handsome stranger.
Name? No idea. He then asked me to accompany him for a breath of fresh air, in the grounds of our residence. We walked under the dark sky, on the green grass by the pool, towards the ebony ocean, lit partly by the full moon shining upon it.
Being in my late teens, the romance of the moment, the gentle brush of the breeze against my skin and the compliments of the tall, handsome stranger with a manly voice was erupting as a volcano in my being. I was powerless in his gentle kisses.
He then carried me in his strong arms, as a scene from 'Gone with the Wind' and walked back towards our residence. I felt it necessary to explain my situation and said apologetically:
"Sorry, but I'm a virgin!"
He became rather irritated at the remark and laughingly said:
"You're joking with me. Right? In this day and age? Who can be a virgin at your age!"
"No," I said innocently, "It's the truth. I am."
Thinking back, thank goodness he did not drop me to the ground there and then! But gently put me down, while I ran back to the disco to join my family.
At the time we visited South Africa, it was during the Apartheid. Perhaps I was too young or was never exposed to any sort of racism at home to understand the real depth of the situation. What was confusing with the dark tan Hala and I had acquired during our visit, it was hard to decide which public toilet; as in white ladies' or black ladies' we should go to. Even the buses were separated for the whites and the blacks. It brings sadness to think such a world existed.
I follow the good Budda's words of wisdom:
No one is below or above me. We are all one.
It took one black woman to gather enough courage to let her voice, suffocated for years beneath layers of pain, to release its way onto the pages of a book, by a white girl's caring persistence. The best part was when the bubbly maid told her previous, snobbish lady employer: "Eat my shiiit!"
I grew up with a privileged background of a household filled with staff; in my father's and grandfather's home and I recall every single loving member being considered as our family. Some of our best times and laughs was spent in their company. We had a chauffeur who could not pronounce my name; it was different, so he called Hala and me. Halas (with a stretch on the a... Halaaaas!
The first cigarette I smoked was from my nanny, at an early age. Nothing malicious! I am sure she thought rather than persist, let me have a puff or two and get it over my system. Well, perhaps that method does not always work, although the majority of us remember how skilfully we managed to try out our first cigarette without the grown-ups finding out.
On the subject of racism, I recall taking my very young children to a London private sports club in London many years ago. It was the end of summer and our dark tan was glowing amongst the pale skin of the swimmers, inside and outside the pool. As the three of us were occupied with the games and fun of enjoying the water, a boy of barely two years of age, approached us, sucking his thumb, lying on his tube and uttered these insults our way:
"I hate you. I hate you. You're black!"
You could possibly visage the look of horror on my face. What makes a child, almost a baby, utter such words of disgust I thought, unless he heard it from his elders. But my outrage was beyond trying to hide the anger in me and I asked the child:
"Where's your mother?"
At my persistence, he pointed towards a woman, standing by the stairs of the pool. I moved closer in the water and asked:
"Is that your child?"
She nodded, totally uninterested in what I had to say.
But I continued: "Did you just hear what your child said?" And I went on to repeat his words.
The mother simply brushed me off with a hand gesture and uttered:
"Oh! Get lost."
Although this was many years ago, it is sad to think that racism still exists. I am not black, and God knows I try to get as dark as my skin could possibly turn under the sun, but to think how any black person could perhaps bear such insult is beyond me. The best answer to a fool is silence.
I then recalled our trips with my parents and their friends to the most exotic spots of the world every Christmas and Easter holiday while Hala and I were at boarding school.
On our visit to South Africa, one evening, we were driven to an amazing musical in Johannesburg. As I sat myself down in the back seat of the taxi, that new, latest style navy pants, with a slight silky shine I was wearing tore open at the back and I walked out into the theater with my navy cardigan hung around my waste.
Our day tour to Pretoria was memorable with a garden full of tall flowers, so clean and tidy, followed by a drive to watch a tribal dance where uncle Has, joined in their circle to follow their moves. We were in hysterics.
We were a jolly crowd and every trip was filled with laughter and great memories.
On our stay at the elegant President Hotel in Cape Town, all dressed up one evening after dinner, the men retired back to the rooms while my mum Angel and one of the ladies in our group, Hala and I decided to pay a visit to the hotel's very stylish disco in the basement.
We were seated on the navy velvet sofas, next to a German couple, whom we noticed by the pool earlier with their two young off-springs, each accompanied by a Filipino nanny. After a short conversation, they insisted on inviting us to a glass of champagne and went on to boast about their convertible blue Royce Roys which they had brought down for their visit, amongst the lady in the long chiffon dress' tiara and the man's diamond buttons on his white shirt, under his tuxedo. They were fun.
Shortly after, Professor Christian Barnard appeared through the entrance of the club with an entourage. Mr Barnard had carried out the first open heart transplant and was giving a lecture at our hotel to a host of journalists flown in for the occasion.
I noticed a young, fit man in a smart suit approaching. He slightly bent towards me, introduced himself and asked for my hand on the dance floor. I agreed. The music was slow and he drew me towards him, held my left hand in his, next to his chest as we positioned our right arms around one another. That's the way it was done those days!
He also happened to be German, working for one of their reputable newspapers, interviewing Mr Barnard earlier. His flattering words grew my smile wider, while I flicked my lashes gently up and down, looking up at the handsome stranger.
Name? No idea. He then asked me to accompany him for a breath of fresh air, in the grounds of our residence. We walked under the dark sky, on the green grass by the pool, towards the ebony ocean, lit partly by the full moon shining upon it.
Being in my late teens, the romance of the moment, the gentle brush of the breeze against my skin and the compliments of the tall, handsome stranger with a manly voice was erupting as a volcano in my being. I was powerless in his gentle kisses.
He then carried me in his strong arms, as a scene from 'Gone with the Wind' and walked back towards our residence. I felt it necessary to explain my situation and said apologetically:
"Sorry, but I'm a virgin!"
He became rather irritated at the remark and laughingly said:
"You're joking with me. Right? In this day and age? Who can be a virgin at your age!"
"No," I said innocently, "It's the truth. I am."
Thinking back, thank goodness he did not drop me to the ground there and then! But gently put me down, while I ran back to the disco to join my family.
At the time we visited South Africa, it was during the Apartheid. Perhaps I was too young or was never exposed to any sort of racism at home to understand the real depth of the situation. What was confusing with the dark tan Hala and I had acquired during our visit, it was hard to decide which public toilet; as in white ladies' or black ladies' we should go to. Even the buses were separated for the whites and the blacks. It brings sadness to think such a world existed.
I follow the good Budda's words of wisdom:
No one is below or above me. We are all one.
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