WHAT'S THE SIZE OF A DREAM?

I find enthralment in how we have been constructed to somehow believe that the realness or substance of a dream is depended on how big it is. If a dream is a dream and it's meant to be followed, then its capacity shouldn’t be an issue. Following the start of my blog, I posted a status saying I know what I want to do for the rest of my life and someone commented and said ‘don’t tell me it's blogging’. Although I wasn’t referring to blogging at that time, I rode along so that I can get the reason this particular person was denouncing my blogging for a living. Anyway, the conversation didn’t go anywhere but this what I what I got from it.

It is very unfortunate that we live in a world that doesn’t make it easy for someone to follow their passion. More often than not, circumstances don’t allow one to do what they love. Imagine telling your single mother, after passing Grade 12 that you want to sing or act or just follow the arts in general. The first question, which will be followed by many, will be ‘what are you going to eat?’ dare you tell them that God will provide, you’ll be slapped back into reality. Have you forgotten that you've got a family to support? The rent and the electricity won’t pay themselves. Oh, just by and by, how are you going to get to the auditions? Those are the questions that will make you think ‘straight’ and get a ‘real’ job. It's one thing to have a dream and another to have it catered for. And you cannot expect someone to suspend their agenda so that yours can advance.

Going back to the size of a dream, it seems the smaller the dream, the better it is achievable. However, we should bear in mind that size is relative. But what remains is that, the legitimacy of your dream will be authenticated by its fruition. Surely the person that posed a disbelief in my blogging for a living had questions related to money in mind. How am I going to survive? What about my immediate needs? Is blogging going to yield money? I don’t blame them because in order to survive, we need money. The saddest thing though is letting our dreams lie dormant all in the pursuit of money, a means to survive. Waking up every day and the only good thing about your job is when it's time to go home; the misery of looking forward to Friday, while still on Sunday. I can only imagine the response you give to your dream when it wakes you up in the middle of the night, when no one but your mind is present. When there is really nothing more to say- expect why, but since why is difficult to handle, you take refuge in ‘how’. Like I said, sometimes it's the circumstances that don’t allow, but every so often it's the fear of being so free that you let anything render you prison. I will leave you with this question that I always ask myself “if money weren’t an issue, what would I rather be doing?”

“Discipline is a yes, creativity is a question...as a quality, discipline allows you to work for someone else, to follow instructions and do what you're told you must, even when you don’t want to... Creativity allows you to be an entrepreneur, a revolutionary and a free human being. It is creativity that allows us to imagine a different world” ~ Maya Wegerif

EXCUSE ME...I AM 23!

20:20 Sunday evening. I'm in my bedroom and there is no sign of sleep coming through as I took a nap that left me even more tired. In between going through old magazines, thoughts and memories somehow manage to sneak in, so I pause to reflect on them and try figure out what to make of the lessons. In a few months I will be turning 23 and all I can think about is that horror movie called #23. I have never been one to be concerned about growing older, as I was already mistaken to be old (blame it on the things that come out of my mouth), but my concerns are always centred on growing up. Growing up, for me, means continually taking stock of one’s decisions, evaluating the mistakes you've made and actually taking all of yourself in. Realizing that you're getting older, therefore some things must give in order to accommodate your older self.  I'm also realizing that age (which translates to life experiences) plays a major part in how we view life. My 23 year old self believes so much in hand-written love letters and no matter how unfairly life has dealt me, I still have the audacity to be hopeful about a brand new day. It's easy to trust life since I'm young enough to believe that it loves the person who dares to live it.

 I have managed to fill my 23 year old universe with the weight of my purpose and the aura of my passion. I am presented with a plethora of choices and judging by my areas of lack, those choices end up paralyzing me. I seem to find it easy to forgive life and get swallowed up in her art of dream selling. In one of the magazines, I read 2 articles on marriage, one is written by a 23 year old and another by a 33 year old. The latter makes the former sound very gullible and out of touch with reality. I can relate. My heart dies a little every time I hear unpleasant stories about marriage, because they challenge the glorious view that I have of it. But I somehow know that with growth, reality just becomes so clear. I need to get out of my fantasy world and face some of the harsh truths that wisdom brings to my doorstep.

As I continue to embrace growing up, I will try not to be offended when someone who has tasted the bitter side of life, tell me their version of it. I will listen to them rant about how all men are the same, while preventing the question “have you tried all of them?” to escape my mind. I will let my crush go over 2 weeks and not feel the need to beat myself about it.  I will find my own truth, and even though my opinions may change from time to time, I will let my truth remain.

I will go on dates with the guys that are witty, fun and good looking, even though it defies the notion of religion that a woman must be an island until a hero crosses over to come and save her. I will remain gullible in my loving and confidently say “I love you” without expecting an “I love you too”. I will try to remain calm when someone takes my intellectual property for granted and I will forgive those who want to correct my spelling because they might not know that I create my own words. I will certainly eat 4 slices of pizza because my metabolism is that fast.

So bear with me as I do all of these things, as I try to get comfortable in my own skin. I am embracing who I am and by the looks of things, I'm doing it so beautifully.

DEAR BLACK MEN..."BE REAL BLACK FOR ME"

A conversation with Boitumelo, about me and my encounters with men, somehow led her into asking me if I would date any guy who’s from the rest of the continent. I firmly said yes. My agreement to this is based on having seen how they pride themselves in their race and they have a spirit of non-compromise about them. This led me to writing a letter to my black brother, to express how I love and appreciate them.

DEAR BLACK MAN...” BE REAL BLACK FOR ME”

It’s in the way you wear your blackness with pride. How your confidence is seen in the way you walk and how the security of your voice has undeniable textures within itself. The shade of your skin brings a rich colour into my white, cold walls. I love your authenticity and how vested you are in your culture. Wena Mongwatse, Kgabo, Mkhize Khabazela, Mntungwa nawe manzini. I Love you because you're too much of a man. I love that sometimes your expression of love is like hieroglyphics to me, because it's in what you do and how you act that I'm secured. You're my kind of superman; even without the ‘S’ you're still the best, never late to rescue me from the pains I find myself in. Ke tlala ka wena. I love how you find satisfaction in putting my needs first, that your greatest fulfilment is in seeing the ones you love with a smile on their faces. You're my kind of black, which comes in many different shades, sometimes brown, sometimes hazelnut. I love how your pride never gets in the way of you trusting me with your weaknesses, that some of your worst turns are shared with me. I love that you're real black for me.

I want to assure you that I will also be real black for you. Even though I sometimes wear hair that has been imported from Brazil, how I use makeup from America to conceal my brownness. How I have managed to master the language that held our forefathers bondage and has become universal, but in my Universe, my love for you trends. Even when I still insist on a ‘white’ wedding and an engagement ring, which was once just a marketing campaign to seal your love for me, I will be real black for you.

I want to be there beside you when you're old. To wake up to your grey hair that will remind me how a winter morning looks like. When the wrinkles in your face will represent the contours of the African roads you have travelled. The hardness of your hands will serve as a reminder of the relentless work you've put into providing for your family. The balding of your head will represent the wisdom you've amassed and continue to pass onto generations. I love that you’ll always be real black for me.

Dear black men... I love you.

 

NOTE TO MY YOUNGER SELF

I am coming to my own and i'm learning a few things about myself, some worth working on majorly. I owe it to you to share and impart these lessons so that you don’t have to go through them and hopefully, be easier for you to handle them. Of lately, I am confronted with the damage and a disadvantage of having an absent father and this is quite a mountain to deal with, emotionally draining too. I harshly learnt that an absent father is way deeper than an half empty family tree, because when I was a child that was my only major struggle. Having to ask around for my paternal side of the family because at some point it made sense that my grandfather is not my father. As you get older, you are confronted with issues that require you to have a father by your side and it’s not always about provision, but a lot to do with affirmation; that whatever you do is enough. I have learnt to do without a lot of things, not because I didn’t need them, but circumstances never allowed me to have them. The need to fulfil the desires of my heart was always met by lack, and I would sometimes believe that daddy would always make a plan, that’s what fathers are supposed to do, right?

What I want to let you know is that my settling into not having things I wanted has caused a lot of problems, but I will just highlight a few. One of them was never allowing myself to entertain the desires I had because knowing that I will get them fulfilled. It could something as small as desiring a doll house or a pair of sneakers. I never wanted to burden my mother because I’ve seen her already doing the best that she could. The second and the sole reason this note was brought about is that settling into lack or not enough has created a culture within me of not asking for help. I have learnt from a young age to be self-sufficient and do things myself, when I have no idea, I would literally work it until I got it right. I’ve always been very good at justifying people’s actions, so my excuse to not ask for help was that I don’t want to nag and make people go out of their way just to make me happy. For some strange and sad reason, I never found myself worthy of someone’s effort.

A problem then comes when there’s a guy involved. His presence in my life was rendered obsolete when the very things that he is about, were not welcoming him. I just want to warn you about that; never deny someone the room to be himself because you want to prove that you too can be...if you don’t have, ask. If you need, do tell because trust me, someone else is willing to help and GET THIS: YOU ARE WORTH IT. You’re worth someone going the extra mile to cater to your needs. You are worth someone making you a priority in their lives. You are all worth it.

Now I’m not big on relationships but I have learnt a thing or 2 from my past ‘setups’ and I would like to share with you. It won’t be easy to suddenly move your hands from the driver’s seat and let someone take the wheel and direct, because firstly, you’ve had to have your own back that you needed to know the directions that will lead to your final destination. It’s also going to be a struggle to let someone into your life and see them doing what seems to you like they are paralyzing you. To them, they thrive on giving you a break and really take care of you; no reservations. Like I said, I am sharing all of this with you to help ease the self confrontation and also helping you to pack light in your journey, because, trust me, you DO NOT need unnecessary matters that could be solved. I wish you a backpack full of lessons and glass full of laughter as you pave through this journey of life trying to find yourself and settling into your becoming. Just know this, all that you are and all that you are becoming, I celebrate you.

WHERE WAS GOD DURING APARTHEID...?

The beauty about growing up is that one is afforded the privilege to decide what works for them, what they want to believe in and what governs them. I am a firm believer of God and my life is testament that He is alive. I love knowing about the history of the blacks and what they went through for blacks to earn our freedom. Now one cannot revisit history and not get mad, well maybe you’re not emotional like me but I can’t stop tears from running down every time I learn about the gruesome events that happened in that era. I listen to Nomalanga by ntate Caiphus Semenya and I get teary just by thinking about the sacrifices that freedom fighters had to make, some leaving their families in pursuit of a free South Africa. Our freedom was not free.

 

Taking all of this in, I’m convinced that the greatest believers are those that believed God during the apartheid. I mean, how one even begins to believe in a God that protects while every day, their family member dies. You believe in a just and fair God meanwhile, the minority are taking over the country. You believe in a God who doesn’t have favourites, but the blacks are marginalized and white people are living lavishly at the expense of the life of a black man. I really applaud and stand in awe of the Christians that stood firm in their beliefs even when their prayers were rendered obsolete by the (then) current state. Where was God when our people were made to play Jesus and die for the freedom of the coming generation? Where was God when our people were a white man’s entertainment, being forced to impersonate the monkeys that they were called? I thank God that I wasn’t born in that era, because I always ask myself, had I been born in that time, would I be Christian? Would God have trusted me to remain faithful to Him? What type of prayers would I have been praying? And would I not see the bible as nothing but a book with interesting characters? Thank God that I only have to imagine. I will always be eternally grateful for those that laid down their lives so that I can be free; that I can be afforded the privilege to have access to any part of the country without any fear. I salute them.

I would like to leave you with a quote from the late Malcolm X, taken from a conversation between him and Maya Angelou. Mr Malcolm was Muslim, keep that in mind.

“The honorable Elijah Muhammad teaches that integration is a trick. A trick to lull the black man to sleep. We must separate ourselves from the white man, this immoral white man and his white religion. It is a hypocrisy practiced by Christian hypocrites. White Christians were guilty. Portuguese Catholic priests had sprinkled holy water on slave ships, entreating God to give safe passage to the crews and cargoes on journeys across the Atlantic. American slave owners had used the Bible to prove that God wanted slavery, and even Jesus Christ admonished slaves to “render unto their masters” obedience. As long as the black man looked to the white man’s God for his freedom, the black man would remain enslaved. (Malcolm X: 1960)

HEY!!!! I WANT TO DATE A RICH GUY...

It is morning and I just woke up. I am confronted with the reality that I don’t have a job and I need one...soon. My lazy self wants to contend this and come up with suitable alternatives, so I think to myself...life would be so much better if I were to date a rich guy, you know. He would handle my lifestyle, and he would fund my ambitions of also making it. So NO, I dont want this sought-after 'accesory' just so he can take me around the world and buy me expensive brands.
 Plus,I would make him happy (my thoughts didn’t reach that further as to how I would make him happy), notwithstanding that we would be in love. That train of thought was quickly hijacked by a possibility of this alternative of mine not working out. It seems to me that, only in the black community, is it socially unacceptable to even desire dating a rich man, let alone marry him. One cannot wish for this without being deemed a gold digger, but this amazes me because no one has an ambition of settling with a poor guy. According to society, or the little world that I have been exposed to, a rich man is put into a certain stereotype that leaves much to be desired; both his shrewd, crude and controlling behaviour is put in the forefront in the expectation of making one forget about dating him.

This movement of stopping the wish to go for rich men might also have do with the lessons that have been instilled among young, black women; that we need to get our own and throughout our lives, we’re taught to be independent; much to do with absent fathers. ‘If you want a lifestyle, fund it’. Could it also be that, back in the day, there weren’t a lot, if any, rich black men, so women might have had to settle for anything and we end up using love to glorify poverty, I guess. I might not be sure about a lot of things, but this one I know for sure, no one wants to settle with a poor person. But then again, one cannot make a standard out of someone’s financial standing, right?

Unfortunately, I do not have reference to white practices and laws, but this seems to be a phenomenon among black societies only because I hear white guys give out girlfriend allowances (for the purpose of research, I will take it upon myself to date a white man and see if this true. Like I said, it’s only for research).  The pursuit to be different and break the status quo is confronted with being considered rebellious and deviant, so it is only for the brave.

Another thought that comes to mind, do these rich men normally go for ordinary, middleclass women? Or this is where love comes in? I mean, it’s not like it is only blondes or bimbos that want to marry rich. Some will not admit, but even secure, making-it women wouldn’t mind a man that is above average. I will enlarge my knowledge on this thought; maybe I would also need to do my own research regarding it. In the mean time, I’ll continue hopping on websites and buying workplace, in search for a job.

Note: I have made a broad analysis of what rich is, so do not be politically correct on me.

A PATTERN THAT LIFE SEEMS TO FOLLOW...

Disclaimer: This does not in any way nullify God's creativity and greatness. He's made sure that everyone of us has a unique story.

What I'm about to enlighten is what I've come to see, especially from the people that are around me. I just finished reading an autobiography by Maya Angelou called The heart of a woman. I won't go into detail about it but I was struck by a certain occurrence she highlighted in her book. Around 1960 when Dr Martin Luther King was released out of prison, he wanted to raise money for the Southern Christian Leadership Conference (SCLC), for the rights of the Southerners. Maya took on the burden of raising those funds. She and her friend went ahead and planned what was called a cabaret of Freedom, after much stress and creative block, it came to be. In short, the play included actors, musicians and anyone in the arts who had a passion for emancipation and well, an empty pocket. The show became a success, due to a couple of favours here and there. A few months later she was called in to SCLC offices, which were led and dominated by white men. Maya was offered a job to be the coordinator of SCLC because they've seen how she's "a trustworthy person, reliable, and someone who knows how to get along with people".

 Well, the pattern I'm getting to is very apparent from this story. Maya did her best with the little that she had, and in turn was given a bigger, much paying role. (She was doing charity work, so she did everything for free). She put in all the hours, hard work and passion required to ensure that the play was a success and the bottom-line to get Mr King Money was achieved. Those that began with the little they had have always been rewarded with bigger tasks. The bible would agree with me on this one. The scripture that comes to mind is Luke 16:10 "The one who's faithful in little, will be faithful in much". It seems as if we ought to have some sort of rehearsal, wherein our eyes we don't see it as that. The beauty about doing "what your hands find to do" and doing it well is that you develop some sort of experience and tenacity. Some of the people that we're always celebrating have similar stories of how they started small; from steaming the clothes, to making them, to once a runner on a set, now they're making films. I know them, I’ve seen them.

This pattern that life follows makes me wonder...am I missing out on an opportunity to own a shop by refusing to clean it? Am I too cool to volunteer to answer calls and reply to emails, where I could be an executive someday? Malcolm Gladwell, in his book, Outliers, has a chapter called "The 10 000 hour-rule” and it basically claims that for a person to be an expert in something, they need to be at it for 10 000 hours and more. Could it be that the opportunities clothed in waste and mess are our 10 000 hours to perfection and expertise? Could it be that we're not simply leaving the war, but we're just joining another battle?

Isn't it the audacity of a dream though, that it really doesn't matter where you start because you always have the end in mind...

Like I said, God is not limited to one line of working. The pattern could be your answer or you could be the one whom God starts a new thing with. Either way, do not miss your hour because it’s presented in minutes and seconds.

 

THE CHRONICLES OF GOOD FRIDAY

The anticipated celebrations are introduced by a table gathering in discussion for the menu during the weekend. The setup is attended the most fastidious of the bunch: 1. the chief cook 2. The one who normally does the grocery 3. One who speaks for everyone's preference and lastly, me, the one who needs to witness all of this so that someday (which is today) I'll blog about it.

There is an unwritten rule, or more like a biblical law that no meat is allowed for the duration of lent. However, other days can be exempt from this, except the day of Good Friday. So we all settle on fish...There seems to be agreement over the choice of salads suggested and this decision weighs heavy on the spokesperson because she is accountable to everyone who's not in the meeting. This is inclusive of the extended family and relatives who are coming for the long weekend. Desert is handled by the 'youngest because she's the closest to the majority of the family. Everything seems to be going according to plan and everyone involved is quite happy, except for one thing; who must cook...

The vote is unanimous on this one, the cook is the one that cooked last year and the year before that, not because she can cook pap in a 3-foot or make a variety of salads, but the decision is based on the fact that her job is credible, everyone seems to trust that she will nail the cooking job, just like she's been doing for all these years.

It’s the eve of the big day, the night before our Lord is crucified (in your head, picture this setup with dramatic music in the background). Half of the family is here and some members of the relative will join tomorrow. There's a whole lot of work to be done in preparation for tomorrow; from peeling the array of vegetables, to baking cookies. Bear in mind that the ‘gemmer’ is already brewing, thanks to the one who started on it during the week. So the evening is welcomed and appreciated by laughter, nostalgic moments and tons and tons of dishes. Over and above everything that's happening, we never seize to stop and enjoy the moment; the reunion that's brought about by the death of saviour. Now and again, the dramatic relative sobs in remembrance of family members that have passed on. That's always followed by the deceased' impersonations and infamous acts. The winner gets a special place in the family's hall of fame of story-tellers. The night will remain young, as long as the job isn't done. So everyone does theirs respectively, while time wraps itself around the to-do list.

Then comes the moment of reality...Sleeping arrangement. Now the immediate family must note that the hero will forever be the person that gives up their comfortable, warm bed for visitors; a paragon of generosity. This sanctimonious act will not only give you a special place in the hall of fame for the most generous, most selfless family member but it will also win you blessings from the elderly and you'll always be reminded that blessings are priceless and unmatched.

Sleeping arrangements are sorted and some are met by demise that the floor awaits them. But that's not an issue as the great stories are birthed from the bottom (I know this very well). The sound of morning introduces itself pretty quick and everyone must attend to the call. The air is filled with gratitude and love. The remaining members of the family arrive to an already boisterous environment. Everyone who's not doing anything must quickly bath in order to make space for the busy members. Church starts at 12pm, so the morning chores are done bearing that in mind because lateness is synonymous with disrespect. Everyone seems to be ready and the house is suddenly dim, with everyone wearing black in memorial of the special day of the death of the messiah. 11pm: time to leave for church to go receive the '7 words of the cross'. (No one will ever ask why it has to take 3 hours for the preacher to say only 7 words, lest you're deemed a heathen). 3pm comes and we head back home to enjoy what's left of the day. Festivities await and there's an array of scents in the air, it’s like the Lord Himself will make His way into the house and serve Himself. We all know that elder who is pro when it comes to long prayers; we all have to patiently wait for them to summon the Lord to enter hospitals and prisons and out-stretch His hand towards the needy and the delinquent alike. Amen!!

Everyone seems to be enjoying one another and the range of foods on the table. The night once again makes a visitation and its welcomed with a change of beverages, all in honour of Jesus "turning water into wine"...

Good Friday will always be one of the most revered days for the black family and it carries with it interesting events that make up for great story telling.