Denial is a powerful thing.
Last night I was at dinner with a someone - lets call him Bob.
Bob is an IT something something who is in SA from foreign shores to figure out whether returning to the land of his birth (SA) is a wise or otherwise idea. Bob is anxious about the pseudo-diversity here - though he doesn’t say it in as many words. He is currently living in a global metropolis that is well connected to the world, so he is concerned about the isolation and a lack-of-connectedness. But Bob isn’t the subject of this story even though dinner with him may be the inspiration.
After deciding on a rather snazzy restaurant (in one of Gauteng’s premier art-malls), we were served by a black usher and proceeded to our table - menus and all (yes, I said black - bear with me on this one). We were then introduced to our black waiter who took our drinks order and so on and so forth. Later on into the meal, the black Maître de, doing his rounds, stopped over at our table to make a bit of small talk and do his customer-service thing. This is where it gets interesting.
A little while after the Maître de left and our table was cleared, the manager (or owner?) stopped at our table to further ensure that we were happy. I later passed him twice on my way to and from the ladies and recall seeing him when we walked in. I was convinced he was wearing foundation (yes, like make-up) and his hair - obviously long - was in a neat Steven Seagalesque tie-back. I bet you didn’t notice that I’d not assigned the manager a race. That’s because I couldn’t pin point it. The whole night through, it bugged me to no end that I couldn’t identify whether the man was Indian, coloured, black or… or…? I had this burning need to unpuzzle this puzzle, going to the extent of trying to get his name, mustering an excuse to strike up conversation. Perhaps his accent would give it away? Could he have a name badge?
As it happened, the opportunity to talk never arose because he had left the premises by the time our dinner was done. Later, and I mean a good few days later, I wondered why would his race matter so much? Why was it so important that I classify him?
It would be an understatement to say I’ve been a passionate race-denier. Even when confronted with blatant racism (read: “hey you coolie”), I refuse to give it the head-space it grandstands for. Why then was this man’s race such an issue for me? Why was it so important I was able to assign him a “colour” or worse - a box?
Perhaps it all began a few weeks ago when I had read this article (http://www.sapeople.com/2016/12/31/racist-coloured-south-african-traveller/). In all fairness the title got me going before I even began reading. Not even halfway through I began rolling my eyes and gesticulating wildly, “foul!” I cried while contemplating how un-racist we are (and by extention, how wrong the author was). I was self-righteously up-in-arms about the race-card pulled “yet” again. “But we HAVE grown, we’ve come so far”. I couldn’t bear another “South Africans are so racist” commentary.
Much to my horror, I came to the end of the article with an enormous question mark hovering 2cm above my head. He (Razeel Daniels) may have a point. The millisecond I gave Razeel Daniels the benefit of the doubt I pushed shoved it out with a self-righteous huff. And then at dinner with sweet Bob, I realised that we had actually not come so far after all.
I have a bone to pick with Razeel Daniels. And everyone else who agrees with him. Perhaps my trepidation comes from a sense of indignation. That good 'ol self-righteousness rearing its head again. But I can’t help asking if I am really a racist? Is the definition of a racist simply that of someone who sees skin colour?
One of my mum’s favourite “when you were little” stories is of a car-ride home from school when I asked her what colour coloureds were. I’ve always seen myself as “that” kid - the one who didn’t see any difference between a black or white friend. The woman who gave the middle-finger to even thinking about race.
This whole debacle has made me angry I’ll tell ya. ‘Cause this is the thing right? It seems to me that while South Africa - and certainly those generations that haven’t experienced institutionalised Apartheid or are too young to remember it (yours truly included) - proudly strut their beyond-race status, the magic wand dispelling the atrocities of the past and erasing it from our psyche didn’t seem to quite do its job. And so we’re left in a sort of mental-emotional twilight-zone. A nation of racist race-deniers. Gosh, even typing that makes my skin crawl.
So it’s back to the proverbial drawing board. Back to the place where I ask myself the hard questions. Back to that uncomfortable space where I unlearn the stuff I didn’t even realise I’d learnt.
Boy oh boy. Come to think of it, Apartheid really did the doozy on us.
