: : : Forward : : :
i KNOW. I disappeared again. I have been writing. To myself. About the beginning. It seems, as my geographic circle has come together, and while other sections of my life fray apart, it has made the most sense to stop writing about the "now" and to place my focus on the "origin".
My two year anniversary in South Africa is one month away. My accent has changed dramatically and I constantly pepper my English with fragments of Afrikaans, Zulu, and recently, Sesotho: lekker, is reg, dankie, dumella, yebo, eish, ee, morra. Sometimes I catch the sing-songy lilt in my vowels that is so essentially South African.
Some things don't flow over my tongue so naturally. Saying toe-mah-toe still feels funny compared to toe-may-toe. And I don't think I will ever be comfortable saying b-ah-th over baaaa-th.
My skin has certainly been tested with the dangers of the sun and I've become more hyper-vigilant about sunscreen since I've detected slight blotches in my colouring....I wish I'd cared more a year ago, because African sun is brutal! And lookey there - I wrote colouring, instead of coloring. I have a collection of giraffe teeth and antelope skulls. I know many of the local birds. Daily, I become better acquainted with certain terms here, but always find myself struggling with some quintessential American difference or conversion (like metres to feet). I'm on a fence with one leg dangling happily on either side without enforcing allegiance to one nationality more than another.
It's natural that with time I will meld more into my surroundings and local culture, however. And while I've had a lot to say about my surroundings in the past (because it was new), I have less and less to say about the things around me because they're becoming my normal. Which is why I scratch back into the past. Into these so-called "origins." Because, still, after all this time here, I struggle to make meaning of the bigger picture, of my being and my purpose and my pro-longed residency here in South Africa. So bear with me, now and again, while I flash back:
: : : to the Past : : :
Rape crisis must seem like a deep abyss for those who have never experienced it first hand. After graduation from university in 2005, I decided to join a troupe of amazing, fierce women to volunteer counseling services to survivors of rape. I went through an earth shattering training with the Chicago Rape Crisis Hotline. It was an education that had my head moving in multiple directions, for the first time teaching me a tangible form of feminism. I was given the chance to see the structures of race, gender, sexuality, religion, class, age and ability and how they impact one’s experience with assault.
Once I began working at the hotline as a counselor, I realized I was really good at what I was doing. My job was simply talking to people and helping them process the assaults they, or a loved one, had endured. I found patience and I found the capacity to offer a little light at the end of the tunnel, without being naïve, but by offering compassion. The members of the hotline were blazoned warriors and their shared support were what made the hotline room one of safety.
After the first call I took about a gang rape executed by a bunch of ten-year old boys, an overwhelming feeling came over me. I became aware that a solid handful of people in the world hold the secrets and pain of others. It is this that lightens one’s load, but the diffusion of others’ pain is not easy to bear. Sometimes it felt like no one else in the world knew of this boundless pain. Sworn to confidentiality, I could not share what I heard. I would step outside of the YWCA building on Michigan Avenue, look up at the beautiful Wrigley Buildings and the winding pathway of the Chicago River. I would see masses of downtown people, donning their coats, their pearls and briefcases, their business smiles and frowns; all of them going about their daily life oblivious to the pain and suffering faced by these rape survivors. Gang rapes, incestuous fondling, date rape, statutory assault, children raping children, prostitution of step kids.
I got even deeper into my work with sexual assault. Another group, the Rape Victims Advocates, delivered services to victims who enter the emergency rooms for medical attention after an assault. I started going on call twice a month, waiting in 12-hour blocks for a page eliciting my support at a local ER. Going from the faceless survivors on the phone to the delicate, vulnerable faces in the fluorescent ER became, admittedly, too much.
When it became time for me to formulate my Fulbright proposal, I was taking into account all of these experiences. I knew it was time for me to help others process their sexual assaults into a more visible form, something that could eventually signal to the rest of the world what the hell was going on.
: : : :
For what must have seemed like an eternity to my friends, all I could talk about was rape crisis and South Africa. Sexual assault and racism. Gender inequality and squatter camps. All of these in the constant form of hypotheses.
Still in the deep of winter, I remember walking down California Avenue with my roommates, Kim and Grace, to attend some obnoxious gathering of artists at a house-run art gallery. The latest snow had been reduced to small ridges along the edges of sidewalks and walls, burned black with the soot of traffic. Large, old clapboard houses lined the streets, re-covered with fake tarpaper painted with brick designs, the houses' chain link fences gleaming in the peachy mercury light of the city. Buses rushed by in the ice chill of the street and the silence reverberated off its noise. A typical February night.
Two important things came up that night. Number one, Grace and Kim informed me that I needed to develop new topics to discuss because the same old rigmarole about rape and South Africa had become a monopoly and had left them with little to contribute. Secondly, at the gallery, I slammed face to face with an old college peer, Bonnie. She inquired about life, how are things, and I told her about my doomed Fulbright proposal. Armed with cheer, she told me, “A Fulbright rejection is a rite of passage.” Since that night, I have learned she’s very correct.
: : : :
My Plan B formed out of not wanting to lose all the planning and contact building that had gone into my initial proposal. I believed quite solidly in my ideas and in my workshops, but most importantly in my gut, which was still telling me to go for it.
What I realized was that my time in Chicago was coming to an end. My salary at the time measured up against a busy social life and an expensive, urban cost of living. My monthly savings were paltry. I had done enough research to realize that my plans would not be easily funded as I was a mere individual and not an organization. I decided I would have to fund my own way. I would move back with my family.
: : : :
Once I began working at the hotline as a counselor, I realized I was really good at what I was doing. My job was simply talking to people and helping them process the assaults they, or a loved one, had endured. I found patience and I found the capacity to offer a little light at the end of the tunnel, without being naïve, but by offering compassion. The members of the hotline were blazoned warriors and their shared support were what made the hotline room one of safety.
After the first call I took about a gang rape executed by a bunch of ten-year old boys, an overwhelming feeling came over me. I became aware that a solid handful of people in the world hold the secrets and pain of others. It is this that lightens one’s load, but the diffusion of others’ pain is not easy to bear. Sometimes it felt like no one else in the world knew of this boundless pain. Sworn to confidentiality, I could not share what I heard. I would step outside of the YWCA building on Michigan Avenue, look up at the beautiful Wrigley Buildings and the winding pathway of the Chicago River. I would see masses of downtown people, donning their coats, their pearls and briefcases, their business smiles and frowns; all of them going about their daily life oblivious to the pain and suffering faced by these rape survivors. Gang rapes, incestuous fondling, date rape, statutory assault, children raping children, prostitution of step kids.
I got even deeper into my work with sexual assault. Another group, the Rape Victims Advocates, delivered services to victims who enter the emergency rooms for medical attention after an assault. I started going on call twice a month, waiting in 12-hour blocks for a page eliciting my support at a local ER. Going from the faceless survivors on the phone to the delicate, vulnerable faces in the fluorescent ER became, admittedly, too much.
When it became time for me to formulate my Fulbright proposal, I was taking into account all of these experiences. I knew it was time for me to help others process their sexual assaults into a more visible form, something that could eventually signal to the rest of the world what the hell was going on.
: : : :
For what must have seemed like an eternity to my friends, all I could talk about was rape crisis and South Africa. Sexual assault and racism. Gender inequality and squatter camps. All of these in the constant form of hypotheses.
Still in the deep of winter, I remember walking down California Avenue with my roommates, Kim and Grace, to attend some obnoxious gathering of artists at a house-run art gallery. The latest snow had been reduced to small ridges along the edges of sidewalks and walls, burned black with the soot of traffic. Large, old clapboard houses lined the streets, re-covered with fake tarpaper painted with brick designs, the houses' chain link fences gleaming in the peachy mercury light of the city. Buses rushed by in the ice chill of the street and the silence reverberated off its noise. A typical February night.
Two important things came up that night. Number one, Grace and Kim informed me that I needed to develop new topics to discuss because the same old rigmarole about rape and South Africa had become a monopoly and had left them with little to contribute. Secondly, at the gallery, I slammed face to face with an old college peer, Bonnie. She inquired about life, how are things, and I told her about my doomed Fulbright proposal. Armed with cheer, she told me, “A Fulbright rejection is a rite of passage.” Since that night, I have learned she’s very correct.
: : : :
My Plan B formed out of not wanting to lose all the planning and contact building that had gone into my initial proposal. I believed quite solidly in my ideas and in my workshops, but most importantly in my gut, which was still telling me to go for it.
What I realized was that my time in Chicago was coming to an end. My salary at the time measured up against a busy social life and an expensive, urban cost of living. My monthly savings were paltry. I had done enough research to realize that my plans would not be easily funded as I was a mere individual and not an organization. I decided I would have to fund my own way. I would move back with my family.
: : : :
