"If there's music inside of you, you've got to let it out." (From my song, Music Inside of Me)

Hi! I'm Trudy Rushin, and this is my blog, created in June 2009. I am a singer-songwriter-composer who plays guitar. Born and bred in Cape Town, South Africa, I blog about whatever captures my imagination or moves me. Sometimes I even come up with what I like to call 'the Rushin Solution'. Enjoy my random rantings. Comment, if you like,
or find me on Facebook: Trudy Rushin, Singer-Songwriter.

I also do gigs - solo, duo or trio - so if you're looking for vocal-guitar jazz music to add a sprinkle of magic to your event, send me an e-mail to guitartrudy@gmail.com.

To listen to me singing one or two of my original songs, type my name on www.soundcloud.com or www.youtube.com


















Sunday 29 May 2016

Remembering pain and growth

I started teaching in 1983, at the age of 21. Having specialised in Junior Primary, my first class was a Sub A (now called Grade 1) class. In my class that year was a little boy who was much younger than his brothers. I’d see the brothers occasionally when they dropped him or fetched him. One day the little boy invited me to a party at his house, on behalf of one of his brothers. By then I’d met the parents, so I knew the family. I went to the party, connected with one of the brother’s friends, and ended up dating him – my first serious boyfriend. It was only much later that I discovered the brother had been interested in me, and only fifteen months later that I realised I’d been dating what today is called a “player” – and this only when it became clear that he was cheating on me. We were young, and I suppose people do stupid things like that when they’re young. Anyway, at the time I was devastated. 
   
Another memory that resurfaced recently was of another relationship, basically my second serious relationship, which occupied a total of eight years of my life. This time it was with a much older man, and it was tempestuous, fraught with all the angst and self-doubt that go with the power imbalance inherent in a big-age-gap relationship. It was characterised by the yoyo pattern of manipulation, suspicion, terrible arguments and the flipside, lavish gifts with tearful and apologetic promises, and my response, every time - increasingly diluted forgiveness. (I didn’t even know that such a thing as emotional abuse existed, but that’s what it was, and that’s how that individual made his way through life, wreaking havoc in the lives and on the psyches of people close to him.) This relationship included two engagements and a three-year split.

At that time, I had a dream guitar, a solid-body, nylon-string, acoustic-electric guitar. I think it was a Yamaha. I earmarked my annual bonus for this purchase, but he convinced me to buy something else I wanted, and insisted on buying the guitar for me.

Less than a week after getting the guitar, we had another awful argument, and I decided I’d finally had enough. I said I wanted out, because I couldn’t stand living that way. As he was leaving, he asked for the ring, which I remember throwing at him. He then asked for ‘his’ guitar. I was completely shocked! I couldn’t believe that something I’d wanted so badly, that was supposedly given with so much ‘love’, could be part of such ugliness. I think it was the first time I’d personally encountered that extent of manipulation. (Sadly, not the last.) What I do remember is that feeling of absolute betrayal, and of a solid door closing a chapter of my life for good. There would be no further reconciliation ever again. I pushed the guitar towards him with so much force, that he fell back against the glass door, and in that moment I thought, Oh fuck, what if the glass breaks? 

It didn’t. And neither did I.

Sometimes the things we think will break us are actually the very experiences that remind us who we are, and give us the strength to carry on.  

But the learning process seems to be endless. In more recent years, I had an eight-and-a-half-year relationship with someone. Not without its flaws, it was definitely a life-altering experience for me, and one I don’t regret, despite its acrimonious end. I’d been growing increasingly restless in the relationship, as it was apparent that it was lop-sided, with my wanting it to move towards more permanence, and his preferring the noncommittal, see-you-when-I-see-you style we had slipped into. I said I needed a break, and, seven weeks into the break (during which we had gone out a few times), I was informed that he had started seeing someone else. I’m probably really naïve, because I was once again shocked and deeply disappointed! How could someone you’d spent almost a decade with just start a new relationship and not tell you?! How immature! I am an adult, and a strong woman – I would not have fallen apart! He, of all people, should have known that about me. 

It occurred to me that the only other time I’d experienced that particular type of betrayal was with Mr Player, 27 years earlier! I realised that I’d actually been shielded from that kind of pain for 27 years. 

But it didn’t make it any easier.

What it did provide, despite the heartache, was – FINALLY - a conclusion to yet another relationship where I had not actually honoured myself, a complex relationship I had struggled to extricate myself from. (What was a real eye-opener was how many people told me, after the break-up, that they’d always wondered what the hell I was doing, wasting my time with someone like him!)

And now, almost five years later, I sincerely believe that I definitely make healthier choices and decisions. I know myself much better, and I honour myself, in all my relationships, both personal and professional, and both platonic and romantic.  


Maybe this is what it means to be an adult. Who knows, hey? I’m still trying to figure it out.  

Tuesday 3 May 2016

Documentary film on my mom, May Abrahamse

On Saturday 30 April, I went along to Artscape Theatre Complex, to watch a documentary film on the music career of my mother, May Abrahamse, one of the leading sopranos of the Eoan Group. It was shown at the Suidoosterfees, an annual arts festival held in Cape Town's city centre. To my delight, the screenings (Saturday and Sunday) were free to the public.

Commissioned by KykNet (Afrikaans television channel) in +- 2012, it was directed by documentary filmmaker, Lisba Vosloo. She was also the director of the 2013 Afrikaans doccie, entitled "Eoan 80 - Ode Aan Die Opera-era", telling the story of the Eoan Group, in its 80th year. Also commissioned by KykNet, it told the Eoan story tastefully, the skill and thoroughness of the filmmaker ensuring that all the important elements were addressed, including the contentious political space occupied by this cultural organisation, which was established specifically for "Coloured" people.

On Saturday, my heart was almost bursting with pride, as the rather small venue filled to capacity, and then needed extra chairs to be brought in. But what made my heart soar was the fact that sitting next to me was my sister, Wendy, and next to her was my mom, aged 85. I have to admit, in the years that the film was being made, I prayed my mom would be alive to see it. What a privilege to be sitting there with her, watching the film which told her life story the way it did. And to be sitting next to Wendy, my only sibling and the other person who knew and loved my mom the way I did.

Her story could have been presented as a list of dates and events, but it wasn't. Lisba is indeed an exceptional biographer. Her attention to detail is phenomenal. The end product - of about four years of research, of filming (by cameraman Mark Degenaar), of interviewing, of going back to the drawing board and adding more aspects, of scouting and filming at new locations relevant to my mom's life - was such a beautiful and moving tribute, that almost everyone present had to wipe away tears, when the lights went on. 

(Added, later: the four years included Lisba's work on the first Eoan doccie.)

The fact that the soundtrack of the film was made up of different recordings of my mom, over the years, from her 20s well into her 50s, made a huge impact on everyone. She was truly a world-class opera singer, whose career was severely restricted by the racist apartheid system in South Africa. 

Lisba managed to fit in so much detail, so many special moments, so many photos, all with so much sensitivity and respect, that it was hard for me to decide what was more profound - having watched a film on my mother's life, or having watched a piece of art by someone so gifted in her field. Needless to say, the combination of the two is what makes me, even today, three days later, feel my heart skip a beat at the memory of the experience.

I plan to write a lot more about this, but right now I'm using my lunch break to get these thoughts out. Before I go, I have to say a few more things. Firstly, in the room with us, besides my mom's grandchildren, were quite a few of my cousins, from both my parents' sides, and it was wonderful to have shared that first viewing with them. Secondly, the narrator was my friend of 40 years, actress Sandi Schultz, who's known my mom for as long as she's known me. How magical to listen to her velvety voice  tell the story of my mother's life!

And, finally, what made the whole experience so poignant was the fact that my mom, who turns 86 on 6 May, has Alzheimer's Disease. After the show, when we all went for drinks, feeling warm and fuzzy after our shared experience, she kept asking why we were there. Every time we told her, she was surprised. She was diagnosed with Amnestic Syndrome in 2012, and with Alzheimer's, a year later.  Even though she had been quiet and attentive throughout the film, even catching some of the humour (I love the way Lisba managed to keep it real by including bits of humour, such a big part of who my mom's always been), she had no recollection of having watched the film, as soon as it was over. We're used to it now. 

And FINALLY finally - my strongest personal response to the movie was realising just how much my mom had changed, as a result of the Alzheimer's. In the film, there was archival footage of interviews with her, and there was my mom, strong and outspoken, speaking with conviction and passion, her body upright, like a dancer. It took my breath away. I realised that that person was no longer with us. I realised that we'd said goodbye, without having said goodbye. Speaking to my children afterwards, I realised that they didn't even know that person.

I realised how much I missed that person - my mom.

I went back, the next day, to watch the film again, and to see that person again - my mom, May Abrahamse.  


   My mom & I at Radio Kaap se Punt, in 2014, where I had the honour of interviewing her live on air.