Sitting in my car, waiting for my children, who’re fetching their stationery at school. Tomorrow’s the Big Day, day 1 of the new school year. It’s even more exciting for my daughter – and all of us, as well – because it’s the day she starts high school. My son, excitedly entering his fourth year of high school, is proudly taking her around the school today, showing her where to fetch her stationery, where to check the class lists, etc.
My children are among the fortunate to be able to attend one of the best schools in South Africa, Westerford High. Yes, I’m expected to qualify that by adding the word, “public”, in my description of the school and its ranking, but I choose not to. Private schools have more money than they can use, so they’re supposed to be able to offer everything money can buy – and, hopefully, many other things that can’t be bought. Westerford is a school that operates with considerably less money than private schools do, and, admittedly, considerably more money than the majority of public schools in our country, but there’s something about this school that sets it apart, puts it in a category of its own. In fact, this school is such a model of what a good school should be, that the Western Cape Education Department approached its management and tasked it with administering the setting up of a new public school, Claremont High, which opened its doors in January 2011.
Westerford is a public school whose best ambassadors are its students. Every single one of my son’s school friends, like him, raves about the school. At their age, school is the biggest part of their lives, and they seem to be thoroughly enjoying the experience. They feel respected, acknowledged and empowered. They understand that the systems and rules of the school are for their benefit, and they seem to appreciate the delicate balance between the strict rules and the wonderful freedom they enjoy in many aspects of their school life.
Since my son started at WHS, in 2009, I have been in awe of this school. As a teacher, most of my teaching experience has been at schools that were struggling, in one way or another.
The Apartheid-related education disparities saw schools for “Non-White” children getting a lot less money than schools for the privileged “White” group. This was, cruelly and illogically, staggered along a hierarchy that saw “Coloured” and “Indian” schools getting more funding than “African” schools. Along with other visible things, like the different types of housing allocated to the different groups (all predetermined by the Group Areas Act, one of the pillars of Apartheid, introduced in the 1950s), the difference between what schools look like in our country, is one of the glaring reminders of the inequalities of the past. I get angry when people say, “Can’t we just move on and forget about Apartheid? Why do people keep harping on the past?” Well, the reality of almost every facet of our lives is evidence of the past, so it’s not as simple as that. The main difference now is that people have access to better facilities (generally, the ones that were originally built for “Whites”) based on their socio-economic situations.
Westerford, in the old South Africa, was a White school, and as such, has the kind of infra-structure (a school hall, a swimming pool, sportsfields, a gymnasium, a library, an art room, a music room, etc.) that many other schools in our country did not have in their original building plan, nor do they have today. This does predispose the school towards success, because it has so much more to offer its students, but in Westerford’s case, there’s something more: the success of any organisation lies in the effectiveness of the leadership. If you lead with vision, strength and compassion, and you treat people like the precious resources they are, you’re bound to succeed. This is what I see as one of the most important ingredients of WHS. Other important ingredients are commitment and teamwork. This is evident in every aspect of this school’s life. But what really puts this school way above so many others in our country, is that it focuses on developing its pupils holistically. It puts effort into developing well-rounded individuals. Pupils reaching the end of their high school career at Westerford will have had five years of exposure to a world of knowledge and experience, where they’ve done so much more than the bare minimum that too many other schools seem to be content with. Every matric student at WHS passes every year, a proud record for many years.
And so, in conclusion, as I sit here waiting for my children to come out of the school grounds, proudly carrying their orange Waltons stationery boxes, faces beaming with excitement and anticipation, I have a deep ache in my heart, as I acknowledge that our country has a long, long way to go before every school has all the ingredients - that winning combination of excellent physical infra-structure, teachers, management, involved parents and cherished learners - that make Westerford the successful educational facility it is.
Thursday, 3 May 2012
Thursday, 29 March 2012
FREE JAZZ CONCERT ON GREENMARKET SQUARE
Written 29 March 2012
I went to the free jazz concert on Greenmarket Square, last night, mainly to give my 13-yr-old a taste of the Cape Town International Jazz Festival, as she hadn’t ‘graduated’ to the main festival yet. It was a beautiful Cape Town night, and the Square buzzed with its special aura. The stage set-up and the colourful lights in the trees created a magical atmosphere, and we waited….. and waited….. until the first band started, about an hour after the advertised time. But the band was worth the wait: a band comprising high school learners from the WCED Jazz Development Programme. I’d heard them at The Fugard last Sunday and was excited that my daughter would get to experience them, too. Their three items went very well, and I was happy for them, imagining what a wow it must be to perform at such an event, so early in your music career.
And then we waited…. and waited…. until the second band appeared. I can’t remember the name of the band, but I recognized the vocalist as a UCT School of Jazz graduate, Spha Mdlalose: she has an amazing voice and a bubbly, engaging stage personality. (At the end of her set, she did an original, and I wondered why jazz vocalists don’t do more of their own compositions, as I know many of them write really good songs.) By this time, however, despite the fact that the sun had set and the evening had all the potential to be utterly wonderful, the magic had started to wane. Significantly.
I’ll make my point, then make some suggestions, which I will also communicate to the organizers, ESP Afrika. All around me, on Greenmarket Square, were people smoking. If I looked to the left, I inhaled smoke, if I looked to the right, the same, etc. This morning, I have all kinds of symptoms associated with having inhaled second-hand smoke, and I feel terrible. But that was just one half of the problem: everywhere around me, people were consuming alcohol, getting steadily drunker and forcing me to deal with the fallout - quite literally. For some reason or other, beer is sold in huge plastic cups, which people insist on putting on the cobbled ground, and which invariably get knocked over by others walking past, in the increasingly-congested space. Judging by the numbers of people who arrived with their cooler boxes, it was clear that watching live jazz on one of our city’s most historic and unpretensiously beautiful spots was not the main priority for the night. The smoky environment and the obnoxious behaviour of the drunks – both the ‘bergies’ and the well-heeled - created such an unpleasant atmosphere, that we left before the third band started, but not before we’d waited about 45 minutes for the crew to set them up!
Browsing through a pamphlet for Kirstenbosch Summer Sunset Concerts, I was delighted to see a clear, no-nonsense list of “Do’s and Don’ts”, which includes this simple, direct instruction: “Don’t smoke in the audience.” I live in a country that has made excellent provision to protect me from second-hand smoke wherever I go, and I feel proud of the progress we’ve made in that area. ESP Afrika needs to move with the times. Create some way of cordoning off the Square, and put signs everywhere that say, “Don’t smoke in the audience.” Even better, enforce a clear distinction between the drinking areas and the audience. An outer perimeter with tables and chairs should do the trick. Or, better still, keep the whole Square smoke- and alcohol-free, and let the roads leading off the Square be designated areas for those activities.
It’s advertised as a family event, and many people had come with young children, wanting to share a live jazz experience with them. The organizers need to create the space, in our beautiful Mother City, for families to do so in the healthiest possible way.
We’re South Africans – why should we follow, when we can lead?!
I went to the free jazz concert on Greenmarket Square, last night, mainly to give my 13-yr-old a taste of the Cape Town International Jazz Festival, as she hadn’t ‘graduated’ to the main festival yet. It was a beautiful Cape Town night, and the Square buzzed with its special aura. The stage set-up and the colourful lights in the trees created a magical atmosphere, and we waited….. and waited….. until the first band started, about an hour after the advertised time. But the band was worth the wait: a band comprising high school learners from the WCED Jazz Development Programme. I’d heard them at The Fugard last Sunday and was excited that my daughter would get to experience them, too. Their three items went very well, and I was happy for them, imagining what a wow it must be to perform at such an event, so early in your music career.
And then we waited…. and waited…. until the second band appeared. I can’t remember the name of the band, but I recognized the vocalist as a UCT School of Jazz graduate, Spha Mdlalose: she has an amazing voice and a bubbly, engaging stage personality. (At the end of her set, she did an original, and I wondered why jazz vocalists don’t do more of their own compositions, as I know many of them write really good songs.) By this time, however, despite the fact that the sun had set and the evening had all the potential to be utterly wonderful, the magic had started to wane. Significantly.
I’ll make my point, then make some suggestions, which I will also communicate to the organizers, ESP Afrika. All around me, on Greenmarket Square, were people smoking. If I looked to the left, I inhaled smoke, if I looked to the right, the same, etc. This morning, I have all kinds of symptoms associated with having inhaled second-hand smoke, and I feel terrible. But that was just one half of the problem: everywhere around me, people were consuming alcohol, getting steadily drunker and forcing me to deal with the fallout - quite literally. For some reason or other, beer is sold in huge plastic cups, which people insist on putting on the cobbled ground, and which invariably get knocked over by others walking past, in the increasingly-congested space. Judging by the numbers of people who arrived with their cooler boxes, it was clear that watching live jazz on one of our city’s most historic and unpretensiously beautiful spots was not the main priority for the night. The smoky environment and the obnoxious behaviour of the drunks – both the ‘bergies’ and the well-heeled - created such an unpleasant atmosphere, that we left before the third band started, but not before we’d waited about 45 minutes for the crew to set them up!
Browsing through a pamphlet for Kirstenbosch Summer Sunset Concerts, I was delighted to see a clear, no-nonsense list of “Do’s and Don’ts”, which includes this simple, direct instruction: “Don’t smoke in the audience.” I live in a country that has made excellent provision to protect me from second-hand smoke wherever I go, and I feel proud of the progress we’ve made in that area. ESP Afrika needs to move with the times. Create some way of cordoning off the Square, and put signs everywhere that say, “Don’t smoke in the audience.” Even better, enforce a clear distinction between the drinking areas and the audience. An outer perimeter with tables and chairs should do the trick. Or, better still, keep the whole Square smoke- and alcohol-free, and let the roads leading off the Square be designated areas for those activities.
It’s advertised as a family event, and many people had come with young children, wanting to share a live jazz experience with them. The organizers need to create the space, in our beautiful Mother City, for families to do so in the healthiest possible way.
We’re South Africans – why should we follow, when we can lead?!
Friday, 23 March 2012
Human Rights Day 2012
Written Wed. 21 March 2012
00h35, on what is now known in South Africa as Human Rights Day. It was formerly called Sharpeville Day, in commemoration of a peaceful march (on 21 March 1960) against the racist laws of our country, particularly the Pass Laws, which required every black man (and later, woman) to carry a little book, a “pass”, which explained why he was not in his ‘location’ at that time. It was a demeaning law that violated people’s freedom of movement in the country of their birth, a law which turned many ordinary citizens into criminals when they found themselves being arrested and imprisoned for not having said document on them (when confronted by the police). The 1960 event became known as the Sharpeville Massacre, after police killed 69 protestors. These were people who were marching peacefully, expressing their frustration at, and rejection of, the Pass Laws.
**************************************************************************
21h55
And so ends another day, special because it was a public holiday, but, in our post-apartheid country, special to different people for different reasons. Listening to some people give their opinions on the evening news, I was reminded that the change of name from Sharpeville Day to Human Rights Day was still contentious, and that many people regarded it as yet another act of over-compensation, as they do the national anthem. I have to be honest, after years of not singing ‘Die Stem’ (apartheid South Africa’s national anthem, an Afrikaans song of patriotism that made unenfranchised people gag), it’s very hard for me to sing that section of the new anthem (which, in the spirit of reconciliation espoused by Nelson Mandela, is a mixture of the old anthem and the freedom song/hymn, Nkosi Sikelel iAfrika). Somehow……. it’s hard to explain……. it just feels weird. I don’t have an explanation beyond merely this: EVERY South African who lived through the apartheid era carries some sort of baggage.
Listening to my children say that, once again, they’d had to fill in forms at school where the category “Race” appeared, I could feel my blood pressure rising! On the one hand, I understand that we’re still gathering statistics, and that government funding to schools is linked to the demographics of the school population, but on the other hand, I’m sick of it. My question remains: what’s the point in our teaching our children that they’re all South African, if they’re still asked to ascribe racial labels to themselves? And what about children who have parents from different ethnic groups?! It’s as crazy as saying, “I know we’re supposed to have equality in our country, but just for today, only White students may sit on the benches in the school grounds.” It forces children who generally don’t go around thinking of each other in racial/ethnic terms to do just that.
Or maybe I’m being naïve?
***************************************************************************
In a Criminology class I was teaching, recently, I was confronted with extremely sexist views by some of the males in the class, who rejected the notion of marital rape. Not only did they not accept the term, but they believed - strongly – that, once a woman was married, she had no right to say no if her husband wanted to have sex. At first, I thought they were joking, and that, knowing how ardent I was about women’s rights, they were riling me. But I soon realised that they were dead serious. What bothered me immensely – and I raised this point – was that a few of the young men asserting these unfortunate views were outspoken political activists! I reminded them that Mandela himself had said that no country could call itself liberated until its women were liberated.
One of the young female students asked, with all the disbelief of a modern, empowered woman who’d assumed her classmates were equally enlightened, “But why would a man even want to have sex with someone who’s clearly stating she doesn’t want to?!” This was in response to a student saying that if a man’s wife said ‘no’, he should just overpower her and get his needs met, regardless. I raised the point that, if you married someone because you loved her, surely that included respect. There seemed to be an attitude that the matter of a man’s sexual needs stood alone – they didn’t see it as wrong for a man to force sex on his wife, because she was supposed to be ready whenever he was; that’s what a wife was supposed to do.
There was such machismo during the discussion, that, when I asked if the same applied to a woman wanting sex when her husband didn’t, or what happened when the woman’s libido was more pronounced than her husband’s, they laughed, incredulous that I could even suggest such a likelihood.
I must admit, I felt sick afterwards. Maybe I’m so used to being around mature people, who live the ideals of justice, equality and freedom for all, that I’d forgotten we have a huge sector of our population who are growing up saturated with American television, the internet and the sexist rubbish found in the lyrics of songs from certain genres. Many of these things contain offensive words and attitudes, and young people who are not presented with healthier alternatives are lapping up those values, perpetuating the gender insensitivity that results in South Africa having one of the highest levels of rape and family violence, generally inflicted by males on females.
I happened to be watching tv today, when my friend, Sandi Schultz (actress and clothing designer), came on as the guest of Noeleen (host of “3 Talk”, a talk show on SABC 3), on her special Human Rights Day programme. Last year, Sandi and some others organised a public march in Johannesburg, entitled “Slutwalk”, to protest against, and raise awareness of, the ridiculousness of blaming what women wear for the high incidence of rape in our country. From what I can remember, the idea caught on, and there was also a Cape Town march. Noeleen, showing just how conservative and crowd-pleasing she actually is, asked Sandi if the name of the event wasn’t a bit too bold (I can’t remember her actual words) and if it wasn’t likely to have scared off potential supporters.
(If you’re referring to those ‘tannies’ watching your show, Noeleen, they wouldn’t EVER take part in protest marches, so let’s not delude ourselves that the name of that particular march put YOUR viewers off.)
I watched my friend’s face closely as she answered the question with all the diplomacy she could muster. Ah, Sandi, you’re absolutely professional, every step of the way! Haha – I wonder what you were thinking!
(That’s the whole point, Noeleen – people judge women by what they wear, calling them sluts if their skirts are too short or their necklines too low. Naming the protest march “Slutwalk” confronts that very stereotype!)
I loved the slogans of one of the marchers: “We don’t attack you when you run shirtless in public.”
CHECK OUT SANDI'S NEW WEBSITE: www.isaidno.co.za
***************************************************************************
Our country still has a lot of work to do, before we have a nation of people who rate gender equality as seriously as “racial” equality. Maybe we all need to take a good, long look at our meticulously-documented Bill of Rights.
Cry, the Beloved Constitution.
00h35, on what is now known in South Africa as Human Rights Day. It was formerly called Sharpeville Day, in commemoration of a peaceful march (on 21 March 1960) against the racist laws of our country, particularly the Pass Laws, which required every black man (and later, woman) to carry a little book, a “pass”, which explained why he was not in his ‘location’ at that time. It was a demeaning law that violated people’s freedom of movement in the country of their birth, a law which turned many ordinary citizens into criminals when they found themselves being arrested and imprisoned for not having said document on them (when confronted by the police). The 1960 event became known as the Sharpeville Massacre, after police killed 69 protestors. These were people who were marching peacefully, expressing their frustration at, and rejection of, the Pass Laws.
**************************************************************************
21h55
And so ends another day, special because it was a public holiday, but, in our post-apartheid country, special to different people for different reasons. Listening to some people give their opinions on the evening news, I was reminded that the change of name from Sharpeville Day to Human Rights Day was still contentious, and that many people regarded it as yet another act of over-compensation, as they do the national anthem. I have to be honest, after years of not singing ‘Die Stem’ (apartheid South Africa’s national anthem, an Afrikaans song of patriotism that made unenfranchised people gag), it’s very hard for me to sing that section of the new anthem (which, in the spirit of reconciliation espoused by Nelson Mandela, is a mixture of the old anthem and the freedom song/hymn, Nkosi Sikelel iAfrika). Somehow……. it’s hard to explain……. it just feels weird. I don’t have an explanation beyond merely this: EVERY South African who lived through the apartheid era carries some sort of baggage.
Listening to my children say that, once again, they’d had to fill in forms at school where the category “Race” appeared, I could feel my blood pressure rising! On the one hand, I understand that we’re still gathering statistics, and that government funding to schools is linked to the demographics of the school population, but on the other hand, I’m sick of it. My question remains: what’s the point in our teaching our children that they’re all South African, if they’re still asked to ascribe racial labels to themselves? And what about children who have parents from different ethnic groups?! It’s as crazy as saying, “I know we’re supposed to have equality in our country, but just for today, only White students may sit on the benches in the school grounds.” It forces children who generally don’t go around thinking of each other in racial/ethnic terms to do just that.
Or maybe I’m being naïve?
***************************************************************************
In a Criminology class I was teaching, recently, I was confronted with extremely sexist views by some of the males in the class, who rejected the notion of marital rape. Not only did they not accept the term, but they believed - strongly – that, once a woman was married, she had no right to say no if her husband wanted to have sex. At first, I thought they were joking, and that, knowing how ardent I was about women’s rights, they were riling me. But I soon realised that they were dead serious. What bothered me immensely – and I raised this point – was that a few of the young men asserting these unfortunate views were outspoken political activists! I reminded them that Mandela himself had said that no country could call itself liberated until its women were liberated.
One of the young female students asked, with all the disbelief of a modern, empowered woman who’d assumed her classmates were equally enlightened, “But why would a man even want to have sex with someone who’s clearly stating she doesn’t want to?!” This was in response to a student saying that if a man’s wife said ‘no’, he should just overpower her and get his needs met, regardless. I raised the point that, if you married someone because you loved her, surely that included respect. There seemed to be an attitude that the matter of a man’s sexual needs stood alone – they didn’t see it as wrong for a man to force sex on his wife, because she was supposed to be ready whenever he was; that’s what a wife was supposed to do.
There was such machismo during the discussion, that, when I asked if the same applied to a woman wanting sex when her husband didn’t, or what happened when the woman’s libido was more pronounced than her husband’s, they laughed, incredulous that I could even suggest such a likelihood.
I must admit, I felt sick afterwards. Maybe I’m so used to being around mature people, who live the ideals of justice, equality and freedom for all, that I’d forgotten we have a huge sector of our population who are growing up saturated with American television, the internet and the sexist rubbish found in the lyrics of songs from certain genres. Many of these things contain offensive words and attitudes, and young people who are not presented with healthier alternatives are lapping up those values, perpetuating the gender insensitivity that results in South Africa having one of the highest levels of rape and family violence, generally inflicted by males on females.
I happened to be watching tv today, when my friend, Sandi Schultz (actress and clothing designer), came on as the guest of Noeleen (host of “3 Talk”, a talk show on SABC 3), on her special Human Rights Day programme. Last year, Sandi and some others organised a public march in Johannesburg, entitled “Slutwalk”, to protest against, and raise awareness of, the ridiculousness of blaming what women wear for the high incidence of rape in our country. From what I can remember, the idea caught on, and there was also a Cape Town march. Noeleen, showing just how conservative and crowd-pleasing she actually is, asked Sandi if the name of the event wasn’t a bit too bold (I can’t remember her actual words) and if it wasn’t likely to have scared off potential supporters.
(If you’re referring to those ‘tannies’ watching your show, Noeleen, they wouldn’t EVER take part in protest marches, so let’s not delude ourselves that the name of that particular march put YOUR viewers off.)
I watched my friend’s face closely as she answered the question with all the diplomacy she could muster. Ah, Sandi, you’re absolutely professional, every step of the way! Haha – I wonder what you were thinking!
(That’s the whole point, Noeleen – people judge women by what they wear, calling them sluts if their skirts are too short or their necklines too low. Naming the protest march “Slutwalk” confronts that very stereotype!)
I loved the slogans of one of the marchers: “We don’t attack you when you run shirtless in public.”
CHECK OUT SANDI'S NEW WEBSITE: www.isaidno.co.za
***************************************************************************
Our country still has a lot of work to do, before we have a nation of people who rate gender equality as seriously as “racial” equality. Maybe we all need to take a good, long look at our meticulously-documented Bill of Rights.
Cry, the Beloved Constitution.
Sunday, 26 February 2012
Intellectual by default
Written Thurs 16 Feb 2012
I’m exhausted, both physically and emotionally, so my only resort is to operate in the remaining realm that seems to be functioning normally – my intellect. I always have loads of things on my mind at the same time, and today’s no exception. When I’m like this, I have to write. It gives me a feeling of creating order from the chaos.
Today I’m back in bed, the infection having spread to my chest, which means I’ve started coughing, which is really painful, as my throat is still sore. I still have no voice, and my biggest frustration is that I have no money to get to the doctor, so I’m medicating with the flu meds we had at home. I probably need a course of antibiotics to knock this infection.
Yesterday I did one of the stupidest things I’ve ever done, ranking alongside some frivolous purchases and serious relationships (as well as some serious purchases and frivolous relationships!): I went to college, even though I had no voice! I “taught” six classes without speaking, using the chalkboard, whispering to one student who then spoke to the class, and getting them into small groups for reading and discussion. In the last class of the day, my voice started coming back, and I think that using it, even just a little, was an even bigger mistake.
One of the worst enemies of a vocalist is air-conditioning, and I teach with air-con blowing on me all day. It’s a dilemma, because the classroom is stuffy without it, opening the windows lets in hot air, so the obvious solution for the students is switching on the air-con, which is a recipe for disaster for my voice. In fact, I’m probably going to have to make a choice, at some stage – teach (there) or sing. I suppose the temporary nature of my contract takes care of that.
So far today, I’ve taken meds, slept a lot, read a bit, listened to the radio and listened to some music while lying in bed, unable to sleep because of neighbourhood noises.
The music that’s wrapped itself around me, entered my pores and started permeating every cell membrane in my body, for the past few days, is that of the late Amy Winehouse, particularly the album, “Lioness: Hidden Treasures”, a beautiful gift from a friend.
I actually don’t know where to begin, but since I started listening to this, I haven’t wanted to listen to anything else. In the few days since I got it, the music’s become such a part of me, that even when I’m not listening to it, it’s playing in my mind. I saved a few tracks on my phone and listen through my earphones (hate the stuff!) wherever I am. When I’m driving, I listen without the earphones.
Ok, here goes, with my very personal review. Firstly, it’s really hard to reconcile the sound of her full, mature voice with her petite physique. At the risk of sounding politically incorrect, hers is a “big, black voice”! Secondly, the lyrical content of some of her songs suggest a life lived intensely, with considerable risk-taking and a depth of analysis that went way beyond her 27 years. Some of her songs you have to listen to when you’re really low in spirit, as I’ve been recently, because they provide the perfect musical score to your misery. J
On this album, the accompaniment is extremely old-school, like Motown, and I love it. Born it the early Sixties, I’m a complete sucker for this kind of sound. It’s amazing that I never got more into her stuff before. I’d hear odd songs played on the radio, and each time I’d think, “Wow, that’s fantastic!”, but that would be it. The friend who gave me the album wanted me to hear her version of Carole King’s “Will You Love Me Tomorrow?”, not realizing that the song that would BLOW me away would be her version of “The Girl From Ipanema”! It’s gutsy, it’s outrageous, and it’s subverted that whole tried-and-tested, jazz-standard interpretation of the song and thrown it out into the world as just another song, open to whatever treatment any artist wants to give it. She definitely situates it in the jazz world, but there’s more, like a cabaret-extravaganza kind of feel. I love it!
But two other songs on the album are the ones I’ve been listening to, almost non-stop, since Saturday, and they are “Tears Dry” and “Wake Up Alone”. I need to find the words to describe how these songs move me. If I’m not mistaken, she uses the F-word in “Tears Dry”, but slips it in so naturally, it just sits there, fitting in perfectly. Haha! Definitely a woman who did things her own way. This song has that 70’s feel, with chorus-girl backing vocals, heavy orchestration, and a drumbeat typical of that era. My son would know how to describe it. It’s a sound they’ve kept throughout the album. Sparse, trebly, stripped-down?
Another song on the album I like listening to is “Half Time”, sung in what I call a hammock voice – ultra-laid-back, smooth, from the solar plexus, also quite throaty.
One of the lines is : “So I sing the standard shit/It pacifies my ache”.
Listening to “Wake Up Alone” now. In six-eight time, very bluesy. Again, sparse backing, this time a beautiful guitar playing a mixture of chords, comping and arpeggios. I’m a huge fan of guitar and voice. The atmosphere of the song is heightened by the subtle sound of brushes, introduced after a few bars. The lyrics, once again, intense, heartrending, sensual, sexual, ending with the repetition of “And I wake up alone”, with special effects giving the voice an increasingly ethereal sound and the percussive instrumentation adding a sense of drama, eventually ending the song unexpectedly, with the musical equivalent of a gasp.
She also does a duet (Body and Soul) with crooner, Tony Bennett, where her voice sounds rich and velvety, with distinct traces of Ella Fitzgerald and Billie Holiday.
It’s impossible to listen to the music of Amy Winehouse without feeling immensely sad about her unnecessary, premature death, last year, at age 27. As I continue to immerse myself in a book I’ve re-read throughout my adult life, “Women Who Run With The Wolves”, I’d hazard a guess that many of Amy’s struggles were the same as those of women all over the world, especially women trying to express themselves through their art, trying to inhabit a world with harsh expectations authentically. It breaks my heart that both she and Whitney Houston (who died last week, aged 48), two of the greatest vocalists of my lifetime, who gave the world such brilliant music, suffered the way they did, turned to drugs as a way of coping, and died as a result of their choices.
I feel these tragedies almost as acutely as if they’d happened to close friends; I believe there is a universality that connects us all, just because we’re human. Anyway, on a very personal level, I know myself well enough to understand that a pattern exists: whenever I’m not verbalizing my strong emotions, I get sick. So right now, laden with issues personal and universal, I’m sick.
I have a terrible track record of ignoring the lessons that life keeps teaching me and remaining stuck; able to intellectualise like crazy, but still remain stuck. Time to break that pattern! High time!
Moonlines
Written on Tuesday, 7 Feb. 2012
Just sitting on the beach was magical, but getting into the water and swimming in the tidal pool with the full moon’s reflection shimmering on the surface, was like an out-of-body experience. I swam up and down a few times, then just frolicked, because tonight wasn’t about counting lengths or even having a workout – tonight was a night for giving thanks. It’s easier for me to give thanks while I’m doing something physical – I feel better when both my mind and body are in on the action.
I gave thanks for my mother, sitting on the beach, soaking up the sunset and the fresh sea air, quietly appreciating the surprise beach picnic. I gave thanks for my son, missing out on the beach because of an after-school programme. I gave thanks for my daughter, another water baby, also in the tidal pool (with her little friend). I gave thanks for my friends and how they’ve stood by me through some of my darkest times, how they’ve motivated me, said things to keep me going, given me bits of practical advice, listened to my rantings, and made me laugh when I thought I’d lost my ability to do so.
But most of all, tonight was about giving thanks for my job. Last Monday I started an 8-week teaching contract at
I enjoy the students I teach – their ages anything from 18 to the 30’s – and really enjoy my time there, with one class after the other coming into my room for lessons. This time round, I’m lecturing five different subjects to six different classes. We have to teach 30 lessons a week. That’s a lot of talking!
The staff, a group of people I first worked with for 6 weeks last year, were friendly and welcoming, and I feel relaxed around them. As I hang out with them during the breaks, I’m reminded once more that people are people. In every staff situation, you find similar dynamics. I know that, whether I get involved or not, whether I form friendships or not, whether I chat up a storm or remain silent, life will go on - for them, and for me. I suppose this is another example of how one’s perspective changes as one gets older. And maybe, because I’ve worked at a few different places now, my expectations have changed, and I’m less invested in certain things than I was before. In fact, because I spend my whole day talking, it’s wonderful to just keep quiet during breaks, and sip my green tea.
So the beach visit was a wonderful way to achieve a lot in one go – I hate the phrase “kill two birds with one stone” – and while it did throw us out of our evening routine, we’d all had fun, and got into bed feeling warm and happy, with that wonderful after-the-beach feeling of having reconnected with nature and having restored some sense of balance to our lives.
It was interesting to me that each one of us, at ages 13, 50 and 81, said the same thing, at various stages of the evening: “We should really do this more often.” Considering we live no more than a fifteen-minute drive from the beach, there’s no reason why it can’t become a weekly thing. Having said as much, I have to add, “weather-permitting” – this is
About 11 years ago, I challenged myself (a moongazer, ever since I can remember) to write a song with the word, “ moon” in every line. I did, and called it “Moonlines”. I haven’t sung - or even thought about - it for years.
The Year of the (parad)Ox
Written 27 January 2012
When I look at the garden, no matter what the weather, I always feel good! It’s still a work in progress, but that’s what makes it so satisfying. In fact, a garden is undeniably one of the greatest life teachers we have.
In the book, “Women Who Run With The Wolves” (my constant companion), the writer (Clarissa Pinkola Estes) recommends that people take up gardening, even if just on a small scale, because of the lessons that nature teaches us. One of the themes throughout her book is what she calls the “Life/Death/Life” cycle, and she says that, when you work with plants, and you do so over time - over seasons and years - you have the best possible exposure to this cycle, and you learn to see and yield to it in other parts of your life.
This month, I’ve learnt that, when you put good plants into the ground, even if they lie dormant for a while (usually due to seasonal cycles), they will resurface when the time is right, and they’ll blossom and bring beauty into your life. I’ve also learnt that you can use an empty container to nurture soil over time, and use it to nourish other plants, when necessary. And finally, I’ve learnt that you can cut little slips off existing plants that are thriving, plant them in empty pots or patches, and with careful love and attention, they’ll take root and flourish – you don’t have to spend money buying new plants. I suppose the theme is the same throughout – with time, love and patience, you can turn what was once barren into something thriving.
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Last night I did my first (but definitely not last!) concert at a new venue in
Sometimes, I get such conflicting feedback from audience members (friends whose honesty I can rely on), that I find it best to simply come right back to basics: to trust my instincts, make the choices that feel right for me, and move forward with conviction. I am 50 years old - this is not the time of my life to be making decisions about my art based on the subjectivity of others. I value and respect their comments, because they give me an idea as to how the audience perceives what’s happening on stage. But when it comes to the subjectivity of how I feel on stage when I do certain things, I have to be true to myself.
I made a lot of mistakes on stage, last night, and while I’d like to blame everything under the sun, I choose to take responsibility for them, to learn from the experience, and to be more aware, the next time, of the dynamics that distract me.
You know how, in little things we do every day, we each know exactly how we like things done - whether it’s the way an egg is fried or a bed is made? Well, it’s exactly the same for me as a performer – I know the set of factors I need, in order to feel satisfied. Last night’s delay with the setting up of the sound caused us to start more than 30 minutes late, which is not ok. It’s not ok for the audience, and it’s not ok for the artists. But, these things happen. That’s what being professional is all about – when things aren’t perfect, you shouldn’t be thrown too much off your centre; you still have to give your performance your best shot, because that’s what you’re there for, and that’s what people have come to listen to.
Tonight, I’ll be doing one set on my own, at The Taxi (online radio station). They’ve started regular Friday night performances, called “Taxi Nights”. I feel very privileged to be on the programme, and I’m looking forward to it immensely. I’ll be doing only originals (why not?! J) and I think it will be easier than last night, because I spend a lot of time practising on my own, so solo performances feel more natural and comfortable, now. When I work with other musicians, there are two things that happen: firstly, they bring extra dimensions to my songs, because the accompaniment is fuller, and they also lengthen the songs, because we slot in instrumental solos; and secondly, I have to be a lot more alert, because I’m not the only one generating the sound, and I have to stick to what’s on the page and not go off on a tangent, adding an extra chorus, or changing the ending, as the mood takes me. Then, again, that doesn’t bother every guitarist I work with. Some people are more “in the moment” than others. Different strokes, etc. In the end, my performance life is enriched by every person I work with. I’m privileged to have the options I do, privileged to know – and have worked with - so many great musicians.
What was nice, was being asked to come back and do another show, in a couple of weeks, so I suppose that was a vote of confidence. It was also reassuring that, even though we took the gig on the (risky) basis of splitting the door takings with the owner, we walked away with an acceptable amount each - relatively speaking! ;-)
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Still without enough of an income to get me through the month without borrowing, I’m the biggest paradOx I know: I have all kinds of pressing financial concerns, and yet I have a deep-seated feeling of peace and tranquility, some kind of knowledge outside the realm of logic, that reassures me that everything is as it’s meant to be, and that this current poverty cycle will soon end. My marketing and other efforts I put into sorting out my situation will soon bear fruit.
I look forward, with great anticipation, to having both this inner peace AND enough money to live with dignity. Oh, how I do!
Oh, one more thing: I have a refreshing new drink that gets me through my sugar cravings and cools me down on hot days. As a family, we’ve been drinking green tea for just over a year, and we all love it. We also drink a lot of water, each one getting through at least 1,5litres a day, but this latest addition is thirst-quenchingly yummy:
in a ratio of 2:1:3 (or whichever proportions make you smile): chilled green tea, berry juice, and water. Serve chilled. If you have fresh mint or lemon, add one or both of them. But don’t buy the ready-made iced tea – make your own.
Mmmmmm……
Illogically happy
Written 23 January 2012
It’s a beautiful day – cool, grey and rainy. This morning, my children and I were pleasantly surprised to hear the sound of the rain, and oohed and aahed about how lovely it was. This is after a week of such intense heat in
In fact, on a nostalgia trip this past week, I’ve been reading the diaries I’ve kept for my children. I started my son’s one when he was born, which means I’ve been writing to him for about 17 years. My daughter’s journals started when I was four weeks into my pregnancy, so I’ve been writing to her for about fourteen years. When they were babies and toddlers I wrote a lot, and some of the entries are hilarious. I’m so glad I kept the diaries, because one forgets all those precious little things, as time passes.
From about 2009 to 2011, there wasn’t much journaling to them, for some reason or other, but I’m back – with a mission! I’ve been writing regularly since November, and enjoying that part of my writing life again. All along, the plan was to give them the diaries when they turned 18, but, for Nick, that’s in 11 months’ time, and I don’t feel ready yet, so I’ve decided that 21 will be the handover age. Knowing me, I’ll continue writing to them after their 21st birthdays, and just let them know where to find the diaries when I die. That is, of course, assuming they have their 21st and a good couple of other birthdays before I die!
Funny how hard it is to write, “die”, when everything inside me screams for a euphemism. It’s the one thing in life we KNOW will happen to us, but oh how we avoid the topic. We prepare for everything else, except that. I want to write out my wishes for my funeral, because I know exactly what I want and what I don’t. It would be such a lie for me to have a church service, with hymns and prayers, because that’s not part of my life now. Music, definitely. Poetry, too. People sharing with people. Cremation. And a party. With more food than we had at my dad’s funeral, please! In the vulnerability of the moment, my family had underestimated the turn-out at my dad’s funeral, and not only was the church hopelessly too small for the crowd, but the eats disappeared in minutes, with many people not getting a thing. There’s a time for modesty, and a time for practicality. He was a popular guy, well-known and well-liked. Besides, he was what I’d call a “great funeral-goer”, always at someone’s funeral, like that was his Saturday thing, so I think people also reciprocated, because he’d been to so many of their family funerals.
But, I digress.
Back to the subject of this post. In a way that’s hard - very hard - to explain to most people, I am happier than I’ve been in a long time. And yet, given my employment predicament, with the resulting financial crisis, it’s completely illogical. When I did Psychology, many years ago, I was fascinated by the term, “compartmentalize”, because it was something I had always been able to do, so I thought everyone did it. I’ve always been able to enjoy and appreciate the ‘blessings’ in one part of my life, without being blind to the severe challenges in another. It’s a way of going through life that has brought me through many, many dark patches. In Psychology, it’s often referred to in the context of coping mechanisms during or after trauma, where survivors block out unpleasant thoughts, in order to cope with the demands of everyday life. I suppose that is exactly what I’m doing, after all! J
I was talking to someone, the other day, who was stressing about his teenage son, and I said that he needed to sit it out, because it would pass - it was a normal teenage phase. I said the boy was going through a transition, and that it was like going through a tunnel: when you’re in it, everything’s amplified, the sounds, the darkness, the fears, the imagined horrors, and the feeling that it will never end; but, just when you think you’re going to stay in it forever, you’re plunged into the bright light of daytime, and it’s so intense, at first, that it almost blinds you – but then you adjust to it, and your new reality is filled with light, clarity and direction.
So why am I so happy? I have two incredible children, who never cease to fascinate me, and who’ve given me insights into modern life that I probably wouldn’t’ve had, had I not had them in my life. They’ve introduced me to music I never would’ve listened to, like
I’m happy, because I’m comfortable with a level of spirituality and faith that’s not about church or any of those institutionalized conventions. It’s linked to nature, and gives me a sense of peace that transcends the fear-based, do-it-right-or-God-will-punish-you socialization many of us had (and continue to pass on, unquestioningly, to the next unsuspecting generation). It doesn’t make me oblivious to my problems or lull me into a false sense of security, based on a promise of a better life in the hereafter – that rhetoric hasn’t resonated with me for at least twenty years. But it does give me a deep sense of connectedness to people, especially people who don’t have easy lives, and equips me with an understanding and non-judgemental attitude towards them.
I’m happy, because I have friends and family who love me. I needed to sink very low, in my spirit, as a result of my financial situation, in order for me to look up and see, clearly, what surrounded me – unconditional love and acceptance.
I’m happy, because I’m free. It feels like everything I’ve experienced, for the past 50 years, has brought me to where I am today – crystal clear about who I am and what I’m prepared to welcome into my life, and what I won’t go near. It’s a good space to be in, for my art, my world of work, and for relationships. I have the freedom to grow into whom I was always meant to be, and I hadn’t realised how being in a dysfunctional relationship - which we never perceive it as, when we’re in it – had caused me to stagnate.
So, after three decades and three long-term relationships which, in different ways, contributed to the Trudy I am today, I am easing into my new-found life as a single person, and finding that this is exactly where I’m supposed to be. It’s exciting finding how different life is, when you’re single, and just how much space you have, physically and emotionally, to flex yourself, to spread your wings, and to venture much further from the nest. Accepting invitations to formal celebrations, and choosing to go unaccompanied, is another experience altogether.
I do have some serious issues in my life, and I spend a lot of time trying to sort them out, always conscious that the economic climate in
In the 1980’s, I had a wonderful landlord, who was blessed, not only with a long, happy life and a loving family, but also with a wife who was his soul mate, and a true woman of substance: Mr. Bloemetje. I lived on their premises for a total of seven years. He used to call me, when I was studying two degree courses a year, part-time, a “steady plodder”. He also loved the saying, “The darkest hour comes just before the dawn.” He was a wise old man, and I loved chatting to him.
Maybe more of his words of wisdom took root than we’d both realised.
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