Within My Silence

Picture: My sister, Wendy, my mom and I. Christmas Day, 2010, at a family gathering at my cousin Pat's house.

Written: Friday 12 August 2011

Musician Johnny Clegg is being interviewed on Cape Talk Radio, by Aden Thomas. His brand new album, “Human”, is being released today. Fantastic! Also, he’s about to do a huge concert with musicians from his various bands over the years: Juluka, Savuka and The Johnny Clegg Band. This man is a national treasure – I’m sure every South African above a certain age feels a sense of patriotism, as well as a deep sense of where we’ve come from, when listening to his songs, many of which are firmly stuck in our brains, whether we bought his albums or not. Interesting to hear him talk about some of his songs having been banned in our country, in years gone by. I’m glad my children are growing up in post-apartheid South Africa – I sincerely hope they grow into adults in a South Africa they’d be proud to leave as a legacy for their own children, one day.

I’ve been wanting to write for the past two days, but have been unable to, for reasons I’m about to explain. One thing I know about myself is this: I HAVE TO WRITE! If two consecutive days go by without my having written, I start to feel miserable, unsatisfied, like I’m losing my mojo. Especially when I’ve had interesting experiences, I crave solo time to sit and record my impressions. The other day, I came home, set up the laptop, and set my alarm for thirty minutes later, determined to get my needs met within the limitations of the day. Three lines into my first paragraph, my mom came in and started chatting. I knew I had a busy day ahead, so I carried on typing, intent on getting the catharsis I knew writing would bring me, glancing up at her occasionally. Two lines later, I stopped typing, knowing she’d think it rude, and listened attentively. When my alarm went off, I saved what I’d written, packed up the laptop and told her I had to leave for an appointment. Aware that I had appointments until much later that night, I consoled myself that the next day would have a slot where I could spend time alone, writing.

The next day, I got up early and took my children to school. Came home, fetched some documents I needed, and made my way to a local high school, to meet my first student, as part of my temporary job as a Practice Teaching Supervisor for UWC (University of the Western Cape). Went to the school, did what I was required to do (really impressed and inspired by him and his obvious passion for teaching), then came home, hungry to sit down and write. Pulled into the driveway, saw my back door was open - hoped it was my mom, and not a burglar – and went inside, suspecting that my plans were once again not going to work out. Come to think of it, had it been a burglar, I may very well have been typing shortly after having scared him off, but as it turned out, it was my mom, with all the good intentions that make her the well-loved soul she is, doing my housework because she wants to help me. It’s very hard for me to explain to my mom that I have my own rhythm with housework, and that as a single parent running a home, I love the fact that I can do what I like, when I like, and that there’s something liberating about just having that choice. Like my mom, I’m fiercely independent, and I like to do my own thing. Like my mom, I don’t like people to do for me what I can do for myself.

What is it about us, even as adults, that makes it so hard to clarify certain things with our parents? It extends to so many facets of life. Especially when it comes to our achievements in a field of interest that we share with a parent, why do we automatically dumb down or go into hibernation? My son, all of 16 years of age, has been a serious writer for a few years. I told him long ago, “You’re not going to be a writer one day, you ARE a writer.” I’ve never encountered anyone as passionate about writing as he. He writes fiction, chapters and chapters. He also writes science fiction. He spends hours planning his plots, making notes about his characters and how they’ll develop, talks to us in great detail about his latest ideas, sometimes sits up way past his bedtime, typing, because he urgently wants to write the next chapter while he’s fired up. But here’s the thing – he never lets ME read his stories! He writes songs, but never lets ME read his lyrics. Whenever I ask him, he says they’re not ready yet. But I know that his band practices his compositions, and that his sister sometimes does the vocals! But never at MY house!

It’s like two days ago, when I went to a memorial service for Harold Enus, the dad of a very dear friend, Anton, whom I met in Durban in 1968 and with whom I’ve been friends ever since. (Anton paid tribute to his dad in what was arguably the most eloquent eulogy I have ever heard. A gifted wordsmith, he managed to say a lot in a relatively short time, and I could see it wasn’t easy to talk about his dad, someone he loved so much, in the past tense. My heart swelled with pride that my friend had the strength and composure to do what he did that day.) My mom and I shared a pew leaflet, and when we had to sing the hymns, I realized that this would be no mean feat for me – my mom is a retired opera singer, someone with years of vocal training, someone who’s sung entire operas on stage, and who, at age 81, still lives a frighteningly healthy lifestyle and regularly does her vocal exercises, keeping herself in peak vocal condition. I opened my mouth to sing. I’m sure I was singing, but believe me, I couldn’t hear myself. It’s like when you’re shouting at a sports stadium with everyone else around you shouting at the same time. You know you’re putting your voice out there, but you might as well keep quiet, because everyone else’s sound is declaring yours null and void. My mother is also a trained choir singer, so she follows all those nit-picky little rules – she breathes only where there are commas! So if there’s a run-on line, she plans her phrasing so that she can sing two lines with the same breath! Do you know how much pressure that is for me?!!!

And so, probably for all the same skewed reasons my son doesn’t let me read his stories and my daughter doesn’t sing in my presence, I decided there’s no way in hell I could do it; one hymn after the other, I kept quiet, a combination of knowing one’s limitations and that ubiquitous, yet indefinable, parent-child thing.

Having said as much, I hasten to add: the sound she produces, like an ongoing soundtrack to my life, is flawless and sublime. I took the opportunity my silence afforded me to tune into the purity and serenity she unknowingly emits, profoundly struck by, and appreciative of, her powerful voice, her gift from the universe, her gift to the world, and her gift to her descendants.