The Day the Apartheid Museum Slapped Me In The Face

Last week the gang all gathered in Johannesburg for the Fulbright Sub-Saharan Africa English Teaching Assistant Mid-service....that was not the official long drawn out name, but close I guess. We not only met up with the 14 of us in country, but with the others in Kenya, Senegal, Rwanda, and Cote d'Ivoire. Outside of South Africa, the ETAs are in their last 3 months of service, while we are in our first.  I was expecting days spent painfully drooling at Power-Points in a glacially air conditioned room, staring out at the lively city beyond. While this kinda what happened, the sessions were actually quite wonderful. Hearing what everyone has been up to, and sharing ideas and teaching strategies was a blast. In between overfeeding myself at the high class hotel buffet (...and did I mention the free champagne every afternoon at 5:30?) I managed to feel all sorts of feelings.

On Wednesday we broke free of the hotel confines and headed to the Apartheid Museum and township of Soweto. The hotel gave us free biltong so I was more than content as we jostled through the enormous vastness that is Jo'Burg. But then we rolled into the parking lot of the Apartheid Museum and each of us was handed a card, designating ourselves for the duration of our experience, as either "white," or "non-white." My attention to biltong drifted and in came the feels.

The Art Historian in me geeked out surveying, analyzing, and assessing the museum's success as a enormous symbol within itself. Hallways narrowed and compressed, images towered above us, and pathways twisted and turned. Some rooms were large and sparse, others overcrowded and active, culminating in a very intentional walking tour of Apartheid. But once we were 2 hours into our tour and only about half way through the museum, I realized deeply the dark complex waters of this history. I also realized you probably never want to go a to museum with a bunch of other Fulbright scholars...because damn sure we can saunter through educational materials. 

I thought I knew about Aparthied because I'm cultured and know about the world, and watched the Nelson Mandela movie, and kinda saw the one with Matt Damon as a rugby player. But then the Museum gave me a bitch slap. The images and videos of Apartheid in action were horrible and cruel. While it's easy to think, "how could people do this to each other?" I did see understand the historical contexts from which the policy arose. Since the beginning of forever people do crazy shit when they feel their land, job security, and fair wages are at stake. Throw in a fervent belief in a holy power and it's night night nurse. I get it, I'm empathetic-- but I'm not buying it. But in no one do I agree, even in the slightest, that any laws or traditions of the Apartheid government were actually the way forward.

I did feel very meditative, very somber, very responsible. I felt outraged and hopeless, insignificant and impassioned. Perhaps in my smallest, most insignificant way I am making for the sins of my past generations--those who didn't raise arms to help or who could have stepped in but chose not to. Most likely, I'm probably doing nothing at all. But hopefully, I'm adding a single stone to a new foundation and participate in a new cultural dialogue. 

Next, we drove to Soweto, the largest township in Jo'Burg with a deep history. First though, we stopped at a South African buffet and I gorged on some old favorites I hadn't seen since Namibz. Finally...cow intestines! (I'm not gross, you're gross).

Approximately :04 seconds away from said bovine delicacies was the house of Archbishop Desond Tutu. Perhaps a 45 second sprint away from here, humble and  unassuming, was the house of Nelson Madela. Suddenly, I felt both very old, very young, and very full, as the timeline of Apartheid became even more real. I'm still in it, it's not over. As much as South Africa has opened the garage to a new identity, mom hasn't handed over the keys to the car yet because there is still a week left on the Driver's Permit. It's all still new and it's all still fresh. 

There is a weird dichotomy in Soweto- one of pride, of renaissance, of history, of power and another of the a appropriated surrealism that comes with a new tourist destination. Yet, there is a palpable sense of wisdom in Soweto. The spot were Hector Pieterson died is a breathing living entity. The space is literally the corner outside of a high school, where in 1976, protesting against a new law forcing national schools to teach subjects and courses in Afrikaans, students shockingly (to the government at least) mobilized. Hector Pieterson was the youngest killed that day at the age of 13. The photograph of his body being carried by another young boy, flanked by Hector's distraught sister, was paramount for the international community to finally get it together. The student uprising of 1976 were pivotal moments in the shifting of Apartheid history and proved just how powerful even the smallest of us can be. Soweto commemorates the space with a mix of pride and reverence. It is still a working school block, on the side of a main street, with a long history. Hector would have turned 40 this year, and many of his classmates, have returned to Soweto.

I came to South Africa on my quest for perspective and damn did I find it on this particular Wednesday in April. Being here I often get frustrated when I feel people are closed off to me, when I hear lingering racist commentary, and when I can't seem to navigate the intentions of those around me. Justin Bieber is on repeat every day in my head, asking "what do you mean?" Sometimes I talk for the sake of talking, just to let those around me know I AM AMERICAN AND I AM DIFFERENT. I DON'T THINK THE WAY YOU MIGHT THINK I THINK. AND BECAUSE OF THAT I JUST WANT YOU TO LOVE ME. But, in no way do I have the right to enter into the lives of those who rather I stay away. Maybe it's because I'm the oldest of a generation who hears about Apartheid in history books. Maybe because I didn't hear stories growing up about uncles, aunties, and family members who randomly disappeared and never returned. Maybe because I didn't have a father who was forced into mandatory military conscription and drilled to hate his fellow countrymen. Maybe because I didn't grow up with a mother who worked double digit hour days in the opulence of their employers house, only to return to the squalor of their own. Maybe because I'm not South African I will always be left wondering, "what do you mean?"

Yesterday, had a unexpectedly candid conversation with an equally unexpected learner. It started simply enough (he was asking for advice to convince his mom to let him go out partying) but ended rather poignantly (we made a chart of his goals and how he could take steps to one day providing clean water for local villages). While it was hard not to raise my hands in the air and shout  "#youjustgotTAUGHT!" when he left to go home, it was a victory for the Teachable Moment. This is how we can change the world folks...slowly slowly. I strongly believe in the South African youth and I believe in the power of my kids to change the world, that is once some of them close.their.mouths.and.pay.attention. It hurts my heart when my some of my precious nuggets of 8th girls ask me what it's like to be white or tell me they would rather not be the beautiful black they are. My sweet babies, you're gorgeous, but you're also more than how you look. You can be powerful, kind, educated, and full of self-worth. You're on your way. Once you're there, you're country won't be far behind.