19 is the end of dandelion wishes and candlelit dreams

I am 19 today. And I feel slightly melancholic at the idea that this decade of my life is almost over. I suspect it will be my favourite chunk of life. But of course nothing is guaranteed, it may get even nicer from this point.

When I turned 10 I was immensely excited.  Two digits ! I knew it meant 8 years until I was done with school and had grown up. Growing up.  Everyone tells you to stay young and suddenly they ask that you act mature and self sufficient. A paradoxical existance.  I am thankful that  I will always be able to look back at my adolescence and see such immense happiness trapped in the amber of memory.  A childhood that was unmarred so I could have a reference point of how happy I should be.

Am I now too old to wish on the ever increasing candles and the dandelion seeds that blow away? In many ways, I am still a child. But then again, I was a child who took myself too seriously. I want to abandon all inhibition and jump on a jumping castle or slide down a slide. 

This past year, my eighteenth, was by far the most beautifully challenging year. I was stretched, changed and yet stayed the same.  It intensified who I was and let that rise to the surface. It was a year I laughed loud, cried less and loved more. I met amazing people but the people I had known before, I learned to love even more from afar. When your support system is spread out across four cities, you have to add a few more people. So I am thankful to everyone who taught me how to grow. The good and the bad. I was so scared at first. And now I have this feeling like I will never be scared of change again

So I will savour this last year. I will taste it like I was devouring the sugary litchi from Appa's garden. I will smell it as if it smelled the way my mother always smells,of flowers and safety. I will hear it like every song I loved on the radio. I will see it with curious eyes. I will always reflect on it so that I never take it for granted. And I will love with all the intensity of love that I have been loved with.

It is in this way I will strive to keep one last burst of joy in my childhood. This dandelion dust  trapped in amber.

An open letter to homophobia

Dear bigots/homophobes/ scourge of humanity

So I saw the following "Proudly homophobic " on Facebook and it really got me upset. 

My views on homosexuality, bisexuality and heterosexuality all boil down to one thing: If you love someone and they love you, it is NONE of anyone else's business what your orientation is. Love is this profound emotion that surpasses all other forms of feeling. It's insane and then at the same time so calming. It's the stuff of legends that fills books and poems and music. Gay, straight, diagonal, whatever - love can take root anywhere and we have no place to judge this sacrosanct connection between two people. 

So what baffles me is when people get on this moral high ground about homosexuals "ruining society" and how there is a problem with someone having a different sexual orientation to them. To aptly explain how I see them, here is an anecdote:

There's this man who I see everyday on the way home, he stands on the side of the road and just shouts hate and resentment to passersby. He swears and spits and raves for a few hours every afternoon, on the side of an intersection. I feel immense pity for him and the amount of hate he carries within him. I also am saddened that he goes out of his way to spread his animosity to society. 

Those people who rave about how dangerous homosexuality is, you guys are that man on the side of the road: everyone else is moving forward and making progress and you continue to spit and spread hate. 

These are my top 3 justifications/flimsy excuses/ bigot backups for being anti- homosexual, bisexuals and basically anything or anyone outside to the small spectrum of "normality":

1) "Its corrupting society"

It must be chilly and windy up on your moral high ground. Also warped. Honestly- humankind is characterised by our tendency to be corrupted by money, greed, power, anything really. If someone could remind me of the time in history when the gay people overthrew society and spread havoc then it would be highly helpful. You know "Hide yo kids, hide yo wife " chaos? Obviously History 120 doesn't cover that revolution because I was totally unaware of the continuing threat to society by people of a different sexual orientation. I should probably ask the department of Education about is lax attitude with regard to my education!

If you ask a homophobic person what they mean when they say that, they really have no answer that can be backed up. They mumble about how it's "just wrong". My stance on what has "corrupted society" is that there is an acceptance of violence and the sexualised notion of women in music and television. Because society would rather accept that the growing porn industry is "okay" even though it contributes to the sexual exploitation of thousands of young women who have been trafficked, drugged and abused to make many those films. The defence of the "legitimate" porn industry is one I don't care for. Why? Because the dark underbelly is always a larger beast than the pristine surface that is regulated.

The rise of this sexualised portrayal of women has contributed to the cycle of violence and sexual crime. Criminologists actually acknowledge porn as a factor  in the rise of sexual violence. But you're gonna tell me that a man holding hands with another man in Woolworths is a bigger issue?  Wow.

 

2) "It's against God."

Please. Don't. 

The golden thread of most major religions is one of acceptance, love and spreading kindness to your fellow man. Do not quote verses to justify your bigotry. Don't do what people who promoted the slave trade did. And the same sort of  people who manipulated that message to make it okay to burn women at the stake in Salem. And if you're going to take things so literally then banish all women during their periods for being unclean. 

You use religion to make you feel better about hating and hurting others? And you wonder why people have such a harsh idea of theists. I believe in God and what I understand about Him and His Son is that we must love others and accept others for what they are and who they are. The church gets a terrible reputation for being so judgemental about people who don't fit the norm, people forget that when the Christian church started- they were the outsiders of society who were not part of the norm. They were the ones who were hurt and attacked for being different. 

So please- stop that excuse. Stop putting people into boxes and acting holier than the rest of us. When has hatred ever been holy? When has rejection ever been seen as a positive thing? 

Never. 

3) "It's just not natural"

I'm going to direct you to the male penguin couple that raised an orphan baby and many other instances of homosexuality in the animal kingdom. If you want to talk about what's not natural I have a list of things humans do that isn't "natural". 

- Remove bodily hair that's meant to protect our orifices 

- Jumping off high places with nothing but a rope separating us from death

- The cabbage soup diet

- Homophobia- this is my favourite unnatural thing because it is a learnt behaviour. It's taught and shouldn't exist naturally

Yesterday I saw a girl give her girlfriend the last sip of her lemonade in the boiling heat outside the train station. It was such a selfless gesture but people around them looked uncomfortable. If it was a boy and a girl, it would still be a selfless gesture but people would say "Aww". 

 One of my closest friends is gay and if I am free to love someone openly- he should be able to as well. To love without fear of being mocked and insulted by narrow minded people. I have tears every time I hear Same Love because I believe so fiercely in that principle of acceptance. My friend is still my friend if she chooses to like girls or boys or both.

Who we choose to love is no one else's business. Are we so scared of things that are different to our idea of "normal" that we cannot let people who are different to us be happy?  Love is so damn confusing as it is, how dare we try to set limits on what it can and can't be?

How dare you?

Yours sincerely.

Today I wore a punjabi

I don't celebrate Diwali in the traditional sense (owing to being Christian). But today I wore a punjabi, did my hair up in a bun and squeezed my legs into those tight pant- contraptions they come with.

Why?  Because I miss Durban, home. I miss Ma and Appa and Grandma and Thatha (my maternal and paternal grandparents) and all my family. I miss the feeling of belonging. Since we moved, I will admit that I felt the Indian part of me dull significantly. I miss having loads of Indian friends to talk to with those weird accents we all do when we mimic our mothers. I wasn't exactly a vedda making, sari wearing(ok I lie about that), bhangra dancing Indian but I still love my culture deeply.

Durban is the world's largest diaspora of Indians outside India. And God I miss it on days like today. Days where Appa's garden was filled with candles and the smell of food would waft around until it permeated your being. Days where it would probably rain but no one would cease to fill the sky with colour and where sparklers were lit in quick succession.

I read the Ramayan when I was old enough to read proper books. Appa had spent virtually my entire childhood telling me stories as I fell asleep, quizzing me the next day about the details and retelling the best bits. Ram and Sita was a favourite because he read it out of his green-and-red copy that reminds me so vividly of being young.

We moved over 10 months ago, but this morning was the first proper, nausea inducing homesickness I've felt. I love talking to other students who are from Durban or who know Durban. It's weirdly comforting to know someone else misses that gorgeous coastal city where all our stories began. 

So this is for all the students, people who moved to work or just Indian people who are far away from home on Diwali. I started crying like a baby while on the bus so I can only imagine how you feel alone this year. Happy Diwali ♥

When I write...

I believe that the reason I write is because I haven't yet been able to read the story my soul craves and that I want to be the one who creates it.

No story I have written  so far will ever see light of day because I hold them to the same standard as the books I love- rendering each one lacklustre and riddled with faults. Each attempt to flesh out  the stories ends abruptly. It just doesn't fit what it is meant to be intially. Each character has their own soul and I cannot love all of them equally nor can I hate them without seeing some redemption. 

To show someone else my writing, the personal kind, is akin to having it tattooed all over my body for the scrutiny of the world. I seek deep purpose and to write is the only way I know I can try to understand my purpose. It is the only thing I can attach this search to. 

My melancholic musings on life are not because I am dissatisfied or angry. They are merely a reflection of my mind when I can wallow in this desire for meaning.  What shines through are the inadequate aspects of myself that I must one day learn to reconcile with. So I put pen to paper or fingers to the keys in an attempt to foster reconcilliation.

I write because there is no other way to get rid of the words that dance in my mind. To tie them to paper gives me clarity. To create  and complete the sentiment gives me the most serene sleep I can ever have.  I write when it is almost midnight and no one else can ask what I am furiously typing. The world is best when quiet, at cruel hours like 11 pm and 6am when the words want you to stay awake so they can come into being. 

I write because one day I hope to be less mediocre than I am now. To be a better writer would mean my understanding of the world had become broad enough to comment on it. Because as desperately as I try to capture Man in these letters and musings, I yearn to convey my thoughts about just one man or woman.  I crave the ease with which some people seem to write.  I tend to scatter my words, let them mingle with the characters that play out in my head, hoping that one day it will be worthy enough to be read by someone else. 

Someone like you, perhaps.

An open letter to my Muse

 

Dear Muse,

Losing something you have written is almost as painful as losing a possession or a person, I think. Only, it is not a generic thing that can be bought again and it cannot be reclaimed from an insurer.  And it isn't someone who you can find again or visit when you miss them. It is a piece of your soul, laid on a page and made tangible. To lose this moment that has been captured by ink and blue-lined paper hurts more than any heartbreak. It is the only pain I feel more than my acknowledgement of death. Because in a way, it is a death. The part of you who wrote aforementioned words is gone forever.

Once upon a time, I had pages and pages of a story that was only beginning to write itself. I was only beginning to know myself. Written over 3 years and each word a burden that needed to be laid down, it was bound in a red folder with a blue ribbon around it. Red, black and blue were the inks that splashed my feelings into reality. There was a girl, lost and in search of purpose and identity. There were others of course but now when it is late and the night is silent, I long to hear from her again. By pouring so much into it, at 2am when sleep would not come and the words would not stop, the ache lingered for so long when it was lost. Misplaced or thrown away by someone who probably thought it was useless during a spring clean. I would search every cupboard and every page, even two years later when we were moving- I still searched. Even now I sigh at the memory.

But she has gone now and I forget the parts of her story that were once so vivid. I wish you could know her too.

I used to keep journals. But that was a mistake. Of course it was a mistake to pour every simple, naive thought into a book where the only intrigue and scandal is not your own but rather the idea of what could be or the lives of those around you. There is no filter. And when it is read and taken for more than it was, your heart can only weep while you throw them away. The bitter regret of trusting yourself to reveal to much teaches you to be less vulnerable.Perhaps it is better now, when every thought may be forgotten and when memories fade away to make room for new ones. It is better now, that I have learned to internalise each problem. Who needs a retrospective opinion anyway?

I will never meet that girl I was again, even if I chose to. You would laugh, at my exaggeration and musings about the people around me.

I was full of ideas, when life had not yet made a cynic of me. My writing was my secret project and I was too shy to let anyone examine the flesh and bones of my soul. So I tore up my poetry and wished it away. The few that remained were cryptic and held very little weight. Pages and pages that drew a map of me were discarded into a tall green bin. The intensity of my confessions were too stark and obvious, there were no secrets that were not in plain sight in my stanzas.  My sentiments seemed more heavy than I wished to be known. Each one was a record of my doubts, fears, failings and sadness. 

Such deep sadness that I would hate to revisit ever again. If my heart held on to these for too long, the veins would become lined with lead and soot that burned in a time of angst. What would be left? A shell I think, who had to let go before it was consumed by all this reflection.

And when I fell in love with you, I wrote a poem or a letter every other day. I wanted you to know that one secret. And when you told me you felt the same way, I wrote two a day to try to contain myself.But before the urge to burn it up and hide behind my wall arrived, I bound it in ribbons and watercolour and left it for you. It is so cheerful and full of my smiles and laughter. I'm glad I gave it to you for a while. Now you will know how deeply those pages decorated with flowers and ink, are tied to my heartstrings.

You were given those pages so one day, I am able to see who I was before "me" became "we". 

 To lose something you have written is akin to pretending it never happened. Be it your fault, or an accident, the pain stays. You crush and sweep away the fallen leaves in Autumn, leaves that unfurled in a time in your life when it was Spring. And now, while it is Summer, I will endevour to write to you and about you so that I remember what the blossoms smelled like when it is Winter again. 

Yours faithfully,

Your semi-retired poet

Functioning at family functions

Death and taxes may be unavoidable for all of us. However for your average Indian child, the maxim is altered:

Weddings, funerals and your cousins neighbour's prayers are unavoidable. Death and taxes will be sorted by Bobby Uncle (priest AND accountant).

You get the long weddings, the even longer funerals and then functions where you don't even know the host but they're obviously related to you (right?).There's an art to keeping your sassy comments to yourself, socialising properly to reflect that you were not raised by newts and finally, in identifying the samoosa with mince filling without biting into it. You nail those and you survive. Sort of.

Is your momma a newt? No? No excuse bud

 It's not that bad if you have cousins* to chat to during the proceedings and this generally is an incentive to attend the function. They're like friends that come pre-packed with family. They used to run around with you but now you're older and not allowed on the swings anymore. But it's a moot point if the aforementioned cousins are the sort who sit on their phones the entire time and won't say "Hi" back, to anyone. When I was younger I assumed that you got to a certain age and then stopped talking to relatives and your new place was skulking behind buildings and acting oh-so-nonchalant. The sort who wouldn't deign to have an iota of decency toward their family.I'm 18 now, still waiting for the natural urge to act rude. Will update you when I turn 25. Nada. For now however, good manners apply and hopefully they will always apply. You can't act too cool for the same people who saw you in diapers and with food in your hair. Stop it.

I've always been raised with the principle that you show respect for your elders, you give them your seat and greet them when you see them. I respect older people deeply because they had to live through a LOT and they can still  be friendly and speak to you without condescension(usually)  Even with my Handshake Policy **(for uncles I know vaguely) and my obvious reluctance to hug the insistent ones, I try to show some felicity. You don't sommer look up from your texting and grunt a hello. It's a reflection of your immediate family when you're that rude. Is your mother a newt? There's no excuse to be That Relative Who Doesn't  Speak if she isn't. You can grace someone else's table with your attitude, you can't sit with us. 

(*this is a loose term. It could be any relation who is in your age bracket  and/or younger than your parents) 

(** Even though I am female, we don't know each other so I will give you a good, firm handshake to rival any clammy-handed nephew of yours and maybe one day, when you die, I might consider a hug)

Three points on samoosas

- White friends will assume you make them yourself (keep that façade up if you would rather hide your supplier). Relatives will scrutinize the filling (more onion than mince? Someone got cheated). I will seek out the potato ones and avoid them like the plague. (I refuse to eat it)

-A good host should label what fillings are on display, if not- look for a dark, green-flecked parcel of yum and carefully take a corner off to determine the contents. If unsuccessful, sneakily put it on your dad's plate. 

- I have no last point other but the pun-oppurtunity was too good to pass up. Use this null point as a voucher to redeem a samoosa. OR use the food available as a distraction from insistent uncles who want to give you a hug, they can't make you stop eating. 

 Being a smart-arse will only land you in peril 

I inherited more sass than I should have. Paired with my tendency to not filter my opinions too much, it can do more harm than humour when around relations. Not all of them, I have family with amazing humour. But the ones who get picky and pointy-outy are usually tests on my ability to keep the sass down. Some mild examples are:

"You've gotten darker, too much sun hmm?"

"You're a lot fatter this time."

*pokes my stomach* "I see you still like your food"

Oh lady (because it usually is a lady) you test me. You make me call on my sassy ancestors and ask them to restrain my commentary about your superficial values and points on your physical attributes. Your "banter" makes me want to slaughter a beetroot to aid my inner peace in not bursting into an impersonation of you. Impersonation is my super power, to be used for good or evil. But I won't. Because my momma raised me right, also she is scary when angry and I don't need that kind of fear in my life.

Your quintessential Indian mother will instill a fear greater than religious fear. God has mercy but a mother armed with a wooden spoon may not. They are really strong people, these masala-making, sari-draping, death-staring, function-attending women. And you know there will be a look you get when you behave badly among relations, it freezes your heart and that cold dread spreads into every crevice. It's not just me, even mothers who are "laid back" can have this side them. They need a documentary series narrated by Stephen Fry: Crouching Tamil Tiger, Hidden Hindi Dragon; The Sari Safari ; Diwali Dangerous. Something along those lines.

(Disclaimer: I'll have you know, my mum is chilled- she uses the emojis on Whatsapp and can fangirl now and again. )

I digress.Earlier this year (When I actually started writing this post), I bumped into the parents of someone I find deplorable and insufferable. By honing back the Sass, I avoided asking how their child's criminal trial was going and therefore avoided probable injury. I walked back to my mother and my first words were: "My sass self control has hit another level, guess who I just saw?". Just be polite. It leads to a better you, one day probably. People recall your sassy quips faster than your classy everything else.

Honestly, I love spending time with relatives and what inspired me were the by-standers who appear aloof and rude toward these  same relatives. You can have the best laugh with the right Aunty and a cool Uncle can teach you card games. (Well one day someone will teach me thunee, I cannot play at all).When did it stop being taught that you should make an effort to be civil towards other people? Avoid being whispered about when you sashay to the biryani, avoid being frowned upon when you grab some burfee. Sort that out and you wil survive the marquee mêlée.

Be wise, socialise.

The Slut List

They create discord and then vanish. Like the Salem Witch Trials, any evidence (real or imagined) is sufficient. Dislike someone? Put them on. Want to ostracize someone? Stick 'em on too. A list of names to blacken, a judgement passed. All some women have are their good names- yet a select few choose to fling mud. 

Since I started high school, there were always mutterings of them, whispers that lurked the corridors and hid in scraps of paper passed along a row. They were posted on Facebook and sent over Mxit or BBM. In the same way disease spreads, each person branded as an offender tried to isolate themselves. Fearing the reputation that had been smeared onto their names would stick. Fearing the rumors would always lurk over their lives.

Every few months I see a scandal unfold on my newsfeed: a catfish profile that gained the trust of people or a fight that ensues because of suspicions and rumours. People depressed because the drama caused has put a strain on their lives. And then I see a list. 

The Slut List has been a notoriously childish, insensitive and destructive trend. I've never been on one and even if I had been, it would hold less water than a sieve. But I still feel for those girls who are put on them, again and again. Until they feel numb. Since when was it okay to "decide" that there needs to be a list put out, detailing the names and "offences" of people you vaguely know? The truth never matters, it is bent to suit the author. 

The creators are cowards, usually hiding behind a farce of "Someone sent this to me, told me to share" or by creating catfish profiles on social media in order to escape the backlash. They are bitter, lonely, cruel and immature. They are hungry for a sense of power or a sense of belonging. Do they care if their victims are deeply affected by it? They sit behind a computer and presume to know the girls they write about. Do they feel remorse?

Nope. 

The targets are usually:

- enemies

- popular people who are seen to be "too friendly"

- a specific type deemed to be "slutty"

  

And the motivation varies from resentment to wanting to create a stir.All thats left to do afterwards is type out all the names that fit your requirements and press "Send". 

Some of those lists follow girls (and recently many boys)around for many years.Nothing is easier to ruin than a reputation. Your family finds out? Some of them assume that where there is smoke, there must be a fire. Speaking to some of the girls who have featured on Slut Lists makes you realise how deep the pain can go. Some feel victimised because an impression of promiscuity and depravity is created by this list. Do you know what a label feels like?

Suffocating and like a prison to some. It is a violation that is pinned to you, a scarlet letter that brands you. 

As much as I hate to say it- The Indian community tends to have these lists circulating.  Not exclusively but by far most popularly. A witch-hunt to shame the girls who do not fit into an "Ideal". Since when have we become judge and jury? Why this need to publish and spread hate and malicious petty behavior? 

It is unrealistic to expect these lists to stop. But it is very realistic to stop giving them power to have any influence. Click report, ignore them, don't forward them. Give them no power and let them starve of the attention they so desperately crave. 

Call me a slut? Sure. I will hold my head up high and let you try to belittle my womanhood. Keep trying. Take your best shot actually. Those words do not define any of us. They are not chains that bind my wrists. We create our own identity. 

slut. whore. bitch. slag. loose. 

They are just words. And your womanhood is so much more than a few letters grouped together.

Toothache: On Candy Crush and Imbeciles

I do it on the bus, the train, sometimes before a lecture and occasionally when waiting in traffic. It doesn't last long, usually a few minutes and then it's over. Have I sent you a Game Request telling you what I'm doing? No. 

Candy Crush has become a much condemned, nay despised game by people who do not play it (and a lot of us who do play it) because users will incessantly send out requests to their Facebook friends. If you're into being detested and mocked then go ahead and send me another game request. 

I'm currently on level 270 (ok I'm stuck right now) (blame peak traffic for this). I'm not asking you to do anything. I'm not sending a plea to help me and I'm certainly not begging you for an extra life so I can get past the level. It's just a game that passes the time for me, it doesn't have to be your problem.

I think the only times I've sent Candy Crush requests were when:

1) A friend and I agreed that if I was stuck in Gingerblade Glade any longer (trying to unlock the quest), I could send him a request and he would ask if ever he was stuck for a few weeks. Mutual acceptance of the dreaded request.

2) My Significant Other was the other invite for the one above. The last one I decided to send to someone who had plagued me with requests for lives. That was a mistake. I have probably received 54 requests from her alone. 

In reality 30 minutes isn't a long time, if you run out of lives then put the phone down and do something productive. 12 hours isn't a long time, if you finish the quest then wait until you can play again. Instant gratification for you is an annoying notification for the rest of the population. DID YOU KNOW YOU DONT EVEN HAVE TO CONNECT TO FACEBOOK? I put my data off and play without really needing to have popups to send people lives/extra moves/ my soul/a gift. 

I enjoy the game. It's a simple concept that appeals to the parts of your brain that like rewards. But I am tired now, of having the same inane requests.A friend of mine told me that someone he knows actually texted,called and IM'd him to ask if he had seen their game request. Those are the people we don't need in our lives. Or on Facebook.

 Yay you got a higher score on level 77, is it really necessary to post that irrelevant piece of information onto my wall? I don't care.   I play, it passes the time on my daily commute to university. My mum plays, she doesn't even have Facebook. She's even told me to leave her phone alone when I've offered to do a level for her.  

But I know that the real motivation for the statuses that declare that they will unfriend people who they have who send a CC request:

1) The imbeciles who send them, barely know you. They make no effort to communicate with you, nor do they actually read your blog (cough cough), sorry I meant they don't actually care. Same thing really.

2) Its the same idiot, again and again. 

3) They don't even play the game, they don't care. Why do you fill up their notifications with crap? 

I've decided to send the people who send me game requests a link to my blog. Afterwards they are free to decide. And by "free"I mean I will post this link all over their walls until they stop. You can do the same (all press is good press). Don't send me lives, extra moves or a Lollipop Hammer. Do something worthwhile between your CC lives replenishing if it is such a vital part of your life.It says more about you than it does about me if you can't find something to do for 30 minutes.  

Refuse to abide by my terms and I will sugar crush you. 

Su's Tough Love Talk

This is for the troubled girls. The sometimes happy but mostly sad girls. This is for the ones who aren't sure if they can leave him. This is for the one who hasn't spoken to her friends because she knows he hates them and because they all said he was bad news. The girls who are too scared to dump his sorry ass and move on. This is for you, my girl- it's time for some tough love. 

I have many obscure Life Beliefs. But I hold firm to three of them when it comes to the people in your life: 

1) Never apologise for the high standards you hold. And if you aren't apologising for your standards in life yet... Pretend they are the roof and RAISE THEM. 

2) There are 7 billion people in the world (a handful in space). There is NO obligation to scrape the bottom of the barrel when it comes to your choices in partners.

3) The men you choose to love must be like the books you cherish: Well read, highly recommended and critically acclaimed as something that doesn't come along often. 

Now I don't expect the last to apply to everyone, but the first two should be taught to your daughters as soon as they can say "Mama". Make them aware of their value early on so that no one can ever take advantage of them by low balling that value. 

Am I being too fussy? That I will never tolerate a cheater, liar, thief or someone who just doesn't quite reach the bar. No. I owe it to myself to expect Great Love, to demand nothing less. To expect love that demands mutual respect, kindness and understanding. I owe it to myself to pick a diamond in the rough and not grab at Fool's Gold. You should expect the same, you know why?

You are a woman. In the 21st Century. In an age where all the sex-based mountains of the past have been knocked down so you are on equal standing with men. The Suffragette Movement had women throw themselves under horses and going on hunger strikes in prison so you could stand up and declare your feminine power with pride. So you could go to the same institutes of learning and work at the same companies as your fellow man. You have all the opportunities that they dreamed of, all the freedom that some women STILL do not have. You represent a long line of thinkers, teachers, healers, leaders and so much more. 

So why the hell would you choose to settle for a man who does not do your potential justice?

 Why do you choose that "bad boy"? These guys come with a neon warning sign. And moths love neon signs right? So they allllllllll flock to them. You don't have to be a Moth. You're a frikken butterfly, you don't need his explosive, psychotic neon sign. The guy who your friends don't like and who is overly suspicious of you?  Still don't recognise that your "man" is a Bad Boy. Let me define that guy for everyone in a case study:

Bad: Defined as something that is Not Good. 

Boy: He is not a Man. He does not live up to the standard set by men. Great men who treated women with respect.He is a boy who will never grow or learn from his foolish ways. Do you need a boy in your life? I thought not.

Dead beat Bad Boy: defined as the Ideal Man by women who like to conduct their romances through the glass at a prison's visiting bay. Characteristics include Devil-May-Care attitude, possible addiction to narcotics /and/or/ Alchohol. Paranoid about losing you because many women see through him. Was arrested/will be arrested at some point ( possibly related to his narcotics). Displays violent tendencies but very quickly apologizes to his Lady. Ambition in life is limited to some dead end job, possibly with a kind relative.Always has a half baked "complicated" plan that never works out. May or may not hack into your social media to attempt to drive away your best friend with a horrible message. (yeah I know the guy all right) (You actually went back, again?)

Not-John-Mayer Bad Boy: he doesn't fit the stereotype but he undermines you, makes you feel trapped and he knows that he wields some kind of love-related power over you. He might not have the black leather jacket, but he's a douche. 

Sauve Playboy Bad Boy: He's the Too-Cool-For-Commitment guy. Everything is exactly the same as Dead Beat except he probably will leave before you figure out his ambition in life. His neon sign has attracted many other moths. He cheats but he really, truly loves you and will honestly never look at another... Oh darn there he is kissing your best friend, again.

Let's be real for a second- people use your name and "stupid girl" in the same sentence, often. You aren't but your choice of Significant Other makes people doubt you have a brain. My question is "Why him?". All I would like is an explanation or some justification from someone my age( or older) who chooses to stay. You have no kids or any real ties to him. He cheats, you go back. He gets arrested, you go back. He leaves you for someone else and comes back to you, you go back again. Where is the self respect? There is only so much that love can justify. 

 The world is your oyster- why must you dine on the kitchen scraps? 

Charles Darwin's theory of Natural Selection describes it as "The survival of the fittest". Those that cannot adapt- die out. 

-Does he fit your Life Plan?

-Does he fit your (now raised) standards?

-Does he fit in with the people you care about?

-Does he survive temptation?

If not, then he can just get selected out of your life. Dead like a Dodo and (you should pray about this) extinct from your life like a dinosaur. 

What I'm trying to say that even though he's "Just the boyfriend" now, he might end up as "just a husband" and then "just the father of your kids". And you'll be stuck with him because you don't want your (now estranged) friends to be right. You're gonna be 37 with family you haven't seen in years because they hate your husband and his violent outbursts. You might end up a statistic like the ones that I find in my Criminology textbook when it describes how some men kill their intimate partners. Or another perfect fit for Battered Woman Syndrome. 

There was never any shame in walking away. 

 Your choices now, can define the rest of your life. So Woman Up and walk out. 

We are not like salmon, however much we try.

(The following is purely a creative piece and does not reflect any situation or person at any point in time)

I have a belly full of regret and a mouth full of words I've held back. My mind is steeped in fear, this fear of walking down a path I will grow to hate. And I am scared. So very scared that this feeling will never pass. I am a leaf tumbling in this autumn wind, moving with a will that is not my own. Those roots of optimism I was once anchored to, seem a fading memory of summertime. 

I find myself with no heroes, nothing to be inspired by and very little to emulate. Your voice gets hoarse if you are the only one singing the war cry above the melee of life. Your limbs tire from pushing against the current- we are not like salmon, however much we try. And finally your heart doubts, festering with indecision and questions, until it is changed irrevocably. 

I can only blame myself.

I always knew what my purpose was, because doing it made me happy and it felt the way birds must feel when they graze the heavens. It was a seed of an idea, a wisp of a beginning of what I wanted from this short time here. It didn't matter about money or material possession, which probably was the flaw in my idea. Happiness is an act  and it seems that ambition that is not materialistic is a goal for fools. And what I would give to be part of that troupe. 

Nothing would have happened anyway. I live by the book of rules and I will most likely die under its weight. Trying to deviate from this road, yet never touching the grass that lies beyond the lines that are drawn for me. The mind-made cage is ever-present. 

These colours of my soul will slowly drain away, washed pale by the waters I sometimes try to swim against.

Until nothing remains but duty.

 

A letter for the lobotomised

Greetings my dear companions (and my not so dear ones too)

In an age of spellcheck, Twitter-Wit and this abundance of enlightenment (or some vague notion that we are better off than our predecessors) I find it tragic that we still are plagued with a certain issues. This is my pep-talk for this year in a bid for my contemporaries to "up their game" (and their grammar). 

[Image via 9gag.com]

It is NOT 2007 anymore. We all have QWERTY keyboards on our phones- spellcheck and predictive  text are a free and active feature (I actually used the latter twice in the last sentence). And I'm not pointing fingers at the people who say "U" as opposed to "you", I understand the purpose of that fully. Instead it's "yew peeples wu aRe d01nG diż tôö meeee" (translation: you people who are doing this to me)

Typing that made my eyes burn. Reading it makes them bleed.

Why? 

That's all I ask you. It takes you twice as long to type with letters that have dots, accents and hearts and most rational people have NO clue what you mean. A yew is a tree, it's also the same length as the word you. I would like to show you a yew, with my ewe grazing beneath it. There is no need to personalise English. 

Why must you butcher this language that I love so very much? This attempt to be cool and "modern" has left much to be desired.  You bludgeon the grammar and starve your vocabulary until all that you express are monosyllables. Furthermore you choose to spread this moronic use of English to other people via social media and your social interaction with us.  This leaves me discombobulated and my eyes glaze over with sadness. This spoken and written word fills my soul with euphoria and I feel my heart become engorged with the prose of those who understood it's beauty.  How do you begin to detail the spectrum of your sentiments and how can you justly express it without these words? When did stupidity become trendy? 

Can we fix this? I'm pretty sure I can hear the 2008 Obama campaign saying, "Yes, we can!" to this query.  Read a book, a blog(this one is pretty nice, I think), a magazine or even… (Dare I say it?) A newspaper. We all make mistakes, you're meant to learn from your mistakes. When I was 14 and new on Facebook with a phone that had an alphanumeric keyboard, I used to shorten words occasionally in my wall posts to get the message across faster. I didn't bastardise the language with alternate spelling, "you= u" when I was in a hurry.Now I am 18, older and wiser. Many of my peers have not grown this way.

 You don't have to be the next Jane Austen but at least write in a manner that people understand. Its not cute or quirky so whoever told you that texting like you've been lobotomised was adorable, they lied.Don't sabotage yourself by creating an impression of being a total moron. 

Intelligence is the ultimate allure. End of story.

To love a bookworm- A letter for him

My dearest friend,

To love a bookworm is a romance unlike any other. She may be 17 or 68 but she remains the girl who just bought her first novel and feels that same rush of delight when she buys a new book.

 First of all, you must be patient with her silence when her lips hint at a smile. Her thoughts have become lines of poetry that are entwined with thoughts of you. At least they are... Sometimes.

 She might scribble them in the margins of a notebook but to read them to you would render her shy and gauche. But her mind does compose poems for you. She does wonder about practical things like shoes and the straightness of her fringe. Walk along the shelves as she hunts for a new treasure , hold her hand or the books she considers.

 Miracle if you get to choose a book for her- never mention the book again. She will tell you how you just have to read it the moment she closes it. She will not beg but heed her wisdom. Until then, she is likely to have a stock of books that are either read as soon she walks out the shop or she will let it lie until it calls her name out. But mention it and you awake a dark beast of guilt for not reading the book you picked out for her. And it will taint the reading of the current book in her hands for a chapter or three.

You must remember that you are a romantic hero of sorts in her mind. Since she was a little girl she wondered about you before you knew her. She created a mosaic of all the "perfect " men. But one hopes she realised you are not going to fit that muddle of Darcy and Heathcliff and Marius.... But she sees all the little glimmers of all her great literary loves in your smile. You might be practical or sporty or you may read but not the way she does. But she knows that you cannot be expected to live up to her ideal and instead you begin to define the idea of love that she has. Romance her in the way she pines to be romanced- to be courted and written letters (a thoughtful email will suffice, dear boy). She may have a secret love of umbrellas(Because Jo in Little Women found herself confessing love under one) or she might run her hand along brick walls to chance upon Diagon Alley. These quirks may be secret or she will tell you. Don't ridicule her little dreams that she builds on clouds of fancy.

Her moods may be strange. After all, Mr Rochester broke poor Jane's heart and left your beloved inconsolable for a week when she put the book down and refused to go any further until she felt calm again. Her tears may fall while reading The Notebook and it is the cruelest deed to laugh at her. You don't understand how deeply she feels for Noah in that moment. The next time she has a book she may burst into laughter and feel no shame in rocking in her chair as she tries to explain the joke to you. (Nod and try to see the humour). 

She will have ebooks, old books, new books, bits the dog chewed books. She may have all those or just one type. They are her family and she will likely hold them dear for as long as she lives. Enid and Roald will stay, even if you don't. There is a list of books she wants to keep for her children and a list she will ban from her house . She will scrunch her face up in dark anger if you or anyone suggests she gives her old books away. Because what if she has the urge to reread all the Anne of Green Gables books (which should be read every 4 years or so... Just in case) and she could not find them? Exactly.

She will have a mind that always craves a story and a heart that yearns for the kind of love she thinks doesn't happen in this century anymore. Surprise her and read a book(or try). Her eyes will sparkle like the heart of the mountain and you will be the one to rule over her heart. 

She will never say it - But try to love her as much as she loves you and her books.

Kind regards.

Here in Paradise

We aren't always going to be completely happy with the way things are. Even if we don't listen to the little voice in our head (or voices in my case), there's a dull ache that lingers. Keeping you up at night, recounting every insignificant detail of the past few years.Do you wonder about it too? Do you worry that in a few years you will regret the choices(or lack thereof) you have made?

 Because I do. 

I tend to label anything out of my comfort zone as Life Experience. That no matter how tedious or uncomfortable it feels- you find a way to grow out of it. In retrospect this helped me find meaning in daunting tasks. University has forced me to label many things LE. But it has also made the ache grow into a bruise that smarts black and blue.I have grown in a way that would not be possible back home because I was comfortable there. Out here, the weeds take root in your soils and you must stretch for the sun. Climb higher than the rest or else... Right?

"What if?" looms like the rain swollen clouds that carpet the skies and uncertainty splashes my boots as I venture out in the storm. And I can't answer that question because I really don't know. When torn between a passion and practicality, I know there is a dilemma-Be happy but lie among the weeds or be tall and have no fragrance in your bloom? There is no pity here in paradise. 

I am young and life is still new. Afraid the porcelain soul inside might shatter and be worthless. These thoughts weave into my mind and sharpen their blades among my dreams.

Its fast paced, loud and ruthless here. You run because there is no other option. You keep going because the golden gates lie open at the top of the mountain but everyone wants to get there. Rushing at once, pushing you in hopes you fall. And as much as I've gotten to know myself better I can't shake that dull ache.  I can't escape from my irrational fear of regret. A fear that I'm racing up the wrong path or that I will burn under the sun I reach for so desperately. 

No matter how fast I run, it isn't enough.  I can't differentiate between ambition and pride anymore but one of them spurs me on. "Prove them wrong" it whispers. "But why?" I ask. 

"This is the real highwire and the falling is a very real possibility. But it isn't the only one. You choose"

Train tracks

I took a break from most things for the past month. It wasn't a tough month but I could feel my soul dragging it's feet as I hurried to Platform A to catch the 7am train.

It gets to my destination too fast. There isn't time left to just think. No time left to observe and collect the frayed ends of my heart and tuck them neatly away. The past 5 years I spent countless hours in transit. Rising with the sun and watching the waves gently toss in the morning breeze. An hour there and back, to just listen. To worry, to smile, to laugh or to cry.

There are no more shades of sky-mirroring blue left in my commutes. Instead the highlight is a hill covered in purple wild flowers that fade as each day passes. This world of responsibility and of law lectures and meeting new people is trying. The familiar faces of friends who have also ventured to this dry place bring me joy. In them, I find myself relaxed and unguarded.

I find myself walking streets I have never seen before. Strange as I would never venture out this way before. I do not know these roads. I used to be able to close my eyes and even after a long time, I'd know where we were on the road. Your bones know every turn and bump once you've been doing something all your life. But here my compass spins aimlessly.

My knees ache from this new need to walk around and my calves tighten when I lay in slumber. The hours are too short to matter and the waking rays of dawn arrive earlier than expected.

There are storms here that shout and rattle the window frames. The days are an undecided mixture of fat raindrops and piercing heat. I feel like an alien.

This world of academics and crowds where you are just a number and timetables of unknown symbols confuse me. But I do love it.

I have tried to find joy in the little things, as I did before. Joy in the wealth of knowledge, laughter in friends(old and new) and even though the route will never be the same- I will enjoy the journey.

Hear our joyful voices ring: The last page

My matric year started during an assembly where we were voted in as executive members and it ended in a flurry of newspapers in a way out garage at 1am this morning. And through the lessons where it was just too boring to stay awake to the impromptu dance parties in our cozy exec room, I found a happiness I would not trade for the world. Finally I am at the last page of this book.

7 distinctions is what the paper says next to my name. My parents cried. My father held me and wept in joy. It hasn't hit me yet but when it does I'm sure I will cry too. My friends are all making me so so proud. Through the late nights of complaining to the early morning jokes, we stuck to it. It's at this point I realise I came out of high school with a family. It was never just school for me. 

It was a home to me. Those cool brick walls that soothed my aching wrists between rushed paragraphs in the History exam,housed us for 5years. I walked into those gates with a new, too-big blazer and walked out for the last time with tears and a blazer that had seen many days. I knew one person on my first day at school. That was it. 

Now I have countless sisters.

Thank you Northlands Girls High for being MY high school. For being the place I told everyone to send their child because it was just THAT good. For the teachers who did more than they actually needed to, who were always there to listen, laugh and give us that push we needed. For the mentorship it provided to teach us to be better leaders, better people. For the friends I've made. I found my voice while wandering those crowded hallways with my friends and I found my soul lingering in the hugs as we said good morning in Registration. Change is inevitable and it is time to say goodbye to my days there. 

I wept when we had our last official day. I cried like someone had died and I would never see them again. I wept because it felt like yesterday when I first sang our School Song in the hall. The cocoon stage was almost over at that point. 

Tomorrow we are officially moving. So it's a week of change but that's ok. The winds will blow you in many directions but I have a feeling that the roots I've laid down will remain hardy for a long time. The past five years have shaped me. I don't know what lies ahead but I will always be grateful that so far, it's been one heck of a trip. So thank you to everyone who has been part of it who reaffirmed my faith in God everyday with your kindness, lessons of humility and love that kept me motivated throughout this year. 

Twenty Thirteen

When I was 9, I worked out that when I turned 18 it would be 2013. When I was 13, I looked forward to it because it would mark the end of school and essentially my teenage years. Perhaps I will define my youth by this year. It would be the year I met myself properly and I liked who I saw. There was (and is) a lot of hype surrounding the Matric exams and now results are pending for those of us who did NSC exams. But if there's something I learned this year, it was that my problems are tiny in the grand scheme of things. Whatever it is will pass and it won't define you. The worries at the beginning of last year seem trivial (if I can remember them).

2013 was the year I changed it up, I worked hard for myself and it made all the difference. The results that come out, will be for me. Its not about what "The People" will say - They didn't put the work in, they didn't feel the strained eyes and sore wrists that we had while studying. My parents were especially understanding during Finals though. They get that you have to work for yourself and not for other people. I went to a new church and I've learned so muchfrom the lessons of how  ordinary things can have hints of something divine. I've seen how ordinary people can do extraordinary acts of goodwill and kindness just to help their fellow man. 

I think that's what showed me that I've changed. I put my everything into this year and it was ok because it was for me. You had to be selfish and take time for yourself too.I encountered some amazing people this year. The more people you meet, the more lessons you learn. From real life to the (mostly) wonderful people of Twitter, I  learned Life Lessons:

1) You can be the most awarded and brilliant person but that people will love you and respect you for your humility. Its that attitude that can be your crowning glory because it just highlights your successes without you having to boast them.

2) Its ok to break down in a crowded room and say "I'm sorry" to the people who matter. Because they will cry with you and echo your raw, tearful feelings. You show your strength of character when you can be vulnerable and admit to being wrong.

3) You will fall. And that's ok sometimes. You will fall so hard that everything seems impossible. The trick is to forget your fears and start climbing again.

4) Everything is Life Experience. Good, bad or just plain weird. You learn from everything and pray that you grow from it.

5) Life is short so you don't have to make your dresses shorter to fit in. Be yourself regardless of what's fashionable because we can all see your tweets from 2012. And you were totally a Belieber, babes.

6) At the end of the day, you have to wash your own undies. No one else should be forced to sort out your private stuff.

So in preparation for the New Year's barrage of messages of goodwill and the slight fear that looms with the unknown future, be thankful for this year. I am.

For the friends I've made while learning Afrikaans poems, for the Tweeters who made #SuesMatricDance a thing, for all the times my ribs hurt because I laughed too hard during History. For the nerves before a speech during Best Speakers and the joy of saying hello to everyone in the Morning Registration. For the English lessons on poetry and life.  I'm so grateful for all that I have and all that I've learned. Thank you for making 2013 beautiful.

And thank you to my readers who have been so kind to take time out for my little blog.

Happy New Year !(albeit a bit late)

Tomorrow the results of the Matric exams are released. Nothing has prepared me for the nerves that have sprung up (since I stayed relatively calm all year, this stress is a foreign feeling). There will be no sleep for me tonight or my mother who is a ball of nerves. I'm hoping I can write a guide to surviving Matric Exams and Results but there's no telling what could happen if I don't survive myself. Good luck Class of 2013. And thank you to the people who made my matric year (and school experience) Amazing!