My rant regarding bullshit books

The following may or may not be a rant. Either way it's about time I got something off my chest in a way that couldn't be done in 140 characters or less. And yeah, its TOTALLY aimed at some of you. (Not all, some)

I love books, for most of my life I've devoted my time to reading them. I adore how writers can wrap you in a blanket of prose that sweeps you away and let you fall into the story as you turn the pages. Some of my best speeches and essays are about books or an appreciation of an author. Currently I have a box with about 14kgs worth of books next to my bed that I need to read. My father used to discuss Dickens, Shakespeare and the Bröntes with me while walking me to school every week(that is another story altogether). I'm pretty confident in my ability to identify a good book and a bullshit one. (If that offended you, then stop reading. Especially you mum. Stop here!)

The latter is pretty easy to recognise because they all are about the same things, there's usually a contrived twist that somehow reveals a deep dark backstory that is a Macguffin to (eventually, after various conflicts not unlike the family fights seen on Keeping Up with the Kardashians) lead you to believe that your money wasn't wasted buying some garbage in hardcover. They're all basically glorified Mills and Boobs bestsellers... Sorry Boons.

This said, I do not appreciate half the bloody population of females between 13 and 60 telling me to "have a go " at Twilight, 50 Shades of Grey or The Vampire Diaries. I wikipedia'd them all (I can't debate something I don't know jack about. Twilight I read through for an hour before the pain medication wore off and the girl who told me to read it was satisfied that my appetite was whetted. I'm a good actress too, you see ). Oy vey at that load of garbage. 

Heaven forbid I actually paid MONEY to buy the pitiful excuses for literature I was told I "HAD TO READ!!". I actually feel insulted by the amount of times I've been told to read them by fans. Is this what popular literature has come to?

I get it- you're into that idea of a mysterious, brooding and slightly dangerous male protagonist (that means main good guy) and you cannot help but see yourself as the damsel (this means girl with no self worth) who is so delicate and subservient. A flower who is toying with the very poison that could kill her.. Oh *tosses hand up in anguish* (See, I could write this bullshit too. But I wouldn't because I wouldn't disrespect the English language like that). And of course there has to be some kind of problem that is too good to be true but true love always wins, right?

You're all better than that. Even the girls putting #50shades or #TeamEdward in their twitter bios and the myriad of girls who suddenly are called Salvatore or Cullen on Facebook. And the lady from up the road who informed me that 50 Shades was some fun female reading. If you could fork out whatever amount of cash it was to buy that, then you could buy books that actually were good. Your claim could be that you actually read a novel that wasn't filled with the literary equivalent of horseshit.

Read something that is a labour of love, where you see the author's tears act like punctuation when someone has to die. Where the ending isn't always happy but you come to terms with it because you know there was no other way but you can see that the writer wanted you to walk away with something more. Learn about human nature in the subtle actions that are portrayed by people who have lived a life very differently to yours. Read something that actually matters.

Escapism is fun, by all means try to escape into another world. But it shouldn't be isolated to some bedroom or in a town filled with vampires where you identify with the "weak" human girl. Where her only option to be strong and protect herself is to change who she is and "turn"(is that what you guys call becoming a vampire right?) into something she's not. Its tripe. I won't even explain why because my fingers will not bring themselves to type the reason why that whole concept of weak, delicate flower toying with strong poisonous guy who may be her doom and all the associated melodrama is a load of hogwash.

 You're better than that.

If you really want 50 shades of something then I'm sure Dulux has a wide variety of paint that you can sample to suit that urge. If you want pale bloodsuckers then Kotex has a range for that too. If you want violent, blood-filled action in a bedroom then come visit me in summer and watch as I kill mosquitoes that venture into my territory.

If I ever wrote a book, I would want it to challenge my readers. I would not assume they were all mindless goons but instead a crowd of intelligent people who deserved better than some fan-fiction or a shiny mystery man who was a vegetarian vampire(yeah nice one there. Totally makes him more accessible as a character). Instead I would want to write the kind of novel that made them think, made me think and work at trying to build a story from the first lines to the denouement. If someone paid, they should get a good show.
That is all.

PS: When you're all done with tweeting about how angry you are with the casting of the 50 Shades of nay film, help me pressure Vikram Seth into finishing his sequel to A Suitable Boy (note: it took him 7 years to write that one novel. THAT is quality. Not a whole trilogy in 12 months) because I've been waiting 6 years already and they postponed the release date to 2016 (What the hell Vick. I've spent most of my high school career waiting for matric because your book would have been released, only to find that I'll have to wait until 3rd year at university. I won't have time then. Not like I have now)
Anyway, help me get my new favourite novel published quickly.  My problems trump yours. Read a good book soon, okay? 

Thanks.

Hello old friend, won't you sit down?

Greetings dear readers

So I've had this blog since I was in Grade 10 and a lot of you have been wonderful in constantly reading this, giving me feedback and just letting me know that I haven't been spouting out nonsense into the vast unknown and some of you are listening. I would love to have a conversation with all of you but alas that is not possible. 

But lets pretend for a second it is, you are sitting with me and drinking a warm beverage (tea perhaps? I would be drinking water or juice because I can't abide by tea or most hot drinks) and we could talk. I'm sure it would be as if we were old friends and you'd see the anxiety in my eyes as I prepare for my final exams. I would ask about your passions in life and maybe ask what food you liked to eat. There would be no need to say much because by being here, you already know so much about me and my inner workings. But you don't quite know the random, ordinary stuff about me? Yeah I thought so. 

To be very honest, I'm just some seventeen year old girl who is secretly shy but also a public speaker and at one point debator. Slightly schizophrenic? Yes but shh my friends don't know that inside I'm terrified of stuff too. I'm opinionated but I try very hard to keep an open mind ( I generally can't stand people who won't listen to various ideas unless it conforms with their own beliefs. Your mind is an umbrella - it won't be of use unless you open it). I value family and how even people who aren't directly related to you, can be just as close as a sister or brother. I'm a quitter of note in terms of things I've tried - Bharatha Natyam (spelling is probably off, it's Indian classical dance), piano, belly dancing( though I really loved and wanted to continue that), debating (ditto. Adored it) and yoga ( I'm pretty sure the instructer died though). To be very honest I really wanted to do violin, ballet and synchro swimming- would have stuck with those. Everything else about me is on Twitter. 

Enough about that, the real reason I've asked you over for a chat is to say Thank you. I am grateful that you've made this girl who wanted to write have a reason to keep going on( and often going off on a tangent). For the past two years, I've shared my naive tales of high school and next week that journey will officially end. My dad said to me last week that after I write my last exam, things will change. It's a coming of age and you aren't that kid anymore. I'm glad I got to share those stories and my thoughts with many of you. Maybe you've seen me grow( if I grew at all) or picked up that my tale about Dubai was "Part 1" and almost a year later Part 2 about Thailand never came up( I never got around to finishing that post). Maybe you wanted to know if I still cry in the bathtub, I'm happy to report that I haven't cried there in a while. I'm eating healthy and getting over my old demons that lurk in the mirror. And Cousin A is still a douche. And I still wash my hair at odd hours if the morning. I'm sticking to my story with the Survival Guide and my heroes are still out there showing Life how its supposed to be done. 

The next time I'm gonna be able to post will be after the last paper has been written and my uniform put away for the last time. The past two years have been a learning curve and yeah.. Thanks for sharing it with me. 

Until we meet again, my friend

Su

The Spirit: What a group of girls taught me about unity

For the past five years of high school I've looked forward to events that allowed me to sing and shout and dance around showing pride for my school. It's this immense feeling of unity and sisterhood that overwhelms me. I am not a sporty girl at all, but I am a passionate supporter. 

Today was our last Inter-House Sports Day. The end of 12 years of galas and athletics and fun events that got me dressed up in house colours and cheering for my side. Something happened today that shattered every preconception I've had about the power of unity and the pride I have for my school( and actually the future, now that I really think of it) has grown exponentially. You see, there are four houses that we are divided into - Red, Blue, Green, Yellow. ( I've chosen to leave out the house names and just stick with our colour). Now in the past, there was fierce rivalry between everyone for the Spirit Cup.

Highly coveted and what is the best award because it didn't depend on who was fastest but rather who had the most passion for their team. So about 20 minutes into the singing and shouting, Red and Green decided to merge to form one HUGE house that sang and clapped for everyone. Soon it meshed in with Yellow and the atmosphere became filled with the buzz of excited girls who sang together. Now everyone wanted it to move further, have Blue join. But the request was spurned and the festivities continued. Races were ran and Pom-poms were fluttering in the warm air. 

For the first time in the schools history, houses joined together to celebrate our school. To show the strength of all our voices combined, or at least most of our voices. The voice over the mic requested everyone to sing the school song but we sadly noted that Blue refused to join in with everyone else. So they sang after RYG finished, but everyone else joined in. Because a lot of us realised it wasn't about winning anything or losing but about celebrating and having healthy competition yet still cheering each other on. 

The reason this bizarre event gives me hope is because in that crowd of 700 or so girls, may be a future leader. Your future decision-makers or voters or just a huge amount of potential. For the most part, everyone didn't care about who won, we screamed in joy and pride that this was the potential. In a previous post I expressed fear that this generation of young people needed to learn that it's ok to be proud of each others victory. And today, those fears were squashed. I saw 13 year old girls who were initially too shy to even sing along that eventually ended up jumping around with their peers.

Inter-House Day became INTEGRATED. It wasn't Segregated House day, but something magical( to me at least) that took a bunch of girls who usually cannot even unite to sing during assembly and changed that same bunch into a cheering force. I truly feel honored that I was privileged to be a part if that today. For the moments that it lasted , it etched itself into my memory. It wasn't the day this house lost or won but rather the day we all (well most of us) came together. To the few members of Blue who snuck over to join us and were later reprimanded- You made me smile because you chose what you knew to be better.

However the best of things cannot last and even though it was proposed to award the Spirit Cup to the ENTIRE school for showing tremendous spirit, it was vetoed by Blue. At the end of the day, it seemed that they insisted on a winner because sharing the victory that the entire day was, was not good enough. The houses were told to divide back and each one gave their all, although heartsore that  we had to part ways. Blue won (as they are accustomed to) and no one begrudged them for their victory. They won and it was what they do as Blue. But Red, Green and Yellow celebrated louder afterwards - For them the victory was in finding pride for each other. From the quietest to the loudest, the fast and slow- we sang one last time to remember something that never happened before and was unlikely to happen again.

You cannot conquer while divided because in being together you find so much more strength and joy. 

I'm proud of you LeVauStone. You made my last Inter-House Athletics day into a memory I will cherish because it taught me that the greatest pride can come from something other than victory - Togetherness.

Before the screen fades to static

I was born in the year 1995, so I'm half inclined to call myself a "90's kid" even though I only really recall about 2 years of the nineties. But what I do remember (quite vividly ) are the VCR cassette tapes that my parents would buy and that I would watch again and again.

We have a cupboard full of plastic cases at my grandparents' house, an array of Classic Disney, cheesy Hindi films, some home videos and a lot of nostalgia are found in them. Did you have any of those? Can you recall how easy it was? The straight forward "Play" without all the extra features or language choices. Yes you had to wait a few minutes to rewind the video( this happened often because I would always forget to rewind it afterwards) and the test pattern would hurt your ears for a few seconds but it was part of the fun. A ritual of my childhood I suppose. Rituals that I try to carry out now and again when I realise that so many years have raced by already. Nostalgia is often my favourite drug.

My first day of school I remember in a haze, like the beginning of the film as it came into focus. The tight plaits that stood stiff on either side of my six-year old head and the shiny stationery and the smell of wax crayons that would cling to the plastic of my pencil case. I remember being at the same table as people I knew from pre-school, happily waiting for Mrs Pringle ( who ended up teaching me again in Grade 3 ) to tell us what to do. Twelve years later and I'm still longing to be back in that sunny classroom with the mulberry tree outside the window, waiting  to learn something that I didn't know before. I remember figuring out how many years until I reached Matric (Grade 12) and every year it would become smaller and smaller until suddenly... There I was, walking into the gates on the "First Day of School" for the last time. It had become such a natural place to be in, home away from home. 

And the realisation scared me. Scared the part of me that is still a child waiting at the table with a wax crayon and a bright smile with a loose tooth that I kept jiggling with my tongue. There won't be a safety net after I leave these busy halls and that there was this huge expectation that I don't fall off this tightrope. That maybe this time, I can't go back and relive the magic from the start...

Trial exams begin in less than 2 weeks. A precursor to the final examinations that everyone keeps saying will decide my fate. Not a moment is to be wasted (even these precious few that I've stolen to write this ). The climax has come and gone, all that is left are the few formalities to tie loose ends and decide the destiny of the characters in the film.

Gone are the days of keeping silkworms in a shoebox and of letters home complaining that my writing is shoddy and I surely have a learning disorder. So quickly have the last few years rushed by in haste. Of screaming girls running to class and teachers who taught me to think and to love learning. People who's names and stories I know so well, probably will vanish into the depths of my mind. Only to be dredged up at a reunion in a few years (maybe).  Soon, I will walk through those gates for the last time and all of it will seem like a dream. Not being able to recall parts if it that once seemed so vital. They become dulled and skip over like a broken VCR tape that sends the screen into a shock of black and white static. 

Su's Survival Guide to being an Indian Teenager in Matric

In my family (and generally most Indian families I know) Matric is seen as a definitive point of ones life. For a lot of people, your worth WILL be measured by how many A's you get at the end of that year. I hear people saying, "Yes he's a brilliant chap, got 7 A's in his Matric year" (this may ignore the fact that aforementioned "He" is now a drug addict who sleeps on the beach). Or I end up having my mother ask with fear, "Su, you will get all A's at the end of the year? " after she hears a horror story of a "Golden Child"* who failed a few subjects and can't get into university. Do you know many hours I've spent consoling and reassuring her that I will not fail? A lot.

[* Golden Children are often just rotten kids who get gilted by Mummy and Daddy Dearest who go out of their way to inform you how brilliant their offspring is. Repeatedly. At. every. Single. Family. Function... Twice]

I feel like there's some sacred but secret Indian tradition called "Push your matriculant into the Psych Ward with a Nervous Breakdown". I honestly believe that it exists and should be put into writing so at least we know what to expect. It starts before you even begin the school year, it begins as the matrics of the previous year get their marks back and everyone is frantic to know if Pushpa's son did better than Bobby's daughter or if Seema and her boasting paid off with her child getting brilliant marks. Everyone is calling each other and congratulating Polly's son for his one A in Life Orientation (somewhat a private joke in South Africa as it is probably the most redundant subject ever taught, much less required by the Department of Education) and oh everyone just goes crazy! And you're on the couch, scared as hell!

Then there is my dear sweet Mother... Back where we started with the fear in her eyes and the flushed look on her face and the question, "You won't embarrass me like that Su? Because Polly always said how brilliant her son was and see what happened?". 

Thereafter I told her that Polly lied because her son was the sort of boy who could tell you how to spike your hair up and when to wear fake FUBU shirts to the mall but he could not remember why Animal Farm by Orwell was an allegory. Obviously this reassurance was not enough ( I've learned to block out the questions about exams and Finals now) and it pops up now and again. I've learned to deal with it. But it gets worse, much much worse.

I'm not sure if you're familiar with the organism referred to as an Aunty ( Homo Auntyous obnoxious ) but I am. Commonly found in their natural habitat (a lounge with many doilies or a relatives house) and on occasion fanning themselves with punjabi scarves on a plastic chair at a family wedding/funeral/prayer/event. You will recognise this breed of Aunty by the shrill pitch of voice and a steely glare as they size you up to tell you how fat or dark you have gotten since they last saw you. They ask you your age and then mutter "Ahh in Standard 10*? Working hard? Will I see your name in the paper with all A's? Do you have a boyfriend? What are you going to study next year!!?" The trick is to smile and nod at everything except the Boyfriend question and then to mention a prestigious university and a "Good" career choice at the relevant points ( good= Doctor, Lawyer, Engineer, Accountant ). And even agree when they say you've put on weight and compliment their garish sari blouse too. Then walk away quickly !

*[Standard 10 is Grade 12 but for older people- I would explain but I have no kicking clue why it happened that way. I just add 2 years to the standard and nod .If you do know why, leave a comment... Please]

Now the counterpart to Aunty is Uncle (Homo uncleis Boringous) who is characterised by his pot belly, a full mustache that is his pride and an insistence to hug you even though you want to shake hands (I don't like hugging old men who smell of cigarettes ). You may run into Uncle as you escape Aunty and he WILL interrogate you-

 

You: (being the polite child you are, you greet the uncle who is tipsy and scowling at his glass of watered down whiskey) Hello Uncle. *extends hand to shake his but you get pulled into a hug *

Uncle : (Coughs and squints until he vaguely recalls who you are) Ahh you! In Matric eh? You remember how I used to visit when you were small?

You: Not really uncle, but yes I am I Matric

Uncle : ( asks odd questions about your parents , obscure relatives ) (Then begins to tell you why being an Accountant is the best option for a career because you won't be happy but at least you'll be rich and how choosing law will never benefit anyone)

You: I'm so sorry, I think Mummy needs me to get something for her.. * tries to walk away* 

Uncle: No no, *continues *

You: * sits patiently until your mother decides to rescue you after an hour*

The Uncle is far more dangerous than the Aunty. Avoid at all costs, lest they invite you on "The FacingBook".( That was a true story, and yes I did get a Friend Request that was ignored until it went away)

My tips on surviving this last year of school are as follows: 

1) When asked about your schoolwork, respond with how it's harder than ever( Even if its as simple as  Life Orientation's booklet on Coping with Stress) and you are applying yourself to your work diligently.

2) Avoid family gatherings in this last year of school if possible and if you MUST go, fake laryngitis and cough when approached by an Aunty or Uncle

3) Ignore what happened to Tina's sisters' neighbour's child when  they studied until 4am and became a president. Study the way that works for you (and dammit, get enough rest. Tina's someone's someone's child was an idiot who blanked out during Finals because they broke down, the President thing was a lie to make you want to compete. Don't fall into that trap)

4) Don't let people's comparisons and comments get to you. This is your year, not an audition for Idols. Unless its Simon Cowell as your Uncle, he cannot be a judge to your standard of excellence

5) If you're gonna aim to be a Golden Child, make sure that that gold is the standard of your choice. 9 karat or 24 karat, it's you who decides. 

6) Don't forget to compliment the Aunty's garish sari blouse that doesn't fit! 

That's as much advice as I have right now, I'm currently avoiding Mother and a box of past papers she's brought for me to work through and I'm trying to relax for a little before the humdrum of Trials and then Finals begins. I also have a family thing coming up soon so wish me luck as I try to convince old people that shaking their hands is an alternative. Lastly, if all the above fails, for a few minutes , go curl up under your desk and take a nap. Naps would have saved Tina's fake sisters' fake neighbour's fake kid. But he stayed up and studied like the Aunties said he should. 

Skin Deep : On fair skin and why it shouldn't be " In"

(Edit: 14 September 2015. Consider this a sort of retraction, in retrospect, of one or two things said that may diminish people. When I wrote this, I was incensed at my personal battle with people around me propagating certain ideas of how people should look. In my deep passion, in trying to prove a point about being comfortable in ones own skin, I diminished those who are light skinned. I am so sorry. The following piece isn't necessarily changed but it has been edited in order to convey my original message- to be in love with who you are, which is every reason I write this blog. Xx Su)



I'm ashamed to say that my newest pet peeve is when I see people edit their pictures until they are unrecognisable. The vanishing noses, artificial poses in bathrooms that could use a tidying up and the brightness setting turned up. 

After brief deliberation I realized it wasn't the editing that upset me (I love what can be done with effects and adding magic to a picture, you can transform something banal into something beautiful). It was the degree of "retouching" that occurred. They were not touched up, those photos were groped and pinched and scratched into "sexiness". It was the reason they edited the pictures: Where naturally beautiful girls ended up looking like plastic dolls and phantom ghosts because they seem to think their natural complexion isn't something they should be proud of.

I do want to point some fingers at what may be the cause of this obsession with being fair skinned. To do this I might need to use an example about being fair or being darker skinned in various communities  around the world, whilst all skin types are beautiful, it is a tragedy when women try to alter their gorgeous skin to conform to an ideal that is neither healthy nor positive. 

 Colorism is defined as a form of discrimination based on the colour of your skin that results in different treatment socially, within your own ethnic group.It has nothing to do with race, often it is within ones race that people discriminate against the individuals who have melanin rich skin, by that I mean darker. It happens in many Asian countries, India and in Africa. 

Instead of going on about it from a detached perspective, I might use the advantage I have of actually seeing colorism first hand. I am an Indian, I live in South Africa ( and am a bornfree) which is a wonderful melting pot of many different cultures and people... So I get to see the common threads of colorism in cultures that would seem poles apart.

I've been to weddings where I've heard older women say, " Oh she's a lovely bride, if only she wasn't so dark.". When a baby is born I've seen people coo " What a lovely fair skin she has!". We watch Hindi films where every actress is lighter and every time I go out into the sun, I hear someone say " Don't get too dark !! " (in my head or in real life). You see many boys say "Yeah shes a doll, look at how fair she is ! ". Why wouldn't girls think that beautiful meant being light? 

We've been indoctrinated into feeling that being brown isn't beautiful. We begin to resent the gorgeous hues that we come in. And then we start hurting that skin by plastering lightening creams (often with dangerous substances like hydroquinine and mercury) on them and by damaging that delicate skin for years. Beauty should NOT be pain or something that would result in an illness. It riles me up that young women are pushed to this. It irks me that someone who is naturally brown edits something until they are a milky white face floating on my timeline.

It should start at home really, where a girl is told she is beautiful in her own skin. Where she wants to be more than just pretty on the surface. Where we embrace the entire spectrum of skin. From milky tea to black coffee. 

I love my BROWN skin, my melanin soaked and not easily burned BROWN skin. I love the parts on my cheeks that get slightly darkened by the sun whenever I smiled. The lighter spots on my tummy that never gets to see the direct rays of sun.  We should all love the skin we're in. Be proud and brazen about it because if we don't start saying something, no one else will.

Hey mum, if you're reading this

My mother has a bottle of (almost empty) perfume that my father bought her when they began dating (or something nostalgic to that effect) . It had a dark blue stopper and a scalloped shape bottle with the faded gold lettering that once said Shalimar by Guerlain with an amber liquid that smelled rich and like something dipped in Oriental spice. Its still in her cupboard somewhere ( I hope) Part of me feels like the wonderment of this bottle began my loveb affair with perfumes. My mother used a variety of perfumes that would cling to her when she got home from work as we rushed up to hug her and smell of a sweet fragrance that lingered in her hair. To me they smelled similar, all what I associated love and warmth to be. A safe smell that would hold you tight if you felt scared when nightmarish apparitions snuck into my young slumber.

I loved smelling the different scents that hung in the air as people hugged me ( this applied only to the perfumes and not the body odour that lingered, that didn't get any joy) or walked past. The overpowering cheap deodorant sprayed with zeal that burned my nostrils to the cloying sickly sweet perfumes that older women wore in excess, these became pet peeves. But I think the one person I loved being near because of their scent, was the woman who started this love of perfume and of the clean lines of good china plates. This woman who was the epitome of grace and elegance to me,who still is so beautiful to me.

I've repetitively said that it was abnormal for a seventeen year old to care about how well a crystal chandelier paired with the curtains of a lounge or how a tea set would be ideal for a brunch(even though I detest tea drinking). I blame my mum, who would smile through eating scrambled eggs that seven year old me, had emptied rosemary and thyme. I remember when we would sigh heavily about walking around the shops with plates and vases, saying that it was her second home while we waited to rush to a bookshop or toy store. Eventually I developed a love for these visits and now I walk into them before she does. I had wanted to be exactly like her, after all isn't that what most kids want to be?

I was insanely jealous of my baby sister, who everyone said looked like a carbon copy of her and I looked like my fathers parent (who, if truth be told, I didn't particularly want to look like . As good looking as they may have been in her youth - sorry Daddy, sometimes we just are inclined to want certain things). I wanted to be like her so I joined debating and public speaking(things she had excelled in when she was younger). I endured painful Saturday morning dance classes because she was very enthusiastic about having daughters who could be graceful Indian swanlike dancers. And then there was piano, which I enjoyed but wasn't passionate about, but the voice behind it all knew mum would like nothing more than having us play well. My sister succeeded in all these things. I left it to her , happy that she could make mum proud.

I don't write near her, I avoid letting her see my scrawl on a page because again, they've been a source of despair among my parents and teachers(the latter , has had to grow used to it with time). Its not something I could possibly be proud of, it's the bane of my existence to be honest. I never happy with handing anything in (regardless of how good the content may be) because they all look at me with some weariness and sigh. It stemmed from about ten years ago when the temp teacher called my mum in to say that I was a substandard pupil, that my work lacked care and suggested I had a learning issue , note this was about an 8 year old kid. Mum came home and was angry(probably at the woman but I think a little at me ). Whatever happened that hot afternoon shaped the rest of my life , not immediately but as I grew I would recall it. It wasn't that the woman made me sad but the thought that I disappointed my mother, that I would not be all she wanted me to be. This fear of being an embarrassment or failure in her eyes.

There's an Afrikaans poem by Antjie Krog called " Ma" , which I identified with. Of feelings of wanting to be a good daughter, good enough and being sorry. Apologetic for all the times our personalities clashed because we were so alike yet so different. I had developed a personality that contrasted hers , figuring that it would make up for not being all she wanted if I was my own person who achieved things that made her beam. Being the person who she may have been, thirty years ago.

Ten years on and it's my final year of high school, it's that same drive to make her proud, to prove that snooty woman wrong that motivates me to push through another hour of Biology when all I want to do is sleep. Yeah I should be "working for myself" but at the core of everything is that one maxim : Will she be proud? Will they be proud?

Hey mum, if you're reading this, I hope I can make you as proud as you make me.