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.

Pearly wisps of the ocean and my left foot's mosquito bite

This mosquito bite on my left foot is distracting me from my train of thought that had sped along so well, just a moment ago. So is the soft jazz music that snakes from the television screen, to the couch where I fidget to kill the pest that is resting on my arms and legs at intervals. Its one of those warm nights where the air is heavy with the sounds of crickets and the humidity that clings to every food of your clothing. I'd like to amend that "warm" into a furnace of a night where the blessing of technology allows the air conditioner to comfort me with an icy rush directed to my face.

I would immerse myself in some cool water outside but my fear of frogs and jumping creatures petrifies me. And the idea of itchy eyebrows is unappealing as the insects that bite find the exposed parts of my body and my lonely swim would surely be ruined. So I remain inside trying to catch that delightful thought that slipped through my fingers like silky sand on a faraway shore. I hate when that happens, when thoughts run off and disappear into a frenzy of noises and pictures.

I digress, my initial thought was actually about traffic and some observations I have made in the past year or so, but this recollection if swimming has washed away all mechanical thoughts in favour of the element I most love. Water, where I am weightless and I can dance without having to bend to the laws controlling gravity. Like I used to when I was very small and took up dancing with ribbons and I would twirl in the air with them, like a bird. At least I felt like a little bird with my long navy ribbon , the same elation that I feel when I dive into the water. Those fractions of a second when you're mid-air and fear of the icy water is juxtaposed with the excitement of sliding through the cool cocoon of blue. It's the shout of joy before you land and the first bubbles of air that escape your lips as you surface that create the most wonderful sensation.

I almost always gasp in shock when people say they hate swimming, granted that people have different hobbies but what contends the soft ripples that dance as you move and sway or the salty curls that form in the jumping waves that make you move as one with the sea? They all link to my inner child and her love if splashing by the seaside with shells collected in buckets. The prettiest or the owns with the most desirable texture stayed in my pocket to hold or display in a tiny wooden box. Beach trips were(and still are) my favourite things to do, sitting on the shore and waiting for the waves to rush up the shore and caress my toes.

The number of times I go to the beach have dwindled to just passing the beach and the expanse of ocean that just just a stones throw from the road I go along every morning. Watching the golden splashes of sun on the calm blue-grey water that only disappeared when the clouds drooped to kiss the morning waters.

My love of water is romanticized with the pearly wisps of childhood laughter that mingle with my never ending awe of the beauty of the sea. And if I come back to my opening, my left foot still itches from that mosquito bite but I don't mind as much anymore.

The Bookworm

There are very few people ( I believe) that have a love affair with books , as I have had .There probably are more than I naively estimate but very few who I've encountered .I come from a family who (mostly) love books and who have nurtured this adoration I have .This obsession with the almost woody scent of the pages bound together is insatiable. It is filled with delighting in older books that are slightly richer in scent with softer pages that have been held before to the crisp scent of just unwrapped and virginal pages of a new book where the ink feels minutely raised off the page. It is the inscription on the front leaf , maybe a birthday wish or the current owner (I always write my name and the year I received the book in a corner of this page) that sprinkles enchantment on the book (still unread) or the nostalgia of buying and experiencing a new story.

I've detailed before how I was introduced to reading but it is how I took to books and the large supply of them , that probably shaped me for the rest of my life . It's strange how all my favourite things to write about tie back to books ,be it the books I find in flea markets or the ones I read with the stain of mulberry still faintly on my fingertips or (this was the most common) the books I voraciously went through on rainy days.

I think everyone knew how much I liked books, because now and then someone would send a book with my mother for me to read or enquire at family events about what I was reading . I don't think I spent any part of my childhood without a book nearby , I stuck to the classics or books that were older because early on I developed a love for the style of writing and the references to a time long past . Little Women , Black Beauty or Great Expectations were regular books I read when I was much younger.

Once ,my uncle brought a box of books (I recall it being from somewhere where the owners where getting rid of old stuff as they were moving) home . They provided some of the nicest company on a winters night , when I sat with them and a heater to spend the night , sometimes only sleeping as I watched the sun rise .The books in that box took a while to get through , all the inscriptions were obviously a bit old or illegible in the faded cursive script .But I read every single one .

The local library was another favourite spot but I would always accrue fines for forgetting to bring a book back (often borrowing piles of books using 3 different cards ) until I had read all the good ones and couldn't find any new tastes to delight my palate .But every Saturday after dancing or piano ( that is another story altogether really) we would go and with my head tilted at 45 degrees I would scour the shelves for something new .Until nothing new took my fancy anymore and I moved to other sources .

And then there was Mum and Dad ,who bought me books because I would spend all time at the mall looking through bookshops .and would start reading the new book as soon as we got into the car . It was Dad who suggested many books when I was at a loss and who would talk to me about these books we both read (many times leading to a telling off by my mother and sister who had not been able contribute at all) . I loved those discussions because I felt like a person , not merely a being who was present .It was when no one could say I was wrong for thinking what I thought because they hadn't felt the book as I did .I began to see people a lot better as I didn't expect only good or only malice in everyone .They taught me about the facts of life through the many eyes of people who had lived in different era's or circumstance .

I don't think my father ever handed me a book that had no significant impact on my life .They all did in some way or the other .

I guess I could end by saying that I started reading books to learn about this open ,unknown world around me , but by reading them I soon began to understand the people in my life and how to deal with things better .They showed me how beautiful something as simple as a river in the morning light could be ,or how the smallest dreams could manifest into something much more .

An ode to rainy days

Rainy days are my favourite kind of day, not those half-hearted drizzles or those short bursts of heavy rain. No, those days of steady rain that kiss the grass with a rhythmic patter. They mean springtime as it edges into summer with days ( sometimes a week or two ) of endless , delightful precipitation. Most people moan and complain but I have nothing but happiness on those rainy day?

I associate them with the first time I had hot chocolate , made sickly sweet and too hot (burning my tongue in the process). It was a weekend away in the Drakensburg when I was six ,when sheets of water fell on the poppies that grew in splashes of scarlet around the houses. It rained that whole weekend but I remember being filled with laughter and happiness.

I recall a rainy day that was the the end of a journey for me, it was the first time I consciously registered that I had to start "growing up". It was the final day of primary school ,where (for the first time ) everyone I had known since I was four would scatter and I would probably never see them again. There wouldn't be anymore early morning walks to school to swim as the sun rose above the jacaranda trees, no more knowing everyone and I felt as the safety net was slowly disappearing under me . For so long, I had always been five minutes away from home, I knew where everything was and this was always an unconscious dependence. Anyway I remember the last time I saw many of those people who used to all I had known. It rained the whole afternoon as we cried and laughed together for the last time.

The last goodbyes where we all cried and for that one last time I walked home together with some of them, the last time we sang together. It poured with rain that entire night, I was inconsolable because I was the only one (that I knew of ) who would be going to a high school in the city (a longish drive that I now regard as normal ) so far away from the familiar small town I knew. Heck, my first day of high school was a scary rainy day where I was thrown into a sea of faces who would later become friends and sisters.

I can never regard a day with rain, as something depressive but as a reminder that everything has its place, that even after a season of dryness there is life triggered by those drops of water that fall from the heavens. That even though change comes with a storm, it washes your slate clean.

The Eastern Spectrum : Dubai

True to my nature of being a procrastinator of note , I put off many blogposts that were planned for last year . Rest assured , I did try to write about it , multiple times , in hotels , in the plane , in a coffee shop in Phuket whilst the rain poured outside . So let me condense those posts into two (hopefully) that makes sense however vague it may be .

We spent most of the year planning and getting excited for our trip . During those two weeks I learnt about airports , exchange rates , architecture and how I can sleep anywhere on command whilst traveling the East. Or at least the spectrum of the East . From the slick , modern streets of Dubai to the spice and busy alleyways of Thailand , there was quite a variety of experiences to be had . Different cities were hues that contrasted each other like scarlet and indigo juxtaposed .

After an arduous flight to Dubai ( the exertion being as a result of the fidgety Indian mother who sat in front of me , who pushed her child into another seat and slept across two seats whilst snoring and complaining about the food . This resulted in me {being too polite to say she was causing irritation} not getting much sleep) we arrived at the airport sleepy but excited to have landed .

I'll skip the details of the grumpy man at immigration who's head wrap kept slipping and even forgo the joys of a travellator ( a moving walkway in the airports ) that made one feel as if you were flying over the ground . All that is irrelevant when i think my first glance of the city that was unforgettable . We always imagine destinations before arriving , usually from travel shows or pictures off Google , I imagined a dry busy place full of dust . It was the opposite (still busy however) , a city where every pavement was lined in blossoming flowers and the buildings loomed tall and out of an architects daydreams . A metropolis of glass and steel that blew me away . Every building was a spectacle , as if it was a show where every skyscraper was trying to be the star .

We stayed in the hub of all this beauty , Downtown Dubai , a stone's throw from the Burj Khalifa (the tallest building in the world at present) which was the centerpiece of this bejeweled metropolis . Words cannot describe how overwhelmed they all left me . It's all so "much" in that city , the malls are huge , the buildings tease the clouds , there were granite tiles on the roads which were mopped , for crying out loud ! Then , just as you think nothing could be more amazing , night slips it's glittering gown on .Everything lights up , the buildings become spectacles of colour and the child within begins to awaken in wonder of all this . It seems as if it were all a dream .

It's hard not to marvel at the metro system ( the whole transport system is actually so incredible and efficient ) as it zipped through the city in a matter of minutes . Another thing that I noticed , was how considerate and polite people were . There was a lot of etiquette involved in everything , from dress codes to areas one could sit on a bus . It was an interesting experience but I welcomed it . The people are also very accommodating and helped us find our way around .

The Gold Souk , wow is pretty much the only word to explain it . There was an excess of gold , diamonds , precious gems ...Everywhere . You felt as if you had bathed in gold , it surrounded every window . From simple chains to a huge , intricate body covering made of gold . Personally , I don't like yellow gold (which there was a lot of ) so it just was too much for my liking . The shock of the souk to a foreigner , is that you feel like you've been dipped in sweet syrup and all the vendors or shopkeepers are flies who can sense this . There is no exaggeration when I say , they swarm . Shouting at you to come to their shop , buy the "good copy " of some branded clothing , to come to their restaurant . It is a weary sort of experience . But fully worth it as you got to see all the different facets of the city .

We spent a lot of time exploring Dubai , going to the Jumeriah Beach Park ( only females were allowed on that park ) where the sand was silky and white , exploring the Dubai Mall ( it was enormous , I think we only went to a tiny portion of it , and that was over 2 days ) going to places of interest and generally doing typically touristy things . The highlight however, was desert bashing .

Desert bashing is basically driving up and down the dunes of the desert in a Land Rover . But that description does no justice at all to the experience . The drive out of the city is about 45 minutes , as you watch the the high rises melt away to reveal a more barren , sandy expanse with occasional caravans of camels moving along the dunes . There were about seven other vehicles with many tourists who (like us ) took pictures of everything . The real fun started when they drove off the road and onto the sand . It's like a roller coaster , up and down and our driver (who was liked playing music quite loudly to enhance the entire thing) often would turn dramatically , making everyone in the vehicle let out a small shout of delight .

Soon after all the dunes had been driven on , we were taken to camp . Here we were greeted with food and an old lady with henna , there were stalls of beverages , camel rides , lots of low tables and cushions (and even a hubbly lounge in the corners ) . A man with a falcon stood amidst the crowd , while a photographer stood by to take a photo . As the night wore on , an Arabian feast was served which was quite tasty .

The real entertainment were the dancers , who performed on the stage in the middle of this camp . A man who spun with multiple stuff skirts that lit up ( he didn't even suggest dizziness after 10 minutes of twirling ) and then the Arabian answer to Kylie Minogue , a belly dancer named Olga (and she looked like a brunette Kylie ) who gyrated and flirted with the audience . She was spellbinding as she glided across the stage . If you looked up , the sky was filled with stars that gleamed like this city which was a jewel of the Emirates .

Those were the highlights of Dubai for me ... What happened in Thailand was more of a culture shock .