Oporation Dokotela

After a serious applications campaign, I have been offered a place for PhD at John's Hopkins, UNC Chapel Hill, and Harvard. All three of these schools are amazing. I mean, just the idea of reading and writing and being in community with smart people is giving me life (Current PhD students please do not trample on my dreams yet). But guys, Harvard is the one I know from TV. Wherever I end up going, having been accepted there is like my adolescent self climbing into the TV and hanging out with Rory in that episode of Gilmore Girls where she visits Harvard with her sister/mom. It's un-fucking-believable. 

Harvard rejected my application this time last year, throwing me into a serious funk. Despite all the self-helpy fall-six-times-and-get-up-seven stuff I know, I took the rejection to heart. I thought it meant something about my ability. But as one of my mentors said when I told him about the rejection - "with these things you must persist." So I did.

Pretty soon after the rejection I started getting up early to read and write, long before even looking at application materials. For the month leading up to the common deadline for all these applications I even stopped drinking wine you guys. WINE. (Before my friends expose me, I should admit that I took weekly breaks from my month-long break from wine). I even looked at poppers with a suspicious-nyana eye - what if they make me dom? why can't I just wait until after the deadline. Nkosyam. No, I worked, guys.

So I am allowing myself to share the news and acknowledge some people out loud because this thing is no small thing, as my dad said on the phone the other day: 

1. A classmate in high school who told my adolescent self in Science one day, after I had just told him my dream to study at Harvard: "you're not that smart". Later a second-year who late one night, in the first week of my undergrad program, told me: "you're gonna fail act sci". Guys but you brought some hateration into my dancery, hey. Modimo a le tshwarele. 

2. A maths teacher who was unimpressed with an A if "you should have gotten A+". A debating teacher who forced me out of the mortal fear of standing in front of people and speaking. An accounting teacher who taught me to do it again, and again, until it balances. 

3. Lecturers who were kind and generous humans, but merciless examiners. Your half-a-mark per point, formula sheet-less  time-pressure exams were never quite like the tutorials we had practiced. This was you greatest trick, and I never stopped being surprised by it. Hard work; thick skin; the virtue of a solid, middle-of-the road C; and the ability to work while crying, and other problematic coping strategies are what I walked away with there.

4. This reminds me. Because of a generous scholarship from the South African Actuarial Development Program, I had a free higher education at UCT. I had no debt and I wasn't forced to work for anyone when I graduated. I had a chance to experiment, and my experiments have brought me to an exciting place intellectually. So, ye #FeesMustFall.

5. Mentors, friends and colleagues who see more or demand more than I think I have. One who randomly invited me to his office after we had met in a seminar, and over months taught me how to write and publish an academic paper. One who I trust to look me in the eye, and with kindness, tell me exactly how bad a piece of work is. (She once gave me feedback on an essay that I had worked very hard on. It was so critical I had to take a very serious nap before looking at the essay again). One who hired me fresh out of grad school, and within the year, began sending me to do work with people much older and much more experienced than me. On one of these occasions, he encouraged me to send the meeting coordinator my slide deck just before flying over to Geneva. When I pointed out that I had no slide deck because I had not been invited to present, he gave me a new motto: "Sometimes you just have to invite yourself to speak". 

6. My family - who I am sure are not sure what I do. But they are sure it's good, and are happy that I'm happy doing it. In particular - my mom has been learning new things since I met her. Graduated with a masters at 50 something. Learned how to make hats now in her 60s. (They're fierce. message her. She is probably already your facebook friend. she taught herself that as well). There is a shrine to education in my parent's house. Every graduation we have ever had is shown there. If I remember correctly, there is even a picture from the day my sister graduated pre-school. We take graduation very seriously in my family - we are a graduating family. When I called my mom this week, she reminded me of my little sister' upcoming graduation. Specifically, she reminded me that at some point on that day, all of us will need to be in our own academic regalia in a room with an official photographer. This will be the next picture on the shrine. Im sure she is already preparing for the one after that.

6. My manfriend, who is part of my family, of course, but deserves a special shout-out because he got me a bubble machine for my 30th birthday. A machine for bubbles guys. Do you have one? If not, then how can you possibly know whether you are loved?

7. My reviewers and witnesses. You can't apply to grad school alone. You need people to apply with you - to write: "yes he capable" and "no he is not a catfish". In the hyperbolic US system you need people to do a little more: "make your PhD cohort great again!". Thank you for playing along. I also depended on people to review very boring documents for free: CV's, essays about my interests, even letters to the academics I fangirl. There is one academic I stanned for so hard guys. When I read her book, it was literally like "I prayed that she would finish / but she just kept right on / killing me softly with her song". It turns out she was not even as into me as I was into her - maybe that was part of the funk. Anyways, at least two of my reviewers read drafts of my aca-love notes to her and provided solid feedback. Imagine that level of commitment to the cause. I will pay it forward. 

Mylo and Shingi's Wedding

After the catholic service the South Africans had found the their feet and were now lobbing wedding songs into the air at unexpected times. We had spent the morning in a catholic service in Harare - uncertain about when sit, stand or kneel, about how to move to the joyful singing of the choir, about the prayers and responses, about the tiny bell that one of the priest's assistant's kept ringing. Who was he calling?

Even the "Our Father" was slightly different, but not so much that we didn't know what was going on. Like having sadza when you're used to pap. Now we were in a banquet room - a neutral space which through music, was turned into a familiar place. So SePedi songs sprung up out of nowhere, preceded the speeches of the father of the groom, and the aunt. The host, not to have his people outdone, would pointedly say: "Here in Zimbabwe we have songs too". The Zimbabweans in the room would take only a few seconds to deploy harmonies to remind us where we are.

Stains on my keyboard

Microwave popcorn butter
Gossip
Belle and Sebastian
Hot sauce
Tears
Wine
Rage
Coffee
Hope
Salad dressing
Lust
Elis Regina
Lonelines
Atchar oil
Audre lorde

Hopelessness
Escape

Holiday Pics

I recently read something about soundscape and music - that the work of composers is firmly grounded in place. This thing that I read (I forgot where) claims that the sounds that punctuate a composer's everyday life show up in her compositions. They leave an imprint on her, whether or not she is aware.

I was thinking about the every day sounds I have lived in and what they might have imprinted in me... not that I am a musician or anything, just that I was a-quarter-to-vacation and trying to think about things that are as far away from my work as possible. The question was on my mind just before I visited New York two weeks ago, which was great because I can't think of a richer soundscape than that city. For whatever reason, I have very vivid memories of sound in New York: Subway trains constantly base-drumming underground, Bachata blaring from apartment windows in Washington Heights, snow plows scraping the west side highway, snippets of conversation in languages from around the world.

So I went around recording snippets of sound, like photographs, in different parts of the city. I wasn't very disciplined so most of the time I forgot to make recordings. I was occasionally reminded of my task when I heard beautiful music, like a distant wailing I heard in the cavernous subway station on the A line at 180th street, or an electric guitar crooning "both sides now" while I was waiting for the Staten Island Ferry.

I am sharing some of what I got here.

Staten Island Ferry Building - 3:00pm 10 Dec 2015

Waiting for the ferry back to Manhattan from Staten Island. 

A Train Platform - 180th Street - 11am Manhattan 11 Dec 2015

Walking towards the music in the underground A train station at 180th street. 

A Restaurant - Brooklyn - 5:00pm 12 Dec 2015

A waiter intones the specials to us in a restaurant in Brooklyn. 

The Same Restaurant - Brooklyn 5:30 12 Dec 2015

Hanging out with my Zim family.

Melville, Johannesburg - 5:30 pm 21 Dec 2015

Finally back home in Melville.

A guide to armrests in economy class

1. Place elbow at base of armrest, against the seat. Be first. Be casual, but quick and firm. Let go of inhibitions. Over the course of the flight, swivel arm over contested armrest while looking away. Seem interested in the in-case-of-crash card, or your book, or someone sitting ahead of you. Do not make contact with adversary. Do not apologize.

2. If your adversary claims armrest first, do not lose hope. Gather all the things you need to gather. Switch off your phone, ready your book or your laptop,  secure your seatbelt, undo your top button, check for your life jacket under your seat, note your nearest exit, take your sleeping pill. Then wait. Be watchful. Lean your elbow against your adversary's. Wait for a mistake - a tightening of the seatbelt, a reaching for the crusty in-flight magazine, a scratching of the nose. He will make a mistake - they always do. When he vacates the base of the armrest, or cedes centimeters of ground, pounce. Casually, but firmly - like a firm but casual cat. Seem nonchalant. Hum the national anthem. Do not retreat: forwards ever, backwards never. Annex the base of the armrest.

3. Your adversary, if reasonable, will capitulate, sensing a power greater than his.

4. If unreasonable he will attempt to wait for you as you waited for him. But have you not gathered all the things? You planned ahead, and you are strong. You are a Masai warrior, a Buddhist monk. You will persist. You will cede no ground. You will take a nap without ever relaxing your tricep.

5. If resistant, he will attempt to re-claim lost ground. Do not be weak. Turn your elbows out. Interlace your fingers. Consider the clouds intently. Avoid eye contact. Invite no conversation with the enemy. You don’t need him. Did you not come to this earth alone? Are you not enough for yourself? Appear to doze off.

6. If belligerent he will attempt to make you uncomfortable with his arm-sweat. He will attempt to put your arm in his armpit or envelop you with his dank skin. You will feel a wetness of unknown provenance. (Is it his sweat, or mine? Or our sweat intermingling intercontinentally?). Do not be weak. Do not relax your tricep. Strange sweat is temporary. You will not die. Hum the song "Titanium" to lift the spirits.

7. If you have followed these instructions, you will reach your destination in full control of both armrests. If you find you have lost an armrest, reflect on your failures. Remember: not everyone was born to be great. Perhaps your divine purpose is to cede armrests to stronger strangers. Drink a bottle of wine in the shower, crying.

Beginnings and Endings (Part 2)

December(ish), 2012
Lake Merrit
Oakland, California

Almost 2 years ago, I entered an empty room with off-white walls and a view of the Hudson River and the George Washington Bridge. It was a new beginning. A completely new start. I knew 3 people in the city and carried my entire life in two suitcases and an overstuffed carry-on.  There is something poignant about gathering a life into suitcases and an overstuffed carry-on, and leaving behind no traces of yourself.

I did it again 5 months ago. Up and left. Erasing myself and creating myself again. This time in match-box studio apartment in front of a lake. I own a bookshelf, a desk and a chair. The bed is twice handed down. Both past owners work where I work. If it could speak, I would ask it to be quiet. There is enough space for me and my two-suitcase life in my studio. I don't own any living things. It feels like home. When I was home (in South Africa) and I imagined home, this was what I imagined. 

I guess I am one for beginnings and endings. Middles are fine too -  life has more middles than beginning and endings, I guess.  I don’t dislike them. There is nothing like a new home, though, or a newly old home. A beginning and ending. I want to call it freedom. But that word has too many meanings in the U.S.

People are amazing. I have met many, and I have learnt how to make insta-friends. When you leave somewhere and end up somewhere else, far from anything you know, you make insta-friends. You meet people, become intimate real quick,  and next thing you know you are family. You cling onto each other because for some reason, its important to care for people and, to be cared for. Even if its just occasionally getting together to laugh about how smart people can get so quickly dumb when they speak about people who come from where you come from. Or sitting in the park trying to figure out why boys treat us like Michelle, the extra child of Destiny, when it is obvious that we are Beyonce, the golden-child. 

I have been willing myself, over the last few weeks, to be awed by my fortune here. Maybe its self-indulgent. My aim was to document this short and amazing moment in my short  life - and how unimaginable it was 7 years ago. How impossible. I don't want to take it for granted. But I also don’t want to make an it-gets-better-as-evidenced-by-my-awesome-life-I-love-myself-and-you-should-love-me-too video. Feel free to move on to something else. There must be something else more important on the internet.

Questions and 3am thoughts

About 3am - Monday February 21 2011
Washington Heights
New York City

1. Snow is ugly. And it is unpleasant. Why are you dreaming of a white christmas? 
2. Go-go boys are cute. But why do they always leave an oily residue on my fingers? 
3. You will never meet a nice boy at the club. Go home and watch a rom-com. 
4. Grey sweatpants are always ugly. 
5. Bhuti, why are you trying to sit next to me in the subway? And why are your thighs all up in my grill? Can you not press your knees together and look straight ahead like everyone else? 
6. Facebook is addictive. But at least I'm not on crack.