Bottled Flags

The two flags that my sister stuffed into my hand-luggage just before I got through the security gate in Bloemfontein:  I took one of them out of the Snapple bottle, and unraveled it on my pillow.

To begin with, I am not sure how I let the flags into my bag.  For the last half hour before we left for the airport, my mother had made it her duty to find things that exist in the world but not in my hand luggage, and to place those things in my hand luggage. I put a strict moratorium on new items after she snuck a six-pack of granola bars, one pack of mentoes, one of winegums, a tube of hand sanitizer and an 8 pack of those tissues that come in a pocket sized pack of about 12.

I am not sure whether I accepted the flags out of sheer panic, or whether they were self-evidently important to bring.  I still have to decide where/how/if they will be permanently displayed.  This is where the Snapple bottle comes in.  For a short while after arriving here I was addicted to Snapple - (Corn syrup is like crack).  I collected the glass bottles intending to do something pretty and creative with them to liven up my drab standard-issue residence room. In a flash of genius, I stuffed the flags into a Snapple bottle and displayed them on the window sill.  It looks kind of dumb and ugly, but for now I have wounded two birds with one stone.

Since I arrived, I have tried to think about what it means to me to be South African.  This was partly sparked by some tell-me-about-your-people-and-I'll-tell-you-about-mine group exercises at the beginning.  These exercises - or rather my ineptitude at them - unsettled me a bit. On the other hand, I keep on saying things like "We have ..." and We are ..." when I mean to say "South Africa has ...." and "South Africa is...".  I am trying to figure out whether we have similar ideas of what South African means, and whether I buy in. I am very envious of peoples who have (or seem to have) some sort of unified national identity. There is no surface in America, that does not have the American flag emblazoned on it.

Certainly I identify strongly with South African gays, and South African middle class people, and South African Blacks and Free Staters ... - but I can't think of ways of identifying strongly with South Africans period. Besides the physical space inside the imaginary border, I am not sure what we share.  Perhaps I have just forgotten.

For the last week I have tried to write on my South Africanness without any success.  I am completely blank.  As a last-ditch effort, I unraveled my Snapple-bottle-flag on my pillow,  made sure it was oriented correctly (red on top - the opposite of what you would expect) and stared hoping something would happen.  Nothing.  Back to the window sill.

"We're fools whether we dance or not, so we might as well dance."

My Trip on the 2-line (in 2 parts)

Interesting things happen in the subway. Today's ride back from Brooklyn to my apartment was especially interesting.  Here it is.

Part I

My friend and I jump in and scramble for seats - luckily we find two open just by the door. Just before the doors close, a tall, wide man stands up and announces "HI EVERYBODY, I AM SORRY TO DISTURB YOU.  MAY I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION PLEASE? MY NAME IS JAMES" James is black "I AM HOMELESS AND HUNGRY.  I WOULD LIKE TO ASK FOR YOUR ASSISTANCE PLEASE.  NICKELS, DIMES, QUARTERS, ANYTHING AT ALL." 

There are two old white ladies sitting across from me.  They must be in their 80s.  One reaches for her handbag, pulls out a zip-lock bag with some crackers in it, unzips it and hands James 2 crackers.  

"No thank you ma'am. LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, I WOULD APPRECIATE ANY ASSISTANCE PLEASE."  He starts walking from our end of the car to the other side slowly. 

"What?  You're not hungry?" she says replacing the crackers.

"I am hungry, but I can't accept that, please don't be offended.  ANY ASSISTANCE AT ALL ...."

"aah, he wants money" they other lady says. eye-roll.

"Its nothing personal ma'am, I wouldn't accept that from anyone... and I wouldn't mind at all if someone refused to take food from me. LADIES AND GENTLEMEN PLEASE....."

Taken aback, the two ladies begin to talk quietly and emphatically with each other. James, now on the other side of the car, attempts to resolve the conflict.

"PLEASE DON'T BE OFFENDED MA'AM, IT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH YOU.  ITS JUST THAT THERE ARE LOTS OF GERMS AND BACTERIA AROUND.... MONEY IS JUST MORE.... CONVENIENT."

My eyes are darting between the man and the ladies. I stare at the lady for a split second unintentionally -  trying to make sense of things, and trying not to burst out laughing. I guess she interprets this as judgement so she starts explaining gently to me and another lady sitting to her right (we two are the closest blacks). 

"I used to eat out of the garbage.  This food is good.  He said he's hungry... In Europe during the second world war, I would look through garbage and eat." I nod my head, taking her side without saying anything - unnecessary white guilt makes me feel guilty too. I want to say, "Ma'am, I think you're in the right here" but James is much bigger than I am, and much louder so I keep quiet. James passes through to the next subway car. Everything returns to normal for a bit.

Part II

The train stops, a few people come in and fewer leave.  I make the slightest eye contact with a man who has just come in as he sits down across from me to my left. The two ladies from earlier are still seated directly across from me. To their right, the black lady and to her right the man who has just walked in.

He nods his head to say hello, and I do the same naively. Then it starts.

"How are you?  My name is Peter" - he reaches out with his right hand.

"I am Keletso" - We shake hands.

"You know, Kaletu, god is good..."

 

I nod my head in a very final way and give an "Mmhmm"  - I try to pre-occupy myself with my bag.

"... yes he is. God is good. How old are you?"

"I am 23."

"You are young ...."

"Yes. I am young."

"Kaletu I am desperate, and nobody can help me.  I am hungry, and poor.... I am a gay man... a black, gay man.  I follow god, with all my heart.  Even when he told me to go to the village.  Are you a gay man?"

"Yes, I am gay."

"Do you know about the HIV?"

I nod my head.

"I am HIV positive, and I am hungry.  I was 26 when I went to the village, just 26....... there was a man..... he was much older than me....."

He starts to speak softer, and the train seems to get louder.  I strain to make out what he is saying, but stop myself from asking him to repeat anything. It is a long train ride, and I decide to hear him out. It would be unkind to ignore him - its not like I have anything else to do, so I listen.  I decide that this will be my second mitzvah for the day.  

He explains his troubles at length. Eventually it comes to "I just need someone to help me, I need a partner to help me turn my life around.  Can you help me?"

"I'm sorry, but I can't"

He leans forward and asks me to repeat.

"I can't" I shake my head slightly.

"I was telling my story to a lady the other day... and a man overheard me.  I didn't even know him, but he reached into his pocket, gave me 3 dollars.  It was all he had.  He was very kind."

The black lady across from me suddenly pipes up and turns to her left.  "Where are those crackers?  Give him the crackers."

"Are you hungry?" the lady with the crackers demands.

"Yes, but.."

"Here"  She hands the entire ziplock bag accross to him.

"Thank you, but I would really like some money."

"Why do you want money?  Aren't you hungry?" the other white lady asks.

"Well, I want to be able to buy what I want...  what I need... "

He tries to reword his answer a few times unconvincingly, opens the bag, grabs a cracker, and starts eating it gingerly. Quietly.

There is a bustle at the next stop as more people come in. 

The man, and the two ladies must have alighted then.

Say My Name, Say My Name

"Kenneth"

"No - Keletso"

"Kenetsu"

"No - Keletso"

"Calypso"

"No - Keletso"

"Can't I just call you 'K'"

"No - Keletso"

At this point, I usually zip out my cellphone (or newly acquired ID card) with a flourish and say:  "Let me show you:  "K - E - L - E - T - S - O.  Keletso."  Sometimes I do this three or four times an hour - at parties, or the orientation events I had been attending religiously two weeks ago.  I'm sure the few friends who have watched me perform my introduction think its cute... or annoying.  meh.

I'm surprised at how attached I am too my name (in its original pronunciation), a few international students in my class adopt English (or rather American) nick-names and get by. My Sotho mother (Patricia) and Tswana/Pedi father (Johannes)  wouldn't have any of that.  They named me Keletso which (approximately) means "Desire"  but in a completely non-sexual and non-creepy way.

Anyways, saying and insisting on Keletso often leads to "Where are you from?" which then leads to "How was the world cup?" which then leads to "Why do you find it difficult to remember which match you attended, and why don't you know who won?".  My name is thus a conversation starter.  Since there is no one around me who I have know for more than 3 weeks, I use all the conversation starters I get. So whereas usually my eyes would glaze over if someone asked me what my name means, at school I tell them "It means desire, but not in a sleazy way".  At the gay bar I tell them "Desired" (full stop). I believe in the power of suggestion.

My friend Maria once called me "ethnic dessert".  Sometimes it bothers me when people mispronounce "Keletso" as"Calypso", but I think I wouldn't mind if people pronounced my name: "ethnic dessert".