heeelz

This morning I decided to come to work (I do it from a coffee shop ) in my black 50-something-inch heels. I had been admiring these heels for a while, in my room in my parents' house. How they make me feel tall, and sassy, and Beyonce. How well they work with the choreography from Her video for 'Grown Woman', the one from a live performance in Paris (there are different versions - that one is my favourite).

On a whim, I threw the shoes on and got in the car (I did not bring a sensible back-up pair). More dangerous than drag, I am just wearing (men's) jeans and a tee. And you know how butch, how straight-acting, how manly and indifferent-to-fashion I look in my jeans and a tee.

I am not sure why I am here like this (story of my life). I think it had something to do with how much of a waste these shoes are in my closet. Maybe it is  to challenge myself to reflect on whether/how I navigate spaces differently; can I move in Bloemfontein like I move in San Francisco or Cape Town? Do I move in the mall  like I move downtown? Questions of physical safety aside, how does someone else's gaze shape the ways in which I can use the thing that is most intimately mine to use - my body?

Sidenote: Judith Butler dropping truths about Gender

Here I am. Vaguely aware of the waiters gathered at the waiters station, the respectable  couple at the table behind me, the shop assistants whose cackles I only heard once my back was turned (people are terribly polite in Bloemfontein). I am acutely aware of old fears and anxieties and have discovered new ones (what if I fall? what if I meet someone I know?  what if everyone can tell that I don't really know how to walk in heels? What if they laugh at me not because they are blind to the demands of their genders, but because my fashion choices are TERRIBLE?)

Anyways. Here I am, serving you keletso-realness. Scared and anxious on the inside, but on the outside, smizing and werqing like  its Mimosa Mall Fashion Week up in this betch.

As you were.

Love Handles

I noticed today
in the mirror,
while forgiving
my rogue body-parts
for arriving
in the night
like extended family
with too-large suitcases

that if I turn away
and gaze back
and squint seductively,
it looks like I swallowed
a sexy clothes-hanger
which is now lodged
right-way-up
just above my waist.

It makes for fine handles
to hold onto
for the loving

of myself

"My vice - my secret pin which I should never reveal and never write down on a piece of paper like this - was getting in the last word. I didn't intend to trouble other people, only to enlighten them. On the majority of Mondays and Sundays and Thursdays and Wednesdays, and some other days of the week, I felt closer to the truth than most other people...

Granted: this conviction of mine had the potential to create bitterness. But silence, and compliance, any form or type of submission, were antithetical to the mission of a taxi poet. I preferred that others submit, instead, to the crackle of whatever truth flowed through me like the sparks at Parker's house in Belthorn Estate where they electrocuted many a sliding-door man who had slid away from financial morality. It was even possible that torturers, and truth seekers, and transport poets were united in pursuit of this strange crackle."

-- Imraan Coovadia, The Institute for Taxi Poetry, 2012

There's a whole world outside this. Shut outside. Kept out. Shutting this in... Don't stay inside and let your arteries harden, like theirs... What I'm asking you to look out for is - a moral sclerosis. Moral sclerosis. Hardening of the heart, narrowing of the mind; while the dividends go up. The thing that makes them distribute free blankets in the location in winter, while refusing to pay wages people could live on. Smugness. Among us, you can't be too young to pick it up. It sets in pretty quick. More widespread than bilharzia in the rivers, and a damned sight harder to cure.

 It's a hundred per cent endemic in places like this Donnybrook Country and Sporting Club, and in all the suburbs that you're likely to choose from to live in. Just don't be too sure they're healthy, our nice clean suburbs for whites only.

 - and your children. If you have babies... don't worry too much about who kisses them - it's what they'll tell them later that infects. It's what being nicely brought up will make of them that you've got to watch out for...

Nadine Gordimer, The Late Bourgeois World. 1966

This book was banned by the Apartheid government for 10 years beginning in 1975. That's how you know to read it.

"Tears are very close to my eyes," says Bhonco, son of Ximiya. "Not for pain... no... I do not cry because of pain. I cry because of beautiful things."

And he cries often. Sometimes just a sniffle.Or a single tear down his cheek. As a result he carries a white handkerchief all the time, especially these days when peace has returned to the land and there is enough happiness to go around. It is shared like pinches of snuff. Rivers of salt. They furrow the aged face.

Zakes Mda, The Heart of Redness