Where am I from?
Hi I’m Jess
Jessica, if you didn’t quite catch that through the accent.
Which many of you might say is Australian and rather alien
If you’ve never been to South Africa
Because that where I’m from
Where I’m really from
Not the really that you ask when you look at my white skin.
You hope I might drop the name of some European country I’ve never visited before.
You probably thought I was English and grew up with cream eggs and Poundland just like you.
And even after people hear me speak, they still seek an explanation.
Like, maybe I grew up ‘down there’ there for a short while before returning “home.”
Because how could I be South African if I am not black?
Because some people do think that, because its true that colonisation was a thing.
When I look back at the history, see what the white man has done and know deep down,
They had a son, who had a son, until one had me.
And I remember when I was nine. My mother brother and I went to the movies and watched ‘the long walk to freedom’.
The story of Madiba, or Nelson Mandela. A national hero. My hero.
We left the hall, shocked at our history.
Stories of mass murder and families ripped apart. Signs with ‘whites only’ and ‘no blacks allowed’ plastered across our city.
And I remember so vividly, my brother turning to my mom, suddenly frightened and upset.
And said, Mom, I’m ashamed to be white.
And it’s still hard not to think that when we go back home.
to a country still riddled with racial inequality.
And sometimes I ask myself, do I deserve my nationality- South African
When the colour of my skin makes life easier.
When everything is to my advantage.
I haven’t earned anything there.
I was born if my privilege, I didn’t brave anything to earn it.
I keep searching for where I am from.
My surname, a Scottish clan name came from my dad.
My mom gave me my white Norwegian skin.
But all I know is the rich African sun, and swerving the car to avoid holes in the road, and swimming in sea water that is icy cold, fizzers and chappies bought for 1 rand at the corner store, and milkshakes so thick you get rid of your straw, and trips to the bush to see all the game, never alone because its not safe.
But nonetheless singing the national anthem when our rugby players stand hand in hand.
No, I know where I’m from.
And I can’t change the past,
And I’ll always carry a little bit of guilt with me,
But that’ll never stop me from saying,
I am South African.
The drip
The metal frame of your bed is icy
Under my grip as I lower myself down
Into a chair beside your bead. Holding my breath
So you don’t hear it shake.
A tube originating from beneath your gown
Leads into a bottle where your fluids create
A constant drip, drip, drip.
Just like the drip, drip, drip of you life
In the form of blood on the bleached white
Floor as you gripped onto life while they
Ripped into you.
I rub lotion on your back to ease the rash
That is festering from the sticky plastic
Bed cover that has left you back rough
And red.
When I leave you I get on the train
And start my trip home once again
As I finally let my tears drip drip drip
Onto the dirty floor.
Stop
A woman cries out in pain
And a man looses his confidence
A white bedsheet is soaked in red
And a baby is born today.
She screams through the pain
As her child screams in fear.
Stop she screams.
When will it finally stop.
A water level rises
And a politician spews propaganda.
A fire starts to burn, trees turning to ash.
Dolphins swimming backwards
And real balls of trash bounce across
A desert
Stop they scream
When will it finally stop.
A hungry mouth begging for help
With a whale inside his stomach
Bone dry and hoping to die
Make it stop, he thinks.
When will it finallly stop.
A knuckle crunches
And a check bone goes snap
A broken china vase
A wedding gift turned weapon.
A love that was once there but has stopped
When will it finally stop
A drunk girl on a bathroom floor
Whose intention was not to be there
Head on the rim and a hand reaching
Under her top. A door opening.
Thank god someone told him to stop.
Two comfy chair with only one occupant.
A family tree that’s spread and the bark
That’s skin that shows its age. The step
Pause step. Stopping to take a break.
Waiting till your heart will finally stop.
When will it finally stop.
Unsaid Everythings
Did you mean to make me love you
Or did you not even try
You’ll probably choose the latter
Always did play the good guy
Did you mean to make me open up
And tell you I was scared
Or were you never really listening
Because you never really cared
Did you plan to make me trust you
When you had me in you bed
Or did you never really mean it
When you said the things you said
Did you plan to make me cry
When you didn’t even look my way
Or had your mind already moved on
Because you never planned to stay
Did you plan on not being friends again
Or were we ever friends at all
I condisered you my best friend
You only saw a late night booty call
No, you didn’t plan this
Cause you weren’t thinking with your head
But I guess I’ll just have to move on
And leave everything unsaid.
Not part of the game
We’ve got one last chance lads to sit on the coach
With beer in our hands and chips in our mouth
And scream at the Telly for ten straight days
And fall into a deep psychotic haze.
I’ll scream at the tv and throw a remote in rage
If a 19-year-old boy can’t make it onto the stage
We’ll vandalise the streets of a country we claim
And leave the rest of humanity in absolute shame
Like a group of wild monkeys, through the city we’ll roam.
And leave my wife wondering when I will be coming home
So which young black player will I racially abuse
After my seventh afternoon beer induced snooze
After my team had the audacity to loose
There’s no My, I, We, only they
The actual players who can actually play
Can I call myself a man without my dignity intact
There’s an etiquette to be had and that’s a fact
Football is a game of camaraderie not crime
So if you want to go support then best stay in line
if you’re proud of your team then make them proud of you
And give players credit, where credit is due.