Megan's Head

A place where Megan gets off her head.

Month: October 2016 (Page 2 of 2)

An open letter to my friend and ally Brett Anderson

Dearest Brett

I thought of you today. It was a constant thought that ran parallel to my most extraordinary experience, and so I am writing to you, and for everybody else to see.

I’ll start with the facts; with what happened, and then I will tell you what it has done and how I feel.

I went to the periodontist’s hygienist today for my regular teeth cleaning. I go every five months because I am prone to gum disease. It is the one area of my health I am vigilant about. Life is weird. I have a good relationship with her; she chats to me a lot while she scrapes the plaque and tartar off my teeth. I have heard all about her kids and their lovelinesses and she knows I have a niece of a similar age to her daughter. I like her very much, this young, hard working, serious, kind hearted, sensitive, religious, intelligent, white, Afrikaans woman.

Today the conversation swung in the direction of the student protests and she sighed out how disappointed she was in the violence and burning that to her mind was so counter productive and inappropriate. I hesitated for one tiny moment before deciding what to do, and then, I breathed in (it helped that her fingers were in my mouth, which gave me that extra nano-second of refection) and asked for her permission to hear my radical point of view. She said yes and I started explaining.

At first her responses were lots of ‘yes but’s and I persisted. She told me how hard she and her husband had worked for what they have. She told me how her 25 year old brother, who has a degree, is discriminated against and can’t get a job. She told me about her mother who had grown up with absolutely nothing in an orphanage. And there was my way in. I said, “When your mother was in an orphanage there were only white children in the orphanage.” She stopped and said firmly, “Yes, poor white children.” And all I said was, “there were no orphanages for black children then.” Her mouth opened. A tiny penny dropped. I took the gap and changed the subject. I asked her how many cars her family of four owned. She said two. Basically, a car per adult in the family. And then I told her how she was in the less than one percent of the richest people in the world, who owned their own car. I told her about the many millions of people in the world who would never ride in a private car in their lives. And her brain clicked. I saw it happen.

She bravely held back and stopped her white tears. She thanked me. She thanked me for talking to her. She told me she would never, ever see the world in the same light again. She confessed how naive she had been, how insular, how shortsighted. She thanked me, and I received her thanks.

I spoke to one white person today who utterly, totally heard something for the very first time ever, and she will never ever unthink those thoughts. And I am so excited and moved and inspired. Oh yes. It can be done. One person at a time. One engagement at a time. One white person at a time.

So, Brett, I thought of you, and how you do things, and what you hope for, and how usually I am the one with zero patience or tolerance, and today I must have channeled you, and it worked.

I am not reformed. White people’s ignorance of their own privilege pisses me off beyond explaining, but something tiny happened today, in the right direction and it is as teeny as the furthest star, but it is a shining light.

PS. I just thought you should know.

On Death and Drama

Today is the first day of three days in a row off from performing the Finkelsteins. It is also Rosh Hashanah and this evening we will go and have a feast with our closest and best friends (whose names are not Finkelsteins, and who are, according to the play half-Jewish).

The Finkelsteins (are Coming to Dinner) is the play that has brought me back into performing in a conventional theatre piece, with other actors, a proper script, a director, a rehearsal process. It has been fabulous and scary and exciting and challenging and rewarding all at once.

For those of you who don’t know, the Finkelsteins is about a young Jewish artist, Nate, who is falling in love with his life model but their relationship has the unusual triangle problem of Nate living with his dead mother. No surprises that I play the ghost. Weirdly enough the last time I wrote myself a play, Drive With Me, and performed it, the character was also a ghost. But it gets weirder.

Two weeks into me rehearsing the play in which my character is a dead Jewish mother my own mother unexpectedly died. In an absolute turmoil of crazy emotion and strange dislocatedness I flew to Johannesburg to bury her. In the car on the way to the airport I messaged my cast and director to tell them I would be away for a few days because my own mother had died. It was surreal.

After spending too short a time in mourning with my family I had to rush back to Cape Town to go straight into production week before opening at the CT Fringe. And for the last 10 days I have been playing a character for whom Kaddish (the prayer that is said for the dead) is said in my presence on stage. The layers of connection, communion, catharsis and empathetic link to my universe and the made up one are huge.

I have no real idea about how anything works, but I know this. The magic of stage, word, life, family,  friendship, allies, ghosts, dreams and my own fleeting journey in this space are like tiny, absurd unicorn burps of miracles, and I am both grateful and unexplainingly furious for and about everything.

 

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