Megan's Head

A place where Megan gets off her head.

Tag: Botha

White Privilege and the Loaded Baggage of arrogance, patronage and patriarchy

I thought about writing a twitter thread on white privilege but then I realised that I probably had too much to say.

I have been conscious of my own white privilege for a long time, courtesy of a father who explained the difference between my suburban primary school and the ones that were in such trouble in Soweto on June 16, 1976. I was 11.

I was painfully aware of white privilege without having access to the words of it as I was grown up by another woman who was not my mother, or even a family member, Lilian Mpila. She ‘lived in’ while her own children lived somewhere else far away with other people. She fed me, dressed me, punished me (subtly, because it wasn’t her right), and because she was strong, we suffered each others’ micro-aggressions. The ones she directed at me were to teach me, painfully slowly, what it was like to have a paid slave in our house, and what that did to her psyche. The ones I directed at her should have been received by my mother.

Everything I am is because of how I grew up. The fact that my family was not rich and didn’t manage the veneer of middle class does not give me comparison rights to poorness. It is the fault of my family that it did not fare better under apartheid. It should have. It had such a massive head start and truthfully, my grandparents and parents didn’t take enough advantage of the total privilege their whiteness provided them. They were less than mediocre achievers (something I have inherited and am not critical of that at all), and would most definitely have been part of the working class who had not risen up by their bootstraps if it were not for the running head start of being white and having access.

So when white South Africans claim the poorness of immigrant parents and grandparents I want to scream, “That’s their fault! They had every single thing they needed to get out of that!” And I also want to interrogate how quickly they managed to get out of it. The journey that most dirt poor, white European refugees from war took when coming to South Africa was one that started them above at least 70% of the population of South Africa, who were not even seen, counted or considered. Every corner shop (my paternal grandfather started with a general dealer shop in Tulbagh) could only be owned by a white person. Every office job was done by a white person. Every house owned by a white person. Every teacher was white. Every sportsperson. White immigrants got bank loans and bursaries and built houses with cheap labour.

When the DA’s Natasha Mazzone claimed to have come from a poor family of immigrants who arrived here with nothing my response was, well, considering the circumstances they really should have done better. She should be embarrassed about how little they took advantage of their privilege on a platter. They had immediate access to virtual slave labour, land, commerce, cheap and good education, and all this was by law. Every single thing that black people were by law deprived of.

This same white privilege is also responsible for white ‘colour blindness’; the kind that has raised its vile and idiotic head with the Ashwin Willemse saga. Because underneath all the ‘disappointment’ speak around whatever went down and how these white men are not racist, is the complete inability to understand that although these men share a studio, the journey that brought them to it is incomparable. Ashwin’s is miraculous. A one in a million chance. A chance against every single odd. What was handed to Mallet and Botha throughout their lives, on every level, was the daily, weekly, monthly and yearly entitlement of whiteness that they do not even know how to recognise or acknowledge.

What needed to happen, even though it was too late, was a huge, heartfelt apology by Mallet and Botha, for being so unconscious that they had no idea they were causing hurt. I don’t think they meant to. That is possibly even worse. That is white privilege.

I have no idea why this white privilege, glaring and obvious at every turn, is so difficult to own. I do know that not owning it is the most dangerous thing any white person can do.

Howzat for a game!

Exactly five years ago yesterday Big Friendly and I left the house grumpy and depressed. It was about 1230 and we had to leave the Proteas, who were being taken to the cleaners by Australia at Wanderers, to go to Tandi’s birthday picnic at Deer Park Cafe. BF and I were sulky and woes. It was a foregone conclusion that the Proteas had lost. Sies. We got home later that arvie and turned on the box. I remember calling Big Friendly and saying, “Look, they’ve got the required rate and the current run rate figures mixed up!” But they hadn’t. It was right. The Proteas were right there, in the game. I remember my brother phoning. He had decided to go to Wanderers for the second half. I remember the crowd screaming so loudly I couldn’t hear a single word he said. The famous 438 game. And we had missed the whole middle section.

Yesterday Big Friendly and I stopped listening to radio 2000 when India were 197 for 1. We had watched the first 20 or so overs, when the Indian batsmen had taken the SA bowlers and fielders to the cleaners. Suffice it to say I was woes. We listened on the radio as the commentators predicted a score of 400, doubling what India had done in the first 30 overs. It felt like a lost cause for sure. We got out of the car at Silvermine; a picnic for Tandi and Nova’s birthday. We nagged everyone who came after us for an update. It got worse before it got slightly better and then everyone had arrived and there was no news for a while.

Imagine our unbelievable surprise when we got into the car and found out that the Indians had not even seen through their 50 overs. They had tumbled to 296 all out! There was a glimmer of hope. Only Smith was predictably out.

What followed was the slow, grinding agony, adding to the misery of me feeling the effects of a cold. I lay on the couch complaining bitterly about Amla and Kallis and how damn slow they were. I felt hopeless when AB needed Hashim to run for him. I was desperate when Botha was out first ball after a 6. And then, Peterson came and won the game. He won the game. I was so confused about why Dhoni didn’t let Harbhajan bowl the last over, but I didn’t care. I was literally on the edge of my seat, looking through my hands, swinging wildly between hope and horror, just like the massive crowd, only wanting different results.

That game took years off my life. If I think about it though, I wouldn’t like to have spent those lost years feeling like I did yesterday. It was all too much. This cricket! Yo!

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