Shosholoza
It's fall, and the business of colors and coldness are in full swing. Every day when I walk outside of my house I wade through a pile of crunchy, beautiful flakes of gold beneath my feet and with the smoky tendrils of my breath trailing behind me into the crisp autumn air. So, this is what they mean by seasons? I guess it's not too bad. The colors are fantastic, and the fall is strangely calming in its beauty, even if it is getting a bit cold.
The Fall weather here is even more erratic and temperamental than the high schoolers I used to teach. Two weeks ago, I left my house on Monday morning to 31 degree weather, only to find that Friday that the weather had soared to 73 degrees. It's no small wonder that I got sick. Fortunately, all is well in my house, as my heater works, I have obtained a winter coat, and I'm learning this strangely counterintuitive layering process. (We 'layer' in California, but not the same way--and what a pretentious thing to say, "dress in layers!" Doesnt' everyone do that to some extent?)
My classes have been getting even more awesome, and the learning is somewhat overwhelming if freaking fantastic. Zulu is becoming even more interesting, and Tholani, my self-described "language mama" and Zulu teacher is helping us learn quickly. The only other graduate student in the class, Rick, is a PhD student in music, focusing on Southern African musical styles. He was planning a large class lecture on African music in the course he is a Teaching Assistant for, and he asked me and a few other students (as well as Tholani) to perform a Zulu song for the 200 seat undergraduate lecture. For those of ou tha tknow the pitiful extent of my vocal ability, it was daunting. But I'm glad I said yes.
Rick had us sing "Shosholoza," a call and response song remembering one's distant home, sung by Africans who were going to work in the mines in the early twentieth century. Later, the words were used by anti-apartheid activists, and the text has taken on quite a different meaning than its initial statement. The lyrics are, roughly:
ShosholozaKu lezontabaStimela siphum' eSouth AfricaWen' uyabalekaWen' uyabalekaKu lezontabaStimela siphum' eSouth Africa
Which roughly translates to:
Move faston those mountainstrain from South Africa.You are running awayon those mountainstrain from South Africa.If you're curious about hearing a fantastic rendition of the song [read: not by me!], click here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=saJmOw0GGyI
In describing the song, Tholani told us, that the word "Shosholoza" means to hurry up, or move quickly, but it's also directly related to the way that a train moves. It imitates the sound of a steam train ("shoo-shoo-shoo") winding its way through the distant mountains on the way to its destination. Zulu often creates words that are related to their sound (i.e., motorcycle is "isithuthuthu" pronounced "ee-see-too-too-too", the rough approximation of a motorcycle engine), but these also create interesting meanings. Tholani pointed out that "Shosholoza also means to move forward but in a cursory or winding way, not necessarily in a straight line, in a way that is confused and perhaps disorganized, although full of energy.
"Shosholoza," on that note, seems a fitting way to describe life lately both here and in general.
I'm working on writing a research paper on white anti-racist novels in Southern Africa in the the 1940's and 50's and looking at the ways that white masculinity features prominently in them. It's pretty dang fun, although I feel a bit overwhelmed in the research and Shosholoza would be an apt way to describe my movements through the labyrinthine stacks of the U of I's 10 million-book library. I'm basically a less interesting, overweight Indiana Jones of color as I dart and dodge and weave through stacks, looking for books that give me clues to understanding more about the minds and hopes and dreams of these South African and Rhodesian authors.
Of course, on a different note, I'd be remiss if I don't talk about events that are happening on the larger stage. It was an amazing night for me to watch Barack Hussein Obama win the election and become the 44th President of the United States (eventually). And I was in the proper state to watch it, as BHO is Illinois' senator. While I live 120 miles south of Grant Park, we had our own minor celebrations. I headed to the center of Champaign's "Campus Town," which had been blocked off by impromptu marches, and rallies of joy. I watched a bunch of college students pull out a huge American flag and shout "U.S.A!" and sing patriotic songs. And for the first time in a long time, I wasn't immediately, knee-jerk suspicious or uncomfortable or angry. It was a weird feeling to watch democracy "work" on some level to repudiate the policies of a Presidential administration in hopeful favor of another. We'll see how this works out, but for that moment, it was deeply beautiful, and wonderfully symbolic to see happen. I was overwhelmed by the beauty of the simple moment.
Of course the joy and energy and delight of that moment quickly faded in the morning upon hearing of the passage of Proposition 8. I'd voted absentee from California to help defeat the proposition, and it was incredibly disappointing to see what had happened, even more so to be surrounded by the euphoric joy of Illinois residents, young and old, black and white (and Asian and Latino), who were ecstatic to see what they saw as real change. It fell to us few Californians to console each other after a devastating loss. I am still upset, to think of it. That the legal rights of a group of people are removed from them via a constitutional amendment is just, simply, staggering. Absolutely staggering. And what wounds me even more is that people who share my faith, the thing that grounds me so much and governs my actions, used Jesus as their reasons to remove legal rights. And that some of those self-same people would then tell me that my Christian faith was defective or broken or faulty because it didnt' match theirs. It's a strangely disolocating feeling to see people celebrate and realize that while for you personally, some barriers have been taken away, for others, the door has slammed shut on their rights. The next day, while reading the writings of Cuban patriot and revolutionary Jose Marti (whose work is central to the 1895 revolution that began Cuba's final war for independence from Spain), I noticed in his writings he said that the United States was particularly guilty of "the attempt to prevail in the name of freedom by means of ruthless actions in which the rights of others to freedom's methods and guarantees are set aside." And the phrase "Shosholoza," immediately came to mind. The wandering notion of traveling in a slow, laborious, often circuitous route, as if by a stimela entabeni (steam train in the mountains). As freedom is given to some, or at least hope, for others, it is firmly slammed shut.
I found myself bitter on Wednesday morning, and angry at a lot of things, and disappointed in further others. So I decided to pray. And go for a walk. At seven in the morning. It was cold. I immediately regretted my choice. But I'd brought my camera, and the fall colors were beautiful, beckoning, hopeful. And so I embarked on my own morning shosholoza. I wandered and prayed among the tree line streets of Urbana, Illinois. I prayed for the new President. I prayed for the nation. I prayed for those who in the arrogant positionality of their own privilege, forgot that it wasn't "just politics." These were the rights of fellow human beings. I prayed for my own self-righteousness. I prayed that I might understand my own identity as a straight, Christian man of color and see my own privilege, my own selfishness, my own arrogance. And I snapped a heck of a lot of pictures. I meandered along streets for awhile, and snapped shots, and voiced my frustration, and impatience and anger and annoyance and hope and delight and irritation and sadness.
(If you'd like to see most of those pictures I took, feel free to venture here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/elefuntboy/sets/72157609004455063/)
So how have I been? On some levels, great, others are strange. I'm still far less comfortable here than I thought I'd be. I'm developing friendships that are meaningful, and I like being here, but I don't feel "safe," or "secure" yet. In other words, it's still obvious to me that I'm not from here. I'm more self-conscious than I was in L.A. or San Diego. And that leads me to be occasionally impatient, or tactless, things that weren't nearly as common back home (I think--you all may believe differently!). And it's frustrating to realize that I'm not nearly as clever or witty or thoughtful as I'd previously believed. But it's a learning, growing process, and like that train puffing slowly but surely through the high mountains of South Africa, I'm making my own slow, winding path to wholeness and self-discovery.
The Fall weather here is even more erratic and temperamental than the high schoolers I used to teach. Two weeks ago, I left my house on Monday morning to 31 degree weather, only to find that Friday that the weather had soared to 73 degrees. It's no small wonder that I got sick. Fortunately, all is well in my house, as my heater works, I have obtained a winter coat, and I'm learning this strangely counterintuitive layering process. (We 'layer' in California, but not the same way--and what a pretentious thing to say, "dress in layers!" Doesnt' everyone do that to some extent?)
My classes have been getting even more awesome, and the learning is somewhat overwhelming if freaking fantastic. Zulu is becoming even more interesting, and Tholani, my self-described "language mama" and Zulu teacher is helping us learn quickly. The only other graduate student in the class, Rick, is a PhD student in music, focusing on Southern African musical styles. He was planning a large class lecture on African music in the course he is a Teaching Assistant for, and he asked me and a few other students (as well as Tholani) to perform a Zulu song for the 200 seat undergraduate lecture. For those of ou tha tknow the pitiful extent of my vocal ability, it was daunting. But I'm glad I said yes.
Rick had us sing "Shosholoza," a call and response song remembering one's distant home, sung by Africans who were going to work in the mines in the early twentieth century. Later, the words were used by anti-apartheid activists, and the text has taken on quite a different meaning than its initial statement. The lyrics are, roughly:
ShosholozaKu lezontabaStimela siphum' eSouth AfricaWen' uyabalekaWen' uyabalekaKu lezontabaStimela siphum' eSouth Africa
Which roughly translates to:
Move faston those mountainstrain from South Africa.You are running awayon those mountainstrain from South Africa.If you're curious about hearing a fantastic rendition of the song [read: not by me!], click here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=saJmOw0GGyI
In describing the song, Tholani told us, that the word "Shosholoza" means to hurry up, or move quickly, but it's also directly related to the way that a train moves. It imitates the sound of a steam train ("shoo-shoo-shoo") winding its way through the distant mountains on the way to its destination. Zulu often creates words that are related to their sound (i.e., motorcycle is "isithuthuthu" pronounced "ee-see-too-too-too", the rough approximation of a motorcycle engine), but these also create interesting meanings. Tholani pointed out that "Shosholoza also means to move forward but in a cursory or winding way, not necessarily in a straight line, in a way that is confused and perhaps disorganized, although full of energy.
"Shosholoza," on that note, seems a fitting way to describe life lately both here and in general.
I'm working on writing a research paper on white anti-racist novels in Southern Africa in the the 1940's and 50's and looking at the ways that white masculinity features prominently in them. It's pretty dang fun, although I feel a bit overwhelmed in the research and Shosholoza would be an apt way to describe my movements through the labyrinthine stacks of the U of I's 10 million-book library. I'm basically a less interesting, overweight Indiana Jones of color as I dart and dodge and weave through stacks, looking for books that give me clues to understanding more about the minds and hopes and dreams of these South African and Rhodesian authors.
Of course, on a different note, I'd be remiss if I don't talk about events that are happening on the larger stage. It was an amazing night for me to watch Barack Hussein Obama win the election and become the 44th President of the United States (eventually). And I was in the proper state to watch it, as BHO is Illinois' senator. While I live 120 miles south of Grant Park, we had our own minor celebrations. I headed to the center of Champaign's "Campus Town," which had been blocked off by impromptu marches, and rallies of joy. I watched a bunch of college students pull out a huge American flag and shout "U.S.A!" and sing patriotic songs. And for the first time in a long time, I wasn't immediately, knee-jerk suspicious or uncomfortable or angry. It was a weird feeling to watch democracy "work" on some level to repudiate the policies of a Presidential administration in hopeful favor of another. We'll see how this works out, but for that moment, it was deeply beautiful, and wonderfully symbolic to see happen. I was overwhelmed by the beauty of the simple moment.
Of course the joy and energy and delight of that moment quickly faded in the morning upon hearing of the passage of Proposition 8. I'd voted absentee from California to help defeat the proposition, and it was incredibly disappointing to see what had happened, even more so to be surrounded by the euphoric joy of Illinois residents, young and old, black and white (and Asian and Latino), who were ecstatic to see what they saw as real change. It fell to us few Californians to console each other after a devastating loss. I am still upset, to think of it. That the legal rights of a group of people are removed from them via a constitutional amendment is just, simply, staggering. Absolutely staggering. And what wounds me even more is that people who share my faith, the thing that grounds me so much and governs my actions, used Jesus as their reasons to remove legal rights. And that some of those self-same people would then tell me that my Christian faith was defective or broken or faulty because it didnt' match theirs. It's a strangely disolocating feeling to see people celebrate and realize that while for you personally, some barriers have been taken away, for others, the door has slammed shut on their rights. The next day, while reading the writings of Cuban patriot and revolutionary Jose Marti (whose work is central to the 1895 revolution that began Cuba's final war for independence from Spain), I noticed in his writings he said that the United States was particularly guilty of "the attempt to prevail in the name of freedom by means of ruthless actions in which the rights of others to freedom's methods and guarantees are set aside." And the phrase "Shosholoza," immediately came to mind. The wandering notion of traveling in a slow, laborious, often circuitous route, as if by a stimela entabeni (steam train in the mountains). As freedom is given to some, or at least hope, for others, it is firmly slammed shut.
I found myself bitter on Wednesday morning, and angry at a lot of things, and disappointed in further others. So I decided to pray. And go for a walk. At seven in the morning. It was cold. I immediately regretted my choice. But I'd brought my camera, and the fall colors were beautiful, beckoning, hopeful. And so I embarked on my own morning shosholoza. I wandered and prayed among the tree line streets of Urbana, Illinois. I prayed for the new President. I prayed for the nation. I prayed for those who in the arrogant positionality of their own privilege, forgot that it wasn't "just politics." These were the rights of fellow human beings. I prayed for my own self-righteousness. I prayed that I might understand my own identity as a straight, Christian man of color and see my own privilege, my own selfishness, my own arrogance. And I snapped a heck of a lot of pictures. I meandered along streets for awhile, and snapped shots, and voiced my frustration, and impatience and anger and annoyance and hope and delight and irritation and sadness.
(If you'd like to see most of those pictures I took, feel free to venture here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/elefuntboy/sets/72157609004455063/)
So how have I been? On some levels, great, others are strange. I'm still far less comfortable here than I thought I'd be. I'm developing friendships that are meaningful, and I like being here, but I don't feel "safe," or "secure" yet. In other words, it's still obvious to me that I'm not from here. I'm more self-conscious than I was in L.A. or San Diego. And that leads me to be occasionally impatient, or tactless, things that weren't nearly as common back home (I think--you all may believe differently!). And it's frustrating to realize that I'm not nearly as clever or witty or thoughtful as I'd previously believed. But it's a learning, growing process, and like that train puffing slowly but surely through the high mountains of South Africa, I'm making my own slow, winding path to wholeness and self-discovery.