Bartle Frere, U-Turns, and a Lacuna
Sunday, 25 September 2011
Glenwood, Durban
I guess this is as good a place and time to write as any. It’s been weird, gathering my ‘sea legs’ as it were, since I’ve arrived. I’d been relatively non-emotional today, although the first night was a bit difficult.
I currently occupy a generously kitted out granny flat in Glenwood a neighborhood within Durban. Glenwood, from what I can tell, is part of the Berea, a larger subdivision of Durban city, and home to the University of KwaZulu-Natal, Howard College, which I shall be visiting/studying with informally.
I woke up at 3:45 am this morning and tried, honestly tried, to force my body to submit back to sleep. I’d gone to bed, exhausted and anxious, at 7:30pm, and I was hoping I could stretch that senior citizen sleep time to at least daylight. But my body wouldn’t be denied, so I paced, had breakfast, showered, read most of an Agatha Christie novel, and pretended that it was my idea to be awake while I watched the sun come up.
I shuffled to the kitchen table (which is actually an outdoor picnic table-there is a hole for the umbrella here and everything; I LOVE IT), made a mug of rooibos, and stared out the window at 6:45 am, feeling rather alone and somewhat trapped in this house. Then I sat and finished Barbara Kingsolver’s Lacuna, which was a damn good novel (I still like Poisonwood Bible better, but this one held my attention). As I finished the book, I just started sobbing. The book was good, and definitely there were great moments of pathos, but more importantly, I started sobbing because a) the book I’d started on the plane (and had bought back in California) was done, b) I was out one less way to keep distracted here, and c) it did hit me that I am alone in a new place. I have never been one to doubt the power of a good cry, and today was no exception. It just felt right to sob for fear, for anxiety, for a novel, for feeling dislocated, for the weird acknowledgment of my extremely privileged nature to even have an emotional moment as I traipse across the world in pursuit of knowledge.
By the time I’d gathered myself together, it was half past 7 and my landlord, the kindly Joe, was already gone, opening the Catholic church he loves so much for morning services. Joe is a sight; he is a spry older man with Afrikaner and English blood, at eighty-five he has buried a wife and seen three sons into adulthood and onto three continents (the U.S., Europe, and still here in SA-although the last is keen on Australia, he tells me). Joe favors big baseball caps, windbreakers, and very high jean shorts. He tells me of his love of shopping/cooking in a strict regimen (“I stay fit-although Friday is pizza night!” he tells me with no little glee) that has been reinforced by the years as well as the realities of a pensioner’s income. With Joe gone, I had only one other local place for worship, the nearby Presbyterian Church, which had services at 9, I’d been told.
I opened the three sets of bolts and locks and gates that separate my kitchen from the outside world and stepped out, nervously, onto my first solo sojourn past the immediate block since arriving. I turned left on Albert Dlomo and then left again on Frere Road and came across Frere Rd Presbyterian, finding that services started at 9:30, and I was now 45 minutes early. No matter, I saw a few people entering, I may as well join.
Frere Road Presbyterian was like many a Presbyterian Church I’d encountered in the States-filled with many older, moderately friendly white people who value a service that lasts no more than 64 minutes. The 9:30 am service grew incredibly full, and until about 9:20, I was the only person who was not white or born after 1960. I couldn’t help but marvel at a church so full of elderly men and women dressed politely in their Sunday best, all of whom looking as if they’d arrived straight from Britain or nearly the American Midwest. In that way, I found myself marveling at the settler colonialism I study, at the simple fact of fifty elderly men and women who looked like they could have stepped in from anywhere in England, but instead thousands of miles away in semi-tropical Durban, praying in a denomination that began in Scotland. Then it hit me-Frere Road was named for Sir Bartle Frere, the British High Commissioner during the Anglo-Zulu War of 1879-and I was stunned at the ways in which settler colonialism surrounded every moment of my experience in the church. At that moment the near-monochrome array of the church was broken by eight Zulu men-three in crutches and five in wheel chairs, who came down the center aisle. The men in crutches took the first row, the men in chairs politely lined up one behind the other, against the left side of the center aisle. At that moment, the choir appeared, an ancient man with skin the texture of desiccated paper, raised his arms, and began playing the organ. Church had begun.
The service was nice enough; the pastor friendly, reminding us of next week’s fete (complete with a boxcar derby and cake sale!), and sharing from Matthew 21:28-32, the parable of the two sons. It’s a parable I’m not very familiar with, and I wsa surprised to hear it after some time; in it, Jesus tells the story of a father who had two sons. He called each son to do work in the fields; the first said no, but later had a change of heart while the second said yes immediately but never went to do his pledged work. Jesus asks his listeners who did the father’s will in that sly way of his; everyone responds the first son, who said no, but did it anyway. I’ve felt that this parable can place an undue emphasis on Christianity being more interested in results than feelings, but that’s not where the pastor went with this. He instead talked about God’s forgiving nature, and his openness to us-the idea that the Christian faith allows the potential for U-Turns, and for being forgiven. I liked hearing that, and thought even further-what would it mean to think of Jesus’ love as constant and embracing even when I feel farthest and least capable (selfish application!)? The service ended, 65 minutes in total (better luck next time, pastor), and I, knowing no one, left quietly. An elderly woman squeezed my arm and said somewhat formally, “Thank you for being a visitor to our service.” As I walked on, I saw the eight men board a bus for a local school for the disabled.
I walked home and exchanged pleasantries with Joe, who was leaving to visit his one nearby son (presumably before Australia beckons). He asked if I needed a ride, and offered to drive me halfway to Checkers, the local grocery store. I said sure, and grabbed my yellow bag, the one with “Shakespeare gotta get paid, son” emblazoned on the front. Joe dropped me off, and I went quietly exploring. I walked semi-anxiously the four blocks to the store and then meandered a bit, finding the edgy local coffee shop I’d heard about (it was closed, unfortunately), skirted two bed and breakfasts, the local high school, and a bougie Mediterranean themed restaurant before I found my way home again. I kicked (good naturedly) at the sign for Frere before I headed home.
Here I sit, at my kitchen-cum-picnic table, thinking about the day to come, grateful that God allows U-Turns, feeling like I can breathe more since I walked those uncertain steps away from my house, and grateful for a fine Sunday, the last in September, as I begin my life here.
Glenwood, Durban
I guess this is as good a place and time to write as any. It’s been weird, gathering my ‘sea legs’ as it were, since I’ve arrived. I’d been relatively non-emotional today, although the first night was a bit difficult.
I currently occupy a generously kitted out granny flat in Glenwood a neighborhood within Durban. Glenwood, from what I can tell, is part of the Berea, a larger subdivision of Durban city, and home to the University of KwaZulu-Natal, Howard College, which I shall be visiting/studying with informally.
I woke up at 3:45 am this morning and tried, honestly tried, to force my body to submit back to sleep. I’d gone to bed, exhausted and anxious, at 7:30pm, and I was hoping I could stretch that senior citizen sleep time to at least daylight. But my body wouldn’t be denied, so I paced, had breakfast, showered, read most of an Agatha Christie novel, and pretended that it was my idea to be awake while I watched the sun come up.
I shuffled to the kitchen table (which is actually an outdoor picnic table-there is a hole for the umbrella here and everything; I LOVE IT), made a mug of rooibos, and stared out the window at 6:45 am, feeling rather alone and somewhat trapped in this house. Then I sat and finished Barbara Kingsolver’s Lacuna, which was a damn good novel (I still like Poisonwood Bible better, but this one held my attention). As I finished the book, I just started sobbing. The book was good, and definitely there were great moments of pathos, but more importantly, I started sobbing because a) the book I’d started on the plane (and had bought back in California) was done, b) I was out one less way to keep distracted here, and c) it did hit me that I am alone in a new place. I have never been one to doubt the power of a good cry, and today was no exception. It just felt right to sob for fear, for anxiety, for a novel, for feeling dislocated, for the weird acknowledgment of my extremely privileged nature to even have an emotional moment as I traipse across the world in pursuit of knowledge.
By the time I’d gathered myself together, it was half past 7 and my landlord, the kindly Joe, was already gone, opening the Catholic church he loves so much for morning services. Joe is a sight; he is a spry older man with Afrikaner and English blood, at eighty-five he has buried a wife and seen three sons into adulthood and onto three continents (the U.S., Europe, and still here in SA-although the last is keen on Australia, he tells me). Joe favors big baseball caps, windbreakers, and very high jean shorts. He tells me of his love of shopping/cooking in a strict regimen (“I stay fit-although Friday is pizza night!” he tells me with no little glee) that has been reinforced by the years as well as the realities of a pensioner’s income. With Joe gone, I had only one other local place for worship, the nearby Presbyterian Church, which had services at 9, I’d been told.
I opened the three sets of bolts and locks and gates that separate my kitchen from the outside world and stepped out, nervously, onto my first solo sojourn past the immediate block since arriving. I turned left on Albert Dlomo and then left again on Frere Road and came across Frere Rd Presbyterian, finding that services started at 9:30, and I was now 45 minutes early. No matter, I saw a few people entering, I may as well join.
Frere Road Presbyterian was like many a Presbyterian Church I’d encountered in the States-filled with many older, moderately friendly white people who value a service that lasts no more than 64 minutes. The 9:30 am service grew incredibly full, and until about 9:20, I was the only person who was not white or born after 1960. I couldn’t help but marvel at a church so full of elderly men and women dressed politely in their Sunday best, all of whom looking as if they’d arrived straight from Britain or nearly the American Midwest. In that way, I found myself marveling at the settler colonialism I study, at the simple fact of fifty elderly men and women who looked like they could have stepped in from anywhere in England, but instead thousands of miles away in semi-tropical Durban, praying in a denomination that began in Scotland. Then it hit me-Frere Road was named for Sir Bartle Frere, the British High Commissioner during the Anglo-Zulu War of 1879-and I was stunned at the ways in which settler colonialism surrounded every moment of my experience in the church. At that moment the near-monochrome array of the church was broken by eight Zulu men-three in crutches and five in wheel chairs, who came down the center aisle. The men in crutches took the first row, the men in chairs politely lined up one behind the other, against the left side of the center aisle. At that moment, the choir appeared, an ancient man with skin the texture of desiccated paper, raised his arms, and began playing the organ. Church had begun.
The service was nice enough; the pastor friendly, reminding us of next week’s fete (complete with a boxcar derby and cake sale!), and sharing from Matthew 21:28-32, the parable of the two sons. It’s a parable I’m not very familiar with, and I wsa surprised to hear it after some time; in it, Jesus tells the story of a father who had two sons. He called each son to do work in the fields; the first said no, but later had a change of heart while the second said yes immediately but never went to do his pledged work. Jesus asks his listeners who did the father’s will in that sly way of his; everyone responds the first son, who said no, but did it anyway. I’ve felt that this parable can place an undue emphasis on Christianity being more interested in results than feelings, but that’s not where the pastor went with this. He instead talked about God’s forgiving nature, and his openness to us-the idea that the Christian faith allows the potential for U-Turns, and for being forgiven. I liked hearing that, and thought even further-what would it mean to think of Jesus’ love as constant and embracing even when I feel farthest and least capable (selfish application!)? The service ended, 65 minutes in total (better luck next time, pastor), and I, knowing no one, left quietly. An elderly woman squeezed my arm and said somewhat formally, “Thank you for being a visitor to our service.” As I walked on, I saw the eight men board a bus for a local school for the disabled.
I walked home and exchanged pleasantries with Joe, who was leaving to visit his one nearby son (presumably before Australia beckons). He asked if I needed a ride, and offered to drive me halfway to Checkers, the local grocery store. I said sure, and grabbed my yellow bag, the one with “Shakespeare gotta get paid, son” emblazoned on the front. Joe dropped me off, and I went quietly exploring. I walked semi-anxiously the four blocks to the store and then meandered a bit, finding the edgy local coffee shop I’d heard about (it was closed, unfortunately), skirted two bed and breakfasts, the local high school, and a bougie Mediterranean themed restaurant before I found my way home again. I kicked (good naturedly) at the sign for Frere before I headed home.
Here I sit, at my kitchen-cum-picnic table, thinking about the day to come, grateful that God allows U-Turns, feeling like I can breathe more since I walked those uncertain steps away from my house, and grateful for a fine Sunday, the last in September, as I begin my life here.