POH Day 3

I'm running out of adjectives. There are only so many words in my vocabulary to the describe the moments and experiences I am living. I should start studying a thesaurus. Consider this your disclaimer going forward.

Another day of volunteering at Place of Hope. I more than love that place. First thing in the morning we played with the children in the cresch. When we arrived Veronica had just begun story time. She, in quite the animated fashion, told a story of how Jesus healed a lame man and created a miracle so that the man could walk again. Some of the younger children were wiggling around on the blanket, but the 4 and 5 year olds listened intently. After the story was over each of the children closed their eyes and was led in prayer by Veronica. Their quiet little voices passionately praised Lord God, Jesus. It was a fairly surreal moment for me, especially considering I don't consider myself religious.

From there Lee Anne, Stephanie, and I took all the kids out back to the small playground. I buried Portia's feet in the sandbox and pushed Justin and Michael on the swings. We were on safety patrol when Ezekial and Cayden were climbing the slides at the same time Jamie and Gabby were sliding down. Bradley rode his scooter while playing T-Pain (ugh, hate the Western influence) from his mobile. When I held Cayden, he nestled his head into my shoulder and gently patted me on my arm and back, as if to console me.

For the rest of the morning and early afternoon, we again participated in the parenting support group with the women. We played games and did ice breakers, which is so needed. The meeting was led by Annabelle, a social worker who works for SafeLine, an NGO that provides education and support services to children and families affected by child abuse. Annabelle is insightful and soft spoken; she knows her shit and she knows how to relate to the women. She is inspiring and authentic and committed.

We broke into two small groups and talked. There was this strong safe space for each woman to share and laugh and ask questions and talk about her individual challenges. They spoke about their parenting obstacles and goals they have. Then the conversation shifted to life during apartheid, and after. Each of the three classified coloured women (Annabelle, and two residents of POH - Angie and Janita) in my small group concurred that while life during the apartheid regime (and being legally inferior) was nowhere near ideal, it was, in some respects, preferred. Since apartheid has ended, the cost of living, and peanut butter and nappies (diapers) and electricity and petrol and everything has skyrocketed, while their wages have decreased. Angie's income was nearly cut in half, so she fell behind on her expenses and had to stand by and watch as her house was foreclosed upon.

From there the conversation turned into reciprocal questions about race in our respective countries. While I continue to struggle to understand the racial classifications of SA, they expressed their confusion at how within a Latino/a population in the U.S. there are ethnic designations such as Mexican, Dominican, and Haitian. [Before continuing, it may be worth noting (for those visual people like me) that each of these women's complexions is drastically different than the next. One has fair skin and light eyes, another may be assumed to be biracial in the U.S., and the other would, without a doubt, be labeled as African American.] They each self-identify as coloured, but when it comes to applying for jobs, they think of themselves as black. On job descriptions, if a position is described as "AA desired", that applies to each of them. (AA = affirmative action = black.) We talked about what types of interracial dating is more common (white men and coloured women; black men and white women) and why that is (I'm still trying to figure that part out). As the conversation progressed and I continued to ask honest questions, I was told that although people assumed what race others are due to appearance and personality (black women are thicker and curvier than coloured women; the shape of one's nose and the style of dress are also assessed. Black women are thought to be more passive while coloured women don't hold their tongue; black men are supposedly possessive and controlling while a relationship between two people classified as coloured is more of an equal partnership), the only real truth teller is language. Those who grew up speaking Xhosa are classified as black and those who grew up speaking Afrikaans are classified as coloured. I learned and was challenged and shared and talked and listened inquired and then had only more questions.

As we continued to draw comparisons between the experiences of those in SA and those in the US, the divide both shrunk and created longing. So much is the same, we just have different words and names and titles and labels for things and people and races and cultures. On the flip side, they were shocked and impressed to learn that Section 8 helps low income families pay their housing costs and that it's nearly unheard of for someone working full time to not receive health benefits; this prompted each of the three local women to verbalize their desires to live and work in the states.

After lunch I spent my time painting white numbers on each of the resident's doors. My favorite moments were when their doors were open, I lightly knocked to ask if it was okay that I paint their number, and we then shared special and personal conversation. Patricia told me about her two daughters while showing me their photos; Rosetta shared that she failed the test for her learner's permit earlier in the day, but she is hopeful for the same test next month. After insisting on taking photos together, Maria shared her personal collage and explained that she used to be afraid about traveling places on her own, but now she is learning she can do it. Janita smiled and said, "I can't believe you're still here!" Shannon, who is 12, wanted to help paint the numbers and did a great job doing so. After Patricia went downstairs to hang her laundry on the line, she came back up with a glass of cold juice for me. She said, "it's hot, you should have this to cool yourself." I thanked her and she responded that it was nothing. Only moments later, right after I placed my mango juice on the desk in the hallway, Janita's son Michael ran up the stairs, laid his eyes upong this juice, darted straight for it, and gulped it down. It was such an enjoyable moment to see the excitement on his face at having found a treasured glass of surprise juice.

The moments with the women are so special, as is the laughter with the children. I only wish I had more time to spend with them. Simultaneously, I feel selfish for coming into their lives for such a short time and then leaving just as quickly. It doesn't seem fair.