This Is How You Lose Her

Junot Diaz's This Is How You Lose Her was entertaining, occasionally quite funny, and at times, moving. But his style is still the same and grows a little monotonous. Sprinklings of Spanish phrases common to Dominican-American Spanish in an Ebonics-inflected prose is unique to Diaz, but it does seem to get old after a while...Nevertheless, I enjoyed the short stories and continue to think very highly of Diaz's writing capabilities, although I definitely prefer his novels. Thus, I wait eagerly for his next novel, an excerpt of which was published in The New Yorker, "Monstro." However, This Is How You Lose Her does add more to our knowledge of Yunior, whose past we have not learned more about since Drown. 

Kenneth

I spoke with Kenneth, a nice homeless man who sits outside near a tree on Main Road, on the same block as a Pick and Pay supermarket in Obseravatory. He speaks Afrikaans and English and can be difficult to understand at times, but is generally kind-hearted. His motehr was Chinese and when she died, his sisters took everything she left behind and now he doesn’t know what happened to them. Also, he doesn’t want to know about his sisters’ whereabouts. He sleeps in cardboard outside when he can, but he told me about skollies who harass him, take his shelter and whatever money he can get from begging, and about rats who gnaw on one’s ears and lips if you sleep outside in the open. I have to admit, I began our conversation very poorly, asking him how he is doing after giving him five rand. Of course, he did not respond well to that and started ranting about his life and the abuse, insults, and neglect from others because of his homelessness and poverty. I must admit, it was sometimes very difficult to understand him, partly because of his accent and partly because of his way of speaking very quickly. Anyway, Kenneth is afraid he may have Alzheimer’s, though he is 58. Being homeless and getting older will likely only make his forgetfulness and senility worse in due time. Alas, he expressed racist sentiments toward “Africans” at one point, referring to them as “kaffirs” for being mean-spirited people, bringing chaos, and causing many white South Africans to flee to New Zealand, Australia, etc.

Also, he does not have a high opinion of South Africans in general, telling me more than once to stay away from them, especially “Africans.” He also complained about the honking cars of the minibus drivers, which he claims contributes to crime, also saying that under apartheid drivers would get ticketed or arrested by the police. He didn’t seem to realize Coloured people seem to control or dominate the minibus game in Cape Town, not the “Africans” he dislikes, but who am I to challenge the racist discourse of a homeless man of Coloured and Chinese extraction, even though his life was certainly horrible under apartheid, too. But he was right, the seeming collapse of social control and the flight of white South Africans in the post-apartheid era are troubling and emblematic of many social ills and disorder. Regardless, Kenneth is a bitter, mentally ill male in need of help but does not receive it. He told me about people promising or telling him they will buy food, but they don’t, or people talking about him in their own languages pejoratively. Clearly, there are few attempts from the government to really tackle poverty and homelessness, which probably contributes to Kenneth’s disdain for South Africa generally and “Africans” particularly. I cannot help but think of him in relation to post-apartheid Coloured identity as described by scholars such as UCT’s Mohamed Adhikari, who explains Coloureds as being “not white enough under apartheid, not black enough in the New South Africa.” What many don’t realize is how little things have changed for many Black South Africans, too, so Coloureds are hardly alone when it comes to declining quality of life, etc. And Kenneth’s beliefs about South Africa and black-majority rule in South Africa are clearly negative, understandably so given his socioeconomic position.

Countee Cullen's Heritage

What is Africa to me:

Copper sun or scarlet sea,

Jungle star or jungle track,

Strong bronzed men, or regal black

Women from whose loins I sprang

When the birds of Eden sang?

One three centuries removed

From the scenes his fathers loved,

Spicy grove, cinnamon tree,

What is Africa to me?

So I lie, who all day long

Want no sound except the song

Sung by wild barbaric birds

Goading massive jungle herds,

Juggernauts of flesh that pass

Trampling tall defiant grass

Where young forest lovers lie,

Plighting troth beneath the sky.

So I lie, who always hear,

Though I cram against my ear

Both my thumbs, and keep them there,

Great drums throbbing through the air.

So I lie, whose fount of pride,

Dear distress, and joy allied,

Is my somber flesh and skin,

With the dark blood dammed within

Like great pulsing tides of wine

That, I fear, must burst the fine

Channels of the chafing net

Where they surge and foam and fret.

Africa?A book one thumbs

Listlessly, till slumber comes.

Unremembered are her bats

Circling through the night, her cats

Crouching in the river reeds,

Stalking gentle flesh that feeds

By the river brink; no more

Does the bugle-throated roar

Cry that monarch claws have leapt

From the scabbards where they slept.

Silver snakes that once a year

Doff the lovely coats you wear,

Seek no covert in your fear

Lest a mortal eye should see;

What's your nakedness to me?

Here no leprous flowers rear

Fierce corollas in the air;

Here no bodies sleek and wet,

Dripping mingled rain and sweat,

Tread the savage measures of 

Jungle boys and girls in love.

What is last year's snow to me,

Last year's anything?The tree

Budding yearly must forget

How its past arose or set­­

Bough and blossom, flower, fruit,

Even what shy bird with mute

Wonder at her travail there,

Meekly labored in its hair.

One three centuries removed

From the scenes his fathers loved,

Spicy grove, cinnamon tree,

What is Africa to me?

So I lie, who find no peace

Night or day, no slight release

From the unremittent beat

Made by cruel padded feet

Walking through my body's street.

Up and down they go, and back,

Treading out a jungle track.

So I lie, who never quite

Safely sleep from rain at night--

I can never rest at all

When the rain begins to fall;

Like a soul gone mad with pain

I must match its weird refrain;

Ever must I twist and squirm,

Writhing like a baited worm,

While its primal measures drip

Through my body, crying, "Strip!

Doff this new exuberance.

Come and dance the Lover's Dance!"

In an old remembered way

Rain works on me night and day.

Quaint, outlandish heathen gods

Black men fashion out of rods,

Clay, and brittle bits of stone,

In a likeness like their own,

My conversion came high-priced;

I belong to Jesus Christ,

Preacher of humility;

Heathen gods are naught to me.

Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,

So I make an idle boast;

Jesus of the twice-turned cheek,

Lamb of God, although I speak

With my mouth thus, in my heart

Do I play a double part.

Ever at Thy glowing altar

Must my heart grow sick and falter,

Wishing He I served were black,

Thinking then it would not lack

Precedent of pain to guide it,

Let who would or might deride it;

Surely then this flesh would know

Yours had borne a kindred woe.

Lord, I fashion dark gods, too,

Daring even to give You

Dark despairing features where,

Crowned with dark rebellious hair,

Patience wavers just so much as

Mortal grief compels, while touches

Quick and hot, of anger, rise

To smitten cheek and weary eyes.

Lord, forgive me if my need

Sometimes shapes a human creed.

All day long and all night through,

One thing only must I do:

Quench my pride and cool my blood,

Lest I perish in the flood.

Lest a hidden ember set

Timber that I thought was wet

Burning like the dryest flax,

Melting like the merest wax,

Lest the grave restore its dead.

Not yet has my heart or head

In the least way realized

They and I are civilized. 

First Impressions of Woodstock and Athlone (and the Remains of District 6)

The following are an ignorant person's tales and impressions of wandering around Cape Town. Alas, I do not have a camera, so I could not snap photos of the interesting sites but here are my ignorant first impressions of the former District 6, Woodstock and Athlone . Woodstock would 'seem' safer since it's obviously not part of the Cape Flats and it's closer to the City Centre, so I would have to say I prefer it over Athlone.

Last Sunday was the day of my long constitutional. I woke up around 7:30 or 8, went to the grocery store/supermarket (Pick and Pay in Observatory), made lunch (a Cape Chutney soup with pita), and, after reading some more articles (about all sorts of things, from racism and Ethiopian-Israelis to Ethiopia, Khoikhoi victories over the Portuguese in 1510 to race relations in the US), went for a nearly 3 hour-long walk in the afternoon. Leaving Mowbray around noon, I walked through Woodstock to the City Centre. I noticed immediately how I liked Woodstock more than Observatory or Mowbray, for being closer to the City Centre, featuring more of an ‘urban’ feel in some ways, and for the preponderance of vacant lots and decaying houses. Parts of it reminded me of Chicago or certain areas of NYC, and I should’ve brought more cash on me to eat takeaway somewhere. Anywho, Main Road and another large street, Albert Road, had lots of restaurants, corner stores/bodegas, hair salons and barbershops, and some nice parks, particularly Trafalgar.I will have to return to this area and check out good restaurants next time, especially with people who know the area. The residential side streets and other areas were also interesting, reminding one of Bo Kaap’s colorful homes and Muslim residents. Moreover, since it was Sunday, people were relaxed and strolling the streets, sitting in front of their homes, and children were skating, playing, and laughing while laundry was outside, drying. The people I encountered mostly ignored me, probably immediately guessing I am not from the neighborhood. In fact, the only people I can recall talking to me were mendicants on the streets, asking for change.

After walking past the District 6 Museum and buying apple mint-flavored water from a corner store, I began a long trek homeward. The remains of District 6 are truly nothing, nothing but vacant and unused land and crumbling infrastructure from adjacent residential areas of the City Centre. I surely looked exhausted or possibly even drunk when I dropped the cap of my water and nearly fell over, causing this South African Black police to stare at me for a few minutes. In Woodstock more so than the areas closer to the City Centre, one could see homeless people sleeping in the vacant expanses of land, sometimes in trash and rubble, but c’est la vie, I guess. Truly a fascinating city, Cape Town, lots of poverty, homelessness, religious diversity, multicolored houses, Cape Dutch agriculture, little parks, etc. My return to Mowbray through Woodstock was less interesting for the most part, except for side streets where neighborhood life was on display. Upon returning home, exhausted, covered in sweat, and hungry, I finished a delicious granadilla fruit yoghurt, rested, and then cooked “chana masala” without masala spice. It turned out okay, nothing special. I used thyme with the rice to add some flavor, too, which worked out well.

I went for a very long walk yesterday evening, too. I walked around Liesbeeck Parkway for a while, then turned down a main street to walk through another part of Mowbray, past Rondebosch Village (what looked like a gated community), saw beggars on the avenues, carrying signs, as well as people trying to sell fruit and vegetables, a Red Cross Memorial Hospital, people jogging and biking, etc. I really need to learn to take my old American cellular phone with me to capture some pictures, especially when I go to places in the Cape Flats or interesting neighborhoods like Woodstock. The walk was overall, far less aesthetically pleasing than Woodstock, but there were some ‘nice’ vacant lots of undeveloped land, broad streets, lots of driving cars, a Woolworth’s grocery store and lots of mini-buses going by. I decided to keep walking all the way to Athlone, but I, alas, did not want to spend too much time there since the sun was setting and I was walking alone. But I did feel like I was nearing the airport and the Cape Flats, where most of the townships are located, I believe (or at least the large, famous ones like Khayelitsha and many were headed toward “Coloured townships.” Also, a lot of the Coloured people were Muslims, which is always nice to see. Of the memorable landmarks or sites, the vast lot of undeveloped land, the large hospital, walking by the Black River, lots of Muslims, and a "Specs for Africa" eyeglass store. Oh, and some man selling mangoes or some other fruit on a busy street left his cart in the street when no traffic was coming and the wind blew it away. That was quite amusing and led to a pedestrian across the street laughing hysterically. Anyway, Athlone deserves another visit, especially to it's "City Centre" and other areas.

Hans Memling's Last Judgment and St. Maurice

Painted between 1467 and 1471, Last Judgment is a triptych depicting, interestingly, a Black person as one of the saved and as the damned, representing the universalism of Christianity through which anyone could find salvation or damnation. The following statue of Saint Maurice, created in the 13th century for the Cathedral of Magdeburg in modern-day Germany, depicts a saint as a Black person. Somehow, St. Maurice, who had never been depicted as a Black, was transformed into one by medieval German Christians. It likely was not that difficult to change his color, considering the historical Maurice's roots in Upper Egypt and the Latin maurus, referring to dark-skinned people of North Africa.

African America vs. African Canada

Contrary to Ishmael Reed's Flight to Canada perhaps leading one to think of the nation as a heaven for African-Americans, Canada and the US share a similar black-white inequality gap, despite the former's history of providing safe haven to runaway American slaves and the absence of Jim Crow policies. An amazing essay, "Black Canadians and black Americans: racial income inequality in comparative perspective" Paul Attewell , Philip Kasinitz & Kathleen Dunn provides some useful data based on income distribution. Although Blacks in both states share a broadly inferior income vs. whites, Canada's black-white gap is a little better, despite the study's authors finding that, once one removes controls, the gap is essentially the same. Interestingly, the aforementioned authors found that third or more generation Black Canadians, like African-American descendants of US slaves, shared a similarly lower educational profile and income than third or more generation whites. Like Afro-Caribbean and other Black immigrants in the US, however, first and second generation Afro-Canadians (overwhelmingly descendants of Anglophone Afro-Caribbean immigrants as well as Haitians and Africans) fare much better than third generation or more Blacks. They also disprove downward assimilation theory for second-generation blacks of Caribbean/African immigrant heritages in both the US and Canada.

Origins of Slaves Imported at the Cape, 1652-1808

Wise Words

"The past is never dead. In fact, it isn't even past."