A Person My Colour

Martina Dahlmanns

Description

If you are tired of hearing about �whiteness�, and if you think racism exists in the hearts of evil others, or you believe that having a black friend unshackles you from racism�s hold, I dare you to read this book. Martina Dahlmanns, the daughter of parents who grew up in the shadow of post-war Germany, an adoptive mother of children who are black, and a member of a dialogue group of black and white women, urgently questions the very depths of what it means to be white in South Africa today. Her deeply personal memoir is unsettling because of what it reveals simultaneously about the enduring impact of inherited privilege and the repercussions of disadvantage. Her book is unsettling, precisely because of what it reveals simultaneously about the enduring impact of inherited privilege and the repercussions of disadvantage. But it is Dahlmanns� dialogue with Tumi Jonas�whose own reflections appear in the last section of the book�that reveals so much of what�s possible, yet potentially destructive, in relationships between black and white South Africans today.

Informations

• Publié par: Modjaji Books
• Date de parution: 22 août 2018
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781928215646
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

A PERSON MY COLOUR

Published in 2018 by Modjaji Books
Cape Town, South Africa
www.modjajibooks.co.za
© Martina Dahlmanns
Martina Dahlmanns has asserted her right to be
identified as the author of this work.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical or electronic, including photocopying or recording, or be stored in any information storage or retrieval system without permission from the publisher.
Edited by Emily Buchanan
Cover text and artwork by Megan Ross
Book layout by Andy Thesen
Set in Stone
ISBN print: 978-1-928215-63-9
ISBN ebook: 978-1-928215-64-6
For L, K and N.
You are my moon, my sun and all the stars in the universe.
With special thanks to Tumi Jonas-Mpofu for her contributions to Part II.
Contents
Cover
Half-title Page
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Introduction
Part I
   1 Mannie
   2 The Good Girl
   3 Lena
   4 Versions of My Mother
   5 Your Father Warned Me About You
   6 Becoming Myself
   7 Not a Bad Place to Be
   8 Then I Met Your Dad
   9 You Should Marry Him
10 Paper Pregnant
11 Lele
12 My Unlucky Brown Baby
13 The Little Black Girl
14 Kal
15 Nene
16 Between Mothers
18 Family of Five
19 The Earth Shakes
Part II
20 Black Wedding
21 A Person My Colour
22 Meeting Your Mama
23 Awkward Birthday Party
24 Are You a Rice-ist?
25 The Shopping Trip
26 Is She Your Madam?
27 Navy
28 White Pain
29 White Pain, Take Two
30 The Meeting After
31 The Twelve Apostles
32 Shopping While Black
33 Facing My Inner Racist
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Introduction
Even though we understand that the personal is political and the political personal, this is an intimate sharing of our story and not meant as a solution to current political issues. By including Tumi’s story, the author appropriated a black narrative. By lending her name to the story, Tumi potentially served a white agenda.
If and when our story triggers difficult emotions, adverse opinions or outright rejection, we hope to start conversations that may contribute to our mutual learning. This would be the best outcome for us.
As much as we didn’t want to hide behind the intimacy of our personal friendship, we consciously stepped away from the agenda of political correctness and allowed our feelings and instincts (and many hard conversations while walking along Sea Point Promenade) to guide us.
Whenever we got caught up in a politically correct narrative, we reminded each other of the main focus of this story, the children we both love.
We open this book with our dedications to those three beautiful humans –
Tumi writes:
When I first got to know you through your mum, who kept on inviting me to the house, I often wondered about the role I was supposed to play as a black person in your life. What was it that your mum and dad, as white parents, couldn’t give you that they were hoping I would bring into your life? Was I supposed to expose you to black townships, tell you about racism, inequality, ongoing oppression? Was I supposed to role model “black success”?
Before I met you my world was pretty much reduced to shades of black and white, categorised for me by a not so long ago Apartheid government and kept in place by the reality of white privilege and continued black oppression. I did not have anything or anybody in my life to counter this reality. When I found myself in the middle of your family, my world suddenly became more complicated, not in a burdensome but in an enriching way. You added nuances and new colours to my pencil box.
I decided it would be best to go with the flow and be honest and authentic with you – and of course you always had your own ideas and questions, which sometimes threw me in a way I had not expected. Though I have no doubt that my experiences and perspectives as a black person have been and continue to be valuable for you, I realise that it is in fact you who bring something new into my life.
I can’t imagine a future without knowing and loving you.
Martina writes:
A life where I might not have been your mother was never a possibility. I know today that we as a family are part of a plan born in a place and from the wisdom that our souls know as home.
I adopted you and that makes me your mother, forever, as are the women before me who gave birth to you. We are and will always be your team of mothers, none of us less real than the other. Sometimes love is a team effort by two or more mothers, or two or more parents, and there can never be too much of it. Sometimes one mother or one parent means all the love in the world. But no two mother’s loves are the same and no parent loves one child in exactly the same way as they love their other child or their other children.
Mother-love is no hidden superpower, laying dormant in a woman’s uterus, waiting to be activated by the process of giving birth. This is just one of the many myths (gender and sexuality some of the others) our society reinforces with moral judgements, guilt and shaming in order to keep us attached to acceptable norms.
My love does not replace or surpass your other mothers’ love, a love you might only ever experience as an absence like a hole in your being. Maybe you won’t. Maybe your biggest hurt is something I will never understand. This is the difficult part, where I have to witness your pain without flinching and without fixing it; where I walk by your side without being able to carry you; where I have to acknowledge my limitations and rely on other people’s love for you with the hope that one day you will be able to make sense of it all.
I hope in time the world will get bored with obsessing about the many ways a family can be created. Today we are still a curiosity and a target for endless speculation. If in the years to come people look at you with judgement in their eyes or challenge you with hurtful questions, I wish for you to have the strength and speed of mind to kick their asses (literally and in other ways) until one day you might find compassion for their fears in the knowledge that – unlike them – you have been and always will be loved for who you are.
Tumi and Martina
Part I
1
Mannie
Spring 1944, Cologne, Germany
He was hiding under the big table in the middle of the camp. His safe place. The noises and smells couldn’t get to him there. The plastic tablecloth came almost down to the ground, allowing just enough space to watch without being seen. It reminded him of the one that used to cover the wooden table in his mama’s kitchen: shiny red-and-white checks on top, and something velvety underneath that tickled your arms and the back of your neck when you were crawling under the table.
This one was different though. The velvety side was worn out and scratchy and it gave him goosebumps when it touched his skin, like brushing against the fur of a dead dog.
He once touched a dead dog. His brother had shown it to him in a dump behind their house. The dog’s eyes had been open and glassy, like those big marbles Mannie carried around in a little pouch tied to his belt that made a clinking noise when he was running. A trickle of blood glistened between the dog’s yellow teeth, drawing a squiggly line down the side of its long snout. It looked mean, like its face was frozen in a permanent growl. Its thin brown fur was wet. The rain had not stopped for days. Mannie could see pale patches of skin, with crusts of dirt or old scabs. He wanted to look away, but couldn’t.
His brother dared him to touch the dog.
“Coward, coward,” he sing-songed over and over again. “Look at the little mummy’s boy, pooping his pants.”
His brother was almost eleven. Forever six years older, except for the month of October, when it was his birthday and his brother, whose birthday was in November, miraculously became only five years older.
“Look at the Hosenscheisser, pants-pooper,” he snorted, spit flying out of his mouth, landing on Mannie’s cheek. “Look at the poo coming out of his pants.”
His brother did not like him. Mannie thought he remembered a time when there was some kind of love between them, or maybe he just dreamed it. He used to admire his brother, because he was so much bigger and smarter. But things had changed. His brother had changed. These days it seemed as if his biggest pleasure was to torment his baby brother. He also constantly acted like he was speaking to an invisible audience. Mannie was too scared to tell him how ridiculous he sounded, talking when nobody was listening.
So he’d touched the dog.
With the palm of his hand, Mannie had brushed over the part where the shoulder blades were sticking out, a goosebumpy shudder tickling down his spine. Then he ran, his feet on the wet ground, like a hand slapping bare skin, marbles klick-klacking to the rhythm of his steps, his brother’s screaming laughter chasing him all the way home until he reached his hiding place under the kitchen table.
Smells of baking mixed with the faint aroma of his mother’s apron, clean and fresh like spring flowers after a gentle rain. Safe. He could sit here for hours, watching his mother’s slippered and stockinged feet moving backwards a