Lusinda's Rewrite (Final)

Note:
This rewrite has been done in response to a combination of Kathryn Stockett’s text The Help as well as the film The Colour of Friendship (2000) which centers around racism instilled during the apartheid era and a friendship between a white and a black girl.

27 June 2008

Dear Diary

Most days I’m not quite sure how to react to them or treat them. When I’m at home its fine, I know that Gracie cooks and cleans for us and Jabu works in the garden. I know that they are our employees and therefore it is ok to keep your distance and ‘keep things private’ – like Mom says – but when we’re at school and in class together I feel bad for excluding them. Especially Kathlego, we all call her Kat for short. I actually really like Kat she’s always smiling and ignites the room with her explosive presence but I know that I can never invite her to our house or to one of the girls’ sleepovers. I feel rude and two-faced especially since last week when she came to a sleep over at Kelly’s house and her and I were the last ones to fall asleep. I think her and I would actually be good friends, I can imagine her keeping us up all night telling Zulu stories about spirits and witchdoctors but I can’t even imagine her being in the room with Mom and Dad. I don’t want to imagine it. But if she did come over, I wonder what it would be like for Gracie to serve a black girl? To see her sit at our table...

‘Julia, since you seem to be taking notes so furiously, can you name two of South Africa’s most influential anti-apartheid activists?’
‘Nelson Mandela and Steve Biko’ the answer leaves my lips instinctively. I know this because I’m doing my term project on both. We learn about apartheid every year in history. Ask me anything and I can tell you. The regime ended officially in 1994 when the country held its first free and fair elections and everyone’s vote was counted equally – before white votes counted as more than black, coloured or Indian votes – the African National Congress won and Nelson Mandela came into power after spending 27 years in prison for sabotage and terrorism. With the end of apartheid black people were allowed to live in white areas. They were allowed to travel without a dompas and could use the same buses, swimming pools, libraries, theatres and shops as white people. They were entitled to go to the same schools as us and talk to us without us addressing them first. I was four when this all happened. No one in my class remembers anything first hand but we all hear our parents talk about the old days and how well everything worked, apparently. But in history class we learn how bad and how unfair everything was and we learn it every year. I suppose it’s the truth though. No one really has a right to judge another by their skin colour, it doesn’t mean that they are less of a person than anyone else but it also doesn’t mean that we have to be friends.


3 July 2008

When I got home from school today I heard Mom in the garden talking to Jabu. She was showing him how she wants the front hedges cut. I know how she likes them- all uniform box hedges. But they don’t grow that way in Africa. They aren’t meant to grow here really its not like England at all. I wish people would get that. I walk through the garage and into the kitchen. Gracie was cooking up something goo-oood for lunch. She was busy at the stove, her back was to me and she was singing to herself. I love it when she sings; the sounds of the Xhosa language are like a drum beat in my ears even though I don’t know what they mean. In fact, even when Gracie sings a sad slow song it sounds happy because of the way her tongue clicks and her voice undulates around the tune. I know she sings in the church choir and she’s quite rigid in her beliefs, she looks after her two children and her sister’s daughter since she passed away. I also know that it must be hard to look after three children and yourself on a meager R3000 a month. I tried to talk to Dad about this once and asked if any way there was a chance that Gracie could earn a bit more – she does, after all, work 6 days a week, sunrise to sunset. He got really angry, I still hear all the dinner plates jumping as he banged his fist on the table and said that if I don’t like the way he pays his employees I can pay Gracie out of my pocket money. I couldn’t pay Gracie, I was saving for a new dress to wear to Kelly’s 16th next month, I could however just pretend that I don’t know anything about Gracie’s life after hours. It’s not my place after all. Keep things private.

‘Graacie!’ Tom, my little brother, sprints into the kitchen, he always does everything as fast as he can. ‘Gracie, have you seen my soccer shorts? Where are my soccer shorts? I need them now, I have soccer in 15 minutes! Where are they?’

‘Eish, Tommie. Your shorts are in the wash ma-chine.’

‘Damnit, Gracie! You know I have soccer on Thursdays!’ He clicks his tongue and sulks off. I know that Tom has three pairs of soccer shorts and that he only dug them out from under his bed this morning and threw them in the laundry. Sometimes it’s easier to pretend you don’t know, I don’t know why though. They aren’t my shorts and I don’t have to wash them. I suppose it eases the guilt if you conveniently forget you ever knew some things.

My mother walks through the kitchen door and brings with her the fragrance of basil and the stronger smell of mint that she picked from the herb and vegetable garden. She’s quite good in the garden, well she used to be when we were younger, now she gets Jabu to do most of it. It’s the same with Gracie’s cooking.
‘Jules, where Tommie at?’
‘He’s looking for something to wear for soccer.’ Gracie puts her head down, stops singing.
‘What do you mean looking for something to wear? He has a soccer uniform.’
‘Ja, I know. He’s looking for that.’
‘Gracie, where is his uniform?’
‘Mad-em, his shorts are in the wash ma-chine.’
‘Why? Everyone knows he has soccer on Thursdays.’
‘Mad-em, the shorts were only put in the wash bas-ket this morning.’ Gracie’s hands are folded together in front of her. Her head slightly dipped. I wasn’t sure if it was just me but I felt out of place. I picked up my things and slipped out of the kitchen just as I saw my mother’s lips grow tight and say ‘I see’ to which my thoughts responded: ‘No, you don’t see.’ Or perhaps, she too chooses not to.

The solitude of my room calms me, the walls are a pale blue contrasting with the white organza curtain which waves at me as the winter breeze enters in between the burglar bars. They are ugly things, slicing up my view of the garden with thick black lines. I fall onto my bed with the goose down duvet softening my descent, molding itself around my body. I stare up: a plain white ceiling. I wanted to put glow in the dark stars up there but Mom wouldn’t have it. I wonder about Kelly’s party next month. We’re all going because it is the party to be seen at this year – actually her party is the party to be seen at every year. But because it is her eighteenth she’s making a bigger deal of it, she’s even getting her dress designed for the occasion. I pull my diary out from my school bag with every intention of doodling what my dream dress would look like if I weren’t trying to save for one with my insufficient R300 a week allowance. It would be a soft pink, silky, sleek and simple. I reach over for a pen on my bedside table and simultaneously roll over onto my stomach, flipping my diary open to the next blank page. But last week’s diary entry clears all thoughts of pretty dresses. I wonder what it would be like for Gracie to serve a black girl? To see her sitting at our table?
I move the pen across the page my thoughts flow through the nib of the ballpoint pen, dancing scribbles of blue ink.
Sometimes I feel guilty because I’m white. I feel guilty because I’m white and rich. I’m white and rich and go to a private school. My parents have two cars each and I live in a big house with spare rooms. I have more shoes than I could wear in a week and clothes that have been in my cupboard for months that have never been worn. We go on overseas holidays at least twice a year and eat out at least once a week. I feel guilty because we look the other way when we’re stopped in traffic and a young boy in rags begs for small change. We look the other way despite the car full of groceries we have just bought. Imported chocolates and fancy cheese platters. I feel guilty when I come home from school my bed has been made and the clothes picked up off the floor, the dishes cleared and my bathroom scrubbed – and that’s just my bedroom. I feel guilty because I know it should be different but I don’t know how to make a difference. But do I feel guilty because I’m white? Or because I have so much where others have so little, is it because I’m lazy or is it because I don’t care? But am I supposed to feel guilty? It’s not my fault I was born white or into a wealthy family, it’s not my fault so many white people are rich and so many black people are poor and it’s not my fault apartheid happened. Do I really not like black people or is it because I’m not supposed to like them - because black and white don’t mix?
My thoughts come to an abrupt halt. Right and wrong, black and white: contrast and opposites.


11 July 2008

‘Ten Days!!’ I’m met by Kelly’s shrill shriek across the school corridor.
‘Can’t wait!’ I yell back as I’m walking over. Her arms are outstretched and she greets me in a tangle of perfectly manicured hands and spray-tanned arms.
‘Eeee!’ she squeals, dancing from foot to foot, ‘Have you got your dress?’
‘I’m going to pick it up this Saturday! And Mom said she’ll buy all the accessories!’ I had managed to save for the last month for the dress I wanted: It has a pale pink bodice taken in at the waist with the skirt of black tulle falling just above the knee. I feel like a movie star in it! The bell rings and Kelly gives me a kiss on the check good-bye with a ‘See ya later babe’ wave across the corridor. ‘Bye!’ I check my watch 8:55am it tells me. I have time to run to the bathroom before class. I push past the hoards of students all moving in different directions and press the swing door of the girls’ toilet. I make my way into a cubicle and am met by the sounds of a girl crying quietly next door to me. I’m not sure what to do? Do I pretend to not hear? What if she wants to be left alone?
‘um..are you, are you alright?’
Sniffs, ‘I’m fine. Thank you.’ The voice is familiar.
I crouch down on all fours and peer through the gap between our stalls. White school anklets on black skin, added to the nametag on the backpack and my suspicions are confirmed. Kathlego. I’m not sure what to do but I find myself wanting to help.
‘You don’t sound alright.’ I unlock my cubicle door and knock on hers.
‘Go away Julia! I’m fine!’ I stand there for a minute not sure what to do at her short words and how she knew who it was.
‘I want to help’
‘There’s nothing you can do. And what’s it to you anyway? You’re just a rich white girl!’
‘Its not much to me really! And you’re right, there’s nothing I can do to help unless you tell me what’s wrong.’ I snap but am immediately regretful. I contemplate walking away but I hear here shuffling around in the stall. There’s a click and she opens the door. We stare at each other for a while unsure what to say or do. Her eyes are red and her face is all puffy from the tears. I want to reach out and give her a big hug but I don’t. I stand my ground.
‘Sorry,’ she says.
‘ ’S’ok,’ I awkwardly reach for her hand, she doesn’t reach for mine but she doesn’t pull away.
‘You look like a mess. You can’t go to class like that. Here’ I pull out some tissues from my backpack and for lack of a better option some lip-gloss. She laughs through her nose.
‘What’s funny?’
‘I’m not sure – either the lip gloss or the fact that I won’t be going to class for much longer.’
I stare at her, ‘What do you mean?’
She looks away, pulls her hand away and crosses her arms. She sighs.
‘I’m at this school on a bursary. We only have to pay a third of what you all pay and we only just manage. My father was fired yesterday. We can’t afford to keep me here and still live from day to day at home.’
I stare at her some more. I’m not sure what to say. What can I say? Here I stand representing everything that Kathlego and her family cannot afford. She takes a tissue from my hand; I had completely forgotten that I was holding them.
Suddenly the bathroom door bangs open and in walks Cayley she looks at us, seemingly unsure what to say and comes out with:
‘All ready for Kelly’s party girls?’
I look at Kat, I doubt she’ll be going now – or if she ever was.
‘Of course we are! We were just discussing when we’re going to get our nails done.’ I pick up Kat’s bag, grab her hand again and drag her out of the bathroom.
‘See ya, Cayley!’
Outside the cool winter air and sunlight hit us face on.
‘Nice one, Julia! Now everyone is going to think I’m going to Kelly’s party with a full face of make-up and money.’ She pulls her bag from me and walks away, leaving me standing alone, speechless – late for Afrikaans class.



12 July 2008

Dear Diary

It’s quiet as I lay here at 6 o’clock in the morning. The outside sounds are keeping me awake and my heart stops every time I hear the dogs bark. I wish I were brave enough to open the window and yell at them to keep quiet but I’m scared that I may see someone unwanted in the garden. Its more than likely a bullfrog or some other poor creature but here I lie terrified.

My thoughts keep drifting back to Kat. I feel like a smug little spoilt child thinking I had any right at all to know why she was crying and possibly entertaining the idea that I could help her. I must look like an idiot to her.

K…ka..ka-klick. My heart stops. Metal on metal. There’s a key in a lock and then craa-aak. I hear the front door open. My whole body freezes. Oh my gosh. Someone is in my house. I hear my heart beating in my ears and the door clicks closed quietly on the offbeat. I sit up. I have to let everyone know that there is an intruder! I pull on my slippers and grab a heavy vase from my dressing table, creeping down the corridor towards the kitchen. I can see a dark shadow and it turns to face me, seeing me standing there with my arm raised.
‘Ju-lie!’
I almost scream in fright as I realise who it is: ‘GRAAcie!’ it comes out as half shock and half relief.
‘What are you doing, wena?’
‘I thought, I thought you, you were a tsotsi!’
Gracie starts to laugh, a deep laugh from the bottom of her heavy stomach.
‘Nee you mampara! I start work at 6.’
‘Oh’ is all I can manage feeling completely sheepish. I hang my head.
‘Sit, I will make you some mor-nin’ tea.’ I sit obediently. And the silence of the morning rings out around us punctuated by the clinking of mugs and the steam from the kettle. Gracie starts humming, sets two steaming mugs down on the table and sits herself down heavily opposite me. I look at her, unsure what to do or say.
‘So, Osie, why are you awake eh? Are wor-ried about your parrty?’
‘um…no, not really. I’m thinking about…a girl at school.’ I pause, ‘a friend is, is having trouble.’ My mother’s voice is in my head: keep things private. I push it away. ‘Gracie, do you hate white people? Don’t you hate having to work for us?’
Gracie’s eyes grow wide. Unsure what to say she stammers out, ‘Ja its ok.’ I look at her in disbelief and she can see it.
‘You fam-ely, is ok. It has been worse and its been bet-ter.’
‘No Gracie! Its not ok! At school, I have a friend. She’s black, she’s a good girl, she has fire in her personality and a good heart but I’m scared to be friends with her. How can I be friends with her at school and not invite her to my house?! Its not fair! And I know she needs a friend! Why can’t I be her friend?!’
Gracie glares at me.
‘Aikona, wena! Are you saying to me you can’t be friends with this girl because she’s black?!’
Its my turn to look at Gracie in shame, ‘Ja.’
I see her body soften. ‘Ju-lie. Sometimes, in South Africa, it is hard to be a colour. I know. Your mam, she know. But we grow as we know until something or someone changes us. Today, it is different from how we grew up. You have a choice, rrreally. You mam and daad, they make their choice. And wena, how do you think your friend’s parents will think if she brought a white girl to their house? Eh?! For me, its hard working here, seeing so much and not having any but I could have no job. I am a person. People carry on, even when it is hard. Even when its gets harder. You a good girl. Be thank-ful and be a person Julie. Don’t let your col-our be you. Black and white are not col-ours.’
I look up at Gracie and suddenly had so much respect for a woman I knew very little about and involuntarily my eyes welled up with an emotion I was no longer unsure of and I was wondering why things always have to be kept so private.

13 July 2008

I arrived at school extra early this morning with a small parcel in a plastic bag. And I knew then how looks could be deceiving – on the inside it was beautiful. I found her bag and placed it next to it, her name written across the note attached which read:
I know and you know and that’s all we have to know. It’s how people work sometimes.
Xx