Don't Jump

As a teenager it is required of you to think and question the meaning of life. You spend your years as a teenager desperately trying to break as many rules as possible and then when you’re sitting in detention or in your room you while away the hours thinking about the true meaning of life and what exactly your purpose is. The common trend seems to be that there must be a greater purpose, although you never quite figure it out.

Some people come to their own conclusions that they are happy to live with. Others get themselves into such a tizz that they end up killing themselves or falling into the downward spiral of drugs and alcohol. Some just give up and decide that it doesn’t really matter and that they’re just going to enjoy the time that they have left.

A couple days a go another student from UCT committed suicide. Now as UCT is our greatest rival it would be easy to make some snide comment about the fact that it must be because the University is horrible or whatever. The thing is that there is nothing wrong with the University, well nothing worth killing yourself over. Yes their quota system is a complete mess and true, their rugby team isn’t as good as ours but surely it cannot be that bad?

On a more serious note though, one has to look at why a person would want to take their own life. What sort of situation do you have to be in to make death seem like a reasonable option? Some of you know that I am an atheist and therefore believe that once you die, that’s it. GAME OVER. There is nothing else and while most of you find this discomforting it has a certain level of positivity to it. If this is the only life I am to have, then damn I am going to live it till the very last second that I have.

This makes suicide seem even more absurd, because in my mind’s eye I would rather be living in a horrible life than not be living at all.

I cannot say that I will ever understand the pain or trauma that must be conflicting in your mind to make you want to jump off of the side of a building or shoot yourself, it is something I don’t ever want to understand. What I do understand is the pain that is left behind after a suicide. I know what it is like to lie up in bed at night filled with guilt because, maybe I should have done this, or what if? I know what is like to feel like it might be my fault. And I have seen what suicide can do to families, even those that seem the strongest.

All I can say is that whatever you are going through, it too shall pass. Just keep fighting.

“Hold on, when you feel like letting go. Hold on, it gets better than you know.”

Hold on - Good Charlotte

A Bottle of Red for Lunch

I can hardly call a day at Varsity stressful, but I must say there is nothing better than coming back from one whole hour of class to your two roommates who proceed to liquor you up the moment you walk in the front door.

For those of you who know me you’ll understand that I live in a two bedroom flat and will currently be wondering why I speak of two roommates. Well the truth of the matter is that I have the same problem that most people on campus have; I am the proud owner of a roommate with a live in boyfriend.

For most people this would be problematic, but I actually like it.

I suppose it helps that my roomie and I don’t cook together so he doesn’t eat my food, and he’s also really helpful around the flat, washing dishes and taking out the rubbish. Well, that and he’s actually a really nice guy and I get along with them both really well. I am their OFFICIAL third wheel.

So on Monday afternoon I was sitting in the computer centre busy  checking out how many views my blog had received when I got a message from my roommate along the lines of, “We’re opening wine, come home.”

Needless to say, I ran home.

We often spend the afternoon sitting in the flat, drinking wine, eating food and discussing our latest cravings; chocolate, cherries or cocktails. Sometimes our discussions get a little vulgar; sometimes they turn to politics (very rarely and generally initiated by yours truly) but most of the time we end up discussing my life.

My life and all its latest dramas are a great source of entertainment for the three of us and they can’t wait to walk in on a Monday morning, sit me down and get their latest fix.

Sometimes I speak of some outrageous Stellenbosch party that ended with me being carried to my front door by some bloke I’ve never met only to lock him out at the last minute, other times I talk of Saturday evening dates that went horrifically wrong and ended with a full on slap across some poor guys face and still other times I speak of my most recent embarrassing moment.

Our conversations are rowdy and get very out of hand, the food and wine flows freely and we just generally enjoy ourselves. The music plays softly in the background and we slowly while away the hours as the bottle slowly empties. I thoroughly enjoy our evenings and cannot wait for the next one…

Oh look, in walks Andrew with a bottle of red, chocolate and ice cream.

A Silent Death, Mourned by Strangers

I am nothing special. I don’t have extreme beauty or knowledge. I live, I breathe, I bleed; just like everyone else.

I knew a girl once; a beautiful girl with long dark hair and green eyes that burned with passion. She looked so strong, so happy. I envied her. I got lost in her eyes and wondered what it was about them that lit up my soul. I asked her one day to tell me what was behind those eyes.

I wish I had never asked.

Behind those eyes lay a truth buried deep within her soul. A concept my mind could never hope to decipher for fear of breaking. The fire that burned in her eyes was a strength way beyond what I could ever have imagined.

This girl, this beautiful girl, who I envied, was a victim. She was beaten every day from the age of six. Beaten to within an inch of her life, and completely broken. At the age of ten she went home to her new foster parents, was tied to a bed and raped by four men for three days straight. She came in and out of consciousness while she felt herself bleeding, all the while trying to figure out what she had done to deserve this.

Her body recovered with just a scar. But she was broken, forever.

She told me the story the day before her sixteenth birthday. She killed herself the next day.

I watched, crying from beside her coffin as her foster parents spoke hollow words. But in my heart there was a sense of wonderment at how she had managed to stay strong for so long. It was that fire behind her eyes that kept her going. It is her life that will keep mine going.

How many kids have to die? How many hearts have to break? How many times do I have to scream?

There are children out there; some young, some older, children who die because we turn a blind eye. We have failed. As a country, we have failed every single kid who is in a broken home or no home at all. As a community we have failed.

As a person, I have failed.

I am nothing special, but I have a cause; a cause worth fighting for. Do you?

Dragon Dove Love

My dark angel comes to rest
Calms my thoughts, ideas
Putting me to the test
Leaving me no tears

My quiet demon comes to halt
Disrupting my calm, lost
Tears of pure salt
Leaving me the cost

My black dove comes to land
Stops my disruption, found
Cost of the sand
Leaving me no sound

My white dragon comes to crash
Starting my stop, hate
Sound of the trash
Leaving me bait

My evil friend comes to chat
Reversing my start, love
Bait of the rat
Leaving me that dove

My kind enemy comes to kill
Redoing my reverse, torn
Dove of the bill
Leaving me unborn

This Woman's Work

I am a woman; a strong, caring, loving woman. I can do anything and everything. I have strength in me that would scare the darkest depths of your soul. I am honest and true to myself. I can fight and I can love. I am a woman.

I am proud to be a woman. I have mood swings and periods and I cry when I get emotional. I spend time on my hair, my make up and my dress. I pluck my eyebrows, wax my legs and paint my nails. I am feminine and beautiful. I am proud to be a woman.

I am built like a woman. I can play and be tough, but I can be tender and sweet. I have soft hands, pink lips and round breasts. I have the ability to fall pregnant; to create life and support life within me. I have the ability to give birth. I am built like a woman.

Yet, with all these blessings, I take for granted every one of them.

…

I am a woman with breast cancer; a strong, fighting woman. I am taking on a disease, more powerful than you can imagine. I will find a strength in me, I didn’t know I had. I will fight this disease with every inch of me and I will win. I am a woman with breast cancer.

I am still proud. My mood swings may be worse; the chemo makes me that way. I cry, I am emotional, I break, I need support, but I fight. I spend money on my wig and where my scarf with pride, I draw on my eyebrows and sometimes add fake lashes. I paint my nails to match my scarf. I am feminine and beautiful, even if you don’t see it. I am still proud.

I was built a woman. I play, but I am gentle. I laugh, but there is a far greater depth to it. My hands are sensitive, the chemo kills my skin, my lips are chapped in a way no lip-ice can fix and my breasts are plastic implants that painfully remind me of what I once had. I can no longer fall pregnant. Chemo is eating at my very soul, slowly poisoning every inch of my body, but I must fight. I must survive. I was once a true woman, yet now I am a plastic imitation.

I am the greatest actress you will ever meet, because you will never see me break, you will never see me pity myself, and you will never see me fall. You are just a stranger and you may laugh at my bald head, I will laugh with you. You can mock my badly drawn eyebrows, hell I laughed at them too. You will never hurt me, because you are NOTHING compared to the battle I have already one. I have one this battle and chosen too fight, and I WILL win this war, whether you help me or not.

Do not pity me, for I pity you. Do not lie to me, I have seen more truth than you could ever. Do not try to shame me, you will only shame yourself.

…

No, I am just a girl. I have not experienced the pain of chemo; I have not spent three days vomiting up everything including bits of my stomach. I have all my hair. I am not addicted to sleeping tablets because I do not need them to fall asleep. I have never been asked to fight a battle that no-one believes I will win.

I have experienced first hand the true beauty of a woman who can fight cancer and carry on fighting through the chemo, and win. I have seen the torture of a woman losing her hair. I have watched as a woman fought for her very life in my home. And she won.

But not everyone is as lucky.

Think of every person you know who has fought this war, whether they won or not, think of all those who will still fight it and think of all those people who are fighting it right now. If you have seen their lives then you know, as I do, that they are heroes and I will fight for them!

Cancer: a dance composed by Tyce Diorio

Professional Racing Driver, Coming Right Up

After two years of avoiding the Traffic Department at all costs I finally decided it was time to do my drivers license because apparently it's quite important; although this is just a rumour. So I plucked up all my courage and made my way to the Traffic Department. Now, for those of you have ventured into the Stellenbosch Home Affairs buildings, you will know that it's quite a daunting task.

So when looking for the Traffic Department, I was looking for some old, ram-shackled building next to the engineering that resembled something close to the Carolina Traffic Department. Boy oh boy, was I wrong. It was clean and tidy and the buildings were well looked after. This was a good omen. So I ventured inside, but when I didn't see a queue heading out of the front door, I realized I must be in the wrong place.

I went to the enquiries desk and timidly asked if this was in fact the Traffic Department. Turns out it was. Booking my drivers test took a whole fifteen minutes. Can you believe it? And my test wasn't set to be in six months time, no, I was writing in just under a month. Suddenly I hit panic mode!

My driving skills leave a lot to be desired and any one of my family members could tell you some story about how I nearly got them killed. So I decided a driving instructor was going to be a good idea. Never have I thought it a good idea to pay R170 to drive around in some miniature Hyundai a good idea, but hey, maybe I'm going soft.

I booked my lessons and was due to start driving the next day. To say I was nervous would be a serious understatement, try 'completely terrified'. I quietly walked up to the car and the instructor got out and introduced herself. I’m pretty sure the relief was evident all over my face as I realized that she wasn’t some scary tall woman with her hair pulled back into a tight bun but rather a young woman with a friendly smile.

Well, I’m yet to kill anyone but it must be noted that the point of looking both ways before crossing a pedestrian crossing is to ensure that there are no pedestrians (for some reason I thought I could find a pedestrian and then just carry on going anyway). Also stalling right in front of that really good looking guy and then going bright red, apparently it’s not attractive.

At least I have two weeks to learn that pedestrians have right of way on a pedestrian crossing (apparently not common sense) and to learn that regardless of how good looking the pedestrians are, if I stall, I fail.

Wining and Dining

Dinner in my family is an interesting affair. It starts with mother dearest ripping my eyes away from the TV and instructing me to set the dining room table. Now, that’s generally an easy task, except we have FOUR METER’s worth dining room table (handmade sleeper wood and far more amazing than any table you will ever see).

After grumbling for ten minutes about not being able to watch the end of my series (or whatever I may have been watching) and about how horrible my mom is and how much I hate dinner times at the table, I finally start setting the table; side plates, silver wear and some strange looking placemats that we started using a couple years ago that still freak me out. Which is my left again?

When I eventually make my way into the kitchen to find out what spices I need to set out on the table I IMMIDIATELY retract all statements previously made as the waft of home cooked sheep tails and pap filters through the air. My stomach does a little dance for joy and before I know it I’m standing at the pot hoping for a little taster.

Mom is NOT impressed. I guess she overheard me then. Oops.

Now, this is make-or-break time. If I don’t get back into her good books in the next five minutes I may be going hungry tonight.

Suddenly I’m all kinds of useful; helping with serving-dishes, pouring more wine, making sure her chilli powder is on the table. I must say, mom has worked me out, if you want me to do ANYTHING give me food as an incentive.

Finally the food is on the table, the warm plates have been sworn at after being taken out of the AGA without oven-gloves and the family is seated except mom. Teddy-bear (my step dad, but another story for another day) is at the head of the table, on his right is an open chair and next to that sits Sissa and on his left is me and then Sharky.

We all sit there in deathly quiet waiting for mom to join us. Each of us eagerly waiting to attack the meal but knowing that if we do decide to start eating before mom gets here… Well, let’s not go into too much detail.

Eventually, one of us will feverishly call out, “Mom?”

“Yes, yes. I’m coming. Don’t rush me damnit.”

Now, you may be thinking that our family is ever so prim and proper for sitting at the dining table for dinner time and setting the table and all, but it is at this point where our manners stop. As mom’s bum hits the chair the three of us simultaneously launch ourselves at the food while my sister looks around the table longingly for something resembling a vegetable and mom just watches in awe as a meal that took her three hours to prepare is demolished in five minutes.

The lack of a proper dinner conversation goes completely unnoticed. The vulgarities strewn across the table are met by laughter and outrage and all the while, mom sits waiting for an inch of intelligence which never comes and so she resorts to finding the bottom of her wine glass. Needless to say my step dad has mastered the art of ensuring that her wine glass is NEVER empty.

Dinner time in our house is madness on a normal night, but every now and again a neighbour from down the road joins us and then all hell breaks loose.

Prinsloo is an Afrikaans guy, in his early thirties, originally from some backwards town near an even more backwards Hoedspruit who moved to the area a couple years ago (why anyone would move to Carolina is beyond me, but apparently some people do it willingly). He met my parents through some random event in town to do with sheep or fire fighting or some other boring farm topic and they hit it of relatively well, however I only met him on Christmas Eve last year.

We usually have our big Christmas do up on Christmas Eve so that we can do the quiet family thing on Christmas Day (not that we do ‘quiet’ in my family). Farmers from around the area were invited and mom cooked a heavenly meal. Heather and I set the table, Nicky pretended to be important and the clown that I call my step dad was in charge of drinks (whoever decided that was a good idea should be shot, multiple times).

Well, needless to say, things got very festive and pretty soon my mom was hiding her head in shame as we all shouted obscenities at each other from across the table. Mind you, you have to be quite loud to be able to get a word in, especially across a four meter long table. It came to my attention that this stranger managed to fit in at our table pretty well, which is rather unusual…

Until he started talking about his ‘rock’.

The conversation had turned to the stone kraals in our area which are a hot topic at the moment and he wished to contribute to the conversation by talking about an interesting rock on his farm. Unfortunately he never got further than “I have a huge, shiny rock standing on my farm…”

The alcohol induced giggles continued for at least an hour after that as our minds came to every sexual connotation we could possibly find while he tried desperately to get out of the hole he had just dug for himself.

Needless to say, I thought we’d never see him again.

But it seems, that in a town such as ours, people with whom you can truly get along with are hard to find and difficult to keep. And so, as he carries on coming back for more, we gladly open up another bottle of red (or white, or whiskey, or mampoer or whatever else we can find) and enjoy ourselves.

Life really is too short to miss out on good times, with good people, laughter, wine and good food.

Letter to my Father

Daddy, I met the most amazing family tonight. I felt at home with them and I wasn’t sure why until I saw a picture of the parents cuddled up close, each with a glass of wine in hand. It reminded me of a photo I once saw of you and Pat, standing behind the bar at the lodge. You two looked so happy.

It brought back so many memories. Memories of us four, memories of you and Pat walking down the beach, hand in hand.

Dad, I miss you.

I’m doing alright you know. I think you’d be proud of me. I hope so anyway. And Pat, she’s been amazing. You always gave your girls the best, but the greatest gift you could have left us with was this strong, amazing woman who cared so deeply about you and who cares so dearly about us. And she kicked the cancer. Her hair is growing back and she’s as stunning as ever.

And Heather, she’s doing so well. You would have been so impressed with her latest results. And she’s coming to Stellenbosch to study chemical engineering next year, daddy. I’m finally going to have my baby girl back. I’ll try look after her. She looked so pretty for her matric dance, all grown up. I wish you could have seen her.

Ollie died, daddy; our little schnoo, but puppy is still gorgeous and I think she misses you as much as we do.

Sean had a son dad. He’s named Evan Andrew McGinn, after you. He’s gorgeous and I hope that he can grow to be the man that you once were.

All I can think about is our little trip down to Stellenbosch, just the two of us. I wish I had known then what I know now. I wish I had taken advantage of our time together. I wish I had made it count.

It’s taken me so long to write this. I wish I didn’t have too. I wish that I could call you up and say hello. But I can’t and I’m dealing with it. So instead, I’m sitting here, in your Blackbeard t-shirt, glass of wine in hand, thinking about what an amazing person you were and about that damn hankie.

You were my hero daddy; I guess you always will be.

I hope it didn’t hurt. I hope you weren’t in too much pain. You looked so peaceful in the hospital bed. I tried everything to wake you; chocolate, kisses, I even tried tickling your feet, but it was too late. Just know that we’re okay, and that we miss you every day.

The service was beautiful. Francis painted the most amazing portrait of you based on a photo from your wedding night. And everyone got to say a few words. They said the most amazing things and shared some very special memories. Chuck said some very special words. But BB, he broke my heart. And his big, beautiful bear-hug afterwards was the one thing that kept me going. You’re missed by a lot of people.

We all miss you. I miss you. And I love you, daddy.

Banana Egg Flip

I learnt a couple of vital lessons this weekend about Stellenbosch. The first is that I love sleep and dearly miss it. The second is that tequila is only ever a good idea when you're trashed, at which point you are beyond the point of no return. The third is that bruises hurt the next day even if they don't hurt at the time.

But, the most important thing I learnt this weekend was that I should have phoned home for a hangover recovery ages ago. Mom is ALWAYS right.

I don't even know why I didn't think about it earlier. The answer is a Banana Egg Flip. Two glasses and a bit of sleep and I feel human again. So here's the recipe:

• Two Bananas
• One Egg
• Vanilla Essence
• 250 ml milk

Put it all in a blender and you'll be sorted in no time.

Also, my mom rocks.

Blabbering Idiot, At Your Service

There we go, I did it again. Can you believe it? How pathetic!

I saw you on campus today; blue jeans, white shirt, blond hair, tanned skin.

So, I did what every normal human being does, I ducked, behind a tree, in front of at least a hundred eyes.

It gets worse though, because once you’d walked past I called myself an idiot, out loud, then turned and walked straight into the tree. Yes, pathetic is the word, I know, but I can’t help myself. You make me stupid.

It isn’t the first time. I know it won’t be the last time. I just don’t know what to do when I see you. I’m terrified that I’ll say something stupid, or forget to speak or, God forbid, hug you for an awkwardly long length like I did last time. So, it’s probably easier if I just stay away from you, but that means never going onto campus again, which is a bit drastic.

But, I have the solution; the next time I see you I will imagine you, with no teeth, fat, a boil on your face and short. That way I won’t find you attractive and I will stop being a blabbering idiot in your presence.

Only problem is that now I’m going to sound like a cackling hyena, but at least I won’t walk into any trees.

Oh, on a totally unrelated note, next time you turn around and see me run straight into a tree and then run away, please don’t laugh out loud and then come to my rescue.

The Lonely Tears of a Drunk

She drinks herself to sleep at night

It's the only way she'll sleep sound tonight

She's lonely

But no one cares

She cries herself to sleep at night

She'll sleep alone again tonight

But

She'll dream of him again

She dreams of days

Better days

When life could smile

And pity was just a word

Yes, tonight the liqour

Will quiet her soul

And her love will cry

Until her body sleeps

But she'll wake

To deathly quiet

And a broken memory

Of a giggle

The giggle experienced by lovers

Lovers unbroken

Lovers unharmed

Lovers who lie together

An angel dying in the stench of a drunk

Do Something About It

Is it possible that South Africa is at war? Can it be that our over exposure to death has made us callous to the daily violence that threatens to rip our very country apart? Have we been blinded by our government, our hearts and our hope? Have we lost this battle?

South Africa has been tormented by farm murders for many years now and yet, they are more brutal and more plentiful than ever. Farmers are being tortured, beaten and killed by farm workers who feel they have been treated unjustly. Yet who is at fault in this scenario? Does looking after your own families needs take preference over another man’s life? Well, the truth is that we shouldn’t even have to ask that question.

Children growing up in townships are being raped and killed by gangs of huge men. Men who have so much power in the community that these rapes go unnoticed, unreported and these beautiful children have their dignity shredded apart as each day they cross paths with their attackers and as they pluck up the courage to meet his gaze they notice the horrible smirk of a man who has broken and got away with it.

Yet, here I sit at one of the best universities in the world, in a fancy room with fancy computers and the luxury of the fastest internet in South Africa. I wear jewellery, shoes and warm clothes. I spent money on extras; accessories, belts and scarves. My nails are painted, my skin is moist and a spent still more to have a facial the other day. Am I not a South African? I do not suffer. I do not bleed. I am not broken.

The police force is a mess, the government is a joke, and our army is a laughing stock. Our departments of Home Affairs, Traffic and Licensing and the like are overworked and underpaid and in those seats behind the glass screen sit woman who, for the first time ever, are in a position of power and they will NOT let you forget it. Petty crimes are policed regularly and yet rape and murder case dockets disappear.

What am I doing about it? Well I’m complaining to my friends over a cup of tea and cake; I’m phoning home to tell mom how long it took to get my passport sorted and I’m not reporting my stolen wallet because I have assumed that they will not do anything about it, not that I have ever stepped into the Stellenbosch police department to see what it’s like. Yes, I am doing what every other South African is doing, NOTHING!

I am assuming that because I am not in power, I have no say. I am assuming that if I wrote a letter to the president it would go unnoticed. I am assuming that I am just some spoilt white girl who has no right to complain. So why did we fight for a democracy, if we only use it once every five years to vote?

Yes, we have failed ourselves, we have failed our country, our peers, our friends, and it is high time that we got up and fought for what we believe in! The leading party cannot possibly know that there is a problem, regardless of which party it is, if we do not report the problem.

We have been childish and stupid and I’ve had enough. If you want something done, do something about it. Next time someone asks you to sign a petition, sign it. Next time you have a problem, phone someone who can fix it. These structures are in place, they just need to be used.