We were at one of America’s most overpriced, pseudo-local, coffee joints when it happened. All I did was ask about her summer and time in South Africa.
She took a deep breath and was still before the furry. She leaned forward a tad and a little wrinkle formed between her eyebrows as she navigated past today’s events and last week’s drama. She looked down for a moment, grasping for a way to wrap words around incomprehensible experiences. Her eyes darted from memories of milli-pop to Mammas, from textbook to touch, from baboons to billboards, but finally, they left her left hemisphere and landed on her palms.
She shot up with eyes burrowing through her hands, “Look! Look here!”, she turned her palms toward me, “Do you see these hands?” she pressed in with sharp eyes, “Do you see these hands!?” she insisted!
“Who do we know here in the US who’s hands have literally touched every element of their house? Who’s so ingenious that they were walking along the road one day, saw a piece of tarp or a scrap metal and thought ‘Hey, that would be perfect for that hole in the bottom corner where that rat keeps coming in!’ so they picked it up and kept walking. Or who do we know that is so clever, compassionate, and connected in their community that they see something else and think, ‘Oh, that’s exactly what my neighbor has been looking for! I’ll take that to them tonight!’ so they toss it over their shoulder and keep walking. Who do we know whose hands have literally touched every element of their house? Who’s paired their own sweat and sacrifice with honest need and interdependence to lay the physical foundation of their house? Who do we know like that?”
Her eyes softened and shoulders began to round, “Its beautiful,” her voice now delicate and tender. “The attention to detail, the dedication, the creativity and industriousness to build a house from everyday items. Its so resourceful and clever! It’s beautiful!!” But then there was a pause and suddenly her eyebrows went from soaring above her smiling cheeks to swooping low and nipping at the pointed words to come. “And its horrific,” a fire blazed from her lips, “that a person must construct their house out of scraps that clutter along the highway!” Her palms became fists, “And it’s horrific that while World Cup stadiums and world class accommodations are being built ten miles down the road, that a Mamma and Dada can be found bent over, scrounging through heaps of crap to build their home…” The fire stilled and her head bowed. Was it shame? Was is confusion? Was it sympathy that lowered this head of steam?
But her eyes met mine once more and she continued, “But here’s the thing.” She leaned in, “Here in the US we have houses. Ohhhhhhh we have houses! Everyone has a house,” bouncing her head back and forth, “We have big ones, little ones, cute ones, fun ones” practically mocking her statements at this point “everyone has a house,” she said and tacked a strong period at the end.
A slight pause allowed time for a softened demeanor again, “But in South Africa,” she gently raised her left hand and spoke warmly, “they have homes.” Her palms open before her, “They might not have houses, but they have homes. And you know it when you walk in and are wrapped up in a big hug and greeted by everyone on the street.” She looked around, “You might not see an oven or even a countertop, but you know as soon as you pass through that doorway you’re home.” Her voice trailed off at the end as she faded back into her seat and there she sat, drifting back into the terrible beauty of a land so dear.
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