Insular & Policed
It’s been a weird time in the village, almost a week full of rain meant even a brief dry(ish) spell was enough to get a bunch of dog-walkers out and about — some of them even brought their dogs along. The Bear was champing at the bit from early in the morning — he probably sensed that I had made up my mind that we were going to do a walk — rain or shine and started out with that cute trumbling, grumbling, rumbling sound from somewhere deep down. He kept it up too, while I got through morning emails, alternating between trumbling away while under the kitchen table or sprawled over the threshold — having properly soaked his bed with repeated visits out to the garden to check on the litchi tree and more likely the neighbouring tabby that’s taken to prowling the garden at night.
Eventually, after what must have felt like an eternity to him, I closed the lid on the Mac, wrapped the collar around his neck, stuck the leash in my pocket and we were pretty much good to go — and then the Twitter notifications tumbled in. I stopped mid-step and sat down again (much to the Bear’s disappointment) and was about to open the app when I had a moment of pause.
I was not currently on a paid assignment that required any Twitter work — the pinging was probably from (what one punter referred to as) my ‘pretentious, pointless and simple blogpost’ about some aggrieved villagers and their comedian leader. I slowly stood up and decided this could wait until after the walk. Bear was already more than halfway out the door and doing that prancing thing where he moves himself forwards, backwards and around all in one smooth movement, while going absolutely nowhere. There’s something to be learnt from that move for other more enjoyable purposes, but that’s a blog for another day.
It’s grey but the mizzle has stopped, so we walk and when we reach the Southern end of the paved bits, we plunge into the silky water under a sky that hangs so low, you can barely tell where it meets the sea. It is only the shipping lolling about in the outer anchorages that lend visual perspective to the scene.
In good time, we are out of the water and after some pensive staring at the sea, we head off to the usual spot for a bit of (properly socially distanced) catching up with the locals, fine views, coffee for myself and a large bowl of government juice for the Bear. As ever, he laps it up in a few moments and leaves a mess all around the bowl. Thankfully the team at the coffee spot are dog-friendly and soon enough one of them pops out; smiling, mop in hand and erases the Bear’s slobbery drinking habits. All this with a face-breaking smile and behind the ear cuddles too — and that was just for me — in short order, the Bear gets his doggie treat and rightful share of attention. All is well with the world.
Still a little chilly under the dry clothes but invigorated from the dip in the ocean, I was ready for the rest of the workday. I had a slightly nervous thought about the pending Twitter notifications but figured that it could not be worse than the day before when I had already been told the writing was both pretentious and simple. How do you even manage that? I might have talents I don’t even know about. The good news is that I was freed of the self-imposed expectation that a little something I wrote could be a contribution to thinking or good for a laugh at least.
No, this was not enough for the Twitter police; instead, the general trend towards herd mentality, up to the not so subtle point of telling me (and you) how and what to think barged in. I was told to write about how one bunch of Durbanites are racist, privileged and choose to isolate themselves, et cetera. In fact, one punter pretty much rewrote the main points of the blog for me, tweet by tweet — in her own image.
In a sidebar I was informed that poking fun at the actors crazy hand motions in the video was not on. Nor was I to say anything negative about Midrand because ‘it’s an aspirational place to live for many of our people.’ And I dare not violate the holy cow of traditional dress, because ‘it’s our culture.’ Oops.
I was so grateful for that feedback, because surely we don’t know this stuff about colourist bigots from Durban well enough from way back when Aya dropped some child on its head. So I went back to the dictionary to remind myself what this word insular means and what it’s closest cousins are. Because to say a community is insular — to me at least — is a pretty damning statement and to have to go on beyond that seems superfluous. Thankfully, the dictionary has not been changed and the words listed under similar include:
Narrow-minded, limited, blinkered, restricted, inward-looking, conventional, parochial, provincial, small-minded, petty-minded, myopic, inflexible, dogmatic, intolerant, prejudiced, bigoted, biased, sectarian, xenophobic, discriminatory and claustral. I’m going to have to learn more about the last one but the rest of them thankfully suggest that the use of the word insular to generally describe the actors, the overheated comedian and the whole idea they had hatched was spot-on and did not require much more harping on.
Yes, there are exceptions and we can cite names from before the fight against Apartheid, the present and with some luck, well into the future — yet we remain chillingly aware that the people we admire are a minority and do not enjoy widespread love amongst their own people. Which brings us back to the present, where as a melanin endowed visitor amongst overwhelmingly pale clientele at the coffee spot this morning; I get asked my opinion on the overheated comedian and his plans — like I am expected to answer for a whole race.
I reflect on the prompt as I sip on the perfectly brewed and beautifully presented cortado. I wish I could offer an opinion for this race (especially this uniquely annoying bunch here in the holy land that thanks to one parent, I now share a connection to) but I cannot, for I have hardly ever felt that they are my people. In fact, I’ve been told rather patently that I ain’t one of them. Sure, I have a few friends amongst the population in the holy land but the actual bodies I connect with are few and far between.
As for the typical villager, I find myself riled by their wanting to know the price of everything (but being stupendously ignorant of value); their resort to tradition and culture when they cannot find sane reasoning for a point of contention; the regular use of emotional blackmail to bond their children to their own limited fates; the patriarchy of their religions (that’s all of them); the way they use obedience to elders to continue being racists and bigots and not least of all the overwrought traditional dress, the frippery and make-up that seems to come with it.
I manage to keep all of that inside me; instead I smile and suggest that they should consider the overheated comedian and his plans to exercise race based economic muscle as a sign that he’s in tune with a (daft) mood — the reality is that the comedians brand of identity politics is likely to find much traction amongst the stupid, the illiterate and the unthinking — as it generally does wherever it is applied.
Look up and across the Atlantic — how do you think the current incumbent at the White House got in there? Ever watch the episode of South Park that popularised the phrase “They took our jobs!”? How crazy that this is the same narrative sprouted everytime there’s a fresh outbreak of afrophobia in the holy land? How do you think a bunch of born-free school kids in Slaapstad ended up with their own race exclusive gig? It might be that their parents (and their little community) created the conditions that made it seem utterly normal to them. See any pattern?
On reflection, I’m tending towards thinking this is less about a pair of badly dressed caricatures and their male boss — it’s likely more about an insidious righteousness amongst a minority that know all the right and proper answers and have no qualms in telling others how and what to think — remember how they took on Trump four years ago and helped Bernie and AOC get elected? Ja, likely the same WhatsApp group cuzzie.
