3/13/12
Every house in Kwanokuthula has at least one, if not two clocks on the wall. And yet, in all the time I’ve spent here I haven’t found a single one set to the correct time. Here they call the phenomena where everyone shows up late “African time.” Perhaps if they could just get their clocks set straight I wouldn’t have to wait an hour every morning before Margaret shows up. This would have really bothered me if South Africa had been one our first core countries, but after India no degree of lateness fazes me.
Although, perhaps Margaret’s tardiness cannot entirely be blamed on a culture of incorrect clocks. She just has one of those personalities. It takes us forever to get to a patient’s house because we have to stop and gossip with every single person we pass on the street. Seriously, if I spoke Xhosa I can’t even imagine how much town gossip I’d be privy to.
Yesterday we spent and exorbitant amount of time in a non-patient’s house, and it became very “Secret Life of Bees.” You know, young white me getting advice from a bunch of middle-aged African women. Margaret and her friend were telling me all about how their generation of women was taught that you were not complete without a husband and children. No one taught them about safe sex. And they got pregnant at nineteen and were taking care of others before they ever had a chance to learn to take care of themselves. “Make your money, get your education, take care of yourself,” they told me, “and then if you must you can get married and have children.” Both of the friends lamented their money struggles, their lack of washing machines, the inattention of their husbands, and the fact that by the time their children grew up they’d be too old to get a proper education and good job. “I always tell my daughter,” Margaret said, “if you must have a boyfriend, use condoms. Men they will get you pregnant, and then they will leave you. And if they do marry you, they will lose interest in a few months.” Both women agreed that they wished they’d never gotten married.
Between this lecture, all the movies I’ve watched about Ugandan women getting AIDs from their cheating husbands, reading about men spending their children’s food money on alcohol, and all my experiences in India, this trip is really turning me off to men. I don’t think beforehand I would have seriously considered Margaret’s advice as I’m doing now. I’ve spoken with the other female students, and they all agree that they’ve become distrustful and resentful towards men. “ Are boys in America like this?” asked one of my friends. None of us can remember. All we know is that we’re sick of being catcalled and watching women we love be disempowered.
On a less depressing note, their conviction that their daughters should delay marriage and children to focus on their schooling gives me hope. It reminds me of Elena in Ecuador, who was so set on her daughters going to college that she faced the anger of the town to send them to a better primary school outside of the community. It also reminds me of my Indian homestay sister Chatena, who was the first woman in her family to be getting her BS. So many people now seem to understand the importance of education. That gives me hope for the world. But as TBB has taught me to incessantly question my every thought and feeling, I must remember that I have no way to make a comparison to past generations. Is it not possible that women have had these ideas for years, but failed to properly impress them upon the next generation? Margaret’s mother may have raised her to be a wife, but she certainly wasn’t pleased when she got pregnant at nineteen. Will the daughters of Kwanokuthula listen to their mothers? Will Elena’s children leave everything they know to attend college? Will they even have the money for college? Will Chatena quit her job/education once she gets married in a couple years? I have no way of knowing, and that makes me a little less hopeful.
Love,
Katherine
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