The following post is the second of three stories I’d like
to pass on about people I’ve walked alongside in Umphumulo. None of the posts are specifically related to
each other-one is about dancing, another about family, and the third about
being alone. The one thing that each has
in common is the impact the experience made on me. Please enjoy!
“You know Steve, I grew up with whites.”
Mrs. Makhaye is the head of the science department at
Amaphuphesizwe (ma-poo-pay-seez-way) Secondary School in Umphumulo. She teaches “pure” mathematics and
mathematical literacy to about two thirds of the 10th, 11th,
and 12th grade students at the school. She is the teacher who I’ve worked with the
most during my time at Amaphuphesizwe—I’ve taught her classes when she had to
moderate exams, helped mark her students’ papers, calculated grades and
averages for her classes, and helped fix her computer. In return, she always insists on buying me
food, which I can never complain about.
On my last day at Amaphuphesizwe, Mrs. Makhaye had put
together a take away feast from the Spar in Maphumulo. The spread included curry and rice, fish and
chips, frito-type corn chips, coleslaw, beet salad, tea, and cakes. As we ate, Mrs. Makhaye began to tell me
about her life as a young adult in the seventies.
During apartheid, education was one of the many services
that was segregated by race. As a Zulu
woman, Mrs. Makhaye had grown up in the inferior “bantu education” system that
was the standard for black children at the time. How inferior was her education? During apartheid, the government spent
approximately 8 times more on the education of a white child than a black
one. As a girl, she dreamed of being a
doctor despite having no resources to pay for post-secondary education. When she completed Standard 10 (the
equivalent of grade 12 today), it seemed that her education had reached a dead
end.
While she was in school, Mrs. Makhaye’s mother started
working as a domestic worker for an English speaking family in south western KwaZulu-Natal. Although she could hear and understand basic
English, her mother couldn’t speak it or respond to questions her employers
asked. Nevertheless, she and her
employers managed for a few weeks until the end of the school year, when Mrs.
Makhaye (who spoke fluent English as a result of 12 years of school) came for a
visit.
A small aside: As
Mrs. Makhaye told me the story, I couldn’t help but notice her eyes light up
when she remembered meeting the family her mother worked for.
From the moment they met, this family loved her. They were completely understanding of the
language barrier between themselves and Mrs. Makhaye’s mother, and were happy
to make an extra effort to communicate with her. They also offered to hire Mrs. Makhaye as
well, which she promptly accepted. As a
result, at the age of 18 my friend traded her dreams of medical school for a
job as a domestic worker. She quickly
became part of her new family-she took care of their children, got to swim in
their pool, traveled to visit extended family members, and went on holiday with
her employers.
As they got to know each other, her new family took things a
step further. Besides simply taking Mrs.
Makhaye with them when they went on holidays, they took her to whites only
parks, beaches, and restaurants. This
flew in the face of everything apartheid stood for, and one can only imagine
the pressure she and they received from their peers and the authorities
alike. Mrs Makhaye, as usual,
understated the drama of these situations.
As she described her new family’s response to criticism for treating her
as a daughter, she told how people would ask a few hostile questions (“You know
she’s not allowed to be here, right?”) and quickly realize that they were
powerless to change how her family thought of and treated her.
Mrs. Makhaye’s new family didn’t stop there. They went on to send her to college in Port
Shepstone to study teaching, which became her career. As a result, thousands of students have
benefitted from this dedicated, talented, and compassionate woman’s skills over
the years. Including me, for that
matter. I pray that I can find my place
in this story, make the most of the gifts people have given me, and share those
gifts with others.
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