...by this day.

We arrived at the National Baptist Church in Guguletu this morning, a little after 10am.  Pull up in our fancy tour bus, driving by shackles of poverty that jar me to the core.  There are no words.

The people of the church welcome us with open arms, clearing space for us in the front of the church that’s packed full of people, mostly women.  They’re all well dressed and presentable, ready to be spirited.  The church is in full, passionate song as soon as we arrive.  A woman beats a padded drum that fits on her hand like a glove.  The spirit radiates like nothing I’ve ever experience before.

The ceremony is in another language yet I understand almost every word.  We all speak human, human emotion.  I cried through almost the whole thing.  Cleansing, dripping tears that I couldn’t keep up with wiping away.  They just fell to my lips where I tasted their sweetness.  A cleanse I wasn’t expecting, but desperately recognize now that I needed.  I am forever changed by this day.

The Reverend welcomed us with open arms.  The church encouraged us to dance and sing with them, as this was now our home.  Because a house without guests is not a home.  Did they see my lack of pigmentation?  A woman spoke to the church and said it was a privilege to have us with them, to be able to share with us their spirit.  It’s a privilege for me, please know.

I danced.  A woman next to me leans in and says, “Would you like to pray with us?”.  This did not strike me as a religious question - it spoke to my soul, asking if it would like to speak.  The church raised their prayers passionately out loud.  There was no music, no song, but the song of the voices of hope.  Of faith.  Of unwavering belief.  

I closed my eyes to let the sounds fill my body, full of vibration.  And there I was, in this moment, full of radiating life.  

We “toured” the townships after lunch at Vernon’s childhood home.  His mother gave each and every one of us hugs of welcome.  I regret not speaking to her more but cherish the discussion I had with students over delicious food.

I sit in our tour bus, literally looking down upon the children who play by the side of the road and wave to us like we’re celebrities.  I felt immensely uncomfortable riding on the bus like a tourist, come to see how the poor people live.  Yet all I could do was accept that discomfort, give it a hug, and acknowledge that this is just how I’m seeing it for now.  

Talking about and confronting race is uncomfortable.  That’s why so many of us in the states (at least I do) try our best to move off the discussion.  I’ve been trained that when I feel uncomfortable, or let alone guilty, to move away from that feeling any way that I can.  Walk away, plug my ears, distract, etc.  Close my eyes.  It’s so easy to be blind to the struggles when you’re privileged enough to be able to choose where you go and what you hear.  Maybe this is what we need as a society, to be thrown into a place where the discomfort is unavoidable.  Because then the fear and discomfort is accepted after time and inner movement takes place.  Relationships are built, discussions across colors had.

I must acknowledge that I feel incredible discomfort even in writing this.  Because I worry that someone will read it and be offended or upset with what I say.  And this is exactly the reason for the silence of race we so often experience.  It’s all uncomfortable, there’s no solution, so why bother?  Because we wont figure any of it out unless we speak of it.  And yet what I do is welcome criticism, welcome disagreement, simply to jump start the conversation.  I’m so tired of race and racism being a silent, avoidable issue.  I speak softly, and open my ears to those whose voices are just beginning to rise above a whisper.  To anyone who’s been shouting for years, I will hear you now.

I cry now as my fingers hit the letters.  As much as I’d like to say it’s not out of guilt, some of it is.  In time I will move towards acceptance of my privileges and responsibility, but for now the guilt is here just like I’ve been trained to feel when I see those less fortunate.  

I question how people, how families, how children thrive in communities that fail to provide the basic human rights and dignities due to each and every one of us born to this universe.  In Khayelitsha, the place I will be spending the next few months of my work here, there are around 700,000 people that live in a designated black township.  The following is some info provided by my field supervisor, Mandla Majola at a short talk he gave for us today.  We visited the Treatment Action Campaign where he’s spent many years and still remains on the board of directors.  Today, he heads up the Social Justice Campaign, or SJC.

It all began when forced removals from District Six took people from Cape Town as far as possible outside the city as an attempt to keep them from city employment.  The result is a 40 to 60 percent unemployment rate.    

Roughly 10 families share one toilet.  Women are often raped on their way to the toilet at night.  Homes are robbed as their occupants leave their homes to relieve themselves at the group toilet. 

Human dignity is stripped as people are forced to use the fields as their toilets.  What’s the use of “freedom” when there’s no dignity?

There are 2 reported rapes a day in Khayelitsha.  Emphasis on reported, as there are likely more that go silenced.  Areas of the states are likely similar by comparison for rapes as the rates of underreporting continue to be difficult to calculate.  

Two children die a day due to the lack of an adequate, safe water supply.

Screw my week long stomach bug and lack of internet, I live in a beautiful house surrounded by luxuries.  

Experiencing a massive shift in perception.  Feet, ground, where are you?