similar but completely different. I now play the cello.)
I had such good manners in primary school that I once put up my hand to ask the teacher if I could sit elsewhere in class, because I didn’t want to sit next to a stupid boy.
How did I know he was stupid?
Because. He just was. It was my decision.
But I did say please, Miss …
My mother believed in the Montessori teaching method, and there weren’t many such pre-primary schools at the time. As a result I never went to pre-primary. When I entered grade one, I didn’t know any of the rhymes that the other kids had learned in pre-primary, but I could read and write. My mother didn’t force me to write like a baby, and so I could write well, but eish – my handwriting was horrible; for me there was none of this writing neatly, “soft up and hard down” with the pencil.
It was probably more of a scribble, because no one could read it. I nearly failed grade one because I didn’t know the silly pre-primary rhymes and because my handwriting looked like a drunken spider had fallen into ink and stumbled across the page.
In grade two I got my first hiding at school. I spelled “Johannesburg” with two j’s. The teacher wanted to know if I was trying to be funny, but I didn’t understand what she meant. Later that year I broke her abacus and nearly developed an ulcer about it. I didn’t want to be naughty; I wanted to do everything right. Good kids simply cruise through life more easily. Everyone could see that. Nobody likes a rude, lazy child.
In grade four, as part of some project, we had to write letters to the South African soldiers doing compulsory military service on the Angolan border, and they even wrote back. I had no idea what was happening on the border or that the guys we wrote to were on occasion shot dead or blown up. I only remember how disappointed I was because I thought the guy who wrote back to me couldn’t spell very well.
I even became deputy head girl of my primary school. How about that!
My mother was very strict with us and didn’t allow me to shave my legs or to wear nylon stockings. The boys regularly teased me about my hairy legs. It was awful. Stockings were totally the in thing when I was in grade seven. You were really ultra cool if you wore stockings. I remember writing a letter to my mother in which I begged her for a pair, but she wouldn’t have any of it.
Early ripe, early rotten, was her opinion. So there was no hope for me, I thought.
But all was not lost. One Saturday afternoon in grade seven I was sitting in the bath. My sister, who was already in high school by then, flew into the bathroom and lobbed me a razor before rushing off again.
Thanks, I thought – but what the fuck now? I was very excited but didn’t have any idea what to do next. How do you shave your legs? Oh well, how difficult could it be?
I simply shaved everything off, including half my skin. I looked like a road accident. But I was ecstatically happy. The boys wouldn’t tease me anymore. I was finally more than just a prissy nerd; I was a prissy nerd with smooth legs. And shaving cuts.
There were at least one or two boys in primary school who liked me. In grade seven I took part in the school operetta and fell in love with Tickey the Clown. He became my boyfriend and sent me a small satin heart via Mienkie, the school slut. I didn’t think much of this relationship: we didn’t even speak to each other! Communication was really a problem. What relationship stood a chance with only bashful glances? What was the guy’s problem?
Mienkie was my relationship counsellor. Her advice to me was: “Tell him you’re sick of him – and that’s it.” And the relationship was over.
Then there was the boy who sent me green Super M milkshakes at break time. It was cool and everything, but again the lack of communication bothered me. At least the Super Ms were a better deal than the silly satin hearts. I liked his practical approach.
On Sundays we went to church, attended confirmation class, read the newspapers and braaied, as most suburban Afrikaner families did (and still do).
I slowly came into my own in high school. It was the eighties. Against the background of the state of emergency and the last convulsions of the bush war, everything was about politics. My parents were actively involved in politics, the Vrye Weekblad was launched, and there were a number of integration groups at school to expose us to black children.
Because I didn’t do sport, I joined political and cultural organisations at school. Grade eight was a very unhappy year for me. I was madly in love with a boy with punk hair and bad-ass mates. They were probably in grade eight for the third year running. Their voices had already broken. They were stupid, but sexy – simply because they were older and hornier than the rest of us. My heart was broken when The Punk announced that he and his family were moving to Cape Town.
My sturm und drang also resulted in my running away from home. I believed my mom was pushing me too hard academically and, to top it all, she dared think The Punk was a waste of time. I felt very hurt that she didn’t want to take my love for him seriously.
The entire school found out I ran away because I – wait for it – ran away to school.
Don’t laugh. It was heavy.
I didn’t go home that afternoon after school as usual. I decided to stay at school because there was a dance that night at which I could see The Punk. My parents were out of their minds with worry. I hid in the school cloakrooms. The head girl tried to convince me to go home. I was in a state. I felt my life was a dead-end street. The Punk was nearly on his way to the Cape and my mother was planning to ground me because, according to her, I wasn’t doing well enough academically. My life had no meaning.
A while before this, a matric guy had stopped me in the hallway, told me I was ugly and had a good laugh about it. Ha-ha-ha. I wore glasses and was terribly self-conscious about them. The Punk was the only person on this planet who thought I was beautiful. He told me so. I believed him. And now I was being kept away from him on the eve of his departure to the Cape. And why? Because I had to study. Well, fuck you all!
My father fetched me from the cloakroom. He put his arm around my shoulder, led me to our car and said, “I’m disappointed in you.”
We drove home in silence.
When I walked in the door, I thought my mother would be pleased to see me. I thought she would understand and stop putting me under so much pressure to do well academically. Instead she said she never wanted to see me again. Naturally she was emotionally drained and simply wanted to be a good parent, but I was devastated.
The rest of grade eight was dead boring. Grade nine too. At least I eventually discovered another source of excitement. My sister went out with a terribly intelligent guy and I was madly in love with him from the start. She said he would be our country’s president one day. His name was Chrissie. Chrissie Mulder. He later became Chris Chameleon and made very nice records, as he calls them.
Somehow I clung onto Chrissie’s existence throughout my entire high school career. For three years I watched him, until he left school. His movements and interests fascinated me. And gave me hope. He was also “different” and I could see how he struggled with it. I wasn’t the only one who didn’t fit in with the rest of the kids, who were only interested in netball and rugby.
I was a nerd with a free spirit. And so was Chrissie. There was no place for kids like us in our school. Every time he even looked in my direction or spoke to me, I would stammer and
