It's no
secret that I love shoes. From childhood dreams of ruby slippers to my most
recent purchase of Steve Madden boots, shoes have been a constant source of
excitement and pure idolatrous happiness in my life. But not all shoes are
equal.
When
standing there in the Steve Madden store, purse in hand, contemplating buying
this latest pair, I wondered to myself: Why these boots? Not that anyone should
ever need a reason to buy something as fabulous as these tasseled beauties, of course, but
I couldn’t help stop and go: Wait a moment. You always said you would never
wear such high heels. So why these? They are 15cm's high! Is it the fact that
they are Steve Maddens? (A brand I was introduced to by one of my favorite New
York bloggers, Gala Darling, and who's picture of a particularly gorgeous pink
pair has been the screen saver on my lap top for the past 3 years) Or is it
because they are genuine suede, dove-soft, and have tassels? (I
have a weakness for tassels - starting with a pair of boots bought a decade ago
where I spent my rent money on them.) Is it simply that when presented with an
image for long enough, even the abnormally insane can become acceptable and
normal to the one perceiving it?
(Jellies, anyone?) Or is it just a simple
little bit of self-medication on a sad day?
Let's backtrack
shall we? Heels have never been a problem for me. Even in all my 6 feet of
glory, I have loved the elevation and lift a pair of heels can give a girl’s
physique. I feel that this boost has the ability to move beyond the physical,
and acts as a sort of mood enhancer on any given occasion. But being 6 feet
tall does add some complications to the wearing of extremely high heels. Doorways pose a problem. Even though making
an entrance is always important, doorways are only generally so high, and I
sometimes walk with a natural little bounce in my step. Bounce at the wrong
moment with the 'wrong'/higher pair of heels on my feet and that is one
entrance I don't want to make.
I saw these boots
on a display with a lot of others. There were others that also had perfect arches,
elegant compass worthy curves, decedent finishes. There were others a little
lower with amazing scoops at the ankle line with the very best ankle to arch ratio,
lovely stitching, sweet smelling leathers and colours. There were even others
with tassels. But these particular boots spoke to me - almost reached out with
invisible tentacles and drew me to them, as though casting a haunting mermaid
song.
This doesn't always happen. Sure it probably happens to me more often
than most, but it doesn't happen with all shoes I ever come into contact with.
And that is what got me thinking. Here is a pair of boots I don’t know that I
will ever be able to wear out in public (for fear of concussions/breaking an ankle/intimidating
Husband to the point of marital detriment) but I simply have to have them. I tried them on and they fit like a glove. Snug
all the way up to the tip of the very last tassel! They were mine even before
the gold card had a chance to swipe.
Some people
say that angels speak to them or they hear voices in their heads? I hear shoes.
There is an undeniable, underlying, otherworldly pheromonal attraction that
happens with particular pairs of shoes that simply does not happen with others.
That is when I realized it. Shoes must have an aura, something
magnetic on a chemical level. It must be science. So not quite like gravity, but more specific – like the pheromones of a woman
attracting a partner. Chemistry attracts us to people at all levels, makes
us more comfortable with some and less with others. We choose friends based on
this. We choose lovers. Doctors. We even choose teachers, when given the
privilege to do so. It’s an invisible world of chemical attraction out there,
and we are almost helpless to its currents and tides.
And so when
presented with an invisible galactic wave, call it electrons and protons or what-have-you, of
glorious tasseled suede Steve Madden's, I grabbed onto those babies and rode for all I was worth.
I am sure
there is a scientist out there who can very eloquently disprove everything I
have just said, but for now, that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.
I am a white girl who was born in
Boksburg in 1979. For those who don’t know, Boksburg was at the heart of the
apartheid movement, and the laws governing that place were as vicious,
oppressive and cruel as ever could be in our darkened history. I came from a
poor family, but still a daughter of privilege in the sense that my skin colour
allowed me access to the local swimming pool, public toilet, the library and to
picnic and walk by the legendary Boksburg Lake. My happiest early childhood
memories include train rides at the little park for children next to the Lake,
winning a fancy paint-set at a Christmas colouring-in competition at the library,
and long summer afternoons splashing freely in the pools. To the outside world,
apartheid never affected me negatively as a child, but that is not entirely
true. I was guilty of the sin of acceptance, albeit unconscious acceptance. I
was taught by my societal surroundings that black people were not capable of
keeping the lake clean, unable to respect the value of books and words, and, in
horrifically extreme cases, taught by the church that blacks were the sons of
Ham, who, according to the Bible, were cursed to live under the oppression of
their white brothers forever - and it was their own fault. I accepted these
teachings as a small child, never questioning them or the authorities who told
them to me. I was a white child in South Africa, being taught to be a racist.
My parents were involved in missions,
and opened a Christian school in the Boksburg town center. This was the only
school there to have both white and black students attend together. And this is
where I first noticed that something was not right. When my black skinned
friends were not allowed to come with me to the library, I asked my mother why,
and she explained to me that while it was wrong and an injustice, that the laws
prohibited it because of their skin colour. This had me baffled. I could not
for the life of me think what could possibly be different between my friends
and myself – we played games, laughed and learned together. One of my friends
had managed to get a hold of green nail polish and I thought it was the most
fabulous nail colour I had ever seen. She was my hero! And she was just like
me, surely?
But as I grew older, it was
continuously reaffirmed to me that no, she wasn’t. She was black. Therefore
inferior. It wasn’t her fault, it was her skin colour. We as white people could
be kind, ‘un-racist’ and loving towards these lesser beings – we would open our
homes to them when the fighting in Vosloorus (a local settlement development
where black people were removed to in the 60’s under the apartheid regime) was
too dangerous for them to go home – we could give them our old clothes and tins
of food when they came begging, but we were, of course, by all accounts, the
superior race. I lived in a protected bubble where I was not exposed to the
true atrocities that were happening. But
the curse of the privileged is the belief that we deserve our privilege,
and others don’t. I was being gently coerced into being a delicately
tailor-made racist. A nice one, but a racist none the less.
Mandela was released from prison when
I was ten years old. I remember the hushed, outraged grumblings, talking about
how ‘those’ people celebrated by breaking bus windows and causing a general
destructive ruckus. How ‘they’ were celebrating the release of a terrorist. I
heard, but I didn’t ask too much and carried on in my blissfully ignorant
existence. What I of course didn’t realize yet was how much he had done, how
tirelessly he worked to change those wrongs that had touched my little life so
mildly, how he labored to save me from believing the racist lie, and how
significant that day was to the entire nation.
In the years that followed, I learned
much more of the man, and the monster, Mandela. Some of those who had my ear
spoke of him in reverence while others spoke in hatred. South Africa was
torn and I began to pay more attention. We moved to Cape Town, I hit my teen
years, and I quietly started choosing who I believed and who I didn’t agree
with when he was discussed. A family friend I used to hold in high esteem told
a story of how he refused to shake Mandela’s hand. I decided that he, no matter
how close a friend of the family, was an idiot.
Mandela became president, and though I
was not interested in politics but rather honing a fondness for shoes, I could
see all the good that was being done in his name. My Granny read ‘Long Walk to
Freedom’ and often read out extracts to us. She had been a Boksburgian herself,
but was thoroughly converted, discussing the importance and greatness of this
man. We teased her by nick-naming her ‘Comrade Granny’, but I didn’t realize
until later how those afternoons with her, listening to her in her bedroom, my
own beliefs about racism and oppression were being shaped. He had done some
terrible things, Granny explained, things that many people were not willing to
forgive, (the same people, incidentally, who were more than happy to forget the
terrible things that had been done to him and his family and friends first). He
was fighting in a war I had not seen – a war for freedom. And he had done the
time when convicted, coming out of prison with a more powerful weapon than
before – Love. He forgave those who oppressed him, but did not accept the
oppression and vowed to do everything he could for the freedom of ALL South
Africans. Black, White, Coloured, Indian, Men, Women, Gay, Straight, Christian,
Muslim, Jew – he committed the rest of his life’s work to the equality of us
all. “For to be free is not merely to cast off one's chains, but to live in a
way that respects and enhances the freedom of others.” And that is what made him such a great man.
I am so thankful for Nelson Mandela, for
everything he did for our country. Not only did he open the gates to save the
oppressed people, and open up our country to the world, but he saved me from a
racist society that was surely seeping into my very core. He sucked the poison
from me, offering his life for the freedom of us all. I am honoured to have
lived in his time and to have been able to see some of the history and
transformation happen first hand. I am blessed to have become part of the new privileged, privileged to live in
his New South Africa, free to be free. My skin colour can not bind me to racism
anymore, and if I choose, like him, to live the change I want to see in the
world, his message and work lives on in me.
I do not like confrontation, I do not
like to fight. I don’t have the courage and tenacity of spirit that he had. But
if I can display even an ounce of the love he had for friends and foes alike, I
will be able to do some good in this world too. And if there ever was a pair of
shoes I would like to attempt to do my bit to fill, let it be those of the
father of my nation.
“We can change the world and make it a
better place. It is in your hands to make a difference” – Nelson Mandela
*Please note that none of what I talk
about in this blog post would be possible if Husband was not in a position to
support both of us, and willing to give me the freedom and space to chase my
dreams for now. I am fully aware that someone has to still take care of the
responsibilities and bills of real life, and Husband has taken over that role
for both of us for this chapter whilst I follow my bliss. I love you Hubby! And
one day, some how, some way, I will return the favour. Thank you for believing
in me and putting your money where your mouth is!*
Three years
ago I embarked on a sabbatical of sorts. I left a very corporate world and
replaced my office days with something that most would describe as being a
full-time house-wife, or even lady-of-leisure.
I embraced this title for a time, but only because 'Full-time Dream-Catcher' is
not exactly something you can claim at dinner parties when strangers inevitably
ask you: 'So? What do you do?' without looking a bit like a freak. And that is
the sad state of our society.
It has been
quite an adventure, with highs and lows, victories and disappointments. I found
that even though I was no longer 'working' that I still didn't have enough
hours in the day to do all the things I wanted to do. I discovered that all
those things we always say we want to do but never have the time, don't
magically happen when time is allocated - but rather take a whole lot of hard
work and dedication. But the thing that I was most surprised (and hurt) to
find, was the firing-squad of judgment, resentment and down-right nastiness I
encountered from many peers, friends and even some family.
'What do you
do all day?' 'I would be so bored if I was to stay at home all day!' 'Don't you
think it's time to go back to work?' are the kind of comments I have had to bat
on a regular basis. For the most part I have ignored, joked about or argued my
way through these unpleasant encounters, but a recent, more frank version of
these comments (from a well-meaning source) got me thinking - why is it that
some people have such a hard time dealing with my current life choices?
Lets say
that you started dating a new guy. He makes you happy - happier than you have
ever been. He is sweet, kind, generous, funny, smart, and adores you. He is
completely dedicated to you. He listens, lets you choose the movie (most of the
time) and even finds your strange obsession with purple spandex endearing. Now
lets say I am your friend, your confidant, someone who has been around in your
single years. But from the day you met Mr. Perfect, all I can ever say to you
is 'Oh my gosh, you have to get out of this relationship immediately! He is
poor. He isn't going anywhere in his career. He lives in a rented apartment on
the cheap side of town and can't even afford a decent cup of coffee. He lives
with his mommy! He drives a beat-up old second hand rust bucket and he doesn't
have an iota of dress-sense. He uses 'literally' incorrectly and makes spelling
errors on his Facebook status updates. He listens to Nickleback, for goodness
sake, dump him!'
Would you
say that I am a good friend? Would you say that my interests lie in wanting
what is actually best for you, or what some of society perceives as being best
for you? If I were to suggest that you should date the rich maverick over the
poor guy any day of the week, that would make me shallow, right? Shouldn’t he
be valued for more than just his monetary status? Would you consider me a b**** if I only thought of your boyfriend as someone you could get a five carat diamond
out of?
That's
right. I would be a bad friend, at the very least.
Well, this
is what I am encountering in my life right now. I have chosen the 'poor guy',
if you will. An artistic, non-money-making sabbatical over a previously
thriving career. To 'stay at home'. But I believe there is more to life than
salaries. There is more to life than 9 to 5. And yet my dream-chasing has been
seen as everything from lazy to lost, and I have come to the conclusion that
those people in my life who perceive it that way are not wanting the best for
me. Perception is a funny thing - because it can be just as easily based on
blind ignorance as on personal experience. I suppose that is the difference
between perception and misconception.
I have
decided to map out a few answers to the top 10 general misconceptions I face:
1. "You don't 'work'."
Define
'work'. Are you saying that the only work worth doing is one where you get a
monthly salary? Where you drive your car or take public transport to a
building somewhere away from your home and spend an average of 8 hours 5 days a
week doing things that make profits for a company that gives you a pat on the
back and a pension when all's said and done? Don't get me wrong - growing up
through this work force was an important, crucial part of my own personal
development, and there may very well come a time where I have to return to the
ranks. I do also find the work that so many do to be admirable. The street
sweeper who provides for his family by beautifying our city, picking up the
trash discarded by strangers; the lawyer who fights her battles and pays for
her own Prada; the nail technician who puts her baby brother through school
with her earnings; the husband who sees his wife yearning to create a new path
for herself, and takes over all monetary responsibilities for a time so that
she can do so; the high-school teacher and the sales person and the doctor and
the domestic and the accountant and the entertainer and the researcher alike.
But they are not the only ones working for a living. The Oxford Dictionary
defines 'work' as being an 'activity
involving mental or physical effort done in order to achieve a result'. So
yes, I work.
2. "What do you do all day? I
would be bored if I had to stay at home all day long."
Being 'bored'
is probably the saddest, most revealing aspect any human can portray. The world
is an enchanting place. Perhaps not everyone sees it, but I wake up each
morning and embrace my universe like a child prancing through vast fields with
a butterfly net (after my cup of coffee, that is). My husband jokes that I have
been going through a second childhood, and in a way that is true. Any parent
will know that children need to be fed not only with physical food, but in
mind, body and spirit.
-The first
thing I did after quitting my job was to enroll myself at a piano studio - I
was adamant that I wanted to be classically trained in music, something I
didn't have the opportunity to do as a child, and wanted to be able to one day
teach piano too. I hadn’t yet worked out the specifics, I didn’t have a
piano-teaching 'business model' mapped and ready to show any doubting onlooker
- I just knew I had to start getting my brain and fingers moving. The learning
curve was intense, but I have completed 5 grades of music training thus far,
complete with taking the exams and playing mini-performances, and am continuing
in my training. I was taken on by my piano teacher as a 'student teacher' a
year ago, continue to sub for her when she can't take a class, and have built
up my own profile of pre-grade students, under her guidance, that I teach on a
weekly basis. (a highly rewarding job, might I add - much more so than anything
I ever did in the corporate world!)
-I enrolled
in a creative writing course at UCT and started to work towards the goal of
becoming an author. I wrote a book, which, like piano, was something I have
always wanted to do, getting my first novel down on paper, and am a third of
the way through writing my second novel (with one abandoned literary project
in-between). Writing is not something that just happens when inspiration
strikes (though those 3am - 7am inspiration sessions do occur and I have to
just get up and write till it’s out) - it is a skill one must work on and
develop over time and thousands upon thousands of words. Being aware that
successful writers don't just lie on the beach waiting for heaven to open up
and deliver them a product (read Malcolm Gladwell’s book 'Outliers' to
understand the 10 000 hour concept of success) I allocate 'writing' days where
I start first thing in the morning and work for 8 or more solid hours with just
coffee and a lunch break in between. Nothing glamorous or easy about it.
-I dusted
off my old sewing machine, only ever used for hemming or fixing
store-bought-garments in the past, and started learning to make my own clothing
from scratch. The growing ensemble of 'pami products' now includes an array of
trousers (stretchy jeans, leather leggings, silky sleep bottoms, his and hers
fishing fleecies) children’s pajama’s for my nieces and nephews, baby's touch
quilt, vintage feel lace napkins, various tank tops and long sleeved shirts,
and the latest, a leather Catwoman suit, and a white pom-pomed fluffy
waistcoat.
-I started a
veggie patch, quite a feat for someone who used to have a talent in killing
everything green - including cacti - quite dramatically. (My
'Peace-in-the-Home' is the only survivor of this past opposite-of-green-fingered
me, having miraculously made it through patches of darkness and drought, and an
oops where I once spilled a pot of
boiling pig stock I was making over it...) My garden is now producing herbs and
veggies for the third year in a row, with its first-of-the-season tomato
revealing its round little un-ripe self today. Bless.
-I joined an
adult ballet class for a year (never having danced ballet past age 5), learning
to pirouette and plié, in hopes of finding a fun way to get my 30's body into
shape. That was ultimately replaced with CrossFit (10 months and counting) and
I am stronger and fitter than I have ever been. (Please note, I didn’t say
'skinnier' than I have ever been - after all, Strong is the new Skinny!)
There has
been so much more keeping me butterfly-catching, or staying at home, depending
on your perception, but in an attempt to avoid eye-rolling proclamations of
'first world problems', I'll leave the overseeing of house renovations, writing
of blogs, wifeing of high profile husband, running of household, throwing of
life-event parties, baby-sitting and making of red wine reduction sauces,
stuffing my own olives, and whipping up home made mayonnaise’s out for now...
In short,
what do I do all day? I chase dreams, I experience life, I do. I don't believe in 'boredom'. Boredom is for people who bore
people.
3. "But you don't WORK"
Let me
elaborate. Playing a musical instrument requires an extreme amount of mental
and physical effort in order to achieve a result. If you don't believe me, try.
Learning to play the piano as an adult is even harder - not because the work is
harder, but because we are so conditioned into not using our fingers that way, that we first have to break the
years and years of 'hand' behavior and then build new abilities. Cramp-hand is no joke! Just ask the
teens who suffer from bbm-'thumb' carpal tunnel (I mock, but apparently it is a
real thing and has resulted in the need for surgery) and learning to read music
is just like learning a new language - in fact, a few new languages, as you must
memorize a whole bunch of Italian, French and even German terms, along with 'reading' all the semebreve's, dotted minim's, demi-semi-quavers and imperfect cadences. (The good thing about learning as an adult, is there is wine at the end of it...)
Making
clothes also involves mental and physical effort in order to achieve a result. It
is hard, until it becomes easy. Practice generally makes perfect, and trust me,
many a throw-away resulted from my sewing machine before the white pom-pomed
fluffy waistcoat. Writing a book...don't even get me started! The initial 150
000 words were 'easy' to get out relative to the editing, re-editing and multi-editing
processes (they say that 7 is the lucky number). And jumping into the
publishing-pool has been nothing short of an amateur swimmer thrown into the
Cape of Storms in high season. But I continue to paddle, grasping for signs of
land, and continue to write.
4. "You are lost - no direction
in your life! Remember when you used to be in marketing...you were always so
concerned with the next project, the new launch, the sales figures etc... You
had purpose. Direction. Now you are lost."
Erm, no.
Nope. Not true. My past is in my past. I gave it my all when I was there, but
that's just me. When I do something, I do it to the fullest. And I was in a
very different stage in my life. I had to ‘work’ to pay the bills. I had to
build up my own skill set to know that I could take care of myself for the rest
of my life if need be. I needed to prove to myself that I was worthy of the
corporate title I eventually did attain, and made darn sure I studied and put
in the hours to do so. But my past
success is not who I am. I am following a very clear map - the map of Living a
Happy and Meaningful Existence - Whilst Wearing Fabulous Shoes. And speaking of
shoes, the 'Dreams' I have been chasing for the past three years are 'Futures'
I have been trying on, investing in, (convincing my investor to invest in),
ones that I have been walking around the shop floor in, testing to see which
ones will leave the Store of Life with me to carry me through the next phase of
my time here on this planet. (OK, enough with the Capitol Analogies...)
5. "You probably spend all day
tanning on Camps Bay beach, reading books, and getting treatments in beauty
salons."
Aw, thanx
man! You think I look that good?
And yes, yes
I read. Your point?
For the
record, I went to the beach on a week (aka work) day a grand total of ONCE in
the past three years. I go to lunches on an average of once a month (most of my
working friends do 'lunch' more often that that, where absolutely nothing
work-related happens) I have had my nails done...oh wait...that’s right, never.
Nails are things I take care of myself, after hours, every second week or so,
while watching a movie or series with Husband. I am about to go for my first
pedicure next week as a birthday treat, taking my two teenage nieces with me to
enjoy the experience too. The appointment is at 4pm. Sue me.
6. "It must be so nice being at
home. You can kuier all day, drinking
tea." (usually
said with so much back-handed venom that it would take a machine-powered syphon
to suck all that sarcastic poison out!)
It's coffee
most of the time, not tea, and it's mostly by myself with my
manuscript-in-progress or piano books, and not often with friends. Having
coffee is something I did just as much of when in an office environment
(possibly more).
7. "You are on Facebook, like,
24-7! Clearly you have too much time on your hands!"
Facebook is
my 'water-cooler', and I am a sharer. I admit, I am partial to social media. I
check FB/Twitter/Pintrest/Instagram on my phone in traffic on the way to
CrossFit, on my iPad between teaching piano classes, on my laptop with my
morning coffee and on the couch at night when watching a series I am not as
enthralled in as Husband is (when I don't have some hand-sewing to finish or
nails to do, that is) I have a friend who is on Facebook just as often as I am
- she sees all, reads all, browses every photo album. But she is not a natural
sharer. She never hits 'like' or 'share' or comments on statuses like I do, and
thus appears to have no FB activity what so ever. (Very sneaky, my friend)(you
know who you are!) Fun fact: Being an avid social media user (and this is years
of previous marketeering speaking) makes me more of a modern-ling than a
stay-at-home-with-nothing-to-do-ling. Think about it.
8. "You don't wake up to go to
work, your life is a breeze.”
There are
more things in the world to wake up for than 'a job'. Have you ever been on
holiday, with some exciting event planned for the next day, and had to set the
alarm clock for a work-worthy-hour? Welcome to my world. I wake up with Husband
every day. Granted, not to go to an office like him. But to go to work on my
life. (PS Husband and I sleep in on weekends AND WE WILL NOT APOLOGISE FOR THAT
TO ANYONE!)(PPS I am aware that babies will change all of this in one foul
swoop, but I will embrace that bridge when I get there)
9. "I am worried you are going
to turn into one of 'those' women."
Who exactly
are 'those' women? And who gets to judge who 'those' women are? And even once
identifying 'those' women, who are you to decide what 'those' woman do or who
'those' women are in their deeper core beings? Who are you to define them? The
kept? The princesses? The desperate housewives? I don’t know about you, but I
haven't found myself trapped outdoors in nothing but a bath towel any time
recently, and certainly don't have a pool boy (I clean that out-door Jacuzzi
all by myself, yo!) The only people who should be concerned with my current
usage of my time, are me, and Husband. No one else. If he doesn't see me as one
of 'those' women, or if I don't feel that I am one of 'those' women, then what
exactly are we talking about here? Moving on.
10. "Well, you don't have a job,
and you don't as yet have a child. So what are you doing with your life?"
What are you
doing with your life?
Having said
all that, being 'unemployed' definitely has its freedoms - mostly in that my
time is mine to do with as I choose. So there are days where I choose to spend
quality time with my siblings children, or help a friend in doing the school
run for her, or take a friend shopping to find the perfect dress for an
exciting event in her life. There are days where I choose to show a traveling
visitor around my city, or leave early for a long weekend away with Husband, or
attend an NGO meeting, or meet with editors and writers to 'talk books', or simply
have coffee with my folks. I'm not claiming that it's ALL work and no play -
after all, pami is not a dull girl. But what I don’t understand is why what I
choose to do with my time is such a personal offence to some?
To those who
still don't understand why I am on a Dream Catching sabbatical, can you
possibly be happy knowing that I am happy and fulfilled in my life right now
and that my 'cost' of living is taken care of by someone who I have a very open
and honest understanding with whilst I catch those dreams?
To the rest
of the naysayers and haters out there, let me leave you with one final thought.
I have taken a leap of faith, trusting that I can grow my wings in time before
I hit the bottom. Why do you feel the need to stand on your chunk of the
precipice and take cheap shots at me, hoping to knock holes in my dream
catching? I can only come to one conclusion. But Taylor Swift says it better
than me - she has a wonderful little song, which perhaps applies to you. Have a
listen to it here.
(P.S. Hello Kitty called, and she says 'Live and let Live')
