FRIDAY, JULY 2, 2010
Have been tryna write a 'life story' piece on Lawrence Tshuma, but it's proving 'difficult' in so many dimensions. So have decided to leave that endeavour alone for now. Have turned it instead into an exploration, 'Getting to know Lawrence the Man', to add to my recollections of Lawrence the Father. Which again is complex. Been trying to get hold of Lawrence's book, 'A Matter of (In)justice: Law, State and the Agrarian Question in Zimbabwe', which is proving nearly impossible since it is out of print. Am looking and looking and looking, if anyone sees/ has this book, please let me know; I need this book, absolutely absolutely. I owe what I am today to my mother, totally, and what I can now choose to be to my father, in ways I cannot now begin to explain. That search for identity. Sometimes I meet people who knew Lawrence, and it is fascinating to learn about a parent in ways you never knew him, to hear how others viewed him. And constantly trying to measure, how much of a parent you retain. Was eleven when my father passed away; it was sudden, a car accident, during a visit to Zim. He lived and worked overseas, saw him during holidays, mostly Christmas, and we would write to each other. Came across a letter of his to me; at some point in my child's life I determined I wanted to be a prophet (must have been after a really captivating religious study lesson!) and so in this letter Lawrence was trying to find out why his daughter had switched from wanting to be a lawyer like him to wanting to be a prophet. I actually believed I would get paid for it, like a proper profession. Haha. You gotta love a child's mind. Anyway, the Calling has not come so :-) So Lawrence would write to me in careful, measured, short sentences. Like 'Look at Janet. See how Janet jumps. Janet jumps because...' Funny reading them now, but I suppose at the time, trying to write in a manner that could be understood by a 7/8 year old was no laughing matter.
When I was in grade 3 (8 years old) I wrote how I had visited my father in Italy, and how there was snow in Italy. It was a lie of course, as I had notbeen to Italy, but I suppose it was a child's fantasy of mine. So my teacher fell for it, and asked me to stand up in front of the class and tell them about my trip on the plane. And, with the boldness of a child who reads too much fiction and thinks she can trick an adult into a Secret Seven fantasy, I stood up and went on to tell very very tall tales about my imaginary trip on an imaginary plane. No doubt the teacher caught on the lie, but at the time I believed I had her and my classmates were taken! So during a visit, my dad read this tall tale about my visit to Italy, and decided to honour this child's fantasy of mine. I was ten when I went to visit; he found me close to tears at the airport because he came a bit late to pick me up and I, of course, having travelled all these thousands of kilometres on my own, was overwhelmed to find myself in this huge airport with all these white faces none of which I knew! Lawrence was a stubborn father; I was an even more stubborn daughter. And so, eager to show off my ten year old's culinary skills, I cajoled him into allowing me to fry an egg for him; it came out all right :-) And then, after even more cajoling, I got him to allow me to watch 'The Titanic', which was then a big hit; so I first watched 'The Titanic' side-by-side Lawrence, and during those 'adultish scenes' (like when Jack was perched on the deck sketching nude women) Lawrence would turn to me with a look that said 'I told you so!', and I, of course, would offer a shy smile. Haha. Memories. The things children believe they can do. After a few days Lawrence found me copying out, in my ten year old's handwriting, an Italian dictionary, and when he laughed and said, 'You can have the dictionary', I was delighted; it had not occurred to me that I could have it. Lawrence had a small tv and lots and lots of books; used to marvel at those books with their big words and serious looking covers. I did think my father was the world. He was a lawyer; I wanted to be a lawyer. Nothing in my mind seemed greater than him. And that is probably because I am his only child, and hence I felt, at that time, that somehow I was the centre of his world. If he delayed to reply my letters, I would complain. If he missed a telephone arrangement, I would sulk. When he dedicated his book to me, something swelled in that child's heart of mine; a simple joy at seeing a printed message from your father. You know when you are a child even the smallest of things are big. You get immense joy out of seemingly small things, and that is the beauty of being a child. I wanted always to please my father, and I did not understand then, why he had to be so far away, why an adult had to learn still and go to a school called university to do a thing called Masters and PhD, learning still like a child ; I often badgered him about that.
My father came from a very modest background; he grew up in rural eMpandeni, in Plumtree; his father, my grandfather, was a migrant worker and so he grew up very close to his mother, my grandmother. And hence he was modest, and would always question me whenever I took things forgranted. I remember, in Italy, when I said something and added, 'Next time when I come...' he replied, 'Who said there will be a next time?' and I remember I felt mildly embarrassed. Haha. Memories. And well, I guess because I did not live with my father, I don't have memories of seeing him angry, or of beating me when I was naughty, as fathers do; I suppose because we were far away from each other, time spent together became more focused, or something like that.
And it's now that it frustrates me, that I have these compressed memories of Lawrence, squeezed to fit into the first ten years (less since as babies the ordering of memory lacks articulation) of my life. And of course when somebody dies they have an impact on your life just as when they are alive, only now in ways over which they have no control, in ways which you as a child have no control. It is our interaction with memory, and then of course when somebody dies, they are many different things in different dimensions; a box of memories, a grave, a piece of paper; a death certificate which you need to produce on occasion, as validity that they are, at least, that they once were. And then sometimes, when somebody dies, and is no longer there to speak for themselves, to apportion their heart to loved ones, loved ones may want to apportion pieces of the heart to themselves, and in the process some feel they deserve more of the heart than others, and in the end all they end up doing is ravaging the heart into a million irreparable pieces. And then sometimes when people die they live in the mouths of others, and the one thing that used to get to me was the statement 'Were your father alive, he would not be happy about this this and this, he would not like this this and this...' the point being, really, at the end of the day, that were Lawrence alive, a lot of things would then not have been as they were, hence I found it pointless to have isolated events pulled out for scrutiny as to whether they would be to my father's liking.
So now, that thing about trying to find out just how much of a parent you retain. I suppose a connection is there or not there according to one's understanding. I am always delighted to find something or other in my father's stuff that alludes to writing in some form; I mean writing does not necessarily have to be an 'inherited thing', but then again, it can be; does it really matter? Probably not. It is the writing itself that matters. I guess searching for identity becomes, at some stage, a circular game, you walk and walk and walk and follow a trail and at the end of the day you find you are back to yourself, and you wonder, is it your own trail you have been following all this time?
A musing from my father in relation to writing:
'I am not sure I have found my niche. It so happens that I have written a few things and that a few people I know think well of the few things that I have written. Knowing myself, I will probably get bored after a while. The way I look at things is that one can never get bored of writing. There is always something new to write about. I remember reading this book by Julian Barnes entitled 'The History of the World in Ten and a Half Chapters'. It's a collection of short stories. One of my favourite stories is about death and going to heaven. Everyone who dies goes to heaven where they can do all the things they have ever wanted to do. Nothing is impossible. You can still die in heaven - but you have to wish to die in order to die. The longest survivors are lawyers and writers - lawyers because they argue their cases again and when they are through they argue someone else's cases. Writers write their stories again. So, with writing I believe there are always new things to write about. Given my knack of self-reinvention, I could always find something to write about...'
'If we could fill the human mind with positive thoughts all the time, the world would be a better place to live in. But pleasant thoughts are the exception rather than the norm. The depravity of the human mind knows no limits. Unfortunately, no ideology, religion included, has managed to fill the human mind with pleasant thoughts only. Primo Levi and those who have survived earthly hells probably have lived life asking themselves why human beings could do such things to each other. Perhaps their failure to find answers to such questions forced them to terminate their lives - when they cannot 'bear the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune' to quote Shakespeare, they take their lives...It's sad when people start asking whether life is worth living and they cannot come up with a positive answer...'
'...I have never been a poet - I tried to write a few bad verses when I was out of school during the war at the age of 17. Wasn't much but the lamentations of a poor boy who had lost his future. Since then I have stayed away from poetry - I am a prose man - very prosaic in the way I do things and never given to poetic license and extravagance.'
Sometimes, the anchors in our lives, or the source of a part of our identity, lie in things/ people that are no longer present in the physical realm. It becomes complicated, trying to discover these elements; but then again, nothing about life was ever straightforward.
When I was in grade 3 (8 years old) I wrote how I had visited my father in Italy, and how there was snow in Italy. It was a lie of course, as I had notbeen to Italy, but I suppose it was a child's fantasy of mine. So my teacher fell for it, and asked me to stand up in front of the class and tell them about my trip on the plane. And, with the boldness of a child who reads too much fiction and thinks she can trick an adult into a Secret Seven fantasy, I stood up and went on to tell very very tall tales about my imaginary trip on an imaginary plane. No doubt the teacher caught on the lie, but at the time I believed I had her and my classmates were taken! So during a visit, my dad read this tall tale about my visit to Italy, and decided to honour this child's fantasy of mine. I was ten when I went to visit; he found me close to tears at the airport because he came a bit late to pick me up and I, of course, having travelled all these thousands of kilometres on my own, was overwhelmed to find myself in this huge airport with all these white faces none of which I knew! Lawrence was a stubborn father; I was an even more stubborn daughter. And so, eager to show off my ten year old's culinary skills, I cajoled him into allowing me to fry an egg for him; it came out all right :-) And then, after even more cajoling, I got him to allow me to watch 'The Titanic', which was then a big hit; so I first watched 'The Titanic' side-by-side Lawrence, and during those 'adultish scenes' (like when Jack was perched on the deck sketching nude women) Lawrence would turn to me with a look that said 'I told you so!', and I, of course, would offer a shy smile. Haha. Memories. The things children believe they can do. After a few days Lawrence found me copying out, in my ten year old's handwriting, an Italian dictionary, and when he laughed and said, 'You can have the dictionary', I was delighted; it had not occurred to me that I could have it. Lawrence had a small tv and lots and lots of books; used to marvel at those books with their big words and serious looking covers. I did think my father was the world. He was a lawyer; I wanted to be a lawyer. Nothing in my mind seemed greater than him. And that is probably because I am his only child, and hence I felt, at that time, that somehow I was the centre of his world. If he delayed to reply my letters, I would complain. If he missed a telephone arrangement, I would sulk. When he dedicated his book to me, something swelled in that child's heart of mine; a simple joy at seeing a printed message from your father. You know when you are a child even the smallest of things are big. You get immense joy out of seemingly small things, and that is the beauty of being a child. I wanted always to please my father, and I did not understand then, why he had to be so far away, why an adult had to learn still and go to a school called university to do a thing called Masters and PhD, learning still like a child ; I often badgered him about that.
My father came from a very modest background; he grew up in rural eMpandeni, in Plumtree; his father, my grandfather, was a migrant worker and so he grew up very close to his mother, my grandmother. And hence he was modest, and would always question me whenever I took things forgranted. I remember, in Italy, when I said something and added, 'Next time when I come...' he replied, 'Who said there will be a next time?' and I remember I felt mildly embarrassed. Haha. Memories. And well, I guess because I did not live with my father, I don't have memories of seeing him angry, or of beating me when I was naughty, as fathers do; I suppose because we were far away from each other, time spent together became more focused, or something like that.
And it's now that it frustrates me, that I have these compressed memories of Lawrence, squeezed to fit into the first ten years (less since as babies the ordering of memory lacks articulation) of my life. And of course when somebody dies they have an impact on your life just as when they are alive, only now in ways over which they have no control, in ways which you as a child have no control. It is our interaction with memory, and then of course when somebody dies, they are many different things in different dimensions; a box of memories, a grave, a piece of paper; a death certificate which you need to produce on occasion, as validity that they are, at least, that they once were. And then sometimes, when somebody dies, and is no longer there to speak for themselves, to apportion their heart to loved ones, loved ones may want to apportion pieces of the heart to themselves, and in the process some feel they deserve more of the heart than others, and in the end all they end up doing is ravaging the heart into a million irreparable pieces. And then sometimes when people die they live in the mouths of others, and the one thing that used to get to me was the statement 'Were your father alive, he would not be happy about this this and this, he would not like this this and this...' the point being, really, at the end of the day, that were Lawrence alive, a lot of things would then not have been as they were, hence I found it pointless to have isolated events pulled out for scrutiny as to whether they would be to my father's liking.
So now, that thing about trying to find out just how much of a parent you retain. I suppose a connection is there or not there according to one's understanding. I am always delighted to find something or other in my father's stuff that alludes to writing in some form; I mean writing does not necessarily have to be an 'inherited thing', but then again, it can be; does it really matter? Probably not. It is the writing itself that matters. I guess searching for identity becomes, at some stage, a circular game, you walk and walk and walk and follow a trail and at the end of the day you find you are back to yourself, and you wonder, is it your own trail you have been following all this time?
A musing from my father in relation to writing:
'I am not sure I have found my niche. It so happens that I have written a few things and that a few people I know think well of the few things that I have written. Knowing myself, I will probably get bored after a while. The way I look at things is that one can never get bored of writing. There is always something new to write about. I remember reading this book by Julian Barnes entitled 'The History of the World in Ten and a Half Chapters'. It's a collection of short stories. One of my favourite stories is about death and going to heaven. Everyone who dies goes to heaven where they can do all the things they have ever wanted to do. Nothing is impossible. You can still die in heaven - but you have to wish to die in order to die. The longest survivors are lawyers and writers - lawyers because they argue their cases again and when they are through they argue someone else's cases. Writers write their stories again. So, with writing I believe there are always new things to write about. Given my knack of self-reinvention, I could always find something to write about...'
'If we could fill the human mind with positive thoughts all the time, the world would be a better place to live in. But pleasant thoughts are the exception rather than the norm. The depravity of the human mind knows no limits. Unfortunately, no ideology, religion included, has managed to fill the human mind with pleasant thoughts only. Primo Levi and those who have survived earthly hells probably have lived life asking themselves why human beings could do such things to each other. Perhaps their failure to find answers to such questions forced them to terminate their lives - when they cannot 'bear the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune' to quote Shakespeare, they take their lives...It's sad when people start asking whether life is worth living and they cannot come up with a positive answer...'
'...I have never been a poet - I tried to write a few bad verses when I was out of school during the war at the age of 17. Wasn't much but the lamentations of a poor boy who had lost his future. Since then I have stayed away from poetry - I am a prose man - very prosaic in the way I do things and never given to poetic license and extravagance.'
Sometimes, the anchors in our lives, or the source of a part of our identity, lie in things/ people that are no longer present in the physical realm. It becomes complicated, trying to discover these elements; but then again, nothing about life was ever straightforward.