On Saturday evening we went to a party in the Hollywood hills of LA. The hosts, RayAnn and Devan, were a charming, attractive couple from South Africa. A significant percentage of the guests were South African Indians who live in various parts of California. RayAnn and Devan have a beautiful house with a sort of Hollywood modern interior design and decor. Spacious, open plan, lots of glass sliding doors for views, stainless steel appliances, etc. Beautiful paintings of South African scenes hung on their walls. I found out that the artist was a friend of the hosts. An enormous deck provided sweeping views of the hills and city skyline. The excellent meal was catered by a Greek Restaurant. Definitely, a terrific party, very organized, loads of great food, and it was a lot of fun to get to know new people.
But ... South African Indians always manage to stir up a mixture of sentiments in me. On the one hand it's wonderful to interact with people who take me right back to what is special to me. Yet, at the same time all my resentment for the community that raised me surfaces. Don't get me wrong. I really liked the folks I met. They were genuine, sincere, and warm. The type you know you can turn to when you need a friend. But, somehow, I can't help an awareness of the absence of certain characteristics that I value. I'm aware of too much attention to appearances, and too little to deeper issues. I'm also aware of the identity conflict we, South African Indians, struggle with. A minority group, raised in a western country, but surrounded by a third culture - African. What are we? We hate our Indiannness at times, but embrace aspects of it at other times. We hate the whites of South Africa, but we ape them in many ways. We claim to love the Zulu culture, but the evidence is absent.
These reflections of Indians of South Africa reminded of a conversation I'd had with my friend, Sri, a little over a year ago.
I remember saying to him over a bottle of Fat Tire Beer, how ashamed I was of being an Indian from South Africa. “I have a very low opinion of them.” He grinned – and his gentle brown eyes reflected both amusement and amazement. I remember Daryl sitting between us and not saying anything. He was too exhausted from digging holes and mixing concrete in the brutal heat earlier in the day when the temperature hovered around 90 degrees. The hottest April day in Santa Barbara on record. This was of course, 2008.
Sri and Premi had just returned from a trip to South Africa. It was Sri’s first time there (he grew up in Tamil Nadu and Premi in Durban), and he was still reeling from what he’d seen. After a reflective pause, Sri said, “I can’t get over all the BMW’s I saw coming into the lot on the wedding day. He shook his head in disgust. “How materialistic. And so insensitive to all the poverty around.”
I sat up, the hackles on my neck rising. My being critical of my people was one thing. I grew up in the community. I knew their history, their struggles and their challenges. But someone who only just learned of the existence of these people had no right man, no right. “When I say I have a low opinion of them,” I said, “I didn’t mean that there’s nothing good to say about them. The wealth that you saw – it wasn’t something that was handed to them. Indians in South Africa, despite the oppressive environment in which they grew up, despite apartheid, were able to make the most of the little they were given. They had access to education – inferior though it was – and worked hard. It’s remarkable that there is so little poverty among Indians. As a teacher here in Santa Barbara I find it so strange that the Latino community doesn’t capitalize on what they’re given, like the Indians of SA did.”
Premi, eager to add her two cents, brought a plate of chili bites that she’d just fried, to the table. She had just taken up a job with the county as a social worker. “You know, that’s exactly what I’ve been thinking. I find it shocking that the low income families here get so much help and their kids have such great opportunities. They get to go these good public schools and the teachers work so hard, but they just don’t seem to appreciate what they have.”
Daryl grunted. This isn’t PC, he was trying to say (spouses, as you know can read each other’s minds, finish each other’s sentences, etc.), but his brain and vocal cords weren’t in sync. All that heat, and him being English and all.
I wanted to continue Premi’s criticisms. I mean, as a public school teacher as well as a product of a hardworking low income community, I am constantly flummoxed by the Latino phenomenon. It’s a sensitive topic. Nobody wants to sound racist. Everyone wants to make excuses and find intellectual explanations for the poor performance of our minority kids. Society gets most of the blame. So, I chose to veer away from the topic and asked about her impressions of South Africa after having been away for six years.
Anyway, back home in Santa Barbara, as I reflect on my background, I'm filled with gratitude. I am able to see the world and the people I meet from a perspective that gives me greater understanding.
Whew! That was only Chapter 1 of the weekend. Wait till you hear about Sunday!
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