whether anything had occurred between us, or if I had in some way offended her, but I was too confused and humiliated by what I had done to tell them the truth. They could never have imagined what actually happened, and I never told them; never shared it, until now, with anyone else.
I knew she had three children who lived in a township with her mother or her aunt, and on her day off each week she traveled six hours one way by bus to spend a night with them. I never learned which township it was; never asked her children’s names or their ages; never saw their pictures. Thoughts of my childhood are incomplete without her; I carry her face with me every day of my life. Her voice, her accented English, her dimpled cheeks and her laughter, the flowery smell of her hair oil, are a part of me. I didn’t know her by any name other than Roslyn. And I never saw her again.
Johannesburg, 1953
After that first kiss, Michaela and I spent many hours together at the office and in coffee houses, and at the homes of like-minded friends. Your mother was always willing to take risks—she wanted to make bold statements, take action. We discussed our plans and the best ways to achieve them, and if I hadn’t been there to inject moderation and caution, she would have been the one to lead the charge, to be in the vanguard, and to be the first one shot. I was much less politically motivated than she was, but I was also politically astute in a way that she would never be.
“You’re not going to get them to change their plans for Sophiatown,” I told her and a group of fellow students one night around the table in a local café. “Not by writing editorials or by demonstrating. It’s a done deal. You think you can change their minds, but you can’t.”
I tried to explain why it was too late to stop the relocation. The government wanted to satisfy an adjacent community of poor whites who resented the proximity of the black community. They were already planning to bulldoze the area and build a white suburb over the ruins—which they ultimately did, naming it Triomf—Triumph—in unvarnished arrogance. The plan was to move residents out of the freehold of Sophiatown, where they were allowed to own land, and into a township where they would be denied property rights—where it was easier to monitor their movements. The strategy of the Nationalist Party was brilliant: take advantage of the strength of tribal bonds to fragment and weaken the opposition, and make it impossible to mount any united resistance to apartheid.
When I was through explaining how I thought it worked, Michaela leaned back in her chair, folded her arms, and looked at me quizzically.
“You’ve never been to Sophiatown,” she said, “so you’re talking theory—you’ve never seen the reality of what they want to destroy. You’ve never seen the communities that will be bulldozed.” Her large, dark eyes filled as she spoke, and she wiped the overflow from her cheeks delicately with the backs of her fingers. “You’ve never looked into the faces of people who’ve lived there for fifty years, who own their homes, and who are about to be forced off their property as if they had no say in the matter, no feelings, no legal standing. Or the children whose neighborhoods are going to disappear; friends who’ll end up living apart from each other because they belong to different tribal groups, or have a slightly different skin color.”
“I haven’t seen those things,” I responded quietly. “But seeing them isn’t going to change the reality of what’s about to happen.”
She slowly shook her head, and smiled at me knowingly. “You may not be able to change the outcome by visiting the place,” she said, “but standing shoulder to shoulder with people, seeing their faces, will change your reality. You may still talk about issues and possibilities, but once you’ve been there, your issues will have faces. And faces make a difference.”
“Okay,” I said.
I knew she had three children who lived in a township with her mother or her aunt, and on her day off each week she traveled six hours one way by bus to spend a night with them. I never learned which township it was; never asked her children’s names or their ages; never saw their pictures. Thoughts of my childhood are incomplete without her; I carry her face with me every day of my life. Her voice, her accented English, her dimpled cheeks and her laughter, the flowery smell of her hair oil, are a part of me. I didn’t know her by any name other than Roslyn. And I never saw her again.
Johannesburg, 1953
After that first kiss, Michaela and I spent many hours together at the office and in coffee houses, and at the homes of like-minded friends. Your mother was always willing to take risks—she wanted to make bold statements, take action. We discussed our plans and the best ways to achieve them, and if I hadn’t been there to inject moderation and caution, she would have been the one to lead the charge, to be in the vanguard, and to be the first one shot. I was much less politically motivated than she was, but I was also politically astute in a way that she would never be.
“You’re not going to get them to change their plans for Sophiatown,” I told her and a group of fellow students one night around the table in a local café. “Not by writing editorials or by demonstrating. It’s a done deal. You think you can change their minds, but you can’t.”
I tried to explain why it was too late to stop the relocation. The government wanted to satisfy an adjacent community of poor whites who resented the proximity of the black community. They were already planning to bulldoze the area and build a white suburb over the ruins—which they ultimately did, naming it Triomf—Triumph—in unvarnished arrogance. The plan was to move residents out of the freehold of Sophiatown, where they were allowed to own land, and into a township where they would be denied property rights—where it was easier to monitor their movements. The strategy of the Nationalist Party was brilliant: take advantage of the strength of tribal bonds to fragment and weaken the opposition, and make it impossible to mount any united resistance to apartheid.
When I was through explaining how I thought it worked, Michaela leaned back in her chair, folded her arms, and looked at me quizzically.
“You’ve never been to Sophiatown,” she said, “so you’re talking theory—you’ve never seen the reality of what they want to destroy. You’ve never seen the communities that will be bulldozed.” Her large, dark eyes filled as she spoke, and she wiped the overflow from her cheeks delicately with the backs of her fingers. “You’ve never looked into the faces of people who’ve lived there for fifty years, who own their homes, and who are about to be forced off their property as if they had no say in the matter, no feelings, no legal standing. Or the children whose neighborhoods are going to disappear; friends who’ll end up living apart from each other because they belong to different tribal groups, or have a slightly different skin color.”
“I haven’t seen those things,” I responded quietly. “But seeing them isn’t going to change the reality of what’s about to happen.”
She slowly shook her head, and smiled at me knowingly. “You may not be able to change the outcome by visiting the place,” she said, “but standing shoulder to shoulder with people, seeing their faces, will change your reality. You may still talk about issues and possibilities, but once you’ve been there, your issues will have faces. And faces make a difference.”
“Okay,” I said.
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