Wow, where the mind goes when you let it out of the house! I had just read an article about discrimination against gays and blacks in America, and of new laws, recently passed, upholding such appalling bias. That such things could still go on in a democratic country, founded on fairness for all, numbs the senses. There is discrimination in all countries and Canada is no exception, but it’s not written into law here.
Shaking my head in wonder and sadness I suddenly found myself transported back to South Africa and my own battle with societal laws. At that time ‘apartheid’ - the former official policy of the Nationalist Government – was the measurement of the ‘correct’ way to handle the teaming Black population. Being of great innocence in the matter of the niceties of separation and the manner of hiring African help I goofed often. And, for my well meant errors, made myself the brunt of many jokes and jibes, not only from my fellow actors but from the African help I was compelled to hire.
Compelled? Yes, compelled.
I had been informed soon after I decided to stay in South Africa that it was morally decent and also morally right to hire as many Africans to help around the house or garden as one could afford. Well, I only had an
apartment, not very large either – living room, bedroom, kitchen, bathroom – sparsely decorated and cleaned by myself every day or two. I also cooked and did the dishes. There was only one of me so it wasn’t too difficult. But, apparently it was incumbent on me to have a maid, because that would mean one more African would have a job and be able to feed her family, however meagerly. So I hired a maid (a.k.a. a cleaning girl) , – the first African woman who came to my door seeking work. Mind you, I hardly made enough to feed myself or pay for my flat but a moral issue was at stake and old bleeding heart here was going to give of his best, of his blood if necessary. I had a maid. Now, what?
Well, I was told I had to feed her. . . so I did!
During a break in the taping of a Lux Radio Show play - in which I was a character- a couple of the actors asked if I would like to have lunch with them that day. Unfortunately I had to excuse myself, explaining, quite innocently, that during the lunch break I had to get back to my flat and make lunch for my cleaning lady. I should have taken heed of their stunned expressions, and the way their voices rose a full octave higher when, in perfect unison, they exclaimed, “Your cleaning lady?” “Yes.” I said, and proceeded to further stun them by adding, “ So you see, I wouldn’t have time to join you, because having to prepare and set out her lunch would make me too late, you’d be finished by the time I got back.” Innocently chortling I continued with, “Anyway, I hardly get a bite myself at lunchtime, more often than not I have to run like crazy to get back to the studio on time.”Now that, if you think about it, would have been gauche even if I had done it for a cleaning lady - of any color - in Canada or England. That is if I could ever have afforded such an impossible luxury as to have had a cleaning lady in Canada or England, or anywhere! But, here I was doing it in
South Africa! And my asinine reason for being unable to have lunch with my friends showed me straying so far from the path of normalcy, never mind naivety, that you’d have thought I had told the funniest joke ever, one that would have titillated the most jaded of listeners. Imagine my total discombobulation witnessing the scene that followed! Bursting into gales of laughter so consuming they must have bordered on pain, the two actors stumbled around the studio lobby doubled over, shaking uncontrollably, clutching their bellies and gasping for air. The antics of these two fellows soon had the rest of the cast in hysterics, even though they had no idea at this point as to what the over-the-board hysteria was about. Finally, between gasps, hiccups, tears, snorts and their uncontrollable laughter, they managed to tell one and all of my ‘luncheon with the maid’ routine. This of course, set everyone off into further gales of embarrassing mirth.There wasn’t a one who could stand properly. The walls supported two or three, those who had not slipped to the floor were formed against it as though they were playing statues. One fellow had fallen on his knees, his head bent into the carpet as though in prayer while his hands beat out a constant tattoo to some laughter inspired rhythm. A usually very sedate actress sat tottering on the edge of a chair, holding her head and and crying out to all and sundry, she’d just wet herself. Guffaws of laughter swept through the building as staff from other shows and studio offices came running from every direction uncertain as to whether what they were hearing was laughter, or the screeches of people being brutally strangled. It was a tidal wave of mirth, tossing my ego to hell and back. It took ages to settle down.
I can just imagine what I must have looked like. I was stricken, embarrassed beyond belief, crimson cheeked, and ready to burst into tears as I saw quite clearly, from the rowdy demonstration of mirth, what a ridiculous thing I had done.Talk about losing face! But my fellow cast members were good sports, and though they found it difficult to refrain from breaking down every time they looked at me they they didn’t rub it in (much), or treat me any less differently than before.It was explained to this uninitiated newbie, between sudden outburst of laughter, that I must tell my African cleaning lady that unfortunately I had no longer time to return each day and prepare her lunch, but, would purchase a quantity of meat, enough for her to divide into the five days of the week she cleaned, also vegetables, indispensable in a stew, and the white cornmeal - called ‘mealy meal’ by the Africans - necessary to sop up the gravy. It was explained to me that though she would not be happy about the new arrangement she would get over it. They also – and this really amused them – had a ball jibing me about how Rosie (her name) would get as much mileage out of recounting the story in the Townships as they would, when it was re-told in the pub after the broadcast that evening. . . and no doubt, many evenings to come.
Story Copyright ©2009 by Gordon Wales. All Rights Reserved.
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