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September 27, 2006

I took a number of my characters to Germany with me during my USO tour a few weeks ago. Major Mouse (retired) found the "touristy" part of the journey a bit bothersome.

Posted by trevor at 06:41 PM | Comments (2)

September 24, 2006

Alexandra

The plea was very simple. Please could someone send food to the community center in Alexandria Township just north of Johannesburg?

"Many, many African children are hungry and because of the pass laws, thousands of black people cannot go into white areas to get work," said the speaker, a priest, who was addressing the Junior Rotary. (Of which I was a member during high school.) "Because there is no work, well, the kids are hungry, and that is so sad. It is sad because just down the road from starving kids, fortunate people are eating huge meals and leaving food on their plates which is then thrown away."

The priest, an old African man with watery eyes, tried to smile as he looked out at us with hurt in his heart.

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Please help." He said softly. He humbly dropped his head and clasped his hands together in the traditional African way.

I felt his pain.

I was about fourteen at the time and felt compelled to help.

The next weekend I gathered some friends together including Janet, Katherine and Pat Campbell, who lived down the road.

We walked the street of Orange Grove, Linksfield and Mountain View, going house-to-house collecting canned food. I was surprised at how generous many of the people were.

Not everyone greeted us with enthusiasm though. Some people told us to go away, that they had their own problems. One Afrikaans man told me to get the hell off his property and to mind my own bloody business. "You Englishmen will be sorry," he said. "Feeding black kids is like feeding pit bulls. They are going to rip you throat out when they get big enough to attack you. We need to keep their numbers down man. Now "&$#@ off Engelsman."

"Your arse in a glass," I yelled as I backed away from his front door.

"He's ignorant," said Janet Campbell, always the peacemaker in our neighborhood, pushing me back down the drive toward the street. "Leave him to live in his own sad little world." (Janet was the youngest in our group, and could easily have been related to Mother Theresa.)

We put the food in boxes and the next weekend my dad took us down to the outskirts of Alexandra Township.

Alexandra, described by Nelson Mandela as "exhilarating and precarious", is a sprawling ghetto township some 12km north-east of Johannesburg. Today 170 000 people live in this ghetto, in an area of approximately two square kilometers. This incredibly poor shantytown is totally surrounded by wealthy suburbs.

During the height of white rule, white, predominately Afrikaans policeman, patrolled all roads leading in to Alex. Their orders where to keep the "subversive' whites out and the blacks in. In those days, black people had to carry papers to allow them into white areas after dark and were often rounded up in raids on white areas after sunset, and either jailed or beaten for disobeying the brutal 'Pass' laws.

We were given directions to a small church-run community center on the outskirts of Alex, where we were asked to deliver the food. The center was not in Alex proper, so my father felt it would be pretty safe to go there. (The government controlled media constantly spewed out warnings that blacks had to be 'contained' because they were about to rebel and kill white people.)

We saw the ramshackle community center but before we reached it we were stopped by two white policemen sitting in a van on top of the road that lead down to the church.

"What are you doing here?" asked one of the policemen, leaning into our car window.

"We brought food for the kids," said my dad. "We're taking it to the community center." He pointed at the center not five hundred yards down the street.

"Ja, but that's a bloody black church, you know?" Said the policeman.

"Yes," said my father. "I know."

"You can't go into Alexandra," said the cop, stretching to his full height. Those houties (derogatory term for blacks) will kill you, man. No whites allowed in there. It's for your own safety meneer. (Sir.) They'll kill you just like that. Life means nothing to them."

"But we brought the food," I chimed in from the back seat.

"Ja, no problem. Just leave it here," said the policeman. "I'll have one of the boys (black policeman, who had no rank, were called boys by white cops) take it down there."

We unloaded the boxes at the policeman's feet and got back into the car.

As we were backing away I saw the policeman, reach into the box and take out a jar of fruit. I saw him open the lid and pour the contents down his throat, most of it spilling onto the road. He took a box of crackers and tore it open.

"Stop." I yelled.

My father stopped the car.

I jumped out.

"Get back in here," yelled my dad.

"But he's eating the food." I said.

Followed by the other kids in the car, I rushed over to the cop with my father in tow.

"It's not for you!" I said, bending down and picking up one of the boxes.

"What's the problem?" said the cop, wiping his mouth.

"No problem," said my father, stepping between the policeman and me. "This food was promised to someone else. I think we'll take it with us and figure something out."

"I can't believe he ate some of it." I said.

"Ja. You are just blerrie lucky I dirren't eat YOU," said the cop, laughing toward the second policeman who was leaning against the van smoking a cigarette.

I was about to explode when my father gently placed his palm across my mouth. I wanted to yell and scream at the cop. I wanted to tell him I hated him and his laws and his absolute disregard for suffering black children. And how we had walked miles collecting the damn food. How hard it was to knock on people's doors and ask for donations. I wanted to tell him I hoped he would starve to death one day. The blood was boiling in my fourteen year old body.

"It's okay, whispered my father. "Trev it's okay."

My dad ruffled my hair.

"Go to the car," he said to all of us. "It's okay."

I turned and took the box back to the car. I think Kathy Campbell picked up the other box while my father shepherded us back to the vehicle.

"You'll be thankful for us one day," spat the policeman. "We'll save your blerrie (bloody) lives."

We drove back to our neighborhood in silence.

The following day we took the food to a church in our neighborhood who in turn took the food to the community center we were unable to visit. (For some reason, the police allowed clergy to enter Alexandra Township. Thank God for that.)

We went to a lot of trouble for those two simple cardboard boxes of food, half eatern by the damn policeman, but that was all forgotten when the letter arrived. The 'thank you' note (sent from the community center in Alexandra Township) said the food and our kindness was received and much appreciated.

And, even though we said we probably weren't going to collect food again, we did it again the next month. And again the month after.

Although, thanks to Nelson Mandela, the pass laws are gone and black people enjoy equal rights, there is still a lot of work to do to dismantle the hatred and poverty that grew and festered in South Africa all those years ago.

(Janet, Pat, Kathy, Giselle, GvB, Ronnie, wherever you guys are in the world please contact me, I'd love to talk about those times, when we were young and the days were long.)

Posted by trevor at 08:57 PM | Comments (2)

September 15, 2006

Posted by trevor at 04:49 PM | Comments (4)

September 14, 2006

"Imagine what would happen if families, and places of worship and schools - joined by television writers and radio talk show hosts, recording artists, athletes, movie stars, business executives and politicians - all would agree to teach children, by both word and example, honesty, respect, responsibility, compassion, self-discipline, perseverance and giving. What if all the adults, who seem so upset about the troubled lives of children, would indeed create a climate in which these core virtues would become, for all of us, a way of life?"

- Ernest Boyer, The Basic School

Excerpted from 'Honey From The Rock' by Lawrence Kushner

Posted by trevor at 06:23 PM | Comments (1)

September 11, 2006

Posted by trevor at 09:36 PM | Comments (2)

September 05, 2006

I will be in Germany until Sunday touring on behalf of the USO. I will be sharing stories and many of my earlier blogs with young people at Ramstein Airforce base near Frankfurt.

Tune in next week for my brand new blogging season.

Posted by trevor at 10:24 PM | Comments (4)

September 03, 2006

I was watching television a few days ago and the news showed a group of kids hopelessly combing through the remains of their bombed-out village.

All that remained of the children's home was rubble and dust.

"I don't think ANYTHING will ever grow in that place again," I said to my friend, who was watching with me.

"Love can grow anywhere," came a little voice from behind me.

I turned quickly.

It was Oz, my friend's six year-old son, who had wondered into the room.

My friend and I looked at each other in surprise.

Oz turned and bounded happily out of the room leaving us wondering why, while moving out of childhood, so many people mislay that wonderful, unfaltering faith (and hope) we are born with.

Posted by trevor at 04:27 PM | Comments (1)

September 01, 2006

I was having a nap today and three little illustrated mice decided to leave the confines of my imagination and rummage through my Memory Department while I was asleep.

They caused total havoc.

You should see the place. There are memories scattered everywhere. I mean, some of my oldest memories now have their corners chewed completely off. Like totally bitten off.

I forgot a good friends birthday today.

It's not that my memory is bad or anything. I mean I have a good memory. (Except when I forget things. ) But I forgot my friends birthday because…yes… because of those damn mice!

Sorry Jean Pierre.

Posted by trevor at 09:18 PM | Comments (2)