I took Masixole and Samkelo with me to Rhodes yesterday.
I like those two guys. I like them a lot.
They accompanied me to the Jacaranda computer labs on campus, and then, they were to walk me back home.
It was misting in Grahamstown so Masixole, dressed in a light blue sweater, a pair of gray trousers and some ratty old sneakers, took my umbrella to keep himself out of the rain.
Samkelo and I were just talking.
A guard, from Rhodes Campus Protection Unit, approached us.
Very kindly, he said "Sir, how are you today?"
I thought in my head, here we go again.
"I'm fine," I replied. "Can I help you?"
"Yes, sir. Are you a student here?"
"I was. I'm not any longer but I'm doing research under Carla Tsampiras in the history department here and these two guys," I said, gesturing toward Masixole and Samkelo,"are with me."
"May I see you student card please?"
"I don't have one," I said, this time, getting more pissy with the guard. "I told you, I was a student. I'm not any longer."
"Oh, okay. And what are they doing here," he said, pointing toward Masixole and Samkelo.
"They are my friends and they are walking with me."
"Okay," he said. "Sir, I'm just going to call my boss so we don't have to stop you anymore."
The guard, dressed in a navy blue overcoat spoke quickly in Xhosa into his walkie-talkie.
"Sir, please come with me."
"Why?" I replied.
"My boss would just like to talk to you."
"Is it because I am walking with two young black guys?" I said.
"Let's go my friend," he said.
"I really think this is ridiculous," I said. "Really crazy. I bet if they had been dressed in St. Andrew's uniforms and weren't black, this wouldn't be happening right now."
"Sir," he said. "Please don't bring race into it. It has nothing to do with race."
"It does," I insisted. "I've walked onto this campus hundreds of times by myself and with others and I've never been stopped once when it's been me or some white friend. Not once."
"Sir," he said. "We stop everybody. You know laptops get stolen from here all the time."
"And it's not all young, black guys that are doing that," I said sharply."Why do you only stop young, black guys!" I demanded.
"Sir, we stop everybody. The other day I stopped a professor and asked him some questions. We need to be very careful."
"Listen," I said. "I respect you as a person, but I don't believe what you're saying."
"Don't believe?"
"No," I said. "I have been on this campus before. I'm white, clearly. I've been with other white people—never been stopped. I'm frequently stopped when I'm with black kids. It's not right."
"Sir," he said. "It has nothing to do with race."
Two black girls, presumably Rhodes students were walking toward us during this ordeal, and had heard our exchange. They laughed when the officer repeated to me that it had nothing to do with race. I knew, in my heart, that it had everything to do with their age, their black skin and their socio-economic class but it was nice to have some support from those two girls. I knew what I was talking about.
We walked into CPU. Behind the counter was a bigger, colored, scruffy looking Afrikaans man. He didn't look pleasant—and our conversation, or our exchange rather—would showcase his lack of diplomacy and nastiness. He was sitting behind a desk with two telephones and a computer that looked as though it was from the early 90s. To his right hung a wall of photographs, probably a hundred or so photos. That was the RMW list—Rhodes Most Wanted. People to watch out for.
"What are you doing here?" he barked.
"I'm a former exchange student at Rhodes from America," I replied "And—" I wanted to say "And I'm white" but never got the chance to finish.
"And what are they doing here," he said, pointing again toward Masixole and Samkelo.
"They're my friends, and they're with me."
"No," he said. "They're not allowed to be here."
"Why?" I said.
"They're not allowed to be here," he repeated.
"I bet if they were dressed in St. --."
"I don't want to hear that," he said sharply. "Your St. Andrew's uniform stuff won't work here. I don't want to hear that."
Ignorant people seem to have a way of not wanting to hear the truth.
"They're not going to steal anything."
"Let me see your student card," he said, reaching out his hand.
"I don't have one," I said. "I'm not a student anymore. I am doing research in the History Department under Carla Tsampiras."
"You should still have a student card," he replied.
"But I'm not a student!" I said.
He took my driver's license, looked at it, then looked back up at me saying, "Were you born in Grahamstown? Are you from Grahamstown?"
He and I had been conversing for a little while. I had told him I'm from America. I had told him I was an exchange student. I had produced a New York driver's license, and I don't speak like a South African. He might have two phones and be sitting behind a beat up old desk, but his question showcased he was clearly not, say, a genuis.
I wanted to tap him on his head and say "What do you think Mr.CPU?" But I didn't. I supressed my inner anger and said "No. I was born in New York."
"They are not allowed here," he continued.
"Because they're black," I said. "Right? That's why. No black kids are allowed?"
"We have a big problem with theft here. You know that?" he retorted.
"Yes," I said. "And white people steal too."
"No," he said. "Look at the wall," he pointed to the pictures beside him. "How many people do you see who are white or in St. Andrew's uniforms? How many?"
I looked at the wall, but didn't analyze each photo. Even without analyzing, there was an awful lot of black.
"I don't know," I said. "I cannot possibly sit here any analyze each of your hundred or more photos. Not all black kids steal."
"Yes," he said. "They (pointing again to Samkelo and Masixole) aren't allowed. They steal."
"But—" I said.
"And," he continued. "If you bring them back with you, you will be charged too."
"With what?" I said, a feeling of nervousness and a feeling of being totally in awe at what this ignorant man was saying. "Walking with young black guys?"
"No," he said. "Disobeying orders. They are not allowed to be here. Young, black guys steal," he said pointing again toward my two friends.
So much for it not being a race thing, huh? The first officer who had stopped us, though he had been very friendly to me and to Masixole and Samkelo, assured me it had nothing to do with race.
The first, kinder, officer walked us back off campus. He tried to make small talk with me, but I just put my hood up and walked ahead. I didn't have anything to say to him. He had been the kinder of the two officers, but as long as they were grouping my kids, my friends, into one collective heap of liability, I was going to group them into one collective group of SOBs. Was it right? I don't know, but I didn't care at that point.
We got off campus and I looked at Masixole and Samkelo, ready to start crying.
"Listen," I said. "I am so sorry you had to be there for that. I know you weren't going to steal anything and what they said was wrong."
Masixole looked at me, smiled and said "No, it's right."
Masixole was, once again, trying to humor me and piss me off.
"No, Masixole," I said. "You have a right to be able to walk around campus."
"No," again he smiled. "I'm black. Black people steal."
Samkelo had been silent up till now, just walking along.
"Masixole," I said. "What they did, that's not right."
"No, it's right," he replied. "Black guys steal."
"Not all black guys," Samkelo said. "Not all black guys steal."
Samkelo is right.
But, because of his age and the color of his skin, he's not welcome at Rhodes.
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