The Mosaic of Belonging
Yellow Arrow Publishing is excited to announce the next guest editor for Yellow Arrow Journal, Keshni Naicker Washington, who will be overseeing the creation of our Vol. VI, No. 2 issue on “belonging-ness,” exploring what it means to belong or un-belong, our nearness or distance (intimacy or alienation) from others and ourselves. According to Keshni, “To belong or not to belong is a subjective and personal experience that can be influenced by a number of factors within ourselves and our surrounding environment and is a fundamental human motivation, found across all cultures and creeds.”
Keshni considers her creative endeavors a means of lighting signal fires for others. Born and raised in an apartheid segregated neighborhood in Kwa-Zulu Natal, South Africa, she now also calls Washington, D.C. home. And after nine years here has finally gotten used to Orion being the right way up in the night sky. Her stories are influenced by her evolving definition of home and the tides of political and social change that move us all. She is an alumnus of VONA and TIN HOUSE writing workshops. Connect with her keshniwashington.com and on Instagram @knwauthor.
Please follow Yellow Arrow on Facebook and Instagram for the theme announcement for Vol. VI, No. 2 at the end of this month. Below, you can read Keshni’s perspectives on belonging. We look forward to working with Keshni over the next few months.
By Keshni Naicker Washington, written July 2021
On the fifth of December 2013, I awoke to the news that “tata Madiba”—Nelson Mandela—would no longer walk this earth. The already cold and gray Thursday morning in D.C. turned drearier as I carried my sorrow, along with my laptop and lunch, onto the metro train that would take me downtown and to work. The rush-hour train was packed with jacket and woolen hat clad commuters. As we emerged from the underground tunnel and traversed the gray Potomac River, I caught a glimpse of the Washington Memorial impaling the cloudy sky. Hot tears came fast as the loss of tata (grandfather) sunk in. If anyone saw, they did not show it. I was a South African immigrant in mourning. Unseen in a crowd. Might as well have been on an alien planet.
The chasm between where I had come from and where I now lived gaped before me. I grew up in an apartheid segregated neighborhood called Chatsworth, in the province of Kwa-Zulu Natal. We lived in small government houses that leaned against each other, where the bathrooms were outside. Neighbors shared everything: gossip, festivals (Eid, Diwali, Christmas), and at least two house walls. You were always seen. But under the apartheid system, your worth, freedom of movement, and access was dictated by your skin, and the straightness of your hair, and codified into law. To survive, that young girl in Chatsworth defined herself by the things she did not want to be, a shield against so many destructive things that apartheid South Africa was telling her about where she belonged and what she could or could not be. And therein lies the rub (no matter which side of the Atlantic Ocean): there will always be forces trying to fit you into a category to tell you where you belong.
Almost without fail whenever I am in an Uber in D.C., at some point the driver detects the difference in my accent and enquires, “Where are you from?”
I answer, “South Africa.”
It’s almost always followed by, “But where are your parents from?”
“South Africa.” My answer is truthful.
My grandfather’s release from indenture papers was found among my grandmother’s things when she passed. He had died when my dad was very young. My grandmother, who was illiterate, eked out a means of supporting her children by selling vegetables. I do remember my maternal grandfather who died when I was a young girl. He worked from a young age, for the span of his life, as a clothes presser in a textile factory. They were all descended from the indentured sugar cane workers, brought by ship, by the British from their Indian colony to their African one, to toil under lifetime contracts that would be passed to their children.
The Uber drivers and others in D.C. assess my brown skin, black eyes, and straight black hair, against my claim that I have belonged to Africa for generations. I don’t feel compelled to fill in the blanks. I am a proud South African . . . who is also now becoming American. And after almost a decade here I (really) have finally gotten used to Orion being the right way up in the night sky and driving on the other side of the road.
As an adult, learning to be comfortable within my own skin has meant an unlearning, a deconstruction, of imposed definitions and more crucially my defenses against such prejudices. These mosaic pieces of “self” shift and rearrange themselves inside me as new experiences are added. When we truly see ourselves, we are also free to “belong” or choose not to, on our own terms. We are free to bestow a light on the other and allow them to belong.
From my apartment in D.C. on a cold December in 2013, I watched U.S. President Barack Obama at Nelson Mandela’s memorial service in South Africa. He spoke about the Nguni concept of Ubuntu, saying, “There is a word in South Africa—Ubuntu—a word that captures Mandela’s greatest gift: his recognition that we are all bound together in ways that are invisible to the eye; that there is a oneness to humanity; that we achieve ourselves by sharing ourselves with others, and caring for those around us.”
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