Down the road is the local Model-C, a nice school but a trifle pigmentally challenged.
“More unreformed than transformed,” says Noah. The white parents, who have a beleaguered look about them, generally turn up for meetings. Their black counterparts drop their children at the gate and scoot off in their zooty sportsmobiles. At a school gathering, I congratulated one of them on his fine-looking Porsche. He looked pained, and I learnt later that the vehicle is actually a Lamborghini. Imagine my cargrin!
Being manifestly white, I have a representative role on the PTA. My niece, who has a daughter at the school, nominated me on the grounds that it’s time I “gave back”. In the context, I know what she means, but it’s an odd way of putting it all the same.
To my horror, I was elected, so here I am, trapped in a PTA meeting in which I must look respectable. This is not easy. Whenever I hear “Headmistress”, I wonder what’s going down and begin to chuckle. I have a very salacious mind, and still like the one about the Vice Admiral’s vice being the Rear Admiral’s rear.
I am, you will understand, not the kind of person who should be on the PTA. But here I am, trapped in a web of platitudes and, given my lewdness, tangled up in blue.
On the agenda is a proposal to counter cellphoniphilia by buying a heap of marbles and distributing them among the children. Apparently, the vice-head, who prefers to be known as “Deputy”, enjoyed playing marbles when he was a lad.
Playing with themselves
The head opens the meeting. The children, she says, are always playing with themselves. “By themselves,” the Deputy interjects. They must play with each other, and marbles will encourage them to do so. With marbles in their bags, the kids will play with each other whenever they can. Instead of castles in the air, they will build them on the ground and, with whoops and shouts, compete happily with each other. No danger of the games turning nasty, as blacks can roll an item every bit as well as whites.
The initiative comes at a cost, of course, but parents will be levied to defray it. The amount payable will be on a sliding scale – progressive, if you like – that is, calibrated by wealth. The richer you are, the more you pay. Sharing is caring.
“But that’s racist,” says a woman – a white one – that I know only as PC Plod. “The burden will fall on the previously disadvantaged, since they are now the wealthy ones. Really, you people are completely insensitive to our past.”
“We’ve thought of that problem,” says the head. “We propose to distribute the marbles by reference to previous disadvantage. Black kids will get twice as many as the whiteys. This will redress the imbalances of the past.”
“What a marbellous idea,” says an impoverished dad sardonically, careful to keep his voice low. He knows only too well that, being previously advantaged, he has no right to speak up. Only blacks can speak about fairness.
Too brave
But he does feel brave enough to ask whether Goons will also be supplied. Too brave, it seems, for outrage ensues. He has been totally misunderstood. People think he said something else, and it wasn’t loons or moons. PC Plod, her decolletage in full sail, says she will not tolerate such language, not ever, and either he must leave or she will. A vote is taken, the lefties side with the blacks, and he leaves. Looking pensive as he departs, he gives me a wink. I think he fancies me, which is nice since he is quite the dish.
For my part, I fancy none of this. I think it is fanciful and I had much better resign. But then I remember this is simply a microcosm of our lives. I am stuck with it. I can’t resign from South Africa except by emigrating. I can’t afford to emigrate since my bank account is now depleted. I don’t want to emigrate since I am a Saffer and like it here. Looks like I must, erm, suck it up.
Voltaire put it rather more elegantly. “In times of trouble, cultivate your garden.” I shall do precisely that, all the while being careful not to call a spade a spade. While given over to horticulture, I shall let my salacious mind dwell upon the winker – he is, to be sure, a rare dish.
The views of the writer are not necessarily the views of the Daily Friend or the IRR.
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