The Wonder Years (Part 8)
Chocolate Milk & The Cool Sea Breeze

by Benji Raymond

The travel guide led us on the hiking path in the Drakensberg Mountains of KwaZulu-Natal in South Africa. When we got to a stream of water she lay on the ground and cupped some water into her mouth. I was curious to know if the water was drinkable and I recall my Dad apparently understanding what I was thinking and nodding his approval. I, too, lay down and cupped some fresh water into my mouth. The sweetest, purest water I ever tasted was during this holiday. Nevertheless, while we had some peaceful holidays in the Drakensberg Mountains, I would be insincere if I said it was my favourite holiday location.

My favourite and ironically perhaps the most simple of South Africa’s vast and beautiful terrain was in Durban. My Gran owned a small holiday flat in Durban and allowed us to use it as we pleased. Perhaps in some ways, the actual trip itself was the most exciting. The night before we were set to leave I would struggle to sleep in anticipation of the journey. I would wander around the house till the early hours of the mornings and when I was finally asleep my Mom would wake me and tell me was time to get ready. My Mom would set a Mexican 'serape' down at the back of my Dad’s kombi and my sister and I would take turns sleeping there on the 8 hour car journey. About half an hour into the journey, we would begin to drink our chocolate milks which were purchased at the corner-store the day before. My parents would encourage us to wait until we were further on in the journey, but we were craving those little milk bottles weeks before and it was no use trying to convince us to do otherwise. When we eventually arrived, tired and warn out from the long car ride, we could smell the fresh sea breeze and I recall feeling happiness within me. The cool breeze and the gentle sun were enough to take the stress out of anyone, including an 8 year old boy carrying the world on his shoulders. Those were my happiest memories.

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The Wonder Years - Introduction
A Woman of Virtue - To Mum
The Wonder Years (Part 1) My Earliest Memory
The Wonder Years (Part 2) Sensitivity and its Implications
The Wonder Years (Part 3) Dad
The Wonder Years (Part 4) The Sun, The Moon & Disappointment
The Wonder Years (Part 8) Chocolate Milk & The Cool Sea Breeze
The Wonder Years (Part 15) - Race, Memory and Innocence
The Wonder Years (Part 16) In Between Two Worlds

A Long December - Poetry

The Wonder Years - Introduction

by Benji Raymond

The more I write down my memoirs the closer I have come to discover that my memory has become associated with an intense search for meaning of explanations as to why events took place and the influence those events exerted on me as an individual. As I meander through my memory and attempt to conjure up events and their influences I have come to embrace memory for its defining ability and its capability in transporting individuals. When our home or country has been lost or changed, memory assists us in reaffirming our identity. Events are often repressed at the time they occur since the emotional trauma limits our resources, and so while a memory may not be reliable it is a significant way of keeping our identity alive. Materialistic visions in this sense are seen to satisfy the burning desire that lies dormant in every one of us that wants to know that the past was not merely invented but was a reality in shaping the person we have become. Situations which produce a profound impact become engrained memories and to forget them can be seen to be forgetting the effect itself, while to remember them is akin to keeping our identity in tact. At times the embedded nature of memory can be so strong that despite seeing the present reality we are still unable to grasp the truth.

When considering the importance of memory it is often worthwhile to consider the function of forgetting since its contrasting purpose assists explaining memory itself. While the notion of forgetting does not erase the uniqueness of a person, it has the power to erode at the surface of identity and consequently gnaws at the understanding of previous events and thus leads to a perception of loss of identity. Perhaps this is what it meant by Kincaid when she states, “…people like me cannot get over the past, cannot forgive and cannot forget.(1)” In this sense Kincaid has focused on an active and conscious form of forgetting, however, at certain instances forgetting is a consequence of memory not meeting the present reality.

Memory and forgetting become linked when they are combined with the use of imagination. Both memory and imagination offer distinctive sets of functions that are required at different sets of times. Imagination provides the strength to form mental images while memory has the power to retain and recall past experiences if the need should arise. When a place as to dear to us as our home ceases to exist or exists but in a form different to our recollections and we possess the gift of using our imagination then our identity continues despite the image in our minds not being real nor present to our physical senses.

Imagination, desire and passion are combined powers that carry one “beyond the limits of one’s mind to other times and other places…to a place where there was no border between oneself and one’s image in the mirror.” Perhaps this why instead of focusing on the strengths of memory, the younger generation has become fixated with imagination. Imagination appears to be our only hope in possessing and retaining an identity and being immune to the hurt and loss often associated with having an imperfect memory. We become focused on shielding ourselves from the consequences of hurt that are likely to follow if we focused on the specifics which do not always appear to link up to the present reality. Imagination in this sense is more reliable than memory, even merely as a source of comfort. Conceivably this is what it inferred when stating that the “shaping force of memory is enormously productive and enabling, but also traumatic and disabling.”(3) Memory has advantages in its function and representation but at times the anticipation of hurt leads one to rely on the strengths of imagination.

An individual’s early years are instrumental. They have the power and influence to go above and beyond one’s own understanding. While they often lay dormant in people’s mind, they are active in the way we interact on a daily basis. This is my account of my early years.

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Footnotes:
1) Jamaica Kincaid, A Small Place, p. 93.
2) The Shadow Lines by Amitav Ghosh P.29
3) Suvir Kaul, Separation Anxiety: Growing up Inter/National in The Shadow Lines

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The Wonder Years - Introduction
A Woman of Virtue - To Mum
The Wonder Years (Part 1) My Earliest Memory
The Wonder Years (Part 2) Sensitivity and its Implications
The Wonder Years (Part 3) Dad
The Wonder Years (Part 4) The Sun, The Moon & Disappointment
The Wonder Years (Part 8) Chocolate Milk & The Cool Sea Breeze
The Wonder Years (Part 15) - Race, Memory and Innocence
The Wonder Years (Part 16) In Between Two Worlds

A Long December - Poetry

The Wonder Years (Part 15) - Race, Memory and Innocence

by Benji Raymond

When I moved from a private Jewish secondary school to an alternate private school, I found the number of races in one class remarkable. In fact, the ethnicity and religions ranged so vastly; from Muslims and Rwandans to Jews and Lebanese, that when I look back now I wander how we all used to get along so well. This is not to say that we did not have fights. There were often brawls after school in the courtyard where the boys would sort out the day's events that they disagreed on. From time to time this did have something to do with race or religion, but the brawls were not often motivated by such things. The fights where the boys would knock out each other’s teeth were often associated with concerns of who was stronger or who owed money to whom.

I eventually became best friends with a coloured boy, Burton and a black boy, Tebogo. I recall Tebogo often used to say to me, “Black is Beautiful, but White is Right.” I am not certain why he said it or the context in which he said it, but I remember always nodding my head in agreement. I simply assumed he was saying that Africans were more beautiful than whites and the way he said it made his argument appear convincing. My innocence prohibited me from catching on to what he was really saying and only now have I come to see what he meant. He was undoubtedly passing on the the hauntingly real sentiment of the white repression of the Africans that had occurred in the years gone by. While the segregation and apartheid had ended, the after effects were still being felt.

We never really discussed politics. This was not due to our disinterest in the subject but in some sense we were too young for the events that were slowly shaping our lives and we were very much at the seam of this change. I recall my Dad urging me to watch the television when Nelson Mandela was freed from prison. My Dad pointed at the TV and said, “That man will do great things. This is history in the making.” I was only 8 at the time but I recall feeling chills go up and down my spine as I watched the small television in our home in Johannesburg.

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The Wonder Years - Introduction
A Woman of Virtue - To Mum
The Wonder Years (Part 1) My Earliest Memory
The Wonder Years (Part 2) Sensitivity and its Implications
The Wonder Years (Part 3) Dad
The Wonder Years (Part 4) The Sun, The Moon & Disappointment
The Wonder Years (Part 8) Chocolate Milk & The Cool Sea Breeze
The Wonder Years (Part 15) - Race, Memory and Innocence
The Wonder Years (Part 16) In Between Two Worlds

A Long December - Poetry