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.

-----------------------------------------
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.

-------
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

-----------------------------------------
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.

-----------------------------------------
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 IV)
The Sun, The Moon & Disappointment

by Benji Raymond

In kindergarten I fell in love with one of my teachers. Looking back now, I can’t recall her name or what she looked like. I do, however, remember that she was a warm, caring and loving teacher. One day in what appeared to me to be an unprecedented press conference, she announced that she had to move on to another job. I felt a tear trickle down my face and then almost at once the tears began to flow. From this point on I seemed to master or perhaps not master the art of crying. Even for a young boy I held an above average scorecard of being unable to control the tap which lay in my eyes. What perhaps is more interesting is that I am now unable to cry. I appear to have emptied out all my tears in my younger years and the only tears left are imaginary ones which fall within my dreams.

My teacher who had once seemed to be warm and loving and ever-present, now appeared to grow into a deserter. Nevertheless, she went on to explain that in light of the unfortunate events she had thought up a very special surprise. We all listened attentively as if she were to unveil the secret ingredient of the atomic bomb, or better yet, why chocolate often appeared to be irresistible. My teacher proceeded to clarify that we were going to build a giant airplane which was going to take us across the world. I was astonished and excited, to say the least. When I returned home I could hardly contain my excitement and in short bursts told my mom the great news. My mom smiled and twinkled her nose, something I recall her doing when she was sincerely happy. I took a few minutes to gulp down my lunch and proceeded to pack for this very grand journey. My possessions at that age were unfortunately only a few pieces of clothing and a brown case. But I guess I assumed that packing light was the way to go.

My mom had and continues to have a love for maps and globes and would use any chance available to show them to my sister and me. In our small flat in Berea, a suburb of Johannesburg, she would sit us on the bed and illustrate the marvels of the rotation of the earth using an apple as the moon, an orange as the earth and a lamp as the sun. So that night I naturally lay awake thinking of the oceans and lands my class and I would cross.

The next morning I took my little brown case with me to school. My mom seemed to be surprised at my case and went on to tell me the hard truth. Yes, it was true that we were going to build an airplane with papier mache, but it was not able to take us anywhere, at least not more than a metre or two. I was sincerely disappointed, almost angry at myself for believing that a papier mache plane could take us across the world, crossing oceans and unknown lands. My mind had once again succeeded on taking me on an imaginary journey, a journey which ultimately ended up in disappointment.

During my school years when leadership games were played, I could never grasp the idea of being blindfolded while being lead by another. I simply refused or stood blindfolded and wouldn’t dare to move. When we were told to relax and drop back into another’s arms I would sludge my way down in a tense way with my arms positioned behind me. Nevertheless, when it was my turn to lead or catch another I took great pain in trying to convince someone to trust me and it became my little passion that I continued to work on so hard during my life.

-----------------------------------------
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 III) – Dad

by Benji Raymond

“When I was a boy of 14, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be 21, I was astonished at how much the old man had learned in seven years.” Mark Twain

I never heard my Dad complain about going to work, not for a single second. On the contrary, there were times when I had to ask him to slow down a bit, for fear of him dramatically reducing the quality of his health. I often wondered why he worked so hard. While we lived a reasonably comfortable middle class lifestyle he never really wanted anything in the material sense. I never saw him go out and purchase a new pair or shoes, a nice shiny necklace or a fancy technological gadget. At one stage I asked him what exactly was the reason he worked so hard and he answered that he wanted my sister and I to be able to enjoy life and not have to worry about how we would be able to obtain new school shoes or textbooks for university. Perhaps it was the fact that his education ceased after high school and wanted the opposite for me. It was only later in life that I realized that everything we ever owned was a product of his and my mom’s work and was not produced as a result of inheritance. They both lived in a moderately low lifestyle and at times even food seemed to be a concern. Nevertheless, one of the things that struck me about my Dad was the way he would leave the last piece of steak or lamb for me. After having a very satisfying meal I would explain that I didn’t necessarily want the last piece but he would just leave it there. I knew deep down in my heart that steak and lamb were his favorite. Only after he knew that I was not going to touch it would he proceed to eat it.

My Dad’s life was uneasy as a child. I do not know this from his personal accounts of his childhood. On the contrary, he often said his childhood was wonderful and then proceeded to say very little else about it. But I do know now that the necessities of life were not always in abundance while he was growing up and that at one stage the lack of income was so great in his family that his parent’s required to focus on the family business and consequently sent him to boarding school. Perhaps that is the real motivation of a parent working so hard to provide for their children.

It amazed me the way my Dad would walk visitors back to their car. My mom would laugh and say that he was making sure that they would leave, but I knew within me that it was a style of hospitality. It was his way of making certain that they would be safe to go on with their journey, however short it may be. I would watch in amazement the way he would enjoy having people over. While I enjoyed having friends over, I would often glance at my watch, a sure sign of my introverted nature. And yet my Dad’s extroverted nature exceeded that of my mom, sister and I by tenfold.

My Dad often mentions with a smile that he would have liked more children. For some reason, I was always so happy when he would say that. I guess in my eyes I perceived this to mean that he was happy with the result of his existing children, my sister and me. While some of my friends’ parents would say that they would have liked less or no kids, he would often counteract them by saying that while he loved his two children, they were simply not enough.

-----------------------------------------
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 II) – Sensitivity and its Implications

by Benji Raymond

During my younger years I was always under the impression that perfection was not only attainable but desirable and instrumental to one progressing in this world. This no doubt proved to be a struggle for an acutely sensitive child who would hear and see things that would occur 2 kilometers away. At some stage perfectionism seemed so important that when I was certain that I could not produce 100% exam results, I would not sit them.

I often wondered why my anxiety would shoot through the roof in a class setting at university. It only occurred to me, albeit in my fifth year of studies, that aggressively insensitive teachers in early education years (I had my fair share of them) can curve, shape and sculpt an individual’s life. The role of a sensitive, caring and loving teacher is equally, if not more important in the same sense. Only recently have I realized that the role of a teacher in primary or high school is so incredibly significant that not even the teacher themselves can realize the role they play in a child’s life. I often mention to my sister that as a child-care worker she plays an instrumental role in that child’s life, whether or not they recall her as their carer in five or ten years.

-----------------------------------------
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 students from Zilberman Yeshiva Ketana circled around me. They had never been so close to a man wearing faded blue jeans before. Sure they had seen tourists entering the Old City, but a person wearing casual clothes living next door to them was unheard of. They spoke amongst themselves, attempting to find a student who spoke English. An English speaking student was eventually found amongst the young boys and he briefly introduced himself and communicated my intention to study at Yeshiva to the others. Each one of them took a turn to shake my hand saying, "Shalom Aleichem" ("Peace be upon you"). I grinned at the uncanny thought of me being some sort of celebrity. After the commotion settled down, I went back to my dorm and motioned to a fellow roommate, "Those boys live in a prison, hindered from the freedom of life." Without looking up from his Sefer ("book"), my roommate replied, "They believe it is you who has lived in a prison and are now being released and free to roam the potential of the mind." At that moment I realized that indeed I had owned an imagination which had become limited from becoming a victim of lust, a follower of the heart, and it was ironically me who had been confined to the shackles of society.

A Long December (Poetry)