The poet must die

I just had to check the date on my computer in disbelief that it has only been a month since arriving in Johannesburg. It is crazy to realize that your whole life has changed in a matter of weeks: different place, different atmosphere and a whole different set of thoughts goes through my mind on a daily basis.

Upon arriving in Johannesburg (actually on my first night), I made some new friends that suggested a place for me to live. Just wanting a space of my own, I acted quickly and moved into a house with three Afrikaner girls (Afrikaners are the white, Dutch decedents) .

Being that all of my students and friends are either Zulu or Sutu, I was looking forward to getting to know the Afrikaner culture that I had heard so much about. Yes, I had heard that there were racial clashes between the two cultures during the long years of Apartheid, but after living in the post-civil rights U.S.A., I assumed most of the tension had been buried in the past.

The first night in my new place was probably one of the most eye-opening nights of my life (not an exaggeration). I guess growing up in a multicultural society like California, where people are pretty accepting and open, for the most part, you take for granted that you could be sitting on a bus next to an Asian and Hispanic person and think nothing of it. As I shared dinner with my roommates on the first night, I started to gain an understanding of what it is like for a society to be healing from a long, extensive and complete racial separation.

As we talked over semi-decent pizza my heart was crushed as my new roommates expressed total fear and misunderstanding of the black population that I work so closely with everyday and even hang out with on my weekends. I fell in love with Johannesburg because of the lively spirit, generosity, and fierce intelligence that I felt from my students and friends, and after only a few slices I lost my appetite over the disbelief that my roommates see these same people as not only a total threat, but also a hindrance to their advancement as a country.

After that first night my emotions became a bit of a rollercoaster- total highs when I was with my friends and students, and the worst lows as I came home and face a sterile and fear-filled house.

A few weeks ago I had a major emotional breakthrough though. After taking a stroll through my neighborhood with some good friends, I started to notice that there are a lot of old colonial buildings nestled between the newly built and barbed-wire protected brick houses. So I opened up my “Jo’burg Book” and found out that I live in what used to be Sophiatown: Johannesburg’s black cultural and artistic epicenter in the early-mid 1900’s. Sophiatown is particularly interesting because it is one of the few neighborhoods in Johannesburg that allowed all races to live together for many of the years during Apartheid. Unfortunately, the neighborhood was eventually dismantled in the 1950’s and all people of color were forced to leave, many of which went to Soweto.

Trough further research I discovered that many of the most influential black artists and writers, who started the black consciousness movement in South Africa, could have possibly lived, sang, danced, wrote and conversed on the very soil my house lies on now. It sounds completely silly, and I don’t understand why, but this gave me the most comfort that I have felt since I have arrived. I guess it gave me hope.

So, through my research that night I uncovered the following poem from Don Mattera, a poet from Sophiatown:

The poet must die

For James Matthews and Gladys Thomas after their poems were executed

The poet must die


her murmuring threatens their survival 


her breath could start the revolution; 


she must be destroyed

Ban her


Send her to the Island 


Call the firing-squad


But remember to wipe her blood 


From the wall,


Then destroy the wall 


Crush the house 


Kill the neighbours

If their lies are to survive 


The poet must die

For those of you that know anything about South Africa’s past, I imagine you have chills. I know I did. I brought this to my class the next day with excitement and had one of the best teaching days of my career. The lesson started with students looking at the poem with confusion, and ended with lots of wild gesticulating and sloppy penmanship and I wrote down students’ interpretations and thoughts as they uncovered the author’s emotions and meaning.

For me, the poem represented not only the racial fear and separation of the past, but also the lingering legacy of apartheid that exists today (and that I feel everyday in my house). I was surprised though when I asked my students about it. Although they had varying opinions, many felt that the poem represented the feelings of a past generation but they feel more optimistic about the current day situation. Again this gave me a lot of hope.

The students were so excited about the poem and the history of Sophiatown that I was able to arrange for them to visit and tour the current museum that exists in the newly build neighborhood. For some students, it was their first time being out of their township. Here are some pics from the tour: