As we left Cape Town and the scenery changed to the vast open veld, I felt uneasy despite my happiness. Was I abandoning my country? Should I have remained, toughed it out, contributed in whatever way I could to undoing apartheid? Eric was heading for the future he dreamed of, a place in the world of physics. I was heading for … what? I had no idea what lay ahead for me in the United States, only that I was going into exile and I would have to create a new home. I would not return until there was democracy.
At that moment I was too quick to assume that I could shed my home like an old skin. I knew what I was heading away from: the mountain, the sea, the earth—a beautiful country distorted by an evil system. But my memories of home—the smells, the tastes, the sounds—would cling to me like an invasive vine, knotting together to produce a yearning that would not dim through the years.
The Karoo, the vast semidesert region of the northern cape that we traversed for hours, presented us with a farewell gift. I expected the scenery I loved: the brown and dry scrubby land where woolly sheep aimlessly grazed among stunted trees; the massive rocks that rose out of the veld; the hard, sandy earth where patchy brown grass took hold; the contorted branchless tree trunks with spiky green fronds that stuck out the top; the flat-topped hills that had defied millennia of erosion, set against distant blue-hued mountains. Instead, the Karoo had been doused with a brief rain storm the day before and bright flowers and wisps of green had broken out of the hard earth overnight. The transformed semidesert was a sea of color, putting on its best face as if to wish me well.
6 — Slowly, Haltingly, I Became Acclimatized
I have been in New York for two weeks and I’m trying to get a handle on how to order from one of the surly guys on the other side of a deli counter on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. Behind an expanse of slanted glass is a mind-boggling array of salads heavy with mayonnaise, slabs of processed ham and turkey, and bricks of bright yellow cheese. Nothing looks very enticing. I think longingly of friendly Milly’s, Cape Town’s version of the Jewish New York deli, or the Indian grocery store near our cottage where I was made to feel welcome before I even hinted at my order. There would be smiles and politeness and discussions of the weather or some congenial tidbit while I made my purchases. Here in Manhattan at the end of September 1967, I am having to cope with a rush-rush culture. I have tried. I say, “Hello, how are you?” when it comes my turn, anticipating a broad smile or a chatty response. Their irritation makes it clear—I was wasting their time. I’m learning though. When my turn comes, my voice is strong as I call out, “Half a pound of turkey!” And when the package is slapped down on the counter in front of me, I respond without a blink: “A medium container of potato salad!” When the second slap comes, I say, “Thank you,” and head for the cashier. I have done it! I have mastered the art of being a customer in a New York deli. Now anything is possible.
MY FIRST WEEKS WENT BY in a blur of strangeness and discord. I had to create a tough skin to withstand the constant grazes and pricks from the external world as I encountered one more bizarre sight, made one more astounding observation. I was on auditory overload: the intense drawls, the overly rolled r’s, the strangely pronounced a’s—an invasion of American accents that I was unable to differentiate. I had anticipated only mild culture shock. After all, I’d watched American movies and seen the suburban life I was familiar with. I’d read American magazines and found ads for the products I used every day—Colgate toothpaste, Coca-Cola, Lifebuoy soap. I’d grown up reading Nancy Drew mysteries and the adventures of the Bobbsey twins. I’d listened to Superman on the radio. This should have been easy.
I was oh so wrong.
Eric and I entered North America through Montreal and spent a few days with Sally and Michael in their new home. Then we drove south to the border in our dark blue Mini Minor station wagon—my parents’ wedding present that had accompanied me on an Irish cargo boat across the Atlantic from England—and entered the United States at Plattsburgh. As we drove down the New York Thruway, I gawked at the size of the semis that whizzed by, their drivers honking horns that sounded like foghorns, grinning down at our car, apparently finding its toy size hilarious. We pulled into one of the orange-roofed Howard Johnsons that dotted the highway and ordered breakfast. The coffee was weak, the eggs dry, the white toast paper-thin and tasteless. Nothing like the rich multigrain Cape bread, which was already entering my nostalgia store. I stared in disbelief as people around me tucked into mounds of eggs, bacon, pancakes, toast, and jam. I looked on astonished as diners forked scrambled eggs into their mouths and then added a bite of toast smothered with sweet jam and chewed them together. They might as well have added jam to their eggs while scrambling them. Gross.
It began to dawn on me that I had entered a truly foreign country. It would only become more pronounced in the weeks to follow.
There was the language: shovel for spade, sweater for jersey, candy for sweets, french fries for chips, gas for petrol. There was the pronunciation. One evening I stood before a small cured skin that hung on the wall of the apartment of a new acquaintance. It was silky soft, in hues of brown and white. I couldn’t figure out the animal. “What animal skin is this?”
“It’s a kaff skin from South America,” she told me.
What kind of wild animal was that, I wondered? My associations with the word “kaff” were not easy. “Kaffir”—the K-word akin to America’s N-word—was the ultimate in racist slurs. I must have seemed very dim to my host. Looking at me quizzically, she said, “You know, a baby cow.” Oh, for God’s sake, I thought to myself, as I repeated “cahf” in my head, the a drawn out.
Whatever the idiosyncrasies of this country, I had to figure out how to establish my life here in earnest. Eric’s student stipend of $250 per month could not support both of us and it was becoming clear that we were overstaying our welcome in the guest bedroom of a friend’s cousin’s apartment. First I had to find a job. Then we had to find an apartment. And fast. We were rapidly depleting our savings.
Finding a job had been easier than I dared dream. My typing skills provided me once again with a marketable skill. Introduced to the wonders of the Village Voice classified section, I scoured ads for secretarial positions that were not corporate or big office. I spotted the one for me: secretary for Two Bridges Neighborhood Council, a community-based organization on the Lower East Side between the Brooklyn and Manhattan bridges. On my way from the subway to the storefront office for an interview I passed tall, unprepossessing public housing complexes, cheek by jowl with tenements and rows of storefronts—Italian bakeries, Chinese restaurants, a clothing store selling African-style dashikis, fish markets, bodegas. It was absolutely nothing like segregated South Africa: an alive, multi-ethnic New York community where African Americans, Chinese, Latino, and working-class whites all lived together. I was hooked. I was offered the job. All I needed was a work permit.
The next day standing in front an official at the immigration office I reported that I had found a job and I wanted to apply for a work permit. “And how do you propose to work if you don’t have a green card?” he asked in a patronizing voice.
Green card? I explained that all I wanted was a work permit, not a path to citizenship. And he explained that I could only work if I had a green card. What?! How could I be granted a visa but then not be allowed to work? This was irrational and cruel. Panic began to replace jaunty confidence, and I began to get teary. His face softened ever so slightly. He sighed.
“Okay, what job do you have?”
“Secretary for a community organization.”
He drew a fat ring binder toward him and flipped through it till he found the page he was looking for. “You’re in luck. Secretaries are in short supply in New York at the moment.” I looked back at him uncomprehending. “You