2013 March 13: A scrapbook under my pillow

As people we are all,
for speaking out for other people’s pains,
but our darkest secrets we dare not reveal.

I am not a dark secret, nothing in me is hidden…
I just forget sometimes.

There is no pain in me,
just thoughts and missed – understandings.

I do not cry for the child in me…
We are in different spaces.

You see when she was molested, for the first time,
I left her.

In my mind, she never existed.

In her mind she went to witness Gods glory in church for the first time.

She kept quiet!!
How could she!
Fold silence at a point of an important speech!!

She left me!
No I left her.
So whatever happened to her next, it was folded in her silence.

I was there!
The voice of all reason, but she wouldn’t let me talk.

Tied against her will’ we moved on…
She begged me not to remind her in my silent thoughts.

The second time it happened, it was becoming a habit.

No one knew her, so our silence was justified.

I left her…
There was no glory that day,
only a pattern of twisted minds,
idling thoughts and a devil toying with destiny.

Early in her childhood we learned to separate from what she experienced and who she was.

“I have never seen love displayed with hand motion and visional contact.
Unless it was directed to hurt me.

The verbal confession of love I heard first,led to an attempted rape case.

Closed, no discussion a pin that codes a hurt.
Don’t reveal.
It didn’t happen.

I have never taken life with a pinch of assault,
I just knew, shit happens.

So quickly I try to forget,
blinding the first time a knife was held against my neck.
At a holy cross, I found myself paled by Satan and his attempts to kill me.

I am not dead, not physically…
Emotionally, I take it a day at a time.
Everyday is a new day.

I am not dead, so spiritually I am a rebirth.
I don’t connect with yesterday, because I have passed it.”

I don’t cry for her, she is no longer with me.
I am not there and we both don’t exist.

Just a time, a path…
and I cant wait for tomorrow.
She says, she is ready to join me now.

She forgives me, even though, I don’t remember why.

I still don’t feel her pain
it was all in a dream.

I was never dirty, never disgusted with myself.
I knew it was them.

Them with sick hands, sick minds a devil I despised.
It was never me, I hated them.
I sometimes forgot why…

As people we are all,
for speaking out for other people’s pains,
but our darkest secrets we dare not reveal.

I am not a dark secret, nothing in me is hidden…
I just forget sometimes.

There is no pain in me,
just thoughts and missed – understandings.

I do not cry for the child in me…
We are in different spaces.

You see when she was molested, for the first time,
I left her.

In my mind, she never existed.

In her mind she went to witness Gods glory in church for the first time.

She kept quiet!!
How could she!
Fold silence at a point of an important speech!!

She left me!
No I left her.
So whatever happened to her next, it was folded in her silence.

I was there!
The voice of all reason, but she wouldn’t let me talk.

Tied against her will’ we moved on…
She begged me not to remind her in my silent thoughts.

The second time it happened, it was becoming a habit.

No one knew her, so our silence was justified.

I left her…
There was no glory that day,
only a pattern of twisted minds,
idling thoughts and a devil toying with destiny.

Early in her childhood we learned to separate from what she experienced and who she was.

“I have never seen love displayed with hand motion and visional contact.
Unless it was directed to hurt me.

The verbal confession of love I heard first,led to an attempted rape case.

Closed, no discussion a pin that codes a hurt.
Don’t reveal.
It didn’t happen.

I have never taken life with a pinch of assault,
I just knew, shit happens.

So quickly I try to forget,
blinding the first time a knife was held against my neck.
At a holy cross, I found myself paled by Satan and his attempts to kill me.

I am not dead, not physically…
Emotionally, I take it a day at a time.
Everyday is a new day.

I am not dead, so spiritually I am a rebirth.
I don’t connect with yesterday, because I have passed it.”

I don’t cry for her, she is no longer with me.
I am not there and we both don’t exist.

Just a time, a path…
and I cant wait for tomorrow.
She says, she is ready to join me now.

She forgives me, even though, I don’t remember why.

I still don’t feel her pain
it was all in a dream.

I was never dirty, never disgusted with myself.
I knew it was them.

Them with sick hands, sick minds a devil I despised.
It was never me, I hated them.
I sometimes forgot why…

by Babalwa Ngcivana Redseed
© December 3, 2011
__________________________________

About the author

My name is Babalwa Ngcivana Redseed.
I was born at the peak of South African apartheid in 1984. In a family of four with me being the second born.

I am what I call a white sheep of the family, besides the complexion. I’d say my path in life has made me to stand out.

Growing up I was shy and awkward because I didn’t fit in much. I had secrets, I didn’t see a reflection of me in the community. So I kept it with me till I was in my early twenties. I prayed and asked god why he made me like this, if he knew no one would accept me.
I realised the answer was in that question. I had not accepted myself first when I did it. It was enough. So I did research, looked at the definition in the dictionary of a lesbian, but it wasn’t enough. That single sentence couldn’t justify me.

My father is a journalist and my mom an uneducated woman who taught me how to read English and didn’t know it, herself. I later found out. She is a preacher and combined with my dad’s talents a poet was born.
I always say I have the best of both worlds – spiritual wisdom and intelligence.

I studied Advertising management though my heart was in film. I had no moral support so I opted for advertising.
I also studied a bit of journalism but my bigger dream still lies ahead.

I consider myself as also a motivational speaker, preacher/comedian.

Writing found me when I had bottled up enough pain, coming from a family of alcohol abuse and domestic violence.

I got to witness my dad make great strides and become the man my mother saw in him.

So I write with hope,
I write to make a difference.
I write to bring a smile and to lend a hand of comfort.
That thing will change.

 

This entry was posted in Activism, Archived memories, Community, Community Mobilizing, Connections, Family, Health, Life Stories, Records and histories, revolution, South Africa and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to 2013 March 13: A scrapbook under my pillow

  1. chadie love Zwane says:

    Very touchy and deep

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