The Final Post: On Orgasms, Older People and an Ode to South Africa

Ooooooook… now that I have your attention, let me preface this post by declaring that this is not about what you think if you think it’s about me having orgasms, about older people having orgasms, nor is this my way of spicing my blog up (ironically, however, I am currently listening to Norah Jones’ “Don’t Know Why I Didn’t Come”. Not the same, I know!). Let me just take you back…

This last month in Mzansi has undoubtedly been the zenith of my experience in South Africa. From the end of April until the beginning of May, my research team and I traversed the country, again, but this time we each went to different provinces to implement training of the new parent-child dialogue model. I was dispatched to the Free State, formerly known as the Orange Free State. It was my first time in this province and indeed, it is, well… orange! The veldts are vast and a dusty red like an old-fashioned wagon hidden in the deep recesses of a garage. I’ve never seen so much land between homes as well as commercial establishments. Going “next door” in the Free State can be likened to going to the next town over, in the urban context. I arrived at the airport in the capital city of the Free State, Bloemfontein, on a very chilly and rainy fall afternoon. Free State is right over the border from Lesotho; I could see the country through the mountain range which separates the two nations. A colleague picked me up from the airport and we drove to Thaba Nchu (TAA-BAAN-CHEW), to the Black Mountain Conference Centre. It was there that I met the most unconventional group of 60 or so trainees of the new dialogue model… Gogos! ‘Gogo’ is the affectionate Black South African term for “grandmother”, but it is used to address elder women as one would say “Miss”, “Ma’am”, or “Sisi” to younger women. The HIV prevention organization for which I work has a very unique program which recruits gogos who are recognized as community leaders. These women are trained to be like social workers in their respective townships. They advocate for and often personally take care of orphans and vulnerable children (OVCs) and they liaise families and social services. Often, the gogos are the only advocates that families and OVCs can access and their presence in the community is invaluable. Almost immediately after being introduced as the National Office representative by an interpreter to the gogos, most of whom were Sotho or Tswana and did not speak much English, I became “the American girl who would marry their son”! Oh boy…

Working with gogos whose primary language is not English is eye-opening, to say the least. Without a consistent and patient attitude, much can easily be lost in translation. This I learned in an initially awkward and retrospectively amusing way. So, as a public health and HIV prevention advocate, I talk, read, listen to everything pertaining to sex for a living, right? And I speak a language that practically has a word for everything and it is very tempting for me to assume that the same follows for other people and languages. But I have learned that in some South African languages, (namely seSotho and seTswana) the vocabulary does not support the entire range of human experience. During a slide presentation at a point of the training, it came to pass that the concept of an orgasm had to be discussed. (The slide was actually an organizational billboard that compared “climax” during unprotected sex, risking HIV, etc… to achieve the ultimate climax of a healthy, long life). What no one told me, initially, was that there is no word in either of the preferred languages which is meant to describe orgasm, the act of having an orgasm, or the sensation to describe an orgasm. If one desired to express the equivalent, one had to provide the biological ins and outs of body fluid emissions during sexual peak. Very graphic. HOW AWKWARD IT IS TO EXPLAIN THIS TO A ROOM FULL OF WOMEN WHO COULD BE MY GRANDMOM!!!! How would you talk to your grandmother about what it means to cum??!!!

“Uh, Grandmom? An orgasm is… well, you see, sometimes, um….toes tend to curl… um… yeah…”. NOT!

Uncomfortable is not the word! Anyway, after getting over that hump (I’m on a roll here, lol), I retreated to my room for the evening to think about the implications of what went down (hahahahhahahha!!!! I funny…). The very fact that there does not exist a word to describe what many people consider to be the greatest out-of-mind experience in this earthly realm is not only telling of the traditional view of sex (utility, not pleasure), but has greater inferences regarding the difficulties of affecting behavior change through sexual health and prevention communications. How can entities, such as the one I represent, galvanize internalization of protective sexual behavior if language limits perception and, thus, acceptance? Not only, then, are we fighting against external social health determinants which increase vulnerability, but our job is to also instigate a battle that starts within an individual, one which challenges cultural norms and the very way that one has lived their life, how their mother and grandmothers have lived theirs and so on. I find that this fight against HIV/AIDS is not just a battle against the present for the preservation of the future. It is also the fight against the past which is the more dominating factor.

After a week and countless more marriage proposals from gogos on behalf of their sons, I returned to Jozi with a renewed dedication to sexual health in South Africa. My research project concerning parent-child dialogue about sex and sexuality had ended and it was time to complete my second project on male circumcision (MC) as an HIV prevention strategy. My task was to complete a full analysis of male circumcision in the context of HIV prevention and to also provide a policy analysis to my organization as to whether or not they should advocate in favor of MC.

Quick History Lesson: The history of ritual male circumcision in traditional African contexts predates colonization and prevails as “one of the most resilient of all traditional African practices within the urban industrialized environment”. The prevalence of male circumcision varies from 15% in Eastern and Southern African countries to a rate greater than 70% in countries including Rwanda, Tanzania, Kenya, and Ethiopia. Irrespective of the location on the continent, male circumcision is traditionally tied to cultural and religious beliefs as well as to social initiation rites. For instance, among the Xhosa of South Africa, traditional circumcision of young men usually between the ages of 15-25 years is a part of rites of passage which signifies a male’s transition from boyhood, or ubukhwenkwe, to manhood, or ubudoda. In this manner, a male is then permitted to marry, begin a family, inherit material effects, and officiate in ritualistic ceremonies. Similarly, Zulu males of South Africa had traditionally incorporated male circumcision into their sacred, esoteric manhood training. However, the practice was abandoned in the 19th century when King Shaka Zulu declared that men of warrior-age, who were otherwise dedicated to carrying out initiation rites, were instead needed to fight in the Zulu wars. The effect of continuous warfare changed the view and practice of traditional MC among numerous South African ethnic groups including the Tswana, Sotho, and Shangaan-Tsonga. (Keeys, 2010).

Days and nights were spent studying university texts and online sources, hours were utilized engaging male colleagues and some state-side male friends on circumcision, eyes went blurry studying photos and charts of circumcised and uncircumcised penises (I’ve never used the plural form of ‘penis’ before. Kind of makes me giggle), and phone lines were busy while I reached out to stakeholders, traditional leaders and MC experts on the subject. I was determined to make my final product a complete success. I even had the opportunity of visiting one of only two MC clinics in South Africa to interview clinicians and staffers for a more medical perspective (this pic is of the surgical dressing which covers a male while he is circumcised. The doc felt it necessary to illustrate) . It was at this time that I received a much needed reprieve from my research and it came in the form of my crazy cool soror, Cleo!

Cleo came to visit for eight days in mid-May. I was so excited to have my friend in town that I embarked on a very brave mission. I learned how to drive stick shift… in South African traffic… on the opposite side of the road (Thank you, Aunt Lynn, for your impromptu lessons! And thank God for his grace. “Lawd a mercy!”). After three lessons during which I probably stalled out a good 50-11 times, I was finally comfortable enough to pick girlie up from the airport, drive home, and even drive out to rural Orange Farm, Gauteng, the site of the MC clinic. I’ll let the pic do the talking (me, driving, Cleo, laughing)…

With the literature and interviews out of the way, I could go play with Cleo! After a restful night in Jozi, we flew down to Cape Town for six days where we took a trip to Robben Island, the facility which imprisoned Mandela for 18 years, hiked the beautiful Table Mountain, attended an ear-gasmic poetry slam which featured national and international spoken word artists, paraded our “Milkshakes” on stage at a karaoke venue, stuffed our stomachs with Nando’s peri-peri meals and local fish and chips, tried to act like regular South Africans at a gift bazaar, lounge-hopped on the infamous Long Street, shot the breeze and chased baby penguins at Simon’s Town, got some Jesus at a local worship centre, perused the downtown open air market, gabbed about respective hotties and experienced local transport. I am so grateful to have had a bit of home in the form of my good friend. Those memories will last me a lifetime. Thanks, Cleo!

When Cleo returned home, it was back to the grind for me. After hovering over countless documents, sources, interview notes, and the like, I completed my final report and am officially done with my work in South Africa. Bittersweet, indeed. Before I go home tomorrow, there are just some things that I’ve really learned on which I’d like to reflect. Obviously, this is not an exhausted list:

• There are 11 official languages spoken in South Africa, but, more often than not, the language of Love in the form of silence and a smile is more profound than them all.

• True love endures all things… especially long distance :-)

• While I have learned so much about this beautiful country and its people, I have learned more about me that I ever knew… and I really like her.

• Living in Africa is not as romantic as people, especially African-American, tend to believe. The dichotomy of Black and White is too simplistic to explain this journey. It’s about more than “going back to the Motherland” or about “Overcoming The Man”. If one is to do it well and with as little frustration as possible, it means learning multiple spoken and unspoken languages, understanding the social structures larger than race, and letting go of all preconceived notions of “our people”. We are dynamic and Africa is an entire continent with differing cultures internationally, between provinces, regions, ethnic groups, townships, and households.

Here is a list of things that I didn’t have in South Africa:

1. Soft pretzels

2. Non-familial affection- Can’t wait for a TALL glass of home poured Crown Royal On Ice ;-)

3. Tolerance for misogynist and racist behavior

4. The right-away as a pedestrian- You know the feeling you feel when you’re not far from home and you have to go to the bathroom really bad? The urge becomes more persistent the closer you get, so you move with greater elacrity right? It’s the same feeling that South African drivers must feel when they see a pedestrian in the crosswalk. Unreal!

5. Carol’s Daughter Loc Butter- My locs are growing so very long in this South African sun. Need to maintain the mane!

6. The luxury of being an African-American- Among people who don’t know me and who just hear my accent, I am referred to as “The American” as the social significance of “African-American” is not perpetuated here.

7. The illusion of safety- Joburg is downright crazy. I take an ironic comfort in its honest nature.

8. CP Time- Here, the reference for consistent, stereotypical unpunctuality is BP Time. Coloureds and Blacks are “different”, remember? (Refer to my first post if you’re like “huh?”).

This past week has been especially difficult for me as I have had to say goodbye to co-workers (not without partying, of course! This is a pic before drinks set in.) who have become more like family and a country which feels like home. Again, I found myself bathed with tears. While elated, or when enduring my frustrations, and lonesome times, I have experienced a deep cleansing and revitalization. From my tears, I’ve derived a greater spiritual nearness to God and have gained a deeper understanding of who “Mia” is as a result of new, albeit jarring, experiences. My tears have carried me places my before knowledge would never fathom. Talking about is never more sufficient than being about. I think of E.E. Cummings who said “birds sing sweeter than books tell how”. The South African ibis’ song woke me every morning and now I more than know what Cummings meant. In retrospect, I will miss my tears and will even miss my moments of being lonely in an unfamiliar setting. A part of me died while here and the remains of my old self are floating in the winds of the valleys of Free State and the Eastern Cape. They are in the waters of Kwa-Zulu Natal. The old me can be found in the mountains of the Western Cape and among the elements of Gauteng Province. And so, a part of me has become a part of the ever life circle of South Africa. This time did what it was designed by God to do. He who is faithful and just has completed a perfect work in me…for now. Todo gracias a Dios. I would not have been able to accomplish this endeavor without the support of my parents and siblings, extended family and close friends (especially Brit Fox!), mentors, advisors of Cheyney University, former colleagues of the Philly Health Department, my family who let me call their house home while here, and the organization that enabled my fantastic start in international public health advocacy. Finally, special thanks goes out to CVP, whose fellowship has transcended time zones and continents :-). You are loved.

My weapons (my mind, my skills, my confidence, understanding and love) are sharpened and I am more prepared for a new battle front. That new battle front will be right on the equator with a face of another sun-kissed brown hue. The language will be different and so will I, for beginning in August 2010 until May 2011, I will embark on a new journey in Indonesia as an ambassador under the auspices of the prominent Fulbright Scholarship (thanks for your support Mayla H. and Dr. Kent!). I look forward to sharing more details with you as that time approaches, so stay tuned. For now, I say, “Sanibona”. I am going home.