Jenny kissed me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in.
Time, you thief! who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in.
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad;
Say that health and wealth have missed
me;
Say I'm growing old, but add-
Jenny kissed me!
Leigh Hunt wrote the poem “Jenny Kissed Me”, read to me aloud
by my freshman English teacher who had to wipe away a tear when he was
finished. The reading had a profound
effect on me and I wasn’t sure why.
Maybe because Jenny was so special that she bestowed on Mr. Hunt the blessing
that only she could have: a kiss of acceptance in a cold world.
I woke up this morning and stared at the ceiling fan, a
four-paddle affair that was in the shape of a cross.
Jesus.
Two days ago I found out that Monica died. I have been out of focus since. I feel disjointed... running from one harried activity
to anther just to fill the space in my heart that can’t believe this. Monica was in her thirties, leaving behind
two kids under ten years old. She was
getting better. What will Dumisani
do? What will their church do?
What will I do?
What will I do?
Monica, after all, was special.
She was a blessing. A delightful, funny, cheeky, brave, complicated
friend.
My friend.
When I came to South Africa, Monica accepted me. Even though she was at first a little wary of
me –new to this continent and full of reckless zeal to build Christ’s church
any way I was allowed to. Soon enough,
though, I made her laugh and she relaxed into comfortable acceptance of who I
was.
I loved her.
She wore large bright earrings and had the most beautiful
smile. She talked in a deep voice and
walked with a confident swagger that made you know she knew who she was.
One morning, as she walked toward the church in a flawless white dress, I snapped a z and said “Giiiirrrl!! You look smokin hot!” She smiled, shyly.
I was quickly corrected by a (very caring) friend who over heard me and took me aside.
One morning, as she walked toward the church in a flawless white dress, I snapped a z and said “Giiiirrrl!! You look smokin hot!” She smiled, shyly.
I was quickly corrected by a (very caring) friend who over heard me and took me aside.
“You don’t know this, since you’re new,” my friend
said. “But ‘girl’ means that she is your
permanent live-in servant. It’s a little
derogatory here.” Things are so
complicated because of the Apartheid hangover...
She could tell by my reaction that I was shocked.
I went back to Monica, explaining the differences in our
cultures – after all, “GIIIIIIRL!” was a greeting given to Gail by Oprah. Given to your bestie when you were being
playful. Monica giggled as I explained
nervously.
“I knew what you meant,” she said, smiling. “I knew what you meant because you’re
different.”
She was married to Dumisani - a tall, statuesque guy that had the command of a room as soon as he walked in. We were fast friends.
“Timna means ‘ours,’” Dumi said, holding his baby daughter
in his arms the first time we went out to lunch. “It is a name we chose especially for this
one.” He looked at Monica who smiled
back at him. I was transfixed on
them. Their eyes sparkled at one
another, very un-African like! I loved
the way they related to one another, as equals and as friends and romantic
partners.
Dumi and Monica became sounding boards for us as far as the
culture went. They were a Xhosa couple,
living in Diepsloot. It surprised me,
simply because Dumi seemed highly educated and greatly respected by the
community.
One day, after taking them home, they invited us in for
tea. There was a bed and a an area used
to prepare food in a small room that they called their home. They were the first Diepsloot family that ever
invited us into their space. It was a high honor.
“Why do you live here in Diepsloot?” I asked, maybe a little too boldly
for the first time I was in their house.
“We have no choice,” Dumi answered honestly. A teacher, Dumisani was just short of his
master’s credential, leaving his employment opportunities less than what he
could make a decent living on.
“Where we are from,” Monica said, answering the deeper
question. “There is the ocean right
outside and our families all live nearby, but there is no work.”
The thought saddened me.
Still, as I got to know them better I was encouraged with the way that
neither of them seemed bitter about it – and not defined by their address. Instead, they reached out to their neighbors,
bringing the gospel to the desperately poor - people who put our faith to shame.
One night, our church had a celebration where all the
different home groups were asked to host a table of ethnic food, prepare a dance or
presentation to perform and dress in ethnic clothing. While our home group became Mexican for the
evening, Dumi and Monica’s became Xhosa.
Monica was dressed
beautifully, but when it came time for her dance, she broke free into a very bold dance and song that made everyone stop what they were doing and watch
her. She sang powerfully and loud. Her motions and movement were much like the Hawaiians when they did the hula, but
imagine the hula with more power and determination. Shortly afterward, the electricity went out, and we
all went home. We made a joke that
Monica was so smokin' hot that she short-circuited the power.
We hung out a lot. We worked side by side, especially in the Diepsloot community. Everytime she saw me she said, "Hey, Giiiiirrrl!!"
Jo called me right after I made dinner on Thursday, and gave
me the news. Jo (short for Joanna)
employs Monica’s sister, Apilele, and heard from her that Monica had succumbed
to a short illness that had come at her hard and fast. She had gone to the Eastern Cape the Tuesday
before, yearning to be with her mother and her family there. She checked into hospital and said she was
feeling better the last time I talked with her (on Monday). Now, I type this, less than a week later and
have seen and felt the devastation that losing Monica has brought.
Dumi (finally in a profession he loves) was interrupted Thursday
night as he was teaching to meet Mario, his sister and his brother and me in
the school courtyard to be told that his partner and friend had gone to
heaven. His sister delivered the news to
him, and he broke into sobs that were loud and heart breaking... I couldn’t
look at him. I buried my face in my
poncho and thought of their children, her sisters, her mother....all of her
friends.
This morning I woke up thinking of her.
I was drawn to the image of the cross above me, the rock I have shelter in. Jesus’death and resurrection makes so many things possible, but most of all, it assures me of the eternal life that we will share.
I was drawn to the image of the cross above me, the rock I have shelter in. Jesus’death and resurrection makes so many things possible, but most of all, it assures me of the eternal life that we will share.
I know I’ll see her again.
Still, the death is damn unfair. It is a waste of a bright, warm woman who
wasn’t afraid of life. She glowed with
excitement about the smallest of things.
She laughed with her whole body and loved with no boundaries. She was a mother to orphans, to anyone who
came in her front door. The last detail
seems so insignificant: she was my friend.
It hurts to lose her.
It hurts to have death invade a life lived so out loud.
Still, Monica lives....
Monica thrilled me when we met,
Dancing Xhosa and singing along.
Death, you thief! You came and stole her-
Tore her from unfinished song.
Say she’s taken, say she’s gone;
Say her family will weep and gather;
Say our hearts will break, but add-
Monica lives – and you don’t have her!
Monica (in white hat) was the life of any party. |
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