the amandzing way

Daddy’s Girl

Daddy was teaching Mummy to behave, and I never actually felt his elbow connect with my jaw as he drew back for another punch. Just a loud !Click! as my teeth met. Then the carpet filled my world. Even their screaming and shouting faded into hollowness, with the thuds of Daddy’s fists on my mothers’ body taking on a hollow, popping sound.

I was more confused than hurt. Daddy had told me I had to look after Mummy while he was being a soldier, and now when I tried to do just that, when I tried to be good, Daddy hit me too. I just didn’t understand…
He hadn’t actually told me to stop, so I launched myself at him again, and one of my little fists caught him on an ear. Obviously it was hard enough to catch his attention, because when I woke up, the house was quiet. My parents room was trashed, lamps knocked over, the bedspread was bloodied and torn, a mirror broken. So was my lip, and so was my Mom.

But she healed. And so did I. Although we were never the same again. The ultimate betrayal. It was also the last time Dad ever hit my mother. An uneasy truce existed between them for many years; at least, they never tackled each other with fists again. As for me, I knew from an early age I was very different from the kids at school, and I learnt to protect myself, studying karate and boxing. I also trained with weights, until I was far stronger than even most boys my age at school. I figured, if this is what lay in wait for me, I was going to be prepared…

But the war of words, the constant sniping, the putdowns, the rules “You aren’t allowed to cut your hair,” raged between my parents, into my teenage years. Until I saw Dad shagging a woman on her desk at work. At least, he was doing funny stuff on top of her…. hey, it was the 80’s, I was barely fourteen, I knew nothing about sex. When I told Mom I had seen Dad with another woman, she went icy calm. She was terrifying. He walked in the door and she told him to get out. No histrionics, just, get out.

I used to love brushing Moms hair; it was waist length, fine and silky. She hated it. Two days later, her hair was in a bob, and Mom never grew it again. I still have her ponytail. Dad took it very personally. Mom didn’t give a shit.

I think emotional abuse is probably the worst kind there is. While the divorce was in progress, Dad came to ask my brother and I whom we wanted to live with. They had obviously decided to let us make a choice. My brother said he would stay with Mom. In spite of everything, I loved my Dad, he was exciting, volatile, a dreamer and one was always on ones toes around him. Guess who I chose.

Fuck. Mom exploded, threatened to kill herself, and Dad retreated with his tail between his legs. It was the first of many wars between them after the divorce, although they usually involved him not paying maintenance for us on time. Even though we were dirt poor, life was quite smooth. “I’m looking to you now to help with the house and your brother. You’re an adult now,” Mom said to me. I was 15 years old at the time. I never had a childhood; I’ve always been 42.

We lived in a caravan park because we had no money. But her iron will prevailed. Mom worked long hours and was eventually rewarded with a promotion. With the promotion came a house. A real one. When we moved into the semi-detached house with wooden floors and gracious high pressed ceilings, we felt as if we had arrived. My brother and I had our own rooms. Awesome! No more stinky boy sharing my tent. Yay.

I know, it wasn’t ideal, but I bear no grudges, Mom did the best she could. My parent’s relationship remained tumultuous after the divorce, and I think for as much she professed to hate him in protracted conversations with me, she loved him with a bittersweet passion. “He’ll shag anything with tits,” Mom would say, then grow quiet as her mind drifted off, I know not where. But I think she used to imagine herself safe in his arms. Then, when I was about 15, in a heated conversation with Dad about how well Mom was doing without him, contrary to what he believed, he called her a slut. I broke his nose for his idiocy and lack of respect towards women. Especially his lack of respect towards Mom. Dad and I were never really close after that.

Dad was really strict with us kids, although from about the age of six, the paddling of errant butts became my mother’s duty. Looking back at it now, I realize it was probably more to save herself a beating than it was to actually punish us. “I’m going to kill you or those kids, make a decision!” Dad would yell at Mom, as she struggled to break my brother and I up from one of our interminable fights. Although her weapon of choice was his wide brown army belt, my refusal to cry despite Mom’s artistic application of the belt across the back of my legs, caused me many quiet hours in my room as I “thought about why I was being punished!” Like hell, all I could think about was leaving home as soon as I could.

And so it was, when my kids were about 7 and 8 respectively, with their little bottoms high in the air and their tearful faces looking down on their beds as I raised my police belt in response to yet another minor infraction, I realized, I had become my own nightmare. I had become Daddy’s girl, in almost every way. I never hit them with my fist. That much degradation, horror and annihilation of trust, I managed to spare my babies. I can still remember it now, how that belt burnt my hand, and how quickly I dropped it. Snot en trane, I tell you. I cried, the boys cried, promising high and low to be good, tearing my heart out as I sought to reassure them I loved them. I realized, the ghost memory of my mother cradling the child that had been knocked unconscious by her father, had saved me and saved my children.

I just hope and pray the rescue happened before my children learnt how to be their grandfather….

Real life…

Jo thought if she vomited once more, just once more, she’d actually burst an artery. As it was, she was wobbly on her hands and knee’s; head hung over the toilet bowl, her body ready to launch another bout of dry heaves.
“Get a grip!” Jo said out loud, then rolled onto her back, the cool bathroom tiles bringing the ceiling back into focus for her. She lay there a bit longer, fighting off the fear that threatened to turn her inside out. “Ok, shower, then get dressed, then you can have coffee… no scratch that”; she said to herself, as her stomach heaved in protest. It helped to talk out loud. “I have a plan. I can do this!”

She tried not to think about the day ahead. The day she had been dreaming about for over a year. The day, which was the culmination of endless visits to therapists, psychiatrists, psychologists, the pain of the nose job. The embarrassment of laying her heart and soul on the line at work in front of the HR manager, the CEO, and finally, everyone at work. Staring down the nervous giggles. The horrors of having a nightmare come true, being called ‘thing’ by a female colleague who refused to share the restroom with Jo. That had taken a few sessions to work out, to realise it was the other persons issues, and not a reflection of what Jo was trying to accomplish.
Today was her first time at work as Jo. Today was the first day of Real Life.
"Oh shut up," she muttered to the clamour in her head.

She had planned meticulously for months for this day. Transferred to different department so she wouldn’t have to deal with clients. Grown her hair. Dieted. Exercised. Chosen her outfit (Pantsuit, smart flat shoes, light blouse.) Surreptitiously studying the women at work, Jo believed she had chosen well, blending her own style with what was popular at work. Matching bag. Light makeup. Studs in her ears. Naturally plucked eyebrows. Easy on the perfume. “Moisturise, Moisturise, Moisturise.” Shit. Voice. “Moisturise, Moisturise, Moisturise.” Better. Not yet great, but the coaching was paying off.

“So what’s with the big freak out?” she asked her reflection, which stared back at her. Gentle brown eyes looking out of a everyday face. She twisted her face left and right, still not familiar with her new nose. It took a lot of years off her…

Joburg traffic was nice, she mused. People were so wrapped up in their little worlds; they never took notice of anyone that wasn’t threatening to beat them to a robot. Plus, at this early hour, the road was quiet. Jo had chosen the flat shoes specifically because she wasn’t used to any kind of heel, in any kind of situation, let alone driving. Her reasons for getting to work early were twofold, again, carefully thought out. She didn’t want to get stuck in traffic, melting behind the steering wheel under the early morning African sun, and she wanted to slip into the office, as invisibly as she could. Except perhaps, for the boss, very few people beat him to work.

The security guards eyes widened as Jo swung the door open. When he recognised her, his jaw dropped open in surprise. “Crap! Forgot about this bit!” she thought frantically. Robot like, she stopped his stammering “uh… uh… uh…” with a hand in the air. “Hi Mike. As you can see, there have been a few changes. Please get me a new security card by the end of the day. Here’s my new name,” she said, writing it down for him on his notepad. She passed through the turnstile, turned, smiled, broke the old card “Do women do that?” flashing through her mind too late, and gave it him. A bright “Thank you….” and she was in the lift, not even able to remember how she arrived there.

Flopping against the wall, dry heaves of fear racked her body again. Finger shaking, she found her floor and pressed the button. Fortunately it was quite high up, so she had time to settle herself by the time she stepped out the lift. Her shoes slapslapslapped on the floor, the noise magnified by the silence of the early morning office. Measured steps, practicing the walk, concentrating, trying not to hunch and be smaller, and not paying attention, her boss exploded out of a side office, papers flying, new shoes sliding, limbs colliding.

Slightly stunned, sitting on the floor opposite her boss, Jo snapped,”Do you mind!” Some part of her watching the two of them sitting on the floor, covered by paper and handbag paraphernalia, filed away the show of strength for a later discovery. Then she started laughing. And so did Jo’s boss. “Not at all!” he laughed, running an eye over the delicate ankle chain peeking out of her trouser leg, lifting an eyebrow, and then moving to her face. She felt honour bound to do her best not to bray with laughter at his expression when he recognised her, and she was partially successful, with only a snort setting them off again.
In an effort to regain some dignity, she tucked her legs under her, and began sorting through papers and deodorant and eyeliner and paper and pens and notebook and… “Here, let me help you,” he said, standing now and leaning over her, offering his hand.

“It’s ok,” he assured her, seeing her initial hesitation. “I promise not to throw any more papers at you. And if this is the worst thing that happens today, then it’ll be a good day.” Pink now, Jo gained her feet with his help, packed her bag and started helping him pick up the paper mountain. Recognising it, she looked at him enquiringly. “Yes, I know, your old clients. I’ve spent the last three days telling everyone you…your predecessor was head hunted, and we then hired you. Most of your contact is over the phone anyway, nobody knows them better. It’s only new clients you’ll be meeting. I was taking the liberty of setting up your new office,” he spoke rapidly as he walked in front of her, then paused outside an office door, which had been empty ever since the last account manager had left, six months ago.

He opened the door, went inside, and dumped Jo’s client’s information on the desk inside, dwarfing the little pot plant on the desk. Turning to her, “Come in, come in. Sit down,” this last gruffly, when he saw the tear trickling down her cheek. “You’ve got a lot to do. I’ll pop in later to see how you’re doing,” he threw over his shoulder as he exited hurriedly.

Jo sat down behind her new desk, opening a drawer. There she saw her new contract, in her new name, for her new position. She signed it, put it in her out tray, and then bent her head over her desk.
The boss was right, she had a lot of work to do.

Of jam and motorbikes…

It’s 5.30 on a summer Sunday afternoon, the N3, between Howick and Pietermaritzburg is characteristically deserted. I’m on my Yamaha FJ1200 and my brother on his Yamaha 650 Turbo, we’re going settle, once and for all, whose bike is faster…

We pull out of Pmb and open up our bikes, the hill up to Hilton is twisty, my brother on the nimbler 650 is ahead of me by two bike lengths, I can’t get out of fourth gear before I have to tap down to third, I’m bouncing the rev needle off the redline at 9000 revs but the bike is just too damn big to wrestle thru the corners, through the left hander up to the Hilton flyover and now a straight lies before my front wheel, my brother is now four bike lengths ahead of me, third sees 140, fourth, 200 by the time I get to the bridge I’ve reeled him in and I’ve a gear left. We crest the hill and a kilometre of downhill waits for me to eat it up the motor is screaming underneath me, I hear the wail of the turbo next to me.

I change gears and time shifts…I’m flat on the tank, the wind trying to tear my hand off the bars, I can barely hear the motor it’s only a vibration now, if I blink I’ll die…
At 250kph you are covering a lot of ground very quickly and seconds pass and I’ve run out road, the right-hander before the Cedara straight is just in front of me I needtostopstopstopnow!!! Somehow, with the bike frame bending and creaking underneath me and with me hanging off the side of the bike I wrestle it through the corner sweatingblacksidewaystripes and my brother blitzes me on the inside fuckslamdowntwoandgomoremoremore but something doesn’t feel right at about 230 on the straight the bike is weaving… make a decision not to be stupid any more and back off, go home.

A nervous beer later and pull off the plastics because the tyres are ok, right temp, no punctures, alignment (to the naked eye) is ok. Then, I find the problem.

In pushing the bike past its limits, the frame cracked across two top sections, but I’m still alive. We sit and drink another beer in silence staring at the exposed steel where the paint has flaked off, I don’t know what he’s thinking, but all I can wonder is how is it that I am there, drinking a beer, and not strawberry jam across the fields of Cedara…

I had the frame welded, but I never trusted the bike again, and sold it shortly thereafter…

Going Before

Chloe watched the night retreat before dawn, and thought about moving. No easy task, she’d had surgery three weeks before and simple tasks, like breathing, were still sore. She’d tripped over her damn cat yesterday, and the fear of tearing anything as she rushed towards the ground had been so much greater than anything she’d been scared of, Before. “Not now not now not OW!” was her abiding memory of yesterday. Now, standing at her pre-dawn post, holding her empty coffee mug and craving a cigarette, she saw a curtain twitch in the house across the street and knew her charge from Before, was awake.

Before. Chloe grimaced. Such a small word didn’t deserve the weight of history attached to it. Before she realised who she was. Before the tears, the self-hate, the growing realisation that she was stronger than pre-she was, Before she took her life into her own hands and directed her future. Before better or worse. “I’d better move Before I get stuck here and Before it gets worse for me,” she thought to herself sardonically. As she did, Chloe wondered how Mikey was doing without her, if he had adapted to his new nurse, and she to him.
Mikey was an autistic child, and although his parents loved him dearly, they worked long hours so that he could get the best attention available. And pre-Chloe had been the best. She understood what it was to be locked in a world apart. It had been Chloe’s decision to walk away from Mikey, fearing her transition would confuse, and ultimately hurt the boy. Over five years, a deep bond between the two had been formed and now, a year later, she had rented a flat opposite the house, just to be closer to the child. Knowing she was nearby brought her a little peace.

Later that morning, sitting at her coffee table, she ran a worried eye over her finances. She had about six months of living at home left, and then she would have to get a job. The first week of being at home had been busy, with friends dropping in to congratulate her and do little odd jobs around the house, but she had still been processing where she was in her head, what she had accomplished and, dealing with hot flushes that threatened to turn her into a puddle of sweat where she stood. The visits had tapered off, and she finally had time for the fact that her transition was now over, to sink in. She was enjoying the solitude; her visitors discouraged by her obvious pain and need for quiet. Chloe had created a little cocoon for herself, and wasn’t in the mood to be nice.

Lost in reverie, it took a second for the sound of breaking glass to penetrate her world. Peering around her coffee mug out the window, her eye was drawn to a shadow slithering in through what was left of Mikey’s front window. Squeezing her eyes shut, thinking nonononono, she peeked again. The ragged reflection of her building stared back at her, despite her desperate prayer. A short scream served only to freeze the marrow in her blood, effectively making her part of her floor, unable to move. Glancing frantically around, she saw the telephone, just sitting there. Doing nothing. “Idiot, it’s not going to phone itself,” thought Chloe. The thought brought her back to life, and she dialled the emergency number…”Thank you for calling us. If you have an enquiry please dial 1….” Chloe slammed the phone down, there was no time, and the police were going to take ages to reach the village.

Pulling on takkies before waddling out the door, she was barely conscious of grabbing her broom as she left her flat. As luck would have it, the lift was on her floor and she was standing in front of Mikey’s gate a short while later. Out of breath and leaning on her broom, ignoring the pain that was starting to flood through her groin, Chloe could still remember walking out the gate, Before. The sound of breaking glass drove away her memories and she found herself against the wall of the house next to the broken window, watching a foot slide out.

It was almost funny the way the owner’s foot probed gently for mother earth. Just before it made contact, Chloe swung the broom, and later reflected on just how satisfying the crunch was as the ankle was squashed between the broom head and the wall. Surreal Bedlam. The thug came tumbling out the window, dragging his booty, curtains and a shower of glass, leaving a large chunk of thigh on the broken window, his shattered ankle refusing to play with gravity. A little surprised at a full grown man screaming that piercingly, she ignored his bloody attempts at art as he rolled on the ground, and climbed gingerly through the window.

The nurse was easy to find, lying unconscious on the floor of the lounge. Feeling as if she was there in the third person, she ignored the nurse as finding Mikey was paramount. He proved a little more difficult. He wasn’t in his day room, nor his bedroom, both of which were safe havens for the child. Chloe eventually found him rocking in a corner of his bathroom. “It’s ok, it’s ok,” she whispered to him, in her Before voice. After a few minutes of repeating this to him, he turned, still only looking at the floor, as he always did. When he reached a finger out to her takkies, as he always did, she felt her heart was going to break, but if there was ever a time where she had to keep her head together, it was now. Still in Before, and a little firmer now she told Mikey she was going to fetch his blankie, and his favourite dinosaur.

She left before he could look at her reflection in the mirror, making her usual clicking noises for him to stay in touch with her. The nurse had by this time woken up and had already called the police, and froze when she saw Chloe returning with Mikey’s things. Recognising her, the nurse gave a wan smile and started phoning Mikey’s parents…
As she went back to Mikey she saw with a shock he was observing reality through the corner of his eye in the reflections around him. It was too late to tie up her hair, so when he started rocking again, she spoke in Before, but gentler, softer, and it wasn’t long before he reached out again. Giving him his dinosaur and blankie, Chloe managed to coax him to his feet, and started him on his shuffle to his day room.

It was only once the police had left, that Chloe realised the nurse had left with them, and it was with a sense of despair she waited for his parents to get back. She didn’t want to face them now, it was with a sense of shame she had left, and she didn’t want to face the accusations in their eyes again. When his dad walked into Mikey’s room, his shock at seeing Chloe was etched into his face. “Who are ….Ti…is that you?” he finished weakly. Chloe held a finger to her lips, nodded and seeing the dinosaur had Mikey’s full attention, went with his father outside. Now was the time, she had to tell why she had left them. After she had finished talking, she was pale and exhausted. The silence stretched into aeons, and Chloe eventually stood up. “No,” said Mikey’s mother. “Sit. Your room is still here; I’ll go and get some of your things, who’s going to look after Mikey now? Please Ti… Chloe,” she stumbled over the unfamiliar name. “He needs you. We need you,” she pleaded gently, woman to woman, her hand resting on Chloe’s arm.
It was then, Chloe knew, it was going to be ok.

My hero dog.

A6820 Zak was a rusty red Olderhill German Shepherd. We met at the Police Dog Unit in Pietermaritzburg. He was five years old at the time, and angry with everyone.
He was donated to the Police because he used to jump of the farmer’s bakkie and savage the labourers. He was given to me because I had just joined the unit, and needed a dog before I could go on course. He was 52kgs of attitude that did not like anyone.
It took me a week to get into his kennel, and cost me about three hundred Rand in biltong trying to make friends. By this time he was so frustrated at being caged he was quite happy to get company. So was I, because sitting for five hours a day on concrete is no fun with a snarling dog wanting to rip your face off every time you moved, breathed or spoke.

When I tried to leave his kennel after first gaining entry, was the first of many bites. In the three years we spent together, we went through Dog School, (he lost 6kg’s, I lost 20kg’s, it was a nightmare for both of us), and Explosives course (he never really stopped wanting to bring me the bomb, he was so happy when he found it). I was at Dog school when 9/11 happened. We knew then the world was going to change…

We walked hundreds of kilometres of spoor, recovered much stolen property, we caught rapists, murderers and housebreakers. I was closer to him and understood him better than my own children. If we were alone in the vehicle he would sit in front with me, with his butt on the chair and his paws on the floor, he was that big.

He saved my life three times.

Leaving Zak behind when I left the Police was possibly the hardest thing I have ever done in my life. He has semi-retired now, and will be working as a personal protection dog. He loves working, lives working, and I hope when its time for him to cross the rainbow bridge, he is still at work, when he is happiest.