ABOUT ME: THE PERSON

This might seem like a grim beginning to a story about my identity, but the reality is that my formative years were shaped by school, the church, society, and the white, Christian apartheid government. These influences molded who I would become and, in my adult life, who I strive to overcome every day. As a child, I often wondered why our domestic worker, Ous Anna, wasn't allowed to sit on the furniture or why she had separate dishes kept under the kitchen sink. I also questioned why her son and I could only play in the backyard when the front yard had so much more space. Despite my curiosity, I never asked for answers. I attended Afrikaans schools where we were taught that being white and Christian made us superior. We regularly practiced evacuation drills in case black terrorists planted a bomb, but I don't recall ever having a fire drill. At an Afrikaans, Christian university, despite the recent end of apartheid, I never had black classmates, and all my lecturers looked and spoke like me. My first teaching job was at an Afrikaans-medium high school in my hometown. Although the school mostly had white students, it could no longer exclude black students and had to offer English classes because black students preferred not to learn in Afrikaans, the language of the oppressor. This kept black students segregated from white students, and to my annoyance at the time, I had to teach in both Afrikaans and English. One afternoon, an English math class was waiting outside my room, loudly talking. The English classes were always noisier than the white classes, which lined up in silence, accustomed to high discipline expectations. I later learned that in many African cultures, speaking loudly is the norm to avoid accusations of talking behind someone's back. That afternoon, I stormed out and scolded them for being disrespectful. Looking back, I'm embarrassed by my arrogance, ignorance, and cultural incompetence as a first-year teacher, especially by the words I used: "I don’t know why you people should always be so loud." After the students settled in, a girl approached me and said, "Sir, may I say something? I am offended by what you said outside. By saying ‘you people,’ you assume we are all the same, but we are not. I was standing quietly, reading my book, just like the white students. We are not all the same." I don’t remember how I responded or the rest of the lesson. What I do remember is leaving school that day a different person. The girl’s name was Kumalo. For the first time, someone called me out for who and what I was—a privileged white male. It’s ironic that a twelve-year-old black girl made me reflect on my identity for the first time. I became more aware of race and began to see my black students differently. I noticed their dedication to the education they were previously denied, an education my white students took for granted. I stopped wondering and started questioning everything, especially my upbringing and beliefs. The more I learned, the more I needed to know. I grew upset with my parents' generation for accepting such a cruel system. It wasn't until I read *Country of My Skull* by Antjie Krog, about the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, that I understood how little my parents knew about the apartheid regime's evil ideology. Today, apartheid is history, yet it remains ingrained in my identity. I check my privilege daily as a white male. As a teacher in an international context, I strive to teach my students not just to wonder but to question, and like Kumalo, to challenge injustice and change hearts and minds. I often think of Kumalo and imagine she became a strong leader, still changing lives. In my story of identity, Kumalo will always be the chief editor. For that, I am grateful.