Freckles – South Africa

Freckles
South Africa

I sat with the small South African girl, discussing birthday parties, favourite books, and whether or not frogs believed in God. I had been teaching pre-school at the children’s shelter for two months, and I was amazed at how quickly the children had entrenched themselves in my life; I loved them, fully and fiercely. And so, on this bright and breezy January day, I dug my bare toes in the warm sand, shielded my eyes from a sun that would only get hotter, and savoured the comfortable companionship of young Jabu.

Jabu, a precocious six-year-old child with bright eyes and an engaging smile, tugged absently at my sleeve as she chattered. Suddenly she stopped, staring intently at my arm. “What’s wrong, kiddo?” I asked, a little bit concerned. “What’s that?” she replied, touching my freckles with hesitant fingers, as though the small brown spots may be fragile or dangerous.

“Freckles!” I said, laughing. “They come when I spend lots of time in the sun.”

She contemplated that quietly for a moment, before lifting her eyes and asking me in a voice filled with wonder, “So you mean you’re the same colour as me underneath?”

I looked down at this beautiful black child, and I burst into laughter, thinking “Aw, how cute!” After a moment I realized that she wasn’t laughing; Jabu, quiet and intent, was waiting for a serious answer to a serious question. I looked at this little girl who was born in a country that, until shortly before her birth, stated by law that she was inferior to her white countrymen. I remembered taking her younger sister to a hospital, where sorely underpaid white nurses glanced at the small sick child in my arms, and then stared coldly at me before walking away without a word and ignoring us for hours. I relived the moment when I realized that both white and black South Africans were staring at me and my black friend as we walked down the street together, some with surprise and others with open hostility. And I suddenly realized just how serious her question was.

Jabu held my gaze, cocked her head, waited. I considered her question again, this time thinking not of those people who had made my heart ache with sadness and confusion, but of those who had made my heart swell with respect and admiration. I thought of the South Africans of every hue that I’d met, people who were cooperating and working together to build the new South Africa. I remembered these people: the Zulu women who had fought Apartheid in the 1970s and been exiled; the Afrikaans woman who married her black lover despite her family’s protests; the English-speaking white teacher who opened a free school in the slums of Soweto; the Indian family who showed up at the Child Care Centre with a truck full of food. They were all good people, people who respected and took care of each other. The new South Africa belonged to these people; they were giving birth to it, and the process was slow and painful, but also shining and beautiful.

I looked down at the little girl who was gazing up at me with trust and love in her eyes, and suddenly I knew, deep in my heart, that the world was a good place and that she would one day make it even better.

Slowly, I nodded and then wrapped my arms around my young friend. Yes Jabu, underneath I’m the same colour as you.

About the Author
The travel bug bit Stephanie Lemieux at the tender age of two, during one of many family road trips. Since then, she’s studied in Brazil, fallen in love with Scotland, backpacked through Eastern Africa and worked for a non-profit organization in South Africa. She’s also travelled extensively in the US and in Canada, where there is – as her sister so eloquently put it – “a whole lot of damn trees”.