At the beginning of this month, my 14-year-old twin boys asked me why women seem to have it easy in life, in reference to August being Women’s Month. They suggested that the powers that be could start with just Men’s Day, then down the line, look into Men’s Weekend, then eventually Men’s Month.
I pride myself on being a “woke” and feminist 39-year-old father, and it was with vigour that I started narrating to them how — on August 9 in 1956 — about 20,000 South African women of all ages, backgrounds and ethnicities marched to the Union Buildings in Pretoria to protest against the apartheid government’s legislation aimed to restrict the movement of black women in urban and affluent areas.
I was so proud as I rattled out names that included the march’s leaders, such as Lilian Ngoyi, Rahima Moosa, Sophia Williams and Helen Joseph, all without googling. My history teachers at school would have been proud.
Despite it being Women’s Month, I felt I deserved one of those “World’s Best Father of Non-Identical Twins” coffee mugs as I moved on to explain the concept of “male privilege” and how every day is men’s day, whether in the workplace or in society and even on the way men and women are portrayed on their various Xbox games.
I was on a roll as I recalled stories about how women do the same jobs as men but get paid less, and how women often are overlooked for promotion thanks to being born with wombs and cervixes, essential body parts that ensure humans (including men) continue to populate the earth.
I was in my element when we started to chat about how black women in particular have it the hardest. They continue to face sexism and racism in modern-day SA. And if that weren't enough, there is that acronym they have to live with: GBV (gender-based violence). And, should they survive, death is waiting for them in the form of femicide.
Then it struck me: I am married to a black woman, who happens to their mother
That is when I noticed from the corner of my good eye how the twins started getting less interested, followed by cunningly inserting a single earpod into their ears. For their sake, I hope they were at least playing an all-female playlist that included Brenda Fassie. I would have been happy with Miley Cyrus at that point.
According to that one Toastmaster session I almost attended (the sandwiches in the foyer distracted me for the entire hour), I was losing my audience of two and I had to pivot my approach to teaching the struggles of black women in our country.
Then it struck me: I am married to a black woman, who happens to their mother. With that as a point of departure, I excelled and saw my name in lights and endless invitations from schools, requesting me to teach boys like mine on why we need to appreciate women more. This would all be at a nominal fee, of course, to cover my fuel — at nearly R27 a litre — my first-class plane tickets and something to eat, like fresh lobster and caviar.
One of the best lessons I have learnt from my queen is how tough it is to be a black woman. Not only does she and her ilk have to face myriad sexist tendencies, they also have to deal with BWHP.
Black Women’s Hair Problems might seem like a made-up acronym (which it is, by the way), but it has real consequences not only for those who suffer from it but for their partners too.
I told my boys that about twice a month, I have to assist my better half in choosing the hair she will showcase. If you missed it, I referred to “hair” and not a “hairstyle” deliberately. Black women have to choose if they want braids, weaves, wigs and others, all paired with society’s judgment.
If they opt for a weave, they are often referred to as slay queens, if they go for braids, they are perceived as tree-hugging hippies or practising sangomas, all depending on how thick the braids are.
Black women are often seen as shallow when they wear wigs, but not a word is said about men who wear toupees. It really is a man’s world, and less of a black woman’s world. If it was a woman’s world, they would not be side-eyed for choosing to be bald, and being called butch and manly.
I then asked my boys what names they were called the last time they cut their hair, and when they dyed it all colours of the rainbow. The silence was deafening not because I had posed an uncomfortable question, but because I was wrong. It was not one pod, but two in their ears. Punks!
