March 1990

Isn't family all about giving? Isn't it the first place we learn about love, generosity and kindness?

"Always be kind, Elizabeth, " is what my mother always told me. Her words played in my mind like an endless recording. Yet, I never got tired of them.

My dad was a member of Parliament. Serving humanity was his dream. However, my family had quite a different definition of humanity. I wouldn't blame them. This definition was what was established as canon in our country.

The only people my family considered humans came from the same race as we did.
We lived in Northcliff, Johannesburg, a peaceful neighbourhood. Perhaps, too peaceful for a noisy fourteen-year-old like myself. I always tried to convince my parents to move somewhere else. There were plenty of nice places in Johannesburg. But no, my parents loved Northcliff.

"What are you complaining about, Elizabeth?" Ian said as he put his sunburnt arm around my shoulders. "Northcliff is beautiful."

Ian was the boy I took to one of my school's dances. All my friends had taken someone to the dance. They were gushing over how cute the boys in our class were and here I was drowning in their sea of sentiments.

I never was attracted to any boy. I never could like Ian the way he liked me. The way he clutched my hand on the way to class or smashed his mouth against mine wasn't just disgusting. It was wrong too.

We were like two pieces of a different puzzle. We would never fit.

Every day after school, I had meetings with the staff of 'THE CHAMPIONS'_our school newspaper. I liked writing. I've always dreamt of telling people the stories that really mattered. I wanted to be a journalist. Unfortunately, being a journalist seemed so far away when you're only in the ninth grade.

I never missed a single meeting. However, I was tired that day. Not drained of the strength my body needed, of course, but tired of writing about school games and debating tournaments. I knew there was a world far away from the grey, stone walls of Weschler High. And I wanted to see it. It would be a story far greater than one I'd ever written.

" Are you really going to skip staff meetings, Elizabeth?"  Rachel asked me after we walked across the hallway as soon as the last bell rang.

I saw the blur of grey and white rush in all directions as students rushed home or to their extra-curricular activities. A few of them stopped to talk to us. Like Rachel, they were astounded that I would skip a meeting.

"You?Elizabeth? Skip a staff meeting? Impossible!" Timothy, another one of my friends, said.

" What?"I said. "I just think there are more stories out there other than the football matches we win". If I wanted to write something, I'd write about something that really matters.

" Well go for that story then. I'll cover for you", Rachel said.

"Thanks", I said to her before escaping the dull walls of the school. A small part of me wanted the stone walls and the soothing mundaneness of the school to canopy me. Maybe deep down I liked a little peace. The rest of me, however, was repulsed at the very idea.

I slid away from the school gates to our part of the road. I know it seems a bit odd saying 'our part of the road', so let me explain.

On the path I walked on, every cobblestone was laid down for our convenience. There were no potholes, no rubbish and no haphazardly tarred walks. This was the area designated for whites. The people who walked this path we're either ice-pale like me or sporting a nice suntan. It didn't really matter as long as they were the colour of pale perfection.

On the other side was half-tarred and dilapidated. This was the ground on which a rich variety of people walked. Some had skins that glowed beautiful, deep ebony. The others were a million shades of brown, russet and tan.

The search for a story led me to places I would have never dreamed of going. It led me to bravery. I snuck across the road and into a dark alleyway before any lounging police officer saw me. Rats. Some of them about five times the size of my palm scurried free. They certainly had a lot more liberty than the people who lived among them.

One by one, ebony- coloured faces peeked at me with shy expressions. Some of them were in shock, some in disbelief, but others in total disgust.

"She's one of them. One of those pale faces. What's she doing here?" a little girl no older than three shouted. Her rose-pink dress was in shreds and she walked barefoot through the dirt.

" Why are you here?" she asked me, her deep, russet eyes looking into mine. "People who look like you never come out here".

I smiled at the little girl, hoping to tell her that she looked beautiful. I wanted to tell her that there were people who would welcome her. Those who would treat her as an equal.

As I opened my mouth to answer, a loud, female voice called out to the little girl, " Jeanine, come here. And don't go telling me that this white girl isn't a stranger."

"White girl, " I muttered in outrage as I crunched upon the dirt scattered around the street. I thought of how much the pallor of my roses-and-cream complexion battled with their darker skin, but before I could speak out my words of contempt at her racism, my feet lost its balance and a few seconds later I found myself fallen in a muddy ditch.

The mud turned my crisp white uniform a clear shade of light brown. The skin of my palms, however, had turned a bright crimson as they bled. The ditch was taller than me. I had no way of climbing out and I wouldn't waste my time bothering to try. Fortunately for me, someone grabbed my wrist and hauled me out of that ditch. Someone with strength and soft, long fingers. It was the girl who called me 'white girl'.

"Do you ever watch where you're going, whitey ?"

"Well, apparently graciousness distracts me."

" Wow, " she said her ethereal brown eyes regarded me. "Aren't you feisty? And you aren't as stuck up as I thought you'd be."

" Well fatty, "  I smirked back. I looked at her trying to be as critical as I can. The truth was, she wasn't fat at all. The curves on her body fitted perfectly with each other making her the most beautiful person I've ever laid eyes on. And for some reason, I couldn't stop staring at her.

"I'm afraid to say that you're judgy, " I said. She just smiled and as she did, the corners of her mouth curved a devious smirk.

"I like you", she said. "I'm Joan, by the way."

" I'm Elizabeth."

"Okay Elizabeth, what the hell are you doing here?" she asked not unkindly, but in a way that showed her surprise.

It was no secret that Johannesburg was segregated. Every street, entrance and alleyway had signs donned on them, indicating which race could use them. To be white was normal, to be Asian was frowned upon, to be black was worse and to be coloured was illegal. No member of one race could step into another's territory. At least, not without breaking the law.

It was evident that Joan knew about segregation. It was also evident she detested it. Every look in those beautiful, brown eyes spoke of sorrow and frustration. Everybody was frustrated. Except for my family, of course. My father's words echoed through my mind. 'We have never been more prosperous', he kept saying. 'Trust me, the land laws saved our country.'

As my father's speeches roused a violent outrage in my heart, Joan had taken my hand, interlacing her soft fingers with my own thin ones. Even though I knew she did to guide me back after she told me that she wouldn't have me in trouble, I never wanted her to let go. To my surprise, she didn't.

"I want to come back here, "I said my own heart rioting faster than it ever did.

" No one is stopping you Elizabeth. Why don't you come back here tomorrow? Perhaps you'll even learn to watch where you're going the next time we meet."

"Great, " I smiled as I looked into her eyes. "I'll see you tomorrow after school."

" See you then, " she said, but even so our fingers remained intertwined. It was a connection between black and white, between rich and poor and despite all the gasps and the mutters that came out of the mouths of the passers-by, we didn't let go.

"You'd better leave before someone calls the cops," she said before giving one last heavenly smile and turning around.

I knew that my hands were bleeding and I was drenched in mud but I didn't care. I had just met the most beautiful girl in Johannesburg. I didn't think about what I was going to say to my family or to Ian when they found out. Not that I was ever in love with him though.

I was in love with her. Every part of my soul told me that. It was when her hand touched mine that I knew I didn't belong in this world. I belonged to her world. A world of beauty and intelligence and understanding.

I would be breaking a law by loving a black. I would be breaking another by loving a girl. I didn't care. There were some bonds that nothing had the power to break. I believed that this was our kind of bond. I believed that she was the story I had been searching for.