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stellabooks's review against another edition
emotional
funny
hopeful
inspiring
lighthearted
reflective
medium-paced
4.25
liralen's review against another edition
4.0
Magona grew up in South Africa -- mostly in Cape Town -- in the 50s and 60s, when it was ruled by apartheid. Still, she had a happy childhood; her parents were uneducated but determined that their children would have opportunities.
What I didn't expect: Magona is funny. She tells her story lightly, not treading too heavily on the times when things were rough, not afraid to poke fun at anyone -- or at herself, both as a child and as an adult. She's biting, too, when it comes to apartheid, and to the laws meant to keep black Africans down.
The book covers only her early life -- up until she was in her early twenties -- and I'd love to know more about how she ended up in the U.S. and writing the way she does. But I suppose that's why she wrote [b:Forced to Grow|324230|Forced to Grow|Sindiwe Magona|https://d.gr-assets.com/books/1347764345s/324230.jpg|314932]...
Anyway, I'll let the book speak for itself; I folded down a ton of corners as I read:
There was never any question of taking any of the rag dolls to Cape Town with me. Even I knew it would have been ridiculous to take a rag doll to the big big faraway town where there were many many people who were white just like the white people of the shop; where there were tens and tens and tens of motor cars, maybe hundreds, on tar-covered roads; where everyone went by bus or train even if they were going half the distance we traveled on foot going to church every Sunday. Where there were no mud huts but brick and cement and stone houses, their windows made of glass not wood. And the roofs were made not of dull-colored grass but shiny metal; zinc roofs. Where everyone ate meat every day and did not have to wait until there was a feast or one of the cattle was dying or dead before they could have meat. What fool would take a rag doll to such a place? (16)
Except for the thundering of my own heart, not a word had passed between us during the presence of the police. Not a word was spoken after they had left. Knowledge I would hide, for years even from myself, became mine that night: Father's eyes also could house fear. (18)
It is here, too, I learned to read my first word -- VASELINE! (21)
We did not question why it was that the beneficent were invariably white, the beneficiaries invariably black. We had no way of knowing about the broader issues that had given birth to the organization itself, let alone understand its mission, to say nothing of the inadequacy and limitedness of its undertaking. How were we to know that many of these kind ladies were the wives and daughters of the men who paid our fathers peanuts; fed their dogs T-bone steaks; and ensured our poverty by voting in a government whose avowed task was making certain we would stay servants, serf-like and docile? We were children.[...] We did not even know we were poor. (23)
Perhaps children in other lands played at being kings and queens; we just played at being white. (37)
Mama often regaled us with stories of her youth. Pioneers, I learnt from her, seldom had an easy time. She and a friend had been the subject of much malice in the village when it became known they were "fallen maidens." The demonic deed? They were the first to wear bloomers!
To the village community, where virgins proudly displayed firm breasts, with beaded apron decorously worn over the public area, hiding one's body was a sign of shame. What could these two young girls have done to have to buy something and have to wear it every day? (44)
In severing the education of the African child from that of the white child, the powers that be had announced, in Parliament, that the aim was to ensure that the black child would be protected from frustration; she would not be put through an education that would make her believe she was being prepared to graze the greener pastures. The education that would be given to the African child, the Honorable Dr. Verwoerd had enlightened us, would fit her for her station in life, service to her master, the white man, woman, child, and, in permissible ways, the white economy. Service, not participation, never mind access, would be the operative, the key word. (82)
Christopher and Ian, aged eight and six, respectively, were children with all that entails. They were no saints, to be sure. But, on the other hand, neither were they devilish brats. And, what is more important, as we say in the African townships, they were being brought up. Most white children in South Africa simply grow up. There is no pruning, no tending, weeding or nurturing. They pick up, as the years roll relentlessly on, whatever prevailing societal attitudes, whims and mannerisms might be in the offing. (110)
Later, I was to learn of the white South African woman's anguish upon becoming a working mother. Mine was not the choice of being a working mother or a not-working mother. No, I could choose between being a working mother or having no children left. Whose mother would I have been had my children died from starvation? (133)
What I didn't expect: Magona is funny. She tells her story lightly, not treading too heavily on the times when things were rough, not afraid to poke fun at anyone -- or at herself, both as a child and as an adult. She's biting, too, when it comes to apartheid, and to the laws meant to keep black Africans down.
The book covers only her early life -- up until she was in her early twenties -- and I'd love to know more about how she ended up in the U.S. and writing the way she does. But I suppose that's why she wrote [b:Forced to Grow|324230|Forced to Grow|Sindiwe Magona|https://d.gr-assets.com/books/1347764345s/324230.jpg|314932]...
Anyway, I'll let the book speak for itself; I folded down a ton of corners as I read:
There was never any question of taking any of the rag dolls to Cape Town with me. Even I knew it would have been ridiculous to take a rag doll to the big big faraway town where there were many many people who were white just like the white people of the shop; where there were tens and tens and tens of motor cars, maybe hundreds, on tar-covered roads; where everyone went by bus or train even if they were going half the distance we traveled on foot going to church every Sunday. Where there were no mud huts but brick and cement and stone houses, their windows made of glass not wood. And the roofs were made not of dull-colored grass but shiny metal; zinc roofs. Where everyone ate meat every day and did not have to wait until there was a feast or one of the cattle was dying or dead before they could have meat. What fool would take a rag doll to such a place? (16)
Except for the thundering of my own heart, not a word had passed between us during the presence of the police. Not a word was spoken after they had left. Knowledge I would hide, for years even from myself, became mine that night: Father's eyes also could house fear. (18)
It is here, too, I learned to read my first word -- VASELINE! (21)
We did not question why it was that the beneficent were invariably white, the beneficiaries invariably black. We had no way of knowing about the broader issues that had given birth to the organization itself, let alone understand its mission, to say nothing of the inadequacy and limitedness of its undertaking. How were we to know that many of these kind ladies were the wives and daughters of the men who paid our fathers peanuts; fed their dogs T-bone steaks; and ensured our poverty by voting in a government whose avowed task was making certain we would stay servants, serf-like and docile? We were children.[...] We did not even know we were poor. (23)
Perhaps children in other lands played at being kings and queens; we just played at being white. (37)
Mama often regaled us with stories of her youth. Pioneers, I learnt from her, seldom had an easy time. She and a friend had been the subject of much malice in the village when it became known they were "fallen maidens." The demonic deed? They were the first to wear bloomers!
To the village community, where virgins proudly displayed firm breasts, with beaded apron decorously worn over the public area, hiding one's body was a sign of shame. What could these two young girls have done to have to buy something and have to wear it every day? (44)
In severing the education of the African child from that of the white child, the powers that be had announced, in Parliament, that the aim was to ensure that the black child would be protected from frustration; she would not be put through an education that would make her believe she was being prepared to graze the greener pastures. The education that would be given to the African child, the Honorable Dr. Verwoerd had enlightened us, would fit her for her station in life, service to her master, the white man, woman, child, and, in permissible ways, the white economy. Service, not participation, never mind access, would be the operative, the key word. (82)
Christopher and Ian, aged eight and six, respectively, were children with all that entails. They were no saints, to be sure. But, on the other hand, neither were they devilish brats. And, what is more important, as we say in the African townships, they were being brought up. Most white children in South Africa simply grow up. There is no pruning, no tending, weeding or nurturing. They pick up, as the years roll relentlessly on, whatever prevailing societal attitudes, whims and mannerisms might be in the offing. (110)
Later, I was to learn of the white South African woman's anguish upon becoming a working mother. Mine was not the choice of being a working mother or a not-working mother. No, I could choose between being a working mother or having no children left. Whose mother would I have been had my children died from starvation? (133)
clairewords's review against another edition
4.0
“Until the lioness can tell its own story the story of the hunt will always glorify the hunter.” African Proverb
This first of two autobiographies by South African author Sindiwe Magona,[ai:Sindiwe Magona|48978|Sindiwe Magona|https://images.gr-assets.com/authors/1612399964p2/48978.jpg] was initially published in 1990, and the second volume in 1997.
A Lioness Shares Her Story
Frustrated like many, at seeing her country and people portrayed as backward and uncivilised by colonisers, she decided to rectify the balance, a literary scholar, sharing her life and experience first hand, an important and insightful narrative for a wider audience, dedicated to her own children and grandchildren, and perhaps especially for girls, on their path to womanhood.
In a conversation with anthropologist and activist Elaine Salo, Magona said:
I experienced incredible anger about others writing about us, I asked myself, ‘How dare they write about you?’ I told myself that shouldn’t stop me from writing about myself … There is value in those like me writing about our experiences, who did not study apartheid but lived it.
It is authentic experiences like this, that offer a richness in understanding other cultures from the inside, reading the personal experience of one women in her struggle to raise and support her children, understanding how her childhood and upbringing shaped and supported her, enabling her to cope when other societal support structures let her down.
Review
The slim autobiography shares stories from her childhood up to the age of 23, all of it taking place in South Africa. In her early years, as was customary among amaXhosa people, she lived with her grandparents. It was often the case while parents were trying to earn a living in starting a new life, that the extended family and home community was the safest, most caring environment for young children to be. There was always someone to look after children, they had food, shelter, company and they thrived.
As she explains, looking back it may have been poverty, but that wasn’t something they were aware of; they belonged, were loved and felt secure. There was no awareness of the link between the colour of one’s skin and a difference in lifestyle, until much later, their paths never crossed, outsiders had no impact on their very young lives.
In such a people-world, filled with a real, immediate, and tangible sense of belongingness, did I spend the earliest years of my life. I was not only wanted, I was loved. I was cherished.
The adults in my world, no doubt, had their cares and their sorrows. But childhood, by its very nature, is a magic-filled world, egocentric, wonderfully carefree, and innocent. Mine was all these things and more.
Generations of Storytellers
Not only did they learn and grow from being socialised in these large families, they listened to stories, passed down the generations. There was always one or two in the family, renowned for their storytelling ability, masters in this art and the children revelled in those evenings when they became the audience to them.
Central to the stories in which people featured, was the bond of love with the concomitants: duty, obedience, responsibility, honour, and orderliness; always orderliness. Like the seasons of the year, life was depicted full of cause and effect, predictability and order; connectedness and oneness.
In this warm, human environment she spent her first five years, immersed in a group where her place was defined, accepted, giving her all she required and more.
Far from the distant world where white people lived and ruled, busy formulating policies that would soon impact them all, policies that invited in certain immigrants, offering them privileged rights, while denying them of the local black population, restricting their ability to move from one area to another, fracturing families, keeping them in poverty.
Everything changed when her mother left to join her father due to illness, to be near medical support and soon after, her grandmother died, requiring them all to leave and join their parents.
A New Era, Fractured Families and Apartheid
It would be fortuitous timing as a year later, in 1948, the Boers came into power and laws were formulated restricting the movement of Africans. Had her grandmother died later, they may not have legally been able to rejoin them.
The move to live with their parents introduced them to a less harmonious world, one where police raids occurred and crime existed. Within the law or outside the law, there was reason to be more careful and fearful. The importance of attaining an education was the focus, to rise above.
The year I left primary school was the year that education became racially segregated. Hitherto, white pupils, African pupils coloured pupils, and Indian pupils could, theoretically, attend the same school. After 1955, the law forbade that practice. There would be different Departments of Education for the different race groups
Her years of education were dependent on her attitude, some years she did well, others she lapsed, eventually her focus concentrated on becoming a teacher, though in her initial attempts to secure a position, she would initially be thwarted. Her real life lessons were only just beginning.
Lessons from the Real World
Father began hinting at what might at the root of my problem: I had omitted to offer the Secretary of the School Board “something” and people were telling him it would be donkey’s years before I would get a post if we did not oil this gentleman’s palm.
Though she had done well in her classes, they were inadequate and wholly misleading as to how to prepare to teach children from poor homes, without textbooks, without exercise books, without materials. Trained to teach children from homes where there was a father and a mother, most of her pupils came from women-headed homes. And those women stayed in at their places of employment: busy being smiling servants minding white babies.
Not having books is one of the misdemeanors punishable by corporal punishment. The beatings and probably the sheer embarrassment that must surely accompany the daily proclamation of one’s poverty, prompted a lot of the pupils to pilfer. The very young do not always understand that poverty is supposed to ennobling…
The first class she would teach would have 72 pupils and had all been well, they should have been aged 11 or 12. All was not well however, the children ranged in age from 9 to 19 and the variation in skills just as wide.
Due to her principled stance, that first job would take a while in coming. Unemployed, but desperate to work, she accepted a job at the local fisheries.
Eventually she is offered a teaching job, experiencing the few joys and many disappointments inherent in an unfair, overstretched, oppressive system.
All along, I had known the agony for which some were destined. Such is the design of the government. And such is the abetting by even those of us who regard ourselves as oppressed. Which we are. But we are also called upon to help in that oppression and unwittingly become instruments of it.
A Woman’s Lot
And then comes the intersection of youth with a newly developing career and as a woman, the added risk of pregnancy. Magona’s challenges are only just beginning and her teaching jobs will become continuously thwarted by how society expects women to behave. The arrival of her own children will force her from her role and into domestic service herself, and really open her eyes to how the other live.
What I had not known was that their perception of people like us did not quite coincide with our perception of who we were and what we were about.
More than anything, however, being a domestic servant did more to me than it did for me. It introduced me to the fundamentals of racism.
The different families she would work for, each provide key insights that broaden her understanding and perception of the other groups living within the country and how the system aimed to maintain and strengthen the situation in favour of white people.
As this volume comes to an end, Magona's situation seems dire, however, she delivers some of the most inspiring passages of the book, in the low place she has arrived at, she suddenly sees all that she is grateful for, all that she has, even the abandonment of a husband who had never supported them, she recognises as a freedom and a significant contribution to her own growth.
It is a wonderful and frank autobiography and introduction to an inspiring woman. I’m looking forward to the sequel, Forced to Grow, the same title as the last chapter in this volume, in which she shares how determination and resourcefulness lead her through and out of those challenges we end with here.
Sindiwe Magona
Magona was born in 1943 in the small town of Gungululu near Mthatha, in what was then known as the homeland of Transkei, in the Eastern Cape of South Africa.
She was born five years before colonial Britain handed over power to the Afrikaners. Apartheid was officially introduced in 1948 and with it a series of oppressive and racist laws such as separate living areas and the Bantu education system. It was within this context that Magona grew up.
She is an accomplished poet, dramatist, storyteller, actress and motivational speaker. She spent two decades working for the UN in New York retiring in 2003. Her previously published works include thirty children’s books (in all eleven South African languages), two autobiographies, short story collections and novels.
My writing, on the whole, is my response to current social ills, injustice, misrepresentation, deception – the whole catastrophe that is the human existence. Sindiwe Magona
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