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A review by hairypoppins
Lost and Found in Johannesburg: A Memoir by Mark Gevisser
2.0
There are a lot of unspoken things that contribute to the “voice” of this book, and, since it is a memoir, the voice of its author by extension. Unspoken privilege. Unspoken resentment. Unspoken condescension.
The author does try to address issues of his privilege, but this often happens in a “woe is me for being so rich” kind of way: lamenting trips to London after the Soweto uprising, being angry at his parents for “forcing” him to study at Yale. These are not the “relatable” experiences the author seems to think they are.
Then there are the discussions around apartheid, and life thereafter. The author tries to present himself as progressive, yet he clearly is just as poorly adjusted to a post-apartheid South Africa as the majority of his white peers. Black people’s levels of education are judged by their accents, their languages described in disdainful and even disrespectful ways, their ability to do their various jobs is constantly scrutinised, and black people he knows personally are often infantilised and patronised. He calls the adult daughter of his childhood nanny by an odd baby-version of her real name even though he clearly doesn’t know her all that well. He attends a choral performance by said nanny’s grandchild, which she cannot attend herself because she is too busy preparing roast lamb for his dinner, and he sees absolutely nothing wrong with this.
I had a lot of issues with this book, obviously. Its entire demeanour made me angry in some places, while at others I could do nothing but roll my eyes. The pretentiousness of it all was an intensely draining experience, and one I do not recommend.
The author does try to address issues of his privilege, but this often happens in a “woe is me for being so rich” kind of way: lamenting trips to London after the Soweto uprising, being angry at his parents for “forcing” him to study at Yale. These are not the “relatable” experiences the author seems to think they are.
Then there are the discussions around apartheid, and life thereafter. The author tries to present himself as progressive, yet he clearly is just as poorly adjusted to a post-apartheid South Africa as the majority of his white peers. Black people’s levels of education are judged by their accents, their languages described in disdainful and even disrespectful ways, their ability to do their various jobs is constantly scrutinised, and black people he knows personally are often infantilised and patronised. He calls the adult daughter of his childhood nanny by an odd baby-version of her real name even though he clearly doesn’t know her all that well. He attends a choral performance by said nanny’s grandchild, which she cannot attend herself because she is too busy preparing roast lamb for his dinner, and he sees absolutely nothing wrong with this.
I had a lot of issues with this book, obviously. Its entire demeanour made me angry in some places, while at others I could do nothing but roll my eyes. The pretentiousness of it all was an intensely draining experience, and one I do not recommend.