My Untold Torment

Roberto and I have been together for 24 years, married for 19. It is a cool morning in July 2004 and we are expecting a visit from Roberto’s parents. After all these years and me recently having turned the big four O I am still petrified of his family! The air is crisp, the clouds hang low, heavy with the early morning frost which has taken the liberty of burning my lush green lawn. Tensions run high in our colourful home as we wait with trepidation for “the in-laws” to arrive. My precious girls, Alexis and Ashley, don’t refer to their father’s parents as Grand Parents. To be Grand Parents there is a certain amount of love, respect and joy shared between the parties. None of which have been shared at any time between my girls and their paternal Grand Parents. One of the many complications and injustices suffered by me, and then Alexis and Ashley, due to me being English, a South African .Or to the Portuguese a pades(a derogatory term used by the Portuguese for white South Africans), and their father being “Portuguese” . Roberto, his parents and his younger sister having emigrated from Portugal to South Africa in 1965. Roberto’s younger brother Claude was born in South Africa in 1972 and still proclaims to be Portuguese. His parents, Aradia and Lucifer are still fiercely patriotic – although they would have lived very different deprived lives should they have stayed in Portugal. Being Portuguese in South Africa for the first generation immigrants generally entails speaking minimal English. Why should one speak the most spoken language of the country one escapes to? I find it totally disrespectful to the country that has afforded you a much better life, immigrate to this country do not learn to speak English. There are countless European - Italian, Portuguese, Greek, Lebanese - immigrants who came to this country in the 50's, 60's and 70's who to this day don't speak English, or any one of our 11 official languages! That just proves their arrogance that they feel superior to South Africans. Escaping to improve your standard of living, ensuring that your off spring actually have the opportunity of owning their own home one day, have access to top class medical facilities and education and generally live a life of luxury compared to what that generation escaped from. Surely then one should be South African of Portuguese decent? Apparently not. Go to any gathering of Portuguese and most will liberally slate South Africa from beginning to end. But all will decline to move back to Portugal. Should they run off to Australia they will take citizenship. Learning English within the prescribed 5 years for fear of being booted out! Experience trumps assumption, has become my motto when this fact is disputed! Many a time I have questioned how one can be Portuguese when one has lived, worked, received medical attention, in South Africa for forty plus years. I firmly believe if you want to part take of the fruits of our magnificent country then have the back bone to be South African of Portuguese decent! Worse than not respecting our country enough to learn the language who gives these immigrants the right to totally disrespect and detest the South African women. The country is good enough for them to make a life here but they absolutely can not stand it if their sons marry a South African woman! To save our sanity and our marriage we moved to Klerksdorp in the January of 1997. I failed to mention it is early on a Sunday morning and the only sound that cuts through the frost and iciness is the excited chattering of “my” resident red billed hoopoes berating the cold, eager for their breakfast. My beautiful vociferous hoopoes waiting, watching for the spectacle that is about to be unleashed on my un walled front lawn. We live in a serene friendly neighbourhood where all the neighbours are conscious of respecting each other’s privacy and contentment. Our silence is shattered by rude vigorous hooting. I take a deep breath and prepare for a tense, humourless day. My precious girls glance at one another under their lashes in a silent pack to protect themselves and their mother. Roberto opens the door and rushes out to the car. His parents having demanded utter submission and compliance at all times form their three children, no matter what. Roberto and his parents trudge inside laden with bowls, platters, and packets of food and beverages as I am incapable of making an edible meal – as is apparent to all as my family are grossly under nourished and skeletal. The many packets, bowls and a still warm pot are plonked down on my kitchen counter. The greetings are quick and terse. My precious girls and I consciously protecting our chests. Lucifer delights in rubbing his chest against their yet undeveloped chests and my breasts. The sneer on his face unmistakable when he accomplishes this depraved desired act. My every cell on edge waiting for the usual insult to one of my girls or me about our home, weight, pimples or general demeanour. None comes. My confidence grows. In all innocence I enquire” Why don’t you miss church today and spend time visiting with your grand daughters”. Roberto’s eyes go as big as saucers. Only I would dare to suggest such evil, demonic behaviour. Roberto’s mothers voice is louder and brasher than usual “No I go shursh – you no go(sniff) , you no dress (grunt), – uh I go shursh” I wither and die as 3 pairs of eyes condemn me – two for being demonic and one in utter surprise that I had the guts to actually make such a suggestion. Let me elaborate – in Roberto’s family it is deemed proper Catholic behaviour to go to church twice a week, say several Hail Mary’s, have rosaries and statues of Mary all over the house, as well as being extremely judgmental, nasty, lie blatantly and be downright cruel whenever the urge arises. Christian behaviour includes genuflecting, in utter submission and acceptance of all Catholic doctrine, when receiving the blessed sacrament of Holy Communion. Then, as you walk away from the alter spitefully comment that Donna Lynda is wearing the same dress again, Donna Maria is getting really fat and then nodding at both of them with the kindest smile hiding your betrayal. We all troop to the door, already banished to hell for not attending church. The car is locked. We rush around, frantically as Roberto searches in desperation for the keys. My girls and I stand in the kitchen giggling. The nerve shattering ring of my cell phone shocks us into action. It’s my precious, undiscriminating mother. “They’ve lost the car keys to go to shush” I confide with a delightful hint of laughter. Her indignant reply –“You little bugger why did you hide them away?” I am innocent, I assure my mom, while containing my laughter as to not seem guilty. Roberto then appears looking extremely harassed and tense. “Where are the keys?" I plead my innocence and rush outside as the icy, silent air is filled with shrill screeches and chastising. A blush rises from my belly to my head as I think of my neighbours waking up to this cacophony of high-pitched, shrieking admonishing everyone and everything for this extreme inconvenience. Lucifer, stands on the pavement hands in pockets” Benny Boek Wurm” glasses covering most of his pinched face, his nose red and vein- covered from too many years of eager unabashed consumption of wine for breakfast, lunch and dinner and all intervals in between. I hesitate, mid- lawn, not quite sure if I should approach the car or look inside. The purr of my neighbour’s brand new Harley Davidson alerts me. I look up and as my well healed neighbour purrs past, raising his hand in greeting, Lucifer makes the most disgusting guttural, sucking sound and releases a huge glob of green slime which lands perfectly on the back bumper of the sparkling Harley. Just then a shriek of achievement. The keys were found in the boot. However it was now too late for shursh!