Who wants to be called sturvy? — the (uncomfortable) politics of identity

The words which you are about to read has been so deeply entrenched into my Coloured Muslim psyche and continues to penetrate the murg (marrow) of my bones in an uncomfortable way that disturbs me, but a feeling which I welcome because I believe that the identity is bestowed upon one, and then you inquire, explore and formulate your own.

I am a woman. I come from Mitchell’s Plain. I am Coloured. I am Muslim.

I did not think that this would bother me as much because I am always taking stock of things that are happening outside of my body and never towards me and my psyche. If we’re playing the intersectional Olympics, I deserve a medal because the facets of my identity which I have struggled with have costed me many years of being at war with myself. The discernable dissonance I hold within myself which I do a very good job at hiding or ignoring? It’s always there. It’s a violence incited upon myself that I am trying to break the cycle of so please, bear with me as we walk through my very short 21 years.

Background check: I was born and raised in Mitchell’s Plain. We never had much money growing up, but I realize that my parents always did their best for us, and for that much I say Alhamdulilah (praise be to God). I remember brief periods in my life and from time to time I consult my older sister and parents to know if what I remember to be, is indeed true. I remember December trips taken to Oudtshoorn to visit my paternal family where I would have the longest bush of beautiful curls. I was a quiet child who hated washing my hair which eventually led to my mother having my hair cut into a bob because it was “too aan gekoek”. I truly believe that the hairdresser did not have a good hand, because ever since then my hair has been a mess. I started applying heat to my hair at a very tender age because of how my natural hair texture was ostracized by those around me. It looked unkept (wild guess: maybe because that is how hair looks when you’re in primary school?) but let’s move on.

As stated above, we never had much money. I remember my father’s period of unemployment very fondly. It was characterized by him taking on the role of my then, breadwinning mother. We would wake up and my mother would have taken the bus before 7AM already for the trek to her job in the CBD. My daddy in taming our hair, would drench it in Amla oil, brush and plait it. Our faces rigid for some time afterwards, due to him making those plaits so very tight. He would take us to school by taxi in the morning and fetch us in the afternoon by whichever means because we had no car.

Many times, after school I would sit and silently cry because my sister and I would be some of the last children at school waiting to be fetched. My daddy would eventually appear on foot and take us home — a lot of the time not having enough money to take the taxi back. So, staying true to myself, I would cry again. He would promise to carry me on his back half of the walk home or buy us suckers with the money that just missed the mark to secure 3 taxi seats during the early 2000s.

Maybe it’s all the crying and keeping to myself, maybe it’s because I always had rather fair skin, maybe it’s because I was boring or strictly spoke English that the infamous ‘sturvy’ (uptight) was hurled at me. I was called this name at school when I was unwilling to relax (what me being a quiet child was read as, by others). I was called this name walking down the street after I stopped playing outside with friends because I had reached an age where this no longer interested me. I was called ‘sturvy’ by my age mates who spoke Afrikaans who fit the Coloured stereotype we all know so well. For me back then, these people defined the Coloured identity and existing outside of their liking made me feel like I was not accepted by my community.

I never had a good grasp of AfriKaaps like my contemporaries. I thought I sounded silly when I tried so, rather kept quiet. The little comments calling me ‘sturvy’ and hearing ‘‘you just wanna keep you kwaai’’ (for doing the most simplistic and mundane task of walking to the shop) aided in divorcing me from a very imperative proponent of my identity — feeling comfortable in my Coloured identity. I look back at it now and wish being called ‘sturvy’ was not a defining moment in those very tender years of my life, but when your age mates are mocking you for something you can see they clearly try to steer clear from, sh*t hurts.

In high school, I occupied my time better than to listen to other people even though the sturvy comment got thrown at me out of nowhere now and again — a comment I still do not have a well thought out response to (if you have, please share). I had a group of friends who made me feel comfortable being my ‘stroke’ of Coloured and did not necessarily judge me. I did not feel like I was not Coloured enough for them because I was not scared to engage with their conceptualisations and realities of being Coloured. I always thought I was well-spoken because I read a lot and observed plenty — the people, the conversations, the life around me. One day, a friend at school randomly asked me if my father was white because she thought I “spoke nice”. I was confused because did I sound like my parents do when Edgars called?

So here I was, about to enter university with a defining moment in the perception of my Coloured identity — I maybe was not Coloured enough for other people. So to my shock, at university I get told that I’m ‘plat’. I wish I could explain what being plat was. I was more shocked than offended at the time (something I have come to not take offense to anymore). I do admit that I went into crisis mode because now I step outside of my Mitchell’s Plain bubble and I’m ‘plat’ at UCT meanwhile back at the ranch folks are calling me ‘sturvy’. If I’m ‘plat’ then how am I ‘sturvy’? Yes, I was panicked, and the inner turmoil flushed my conception of self that I had worked hard to arrive at (that I was secure in my Coloured identity and the opinions of others would not sway that). I also became acutely aware of the stark differences between people in what we call the ghettos, and the suburbs — both Coloured, but world’s apart.

Akin to my race debates with self, I was dealt the same hand with my religion. I was born to a Muslim mother and converted father who embraced Islam. Like all my Muslim friends at the time whose fathers and grandfathers were known in the community mosque, I could not say the same. I never grew up in a staunch Muslim household, although all of us are practicing Muslims. I was encouraged to go to madressah (Muslim school) which I admittedly, disliked for the most part because I felt like an outcast. Everyone knew each other and their extended families because of gatherings in- and outside the house of Allah (God) — the mosque.

Our salaahs (prayers) were always mostly done at home, and extra time was rarely spent at the mosque. It did not make us lesser Muslims, but that was the reception I got from those who inhibited the mosque and made it their home, and I hated it. I had one mualimah (teacher) who I was particularly fond of and loved so much that when she left the madressah, I stopped going. For the most part my other mualimahs had their clear favourites and I could see this in who could recite the most eloquently, or whose grandpa was the Sheik at the mosque. I never had both and shied away from the early teachings that is believed to be foundational for a pious Muslim. As I’m writing this, I realize how heartbreaking and unfair it is — how hostile spaces like a mosque can be to some and favourable unto others, a place where people unite based on a common belief and should be treated as equals.

So once again, I was fighting this internal battle. I realize that what I thought was my identity was mostly made up of other people ridiculing what they did not like about me. I was basing my identity formation process off of perceptions and outside interpretations. It is as if I was taking stock of what everyone said or felt towards me and packaging it very neatly, carrying these harmful perceptions with me every step of the way.

I do believe I have done a lot of work around forming my own identity and have come to the following realisations: people create binaries to make room for their own identities. When I was deemed ‘sturvy’, it was only done for those who were calling me this, to divorce themselves from this imagined phenomenon of being socially stiff. In madressah, I was made to feel inferior because other kids’ superior identities (aided by access, family networks, proficiency, etc) had to shine. I am older and wiser and take more responsibility for making of my identity what I can through experiences, learning from others and immersing myself into whatever makes me feel comfortable and at home with regards to race and religion.

I am now 21 and hold two degrees from the University of Cape Town. I take a keen interest in the identity formation process and the binaries we impose. A large part of my thesis in completion of my Honours degree (in Politics) dealt with the masculine Muslim identity of PAGAD members in the Cape. This was in comparison to the resilient identity of Dalit women belonging to the Gulabi Gang in their pronouncement of their human rights against the backdrop of the Indian government and men.