BOWLS FILLED WITH COLOR ON A STREET IN JOHANNESBURG

It was later in the day when this colorful photograph was taken. The organized, beaded bowls and the splash of color caught my eye—they were laying on a blanket, on a brick side-street next to the downtown Johannesburg Africa Museum. The deep shadows added depth to the mosaic of form and color. Such art can be found all over South Africa, indeed everywhere in Africa. I spoke briefly with the artist, an older, wise-looking woman who was busy creating yet another bowl for a tourist or a local interested in acquiring any one of the lovely, intoxicatingly colorful items. To me, she was as beautiful as her art—yet another unknown street artist making a living with skillful hands and a creative mind.

WHO'S YOUR DADDY?: HAPPY FATHER'S DAY TO MY DAD, ALBEIT 55 YEARS TOO LATE...ALSO TO A REAL (COLOURED) MAN FROM SOUTH AFRICA

"Honour thy Father and thy Mother" is the Holy Commandment that will usher in tomorrow's activities in homes around the world...obviously it's dad's turn to have breakfast in bed. For some unknown reason, I suddenly realized my father has been gone for 55 years.

No, he did not leave his family. He didn't run away from the responsibility of raising and caring for his five children. John Frank Davidek didn't abuse his wife; he wasn't a drinker and God knows he didn't know anything about (street) drugs. He certainly knew about "over the counter" drugs--the ones doctors used back then to treat his illness. He knew how they failed to heal him. Sadly, we knew it too.

My twin brother and I knew our father was a hard worker. Hell, he had to keep the grocery store going in order to be the man who literally would "bring home the bacon." As a butcher, he was the fellow who sliced the bacon--and every other part of a pig's carcass. He knew, as did our Mom, Marie, every aspect of a side of beef, lamb, what have you in the area of meats in a market.

Yes, I've heard stories about his toughness; they are told alongside other stories about his laughter, generosity, and fun-loving nature. It seems just about everyone loved my father. That makes me feel pretty good, especially now that I am writing about his death from complications from multiple sclerosis 55 long years ago. Jim and I were eight years of age then.

I am absolutely sure that 55 years from now one of Derek Augustus' children or grandchildren would willingly honor him in some manner. My father, John Frank Davidek, was an immigrant to the United States, coming from what is now the Slovak Republic. My friend, Mr. Augustus' grandparents came from islands off the coast of Africa.

That said, I honor you, Derek Augustus, with this brief narrative about your celebration of life and family here in South Africa. I'm wondering how our Davidek lives would have turned out if my father would have immigrated to this beautiful, ethnically-diverse country. I just know in my heart of hearts that he would have enjoyed knowing Derek Augustus and his (large) family. Here's his story, Dad:


Innovative and pacesetting, the Origins Centre at Wits University in Johannesburg would have a field day analyzing Derek Augustus. Derek is a so-called "coloured" citizen in South Africa. Yes, even in this, the age of the "Rainbow Nation", Derek would be described as coloured.

Being coloured here is not unusual in and of itself, of course, but the DNA geneticists at the center are qualified to reveal ancestral possibilities that go far beyond what meets the eye concerning one's ancestry.

Using technology unheard of until recently, scientists at the centre identify volunteer's donated cells to determine patterns of mitochondrial DNA (mtDNA). Said patterns are known as haplogroups and are found in all people.

Way before DNA testing, race was determined in South Africa by virtue of the infamous 1950 Population Registration Act. The then apartheid government devised a simple method to learn if a person of colour was indeed "Coloured" (it was law that the races be capitalized). The official races, determined by government decree, were: White, Asian (Indian), Coloured, and Black. Status and privilege was assigned according to that racial order.

A White government official would have run a standard HB pencil through Derek Augustus' thick, wavy hair and arrived at his race classification--which would be identified in his passbook document.

A teacher for 38 years in South Africa, Augustus' hair is now snowy white and still thick and wavy. His skin colour is a rich, coffee and cream brown. African Americans might refer to his color as a darker "paper sack brown."

Having been born and raised in what he refers to as a "multi-racial" area of Durban, along the east coast of the country, he had neighbors and friends from many diverse racial groups. In the late 1950's, Augustus' large family was forced to move to a designated "Coloured" area within the coastal city.

He stated, "My life totally changed then. My sisters, brothers, and I were forced to attend a 'coloured' school." He continued, "The fairest of the coloured children were permitted to attend the better White schools."

The racial classification system became so complicated as to include several different kinds of coloured people. There was the Cape Coloured designation, the Cape Malay group, and one simply identified as "other." He related how an indigenous ethnic category of people known as the Griqua were classified as Coloured because of their lighter skin color.

Augustus would be able to assist the Origins Centre with ancestor information relating to his maternal parent's family tree that extended to the islands of Mauritius, now a short, four-hour flight off the eastern coast of Africa. His father's next of kin came from St. Helena, an island about 1,200 miles off the western coast of Africa. Historically, the island is well-known as the place of exile for Napoleon in the early 1800's. He noted that his grandparents from Mauritius spoke Creole and the St. Helena relatives spoke English.

Married in 1968, his wife Lucelle further complicated the apartheid government's role in their lives. Eventually, she was carrying two passbooks--one that listed her as "Coloured", while the other identified her as "White."

Augustus said the duel passbook identity came about because the company she worked for had jobs identified by the government as reserved for Whites. The White owner of the firm took on Coloured workers and he managed to have the officials classify all his workers as White.

The Catholic couple had difficulty obtaining permission to marry within the church. At that time it was illegal for anyone fron any race category to marry a White person. His soon to be wife was forced to discard her White identity passbook in order for the Catholic priest to legally marry them. A marriage certificate had to be approved by the South African Home Affairs Bureau.

With hesitant laughter, Augustus described how the government planned to have certain labor pools filled by the four race groups. He said, "Whites were to be given supervisory, managerial positions, while the Asian Indian population were meant to be within the realm of commerce and trade. The Coloured category would be given preference for skilled positions such as artisans and vocational jobs. The Blacks were to be the labourers.

If Derek Augustus' ancestors were alive today, they would be proud of his accomplishments in the field of education. They would smile broadly on his multi-cultural, multi-racial family, one that lives in harmony in what has been described as the "Rainbow Nation."

The apartheid government forced people to look at colour as something that divided its people", Augustus related. He went on, "If you look at people today, especially young people, they don't see color. If they do, it's their parents that influenced them."

He believes the present Black government has tried to relate its own failings to the apartheid regime--emphatically saying that it is now time for South Africa to move forward. Augustus resents the government's role in what he describes as "dragging up the past." He stated, "Our government should be fighting for better education facilities for young people. It should stress equality for its people, along with steadfastly maintaining a strong democratic government."

If Derek Augustus volunteers his DNA for study by the Wits University professionals, they will surely find a pedigree of ancestors from the islands to the east and west of the African continent. They might even turn up relatives from the four racial groups established by the apartheid government of old. And who knows, Dad, perhaps they would find an ancient person from the Carpathian Mountains of Slovakia!

That would suit him just fine. A multi-cultural, multi-racial ancestry that would proudly represent who Derek Augustus is today.

INVIGORATINGLY INVIGILATING: ONE DOWN, TWO TO GO!!

Now, look carefully at those first two words! I challenge you to find the second one in a dictionary, an American dictionary that is. Yeah, yeah, I know what you're thinking...why is this guy using an American dictionary in South Africa?

It's called The American Heritage College Dictionary, the third edition, published by the prestigious Houghton Mifflin Company, out of Boston and New York. The cover proudly indicates this is the newest version of their dictionary--with over 200,000 definitions. And you will not find invigilating. I repeat, it's not in there! Importantly, I am going to leave said dictionary behind in the classroom I'm teaching in...a gift of (American) English language for my partner Fulbright educator now on summer vacation in Flint, Michigan, U.S.A.

I ask myself, "John, what have you been doing at school this past week?" I answer myself, "Why I've been invigilating!" But, wait a minute there, how in heck can you have been doing something that is not even listed in your authorative, third edition American Heritage College Dictionary? I am getting irritated and I shout back at myself, "Listen, you lout...I know what I've been doing and I definitely know where I've been doing it!"

You see, invigilating means one is proctoring an examination at a school in which one is employed--said person is supervising students, in this case "learners", at a South African School. My Fulbright colleagues are doing the same exact thing at their respective schools. I have not heard any complaints from them though. Our invigilating is more intense, I believe.

I'm told if you are a good invigilator, you must keep moving, walking up and down, up and down those narrow aisles. I carefully watched how it is done. One must have a stern look on one's face, glancing from side to side, making sure no one is copying, passing notes, or heaven forbid, actually trying to cheat by sneaking a peek at something scrawled in pen on a wrist, sole of a shoe, or on a shirt cuff.

Invigilating is tiresome work. First of all, all the floors I was invigilating on were made of concrete. If we invigilators were permitted to wear roller-skates, it would really lesson the wear and tear on the leg muscles. Not to be, of course!

I noticed the word "vigil" within the invigilating word. It felt rewarding to find vigil in my American dictionary. But then my "reward" turned into confusion: the definition read that vigil meant keeping a watch during normal sleeping hours! I was invigilating from 8a.m. until about 2p.m. each day last week. This was not during so-called normal sleeping hours. Ahah! My dictionary went on to give a secondary definition for vigil: The act or period of observing, surveillance. So that was it, I was like a security guard and this was an act of surveillance!

While I was invigilating in a room full of 8th-graders, I noticed an English dictionary. It was printed in London. To my great surprise, I found invigilate in the dictionary published in England. Not satisfied, I went back to the inner cover of the American Heritage Dictionary and found a section titled "Expert Usage Guidance."

Scanning that, I read that the guidance is based on the most current linguistic research and on an opinion poll from the distinguished American Heritage Usage Panel, a group of many well-known writers, educators, scholars, and public figures who are noted for their excellent command of the English language.

How could these "experts" in the English language leave out invigilate? It's a question I've been pondering all weekend. I've slept on it. Dreamed about it. Woke up thinking about it. How could THEY be so wrong and the English so right? And the more I thought about it the more I came to the conclusion that the word invigilate is going to have to go!

The word sounds like something out of a medieval dungeon. You know, "I'm going to invigilate that wench for not bowing deep enough to my Lord!" Proctor sounds so much more civilized. One would be proctoring an examination. Say it slowly now: p...r...o...c...t...o...r...i...n...g! Since nothing else has worked out to well here for me, I think my one major contribution will be to begin a movement to change invigilating to proctoring. Now THAT would be something significant, don't you think?

ADDITIONAL:

We're entering the second week of invigilating and some of my colleagues are becoming unglued--as in making asses of themselves over this stuff. There have been several "incidents", but I'm only going to touch on one. This one happened today, Wednesday, June 14.

I'm invigoratingly invigilating in the school auditorium (most refer to it as a "hall"). This time it is only about three-quarters full...senior learners doing a very well constructed Geography examination. Someone in the very back of the hall asks for the time and I show her my watch. Suddenly I notice that the (white) clock in the front of the large room has a glare on it--making it impossible for certain kids in the room to see what time it is. Usually the remaining time is written on a chalkboard in the room; there is no chalkboard in the front of the hall.

In a very dutiful manner, I ask a colleague (who happens to be invigoratingly invigilating at a much faster pace than I would dare to take), if it would be okay if one of us notified the learners of the correct time. Answer: NO! Reason: You would be breaking the RULES by talking to the learners during an examination! Hmmmmmmm, let's see now...I observed this same colleague chit-chatting with some of the kids taking the exam during her invigoratingly invigilating walking, back-and-forth, back-and-forth, back-and-forth, back-and-forth, etc. (you get the idea, right?).

I mildly protested, saying some of the learners cannot see the clock, etc. "Shhhhhhhhhhhh!", she loudly responded. She added, "Don't talk when the learners are taking an exam!" Well, I slid over to the side of the hall, my tail between my legs. I said no more... Someone came to relieve me (we do this shifts, thank goodness). I sauntered off to yet another room to invigoratingly invigilate again.

My point with this particular addition is this: Some people take rules too seriously. You know the saying, "Rules were made to be broken." You see, I don't give a damn if Caesar gave the order not tell a hall full of kids what time it was (especially if they couldn't see the sundial because of glare), when time is a critical factor in an examination with pencil and paper.

Yeah, and please don't come back at me with something like: "The Romans crucified anyone who didn't follow their laws (rules)". Go ahead, nail me to a cross...throw me to the lions! And please, please don't give me that line, "When in Rome...".

My hypothesis is: People who BLINDLY follow rules are fools (yes, yes...it rhymes). One should ask questions, dig a little deeper, look for alternative methods, hunt down multiple perspectives, and challenge people who stiffly rely on "rules" that don't make sense. What you have just read is part of my educational philosophy. Perhaps you wouldn't want your child to take an examination in MY school?

ADDITIONAL...TO THE ADDITIONAL:

Phew! After twelve hours of "scoring" examinations on Father's Day, I'm entering the third and last week of what I'm now going to describe as "Exam Hell." I learned all about Exam Hell by studying the Japanese. Besides the fact that I've been to Japan twice (both times on grants from funding institutions), my (then) family hosted a Japanese girl for a year. It has been some time ago, but I'm sure Mitsuko is doing very well in her pursuits.

Unfortunately, Exam Hell in South Africa is not what learners have to endure--it's what the teachers suffer through. Speaking of Hell, my wife was mad as Hell over the examinations that had to be attended to on MY special day! Hell, she even pitched in and helped me correct some of the 8th-grade learners papers. The reason why she was mad as Hell was because we would have enjoyed going out as a family and celebrating my status as head of the family...on Father's Day. No way, Jose'. Our family day was spent all day scoring examination papers of my 8th-grade learners.

All of the above brings me to this disturbing thought: Gee, I wonder what the South African Department of Education fat-cat bureaucrats were doing on Father's Day? Please forgive me for "thinking outside the box" that I am currently relegated to, but I'd also be willing to bet administrators at schools throughout S.A. also celebrated Father's Day with their families. Must be nice, huh?

Well, only three more days to go with this invigilating, scoring, Exam Hell routine. Maybe I'll get lucky and not have a teacher-colleague insult or berate me in the time remaining. Then again, my luck here in South Africa hasn't been what could describe as "lucky." Wish me luck...

FINAL Additional Message:

It's Thursday: Only one more day of this torture. Three weeks of running from room to room, either invigilating or attempting to keep a room full of 8th or 9th graders quiet as they "study" for the next examination. I've noticed that few really study; most waste their time by "goofing off" or reading something not relevent to the waiting exam. Pity. It is much the same back in Flint, Michigan...no seriousness of purpose regarding the age-old testing mechanisms. After 30-something years of teaching, I can pretty much look at a kid and tell you if said youngster will succeed on a test/examination, call it what you will. The lazy, "I-could-care-less-ones" stand out...anywhere (Flint or Kempton Park...makes no difference).

Enough of this! Tomorrow we shove off for Botswana, then snake our way toward Victoria Falls. It's gonna be fantastic to see/feel/smell what has fascinated so many for so many centuries (I'm referring to the roar of the water, of course). The invigilating routine won't be missed, that's for sure! I'll return with much more vigor restored, what with all the fresh air, dynamic, roaring waters, and meeting up with friendly indigenous peoples who could care less whether I'm a "good" invigilator or not. That will truly be invigorating (to forget the invigilating)!

......666......

That's six dots before the 666, six dots after. And now look up and say, "The sky is falling, the sky is falling!" Well, if the sky is still there you'll know that the hex on people and events on this day is all a bunch of hooey. Listen, I say to Hell with the Devil! That sounds a bit bold, especially on HIS day!

The learners at my school are aware of today: June 6, 2006...the sixes are aligned and it only happens like this every, what, few thousand years! I was thinking of just staying in bed today, but the alarm clock rang at, you guessed it: 6:06am. Strange. I set the doggone thing for six. I timed myself dressing and for the first time in about six months it took me only six minutes and 6.6 seconds.

Breakfast was "spot on" with the day...I counted six things at my place (plate, utensils, "serviette", of course). Rushing off, I kissed my wife six times and damn if it didn't take me exactly six minutes to get to school!

By this time you must know I'm pulling your leg--six times, of course. Kids are wary about this day--some are apprehensive about taking exams today. And who could blame them? Six of 'em were standing outside my door this morning (the room used to be numbered 13!). When they walked in and saw 666 written on the chalkboard they balked. I assured them if they would just write J.M.J. in the upper right corner of their papers, then everything would go well for them on the exam today.

It always worked for me...the J.M.J. thing. It stands for Jesus, Mary, Joseph. We learned to do that at St. Anastasia High School in Fort Pierce, Florida (where I graduated from long ago). As captain of the football team (American football), I always led the prayer on the school bus like this: "Jesus, lost and found again, help us win this game." Unfortunately, it almost never worked!

So there you are, sometimes you win and sometimes you lose. By the way, the only reason people keep bringing up the 666 thing is that some folks actually believe it. Belief is a strange thing. It can help you max-out on exams and it can also (sometimes) help you overcome an opponent on a sports field. More importantly, some beliefs can handicap you and cause you to lose your sense of rationality.

The latter being the case, I'm gonna "tread lightly" today. Hmmmmm, where have we heard that before? When it is six minutes past six I will make sure I'm nowhere near six doors, six windows, six people, or six-shooters (that's guns to an American). Maybe I'd best cuddle a six-pack of a good South African beer and empty 'em out one by one. Added up that would be six beers, right? Then I would probably head for the bedroom and catch forty (40) winks...nah, that wouldn't work would it? At any rate, I sincerely hope you have an uneventful 666 day!

One last thought on this day: my good friend, Ron, told me that the Rand finished this day at R6.66 per U.S. Dollar! Simply amazing, I thought! What a coincidence. Or was that Satan fellow working a little overtime on his big day? We'll never find out, I suppose. And if you believe any of the above you need to "deep six" any and all your beliefs and find a way to get rid of one of those dwarfs in the Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs story!

GO AHEAD, CLASSIFY THIS...MR. RACE CLASSIFIER DUDE!

I couldn't resist lying in front of the Race Classification Commission wall-size photograph at The Apartheid Museum in Johannesburg. The black/white photo juxtaposed next to my colourful frame sets the tone for "the good old days" versus the South Africa of today. Check the stern looks on those creeps...and imagine THEM determining your "race." Hmmmmmm, let's see: four racist dudes masquerading as blobs of DNA inspectors...only their "technology" was a government issue HB #2 pencil! It's all pretty comical now, but check those faces again for a less than comedic stare. And while you're scanning their solemn mugs, which have a U.S.A. McCarthyesque patina to them, look at my angry stare. Yeah, I'm mad as Hell at someone who would have the audacity to determine my "race." Thing is, none of this was funny at all...they were dead serious about being race inspectors...and their progeny are still lurking around this beautiful country.