J. John le Grange

I am sorry Pretty, I stole your mother, 

Gladys,

and took her as my own. 

I had a mother. I had a white mother, but as it was, 

it was much easier to have a black one too. 

You adopted me.

Gladys, was my name for you, 

not because it was your birth name, 

because your Xhosa name was too difficult to pronounce 

for the white people. 

I remember the first time that I saw you, 

you came to our house and you were cleaning the floor. 

I had never seen anyone clean the floor, because 

Nanny Jane, my black mother before you, had been sick 

and I don’t think she could get down 

on her hand and knees 

and scrub it like you could.

You seemed to have taken the face of my mother at that time. 

I am not saying that my real mother was a bad mother at all, the opposite - she was the most loving, 

but there was something, also, about my black one. 

There was something about you - Gladys. 

I called you Gladys and you called me Jason 

or sometimes 

master - Irony.

I was young and you were much older than I was. 

I had the inexcusable privilege to be treated this way.

Gladys, I remember your smell. Your room. 

I used to walk down with my sister. 

We used to stand outside; 

you would be washing. 

Washing early in the morning. 

My father thinking that he had done you a great favour installed a bath, with hot water in the laundry, next to your room, but you never used it. 

You weren’t given the dignity to use it. 

To bathe in the room 

that you washed our clothes in, 

this is not a bathroom, 

it’s a laundry. 

Your room was very nice for me, 

although I don’t know for you. 

It was very comforting. 

It, the room, you: had a distinct Gladys smell. 

A sweet Vaseline, beautiful Gladys smell. 

Looking outside your window, near our strawberry patch, when I felt the world was ending, looking at you 

and knowing that you were close by and that was enough.

Gladys, again, I am saying that I am sorry 

(there can never be enough times to say this).

There are other memories of your room. 

The bricks. 

The bricks to keep away the Tokoloshe. 

The bricks to save you when it came. 

It is, however, the story of Pretty, 

your daughter, 

your treasure, 

that reminds me the most of you. 

The daughter who/that I stole you from. 

Your daughter Pretty worked on a farm outside our town. 

I remember my father had to fetch her one day. 

Because she had been beaten, 

because a white man had lost his gun, 

because he had been careless, 

because it was now missing, 

because it was always easier to blame a black person, 

because we, whites, always need scapegoats, 

because they always need a minority,

not in numbers, but in dignity 

because your daughter just happened to be that person,

because . . .

She was whipped badly. 

When she came, 

my white mother tried to get us out of the way 

and tried to stop us from asking questions, 

that children ask, 

that hurt so much, 

because they are raw. 

She was in bad need of love, 

care. 

I could see that her spirit 

had been broken. 

I could see that a South African Woman 

had been humiliated and hurt. 

And Gladys at that time 

you must have hated me. 

I would have hated me. 

But you didn’t. 

You looked after me. You made me sandwiches 

and made me dinner, 

you cleaned our house. 

Why Gladys why?

I remember years later 

going back to visit that little town, 

and going to visit you. 

I felt very sad. 

After we left, 

you sent me a birthday present one year, 

Some money in a card. 

I was embarrassed. 

It was your money, 

you didn’t have to do it, 

you got nothing out of it. 

I was reminded of what I had taken for granted

That you cared unconditionally for me.

That you

still cared 

Gladys.

There are more characters, more amazing women in this poem.  

You and Sissy, the loud laughing Sissy, 

sitting in our kitchen, 

my father pouring Sissy some wine. 

Yes, a black person in our kitchen coming to visit you. 

When visiting required a pass, a ‘dompas.’

That didn’t stop Sissy from visiting often. 

No sadness in that kitchen, 

where women, 

shared friendship and laughter.

There could have been animosity 

there could have been anger 

but there wasn’t. 

I never felt anger 

or 

bitterness from your smiling friends.

Gladys through all that

— that pain, 

there was love. 

love of your

friends. 

And them for me. 

Lilian, who made me a wonderful backpack, 

made out of plastic bags. 

plastic bags turned into art. 

And that art given to me. 

It was a present that I should have appreciated more.

Gladys, mine is not the only story. Thousands of mothers adopted new white children and left their black children behind. 

Gladys, I don’t know how to say it. 

Because ‘I am sorry’ 

is just a combination of words, 

a statement. 

if I were a dancer 

I might perform something. 

if I were an artist 

I might paint. 

But I only use words, Gladys.

Let us imagine

 that I take you to a magical place,

 In that place, the white south african men

respect you, 

you are equal to them. 

But more importantly Gladys, 

you are free, 

most importantly, 

you are free. 

Free from apartheid oppression,

free from pain, 

and Pretty is with you 

as she should have been. 

Pretty has all your time and all of your attention. 

I have no rights to you Gladys, 

Pretty does. 

You do not belong to me. 

And yet I hoped you would.

I am sorry for all those years.

I denied others your love, warmth and care.

I am sorry. 

I read, I read, I read 

the sad stories.

I am haunted. 

about humans 

treated like animals 

and then tossed away 

when all their life 

had been sucked out by privileged white people.

But Gladys, I want to say that I am sorry again. 

Why am I saying

sorry you might ask, 

I had very little to do with it. 

Oh, I did. I am a beneficiary of apartheid.

The memory is you.

Kindness costs nothing someone said. 

They were right: 

kindness costs nothing. 

Thank you, Gladys 

Thank you. 

You are amongst those woman, 

those powerful woman, 

of South Africa 

to whom I lay this tribute. 

I thank you, Gladys

and 

I

apologise. 

At the same time, I honour you, 

I honour you as one of those

strong people, who provided,

unbelievable kindness. 

Life costs a lot,  

it costs a lot.

I respect you 

I respect all of you . . . 

All of the domestic servants 

who gave up their lives 

for us.

Us, the privileged whites.