Duplicity
A few weeks ago I wrote a piece that began "I was brought up by a Feminist and a Marxist". That's actually a very crude simplification of the complex drama that was my childhood. Inevitably one of the key players was upset: my stepfather Mick felt that he'd been edited out of the script of my life. After writing that sentence it did cross my mind that Mick might appear to be omitted but I decided, as he had also at times identified himself as a Marxist, that he was covered. He of course doesn't feel that way. In actual fact I was brought up by a whole gamut of people, including my mother Hilary above all others, my father Martin for a few years at the beginning and intermittently thereon, my grandfather Arthur until his death when I was fifteen, my stepfather Mick from the age of nine or so onwards, my grandmother Inez and all the other myriad adults who impacted upon the person I have become.
At first I justified my simplified account as deliberately archetypal; to be read as a personal fiction rather than literal fact-telling. For example, there's also much more subtlety and complexity to my mother than just 'Feminist' and my feminist influences came from several sources besides her. Whilst talking this through with Mick I realised there was something else at work: a deliberate duplicity that I have learned to adopt in conversation to avoid getting bogged down, or even embarassed, by my quagmire of parental relationships. In many ways I do this to fit in. 'Normal' people have mothers and fathers, and like almost everyone, in my mid-teens I wanted to be 'normal'. Mick has been such an important man in my life that I often refer to him as my father, whilst in other conversations I will refer to Martin as my father. Some friends have learnt this and developed a routine of asking which father I am referring to.
One particular story comes to mind, and may mark the genesis of my tendency towards narrative duplicity. It was before my mother and Mick were married, so at the time he wasn't technically my stepfather although he was certainly fulfilling the role in practice. As a teenager I disliked Physical Exercise (P.E.) and P.E. teachers with a vengeance, and often got my parents to write notes excusing me. On this one occasion (I was perhaps twelve or thirteen) Mick had written the note, and the P.E. teacher in question - a particularly unpleasant Mr Pearce - questioned the note's authority. "Who's this?" he asked "How do I know this isn't just some friend of yours?". I was embarassed and stammered something about "my mum's friend". After hearing me recount the experience my parents were horrified and complained to the school. They advised me to in future describe Mick as my stepfather, regardless of whether that was technically true or not.
Now I do this almost without thinking. I describe Margie, my father's long-term partner, as being his "wife" even though they aren't technically married. I frequently refer to Mick as "my father", although biologically speaking he isn't. Rachael, Mick's daughter, is rarely anything more qualified than "sister". So when Theodora or Vuyiswa, close family friends here in Guguletu, describe me as their "big brother" I run with it - why not?
Ami, one of the best journalistic writers I know, has a saying "never let the facts get in the way of a good story". As long as particular attention is paid to all the various meanings of the word 'good' in that phrase, I think there's a lot of value in that. I want to tell powerful and compelling stories that move people. By refusing to get lost in the minutae of 'the facts' I believe that I enhance the universality of my narrative descriptions of 'the truth'. I also believe that I must draw a line in the sand over which I shall not step: I certainly don't wish to disseminate harmful lies, but I believe that there is some flexibility in where exactly that line gets drawn.
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