Relationships

MY ADULT CHILDREN

ENVIRONMENT

The environment you’re raised in can either make you strive for success, drive you towards your goals, or cause you to dive into darkness.

I never learned how to give love and acceptance, neither to myself nor to others.  Affection was a foreign language to me; one I was never taught to speak.  My parents were distant, their hearts encased in stone, and I inherited their coldness.  Love wasn’t something I saw or felt—not in the magazines I flipped through, not in the glimpses of the world outside my window.  Hugging, kissing, kind words—they were as foreign as an alien landscape.  They were things people like me didn’t deserve, or so I was led to believe.  The silent message was clear: you are only what you’re told you are.  If those who raised you never showed themselves kindness, how could they possibly teach you to love yourself?

Dictatorship was all I knew.  I was commanded to do this, to do that, with no space for conversation or questions because older people were the authoritarians, and they knew it all.  ‘Who are you to ask?’ and ‘What do you know?’ were common responses that quickly silenced any curiosity, forcing us children to retreat into our shells, abandoning any attempts to explore boundaries.  So, when I became a parent, not knowing any better, I passed down the same rigid disciplines I had learned.  It is only later in life that I asked myself, what kind of adults were we raising?  Timid, shy people who were unable to stand up, let alone speak up for themselves.  Adults unable to make their own decisions or stand up for what they believed in.  We were raising weak adults, adults expected to ‘do as you’re told.’

I was raised in the apartheid era, where bullying continued from childhood into the workplace, where we had to accept the remnants of anything thrown at us and be grateful for it.  The houses ‘given’ to us were considered a privilege.  Everything we received, whether earned or not, was seen as a privilege granted to a select few.  As dire as that sounds, it taught us gratitude in the midst of a docile existence.

THE DREAM THAT FUELED ME

At home, if I learned anything, it was to work until nothing else made sense.  My days were consumed by cooking, cleaning, washing dishes, scrubbing floors, doing everyone’s laundry, ironing, spring cleaning, and washing the curtains and windows.  That was my routine.  In the rare moments of solitude, I’d flip through magazines, finding a brief escape.  Occasionally, I played with the neighbour’s kids, my brothers, and my cousins.

From a young age, I was determined to escape the small coastal town and start anew in the bustling city of Johannesburg.  For years, that dream was my fuel, even as the days dragged on.  But when the time finally came at 21, everything else—my past hurts, my yearning for escape, my anxiety, and the need to leave behind everything I’d known—faded into the background.  Something was calling me, and it wasn’t rooted in East London, South Africa. I had just turned twenty-one.  I was ready.  With the urgency of someone who had waited a lifetime, I left my old life behind as fast as I could say “twenty-one.”

I believed that God had bestowed on me the gift of singing.  It was one of my few escapes, but I didn’t believe in myself enough to follow through on that dream after twenty-one.  However, that is one of the reasons why Jo’burg seemed so attractive—I could be ‘the next big thing,’ return to East London someday as a star.  The only peace I found was in looking into a broken mirror, alone in my childhood home, seeing an ascending star and smiling—a smile that quickly faded as the doubts crept in: ‘Who was I?  What did I know?’

I never expected life away from home to be easy, but then again, it hadn’t been easy at home either.  I knew I was a survivor—I had been born and bred to survive.  I was determined that nothing in this lifetime would stand in the way of my success.  While I would never sell my soul, there was no way I was returning to East London empty-handed.  Deep down, a small voice—an inner knowing—carried me through even the toughest trials.  I triumphed far beyond what my peers had set for themselves and, in my mind, beyond what my family had envisioned for me: a mediocre life in East London, with questionable values and limited goals.

I soon realized that becoming a singer was an arduous battle filled with compromises I wasn’t prepared to make.  Besides, I didn’t believe in my singing ability enough to sacrifice my worth.  The music industry felt like a ruthless monster, devouring those who sacrificed everything they were.  I knew I was better than that, and I knew I’d be okay if I didn’t become the ‘next big thing.’  Johannesburg held many more opportunities where I could succeed with my integrity intact.

As fate would have it—and I say this for many reasons—I became pregnant and gave birth to my first child, a son, at the age of 22.  Though it wasn’t part of my plan, I embraced the pregnancy and returned to East London, determined to take care of my responsibility.  But soon after, I returned to Johannesburg with my baby, ready to continue my journey.

As I progressed through life as a new, single mother, I invested in upskilling myself and went on to have two more children.  Neither of them was within the confines of marriage, and none were planned, but I accepted my responsibility each time.  I was grateful for the strength and resilience that allowed me to single-handedly care for my children, whether they lived with me or, at times, with my mother.  I never asked for, nor expected anything from anyone.  I kept grinding.  I kept my focus, which now centered on owning my own house, my own things, my own car.

In hindsight—as my mother reminded me when I was thirty-one, sitting in my house in Pretoria—she asked, “Do you remember, Gene… when you were sixteen, you said, ‘When I am thirty-one, I want to own my own house’?”

I had forgotten that petition, made in the depths of a time when life didn’t quite favour me—or so I thought—and I made that declaration.  It was a wonderful reminder, and in that moment, I felt a deep sense of gratitude.  I thanked God.  My mother was proud.  I was happy and proud, and so were my children, who by then were teenagers.

My journey took me from Johannesburg to Pretoria in 1992, the capital city of South Africa, where new opportunities awaited.  I worked tirelessly, committed to earning everything on my own and refusing to rely on handouts.  My resolve was unwavering: I wanted to build an empire for myself and my children, to raise them in a place with better options and opportunities than I had known.

WAS IT WORTH IT?

However, I didn’t realize then that my relentless drive to build this empire would come at a cost.  My constant work, while aimed at providing for my children, led to a significant absence in their lives.  My dedication to building a better future for them ended up costing me precious time with the very people I sought to support.  My absence was not without consequences.

To be continued…

TAKE AWAY / LESSONS

Lesson Number 1

You can’t always do it alone, and you don’t always have to.  If you need to be strong, that’s fine, but if you find yourself overwhelmed by something you’ve taken on, set it aside and pray for guidance until you’re ready.

Know your worth.  Know your value.  Don’t compromise.  Ultimately, what will be, will be—whether it serves as a life lesson or propels you forward.  God’s grace is endless.  As we grow closer to Him, our paths become clearer.  The fog lifts, and He helps us bear our burdens.  Build a relationship with God (or your chosen deity), understanding that it’s a journey that begins, perhaps, in your moments of despair, but it must be nurtured continuously, in every moment.

Until next time.

Blessings on your journey.