here a Beamer, there a Beamer

These things are on every street here; I see dozens of them a day, turned into cabs or working-class work horses, full of paint and wood and fit out with trailer hitches and roof racks. When I sold my '89, my friend Everett told me never to sell it to anyone in town because it would break my heart to see it driving past all the time, and he was right, but this is worse. At home it was a damn cool car - a good performer, but really just unique and pretty - here it's a threepenny mule. But, as my girlfriend's yoga instructor says, "A bad day for the ego is a good day for the soul." I hope so!

This week finished up well. I had another big class in the townships yesterday, once again full of students who (at first) wouldn't look me in the eye or say a single word to me, but after about 20 minutes I'd gotten them to open up and speak more or less freely. The subject matter contained some pretty serious stuff: a story about a young white woman and her coloured husband (who live together in a black township) go to a New Year's Eve party hosted by their parents, former Apartheid dignitaries who made millions owning a secret brothel full of black women in a white neighborhood. Wowza. So, Shep and I were the only white guys for miles, each with a class of forty students, and the teachers had picked this story of all the others that had been on previous matric exams. Still, it went well in the end. Afternoons like that are teaching me - although sometimes the hard way - just how much work it takes to be a teacher (and skill to be a good one, which I'm not, yet). I've also learned to get past the sweaty palms when I have to lead discussions on race with the township students, and it's clear that their confidence and comfort levels will always depend upon my own.