About 30 years ago, the subject of my 12th grade English paper was Apartheid in South Africa. It was appropriate, because I’d grown up under some of the finest racist segregation America had to offer. What I remember most was my prosaic teenage outrage over the fate of Nelson Mandela, and how incredibly unjust it was that he would probably die in prison.Exactly 20 years ago today, I almost got arrested myself, when I wouldn’t stop dancing and shouting while my sisters Sarah and Rebecca and I watched Nelson Mandela walk out of prison. We were living in a second floor apartment in St. Louis, and we raised holy hell all morning until the folks downstairs had enough and the cops came a knockin’. We settled down for a while, and then started right back up. After a second visit from the local constabulary, we finally got the message.
Sixteen years ago, I actually met Nelson Mandela. Well, at least I got to shake his hand. It
was at a private National Press Club Reception, where we weren’t supposed to bring cameras. Naturally I sneaked one in, and shoved it at the guy in front of me when it was my turn to stand next to him. If I had to leave my burning apartment with only one of my belongings, it would be that photo.
Four years ago, I stood in the Nelson Mandela Museum in Umtata, South Africa, drinking in the story of his life and struggle. Afterwards, the journalists’ group I was with got to drive past his home, and we were told he was there. It was almost as thrilling as the day I got to shake his hand.
Today, I am living on the same continent as Nelson Rolihlahla Mandela. I consider it an incredible privilege. After all, he was one of the first people to directly fuel my outrage over social injustice, and to give me a voice to weigh in on it. Mandela was also was my first link to the fate of Africans. Come to think of it, maybe he’s why I wound up over here doing what I’m doing in the first place.
Thank you for the inspiration, Madiba. And for a life that truly has been “well played.”
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