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The Scholarship Girl

We have been dragged to the library each Saturday morning, with our overdue books, and the outrageous fines we needed to pay. Three kids holding onto their library playing cards as if it was a golden ticket, a lottery ticket, a profitable scratch card.

Three kids with shiny eyes, gossamer hair, already with probably the most excellent volcano-garden inside their thoughts’ eye, with the ladder of genes from an unconventional, cultured, educated daddy, a clever and stylish mom ‘amidst-the-roots-of-oblivion’, the wanting glass of creativeness, planting the stems of illumination, the feast of phantasm, all the size of chance all present in kids’¬†books. The librarians’ solely ‘communication’ with us was with their phantom limbs after they stamped the books that we needed to return in two weeks’ time. And so the three of us would depart with daddy. Stroll out of the swinging doorways to the ready automobile within the parking zone. Our heads admiring ‘our presents below the faux Christmas tree’. For daddy, it was like a birthday current for him.

Three kids would have a look at the covers of their chosen afternoon, night, future delight again and again deciding which to start out studying first. Each ebook had their very own silver lining, its personal identity-kit of case research, kids who had sophisticated dad and mom, and a humanity that was as complicated as any little one who stored a diary, a baby’s mind. The floor of the pages of library books, particularly the Encyclopaedia Britannica had a sure down-to-earth scent like linen being ironed on the kitchen desk, my previous man, a pineapple, spaghetti, winter revisited as if it had had large publicity to the arms of many kids. As quickly as we obtained dwelling we marched into our bedrooms as quick as our skinny-matchstick legs might carry us with the books as heavy as a load of water below our arms with the love that we reserved for mummy, the awe that we had for our father, a college principal and the love that we saved up for Jesus (that is how a lot we liked studying. To us it wasn’t only a passion.) It opened doorways. Gave us vertigo.

It was our remedy in response to childhood continued, our hallucinogenic medication for Alice-in-wonderland. Her white rabbit and the fragmentary Cheshire cat’s smile. We had a profound respect for literature, rigorous self-discipline, and for silence. This had at all times been instilled in us since the beginning. Our ‘ft caught in a cement bucket’ as quickly as we started to learn. All of us learn from an early age. In adolescence it was Shakespeare’s sonnets, studying newspapers in major faculty and chopping out attention-grabbing articles that we might recite parrot trend for our orals, and within the benches of the school rooms of highschool English I found the wuthering heights of Athol Fugard’s mecca, Bessie Head, Woman Macbeth, Maru, Salinger’s Holden Caulfield sitting behind a college desk in Port Elizabeth, Swaziland and Johannesburg. Finally we grew up. And ‘it’ (studying, searching, directions on writing, the Athol Fugard phenomenon, grew to become our remedy, we have been therapist-and-patient, psychologist and therapist’s chair so-to-speak).

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