“Don’t forget us.”
These seemingly harmless words have far reaching implications. I’ve been reading the novel, Nervous Conditions by Tsitsi Dangarembga, and when these words were spoken to the main character by her mother, I chuckled wryly.
I say it’s a harmless phrase, because the same words have come out of my mouth towards a friend during a major life transition. I’m sure I said a version of these words when we were going to university, or when some got married. What did I mean by it? I believe that I was saying in transitioning to this new life, let’s not become strangers, that I still want to be important to them. And I think that’s the general sentiment of this phrase when it’s said. But context matters.
I was curious how Tambudzai, the main character, would receive the words. Rightfully, she was confused; she enquired within herself what her mother meant. Tambudzai understood that this phrase was deeper than it appeared and I’m glad she discerned it. For her, she was in pursuit of an education in order to lift herself from the homestead life. Her future in the village was set in stone: become a wife, a mother, and labour the remainder of her days--not toward her ambitions, but for the sake of the family.
She saw the words of her mother for what they were: a limitation to not go too far, an anchor to prevent her from fully embracing an experience, lest it undo the years of upbringing to the detriment of the family and the culture. Her mother did not affirm her ambition, but rather sought to peer over it, remaining in control by keeping the past on the forefront of this new experience—an experience intended to liberate Tambu from hard physical life destined for women on the homestead.
Rather than encouraging her to go and become a “better,” fiercer woman and overturn the threat of tradition subduing her life, Tambu’s mother didn’t want the chain to be broken. She was also part of the problem. I think deep down she knew that, and didn’t want her daughter to be beyond her reach, the way her son had become. Such a pursuit required sacrifice, and for her, the price was too steep.
But Tambu needed to form an identity beyond the traditional patriarchal life of her homestead. Fortunately, and unfortunately--because the chains of family were rigid --Western education became a sort of salvation from that rigidity.
I’m sure her mother meant well. Identity is an interesting thing. We are all invested in peoples’ identities and also our place within them. Whether a son transitions to a husband, or daughter to a wife, a graduate, or a professional, a transition occurs where suddenly we don’t want to be “left behind.” But why? Perhaps for a season, we have to be. No one who puts his hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the road ahead. If we were content with our lot in life, we’d not desire greener pastures. Why is it that we cannot allow our loved ones to run forward unencumbered? New seasons require us to change. Why would God say a man ought to leave his mother and father and cleave to his wife? Why would He say that to be fit for the kingdom, you can’t look back? There is an emphasis to look forward, let go, and push ahead without losing focus. The adoption of a new identity requires change – from everyone.
For Tambu and her family, especially her cousins, it’s as though no one is able to properly balance the traditional culture in a way that gives dignity to both men and women, and the western education that offers education and an escape in some respects.
Without a doubt, tradition, culture and family are important because they give us identity and a sense of belonging. But I find it interesting that Tambu’s mother did not find it worthwhile to examine her own life in light of the opportunity afforded to her children. That even the opportunity to leave a husband who has been detriment to her own life and destiny was not worthwhile for a chance to create a meaningful life for herself. The aunt, highly educated and ambitious as she was, was yolked by tradition and couldn’t pursue her life because of family obligations. It’s as though everyone was stuck in quick sand of obligation, attempting to escape; but even the gate of freedom had its own traps. Everyone was just a victim: victim of culture, of western beliefs, of family dynamics, patriarchy and colonialism. None of them were truly free or free to entirely liberate others.
For this reason, Tambudzai’s mother’s words were not harmless. Tambu was at the precipice of change, and these seemingly harmless words were weighty. Should one ever find themselves at the edge of a great change, words spoken are important. It’s not everything that’s well-meaning, because words carry implications. Tambudzai ought not to carry the full weight of her family because the family continues to uphold patriarchal ideals that’re being cemented and exacerbated by the socio-political changes around them. Like, Tambudzai, it’s important we find our identity separate from our environment. One’s becoming does not equate to casting away the family of origin, or of culture, but it’s an opportunity to become sovereign. I’m certain Tambu’s mother meant well; most anchors do. But rather than becoming a bridge for her daughter to become a woman with agency, she preferred her to remain close, so as to mitigate the loss she’d already experienced. But change requires sacrifice; and if we’re not willing to change, we’ll forever reach to grab onto someone’s progress – not to help them, but to save ourselves from being forgotten.
