It was the seventies and I was in high school—intoxicated by the “make love not war” ideologies that woke the planet—and the good old people were in a state of shock to see the youth (and the also not-so-young) move from the zombie-like status of suburban living to free thinking (or non-thinking) weirdos.
Anyway, what was life like in South Africa—with the colored youth (me included), realizing that they did not want to be treated as inferior human beings. I never knew that I was inferior until I started high school. You see, I was born fair with sleek hair and was treated real special, but I always thought that it was because I had a ready-to-go tongue (LOL). My mother was proud that her father looked like Vorster, one of the apartheid prime ministers. Well, that made me proud to be the granddaughter of a man that looked like Vorster. All was okay with my world until a specific man walked into our classroom and told us that the same sun that shines on the superior race does not shine on us. I never looked back, and became passionately vocal and later actively involved in what we term as “The Struggle.”
I entered the workforce and had a career path in cost accounting with an English company.