When Pianos Try To Be Guitars -1

Most people who know me, irrespective of the duration of the acquaintance, consider me a deeply eccentric extrovert, and will not hesitate to say so if queried. Outgoing, outspoken, gregarious, idiosyncratic, uninhibited, generous, incorrigible, wild, temperamental... The string of adjectives people could add to this list would probably constitute several blog posts in its own right.

I'm telling you these things now, dear Reader, to highlight the chasm between my inner and outer realities. You see, the unrestrained riffs I tend to deliver at an undeniable volume belie the deeply sensitive, quivering notes reverberating at the core of me.

No one knows us quite like our mothers. Like it or not, it's true, and mine would be the first to tell you, in no uncertain terms, that I am over-emotional and hypersensitive - caring to a fault. She's right though. About four years ago I finally had to realise that I needed to admit myself for therapy for, get this, caring about people too much. It was totally overwhelming me. I don't have medical aid and couldn't afford it without assistance at the time, but I will never forget the day when I woke up one morning, in the middle of this enormous and tragic emotional upheaval that lasted over a month, took one look at my disastrous room, my floor littered with unwashed clothes, the staggering pile of paperwork totally unaddressed and in disarray, th e weed-choked, neglected garden (for which I was essentially overjoyed to have to tend to when I arrived there)...and promptly burst out into a deluge of tears. It was true. I was so concerned with the tribulations of others that I had left myself with no time or energy to tend to my own, even on the most basic level.

I'm better at managing my fragile, great, big, "bleeding heart" now. Though that's not at all to say it feels any less or any less deeply...or even that I will ever put this particular character trait to bed. Can I let you in on a secret...?

I don't intend to. I don't have any intention of ever compromising the heart of me - of hurting a little less or being a little more subdued in my moments of elation. I just want to be able to live with these feelings in such a way that they no longer completely debilitate me.

So, one might ask, how does someone like me survive in this world? That is to say, how does some Caucasian (white), 20-something, middle-class lass cope with being this way in the poorest province of South Africa in the 21st century? Certainly, it's no mean feat. I slip up all the time. I get taken advantage of. I get overwhelmed by what I'm feeling... And yet, even being a piano that can scream like a guitar has its benefits...

Consider this story of one of the attempts to accost me one night.
I don't even want to consider what my would-be attackers intentions were on the occasion, but let me tell you the story of how it played out.
I was on one of my usual evening walks, on a pleasant, quiet night. Fitting in all the social categories I described earlier, and being a voracious fan of solitary walks in the dark hours since forever, I am keenly aware of the potential risks I am putting myself at when I nurture this need. I carry a weapon that can't be turned against me (a would-be attacker is generally going to be a man and will trump me on strength every time. If I'm going to be over-powered, I don't want to be seriously injured or threatened by my own weapon, description of my method coming up a paragraph down). Furthermore, I'm hyper-aware of my surroundings, I avoid dimly lit, closed spaces, walk in predominantly residential areas (where an entire neighbourhood will hear me clear as day if I scream) and I look over my shoulder frequently on a straight stretch and at every corner I turn to see if someone's appeared behind me from a side-street or is following me.
So there I was, cruising down a completely vacant road one night when two gents, presumably from the township, came into view. They were approaching me on the opposite pavement, the street a dark river between us.

I was blatantly casing them out, my house keys clutched between each knuckle at a piercing angle, and the whole time they were walking towards me, on their side of the road, I'm thinking... "Guys, I'm so sorry, I'm totally checking you out and I hope you don't think it's because I'm some racist, sexist b***. I'm just a girl walking alone at night who's learnt the hard way to be safe rather than sorry. I swear I'm not making any assumptions about who you might be. I'm just keeping tabs on my immediate environment in lieu of my circumstance. Forgive me, please forgive me..." Then the one gent, out of the blue, in a reassuring tone, politely says "Good evening, ma'am."

I was instantly flooded with feelings of gratitude and a love for humanity as he said this. As we pass each other by my thoughts became thus, "Wow, just wow. Thank you, you shining human beings you! For, not only granting me this gesture of grace, but for your apparent understanding of my situation and your considerate assurance! How wonderful to know I share this town with people like you! I hope you get showered with every kindness and-"

And that's when I heard two sets of feet sprinting up directly behind me. On my side of the street.

The fury I felt then was palpable. "Damn you", I thought to myself, vehemently, "Never you mind for playing me the fool, damn you for compromising the next lot of men who pass my way at night, damn you for validating the stereotypes, for taking away a little more grace from my mind when I must consider the sex and race of passers-by at this time of day when I exercise my basic right to freedom of movement..." As I concluded my livid inner-monologue, I spun around. Just in time for the faster of the two to get as close as about 30 cm from my face. I brought up my knuckled keys to roughly eye-level and very heatedly uttered, without raising my voice, "Go for it. Just go for it!" I could feel my outrage and furious dismay emanating from my stare, directly into the eyes of the man in front of me, it was so much that my brain could not really compute that I was outnumbered and in trouble.
They stopped dead in their tracks.

And then took off running.

I pursued, and that's when I screamed. My piano strings went completely electric. And all I could yowl, over and over, was "At least if you're going to accost me, DO IT TO MY FACE! I'M JUST A KID DAMNIT! I'M JUST SOME GIRL WHO WANTS TO BELIEVE THE BEST THINGS ABOUT EVERYONE! IF YOU WANT TO PREY ON THE WEAK AT LEAST BE HONEST ABOUT IT, SO I DON'T HAVE ASSUME THE WORST ABOUT MY BROTHERS ALL THE TIME YOU COWARDLY BASTARDS!!!"

For the record, they got away. And I woke up the entire neighbourhood.

So yes. Apparently I can survive this life being who I am. Although it will always be a challenge. Although, sometimes, it will indubitably hurt more than others...

Do you burst out crying when a character performs a completely selfless act for the benefit of another human being in a story or movie (fiction or non-fiction, does it really matter)? Do you turn into an inconsolable, whimpering wreck every time they show brief footage of conflict zones on the news, of people firing lethal weapons at will, all the while the public running wild in the grasp of blind panic, fearing for their lives? Are you the one who laughs the loudest and sobs the deepest in the cinema? Do you feel the need to explain yourself to every single beggar asking for spare change at length? Do you experience unbridled rage whenever you witness complete strangers hurting one another, simply to prove one is more of a "man" than the other, that being violent "proves" their masculinity, right before your eyes? Do you frequently have to negate the powerful urge to scoop up the whole wide world in your arms just to tell everyone it's going to be ok and that they are loved? Does the timbre of the voice of your being ring out like a guitar and your heart's, echo like a piano...?

Hi.  
My name is Erika Wertlen.
And I'm writing this blog for you...