Notes on Decay

And finding beauty anyway

I turned 23 last month, and I fear I have fast-tracked myself to Jerry Maguire levels of disillusionment. I used to be a more positive person—irritated by other people's complaints, finding the good in people and things, clinging to my faith in the Institution and belief that its flaws are fixable. One too many prematurely empty offices, unanswered follow-ups, and menial procedures that are equal parts frustrating and finicky have left me bogged down by my own rage, trapped somewhere between anger and existential crisis. On the one hand, one shouldn't sweat the small stuff. On the other, the small stuff is what life is made of.

And this is existential. Systems and sound infrastructure and accountability are the foundations upon which our modern world ought to be built. Their decay can be seen in anything from crumbling buildings and multi-sectoral, tiered corruption (public sector ghost accounts, tender and construction mafias, etc) to avoidable road accidents, starvation, and mass death.

Whilst I am more inclined to be inside the machine and change its direction than to take to the streets in protest and hinder its operation(s), I have found myself ruminating on snippets of Mario Savio's 1964 speech:

"There's a time when the operation of the machine becomes so odious, makes you so sick at heart that you can't take part! You can't even passively take part! And you've got to put your bodies upon the gears and upon the wheels, upon the levers, upon all the apparatus—and you've got to make it stop! And you've got to indicate to the people who run it, to the people who own it—that unless you're free the machine will be prevented from working at all!"

Right now, I find myself in an impossible position—knowing too much about the innerworkings of the machine, having what I think are reasonable ideas, and possessing little to no power to change any of it. In lieu of rebuilding the world brick by brick, I will look for beauty¹ and care² where I can.

I went to a symposium last year, and someone quoted a scholar whose name escapes me. I can't remember the quote verbatim either, but the gist of it was "We cannot expect anything less than everything for everyone." In spite of the contextual memory gaps, this really struck me.

Having grown up in a privileged position in a country (and world) mired in so much tragedy, I have always felt the need to orient my life towards making things better for others. I have half-joked about my true calling being to fix Home Affairs, reform First-Additional Language education, and revamp the railway lines. Some of these things have actually been improved upon (to an extent) since I started dreaming of their efficient operation. That said, these are all fairly bare-bones services. I still have a drive to make things better, but I wish I could—and want to—aim for something beyond the basics. I want to dream for something bigger.

I want to dream of a South Africa wherein we aren't just striving for literacy, but a thriving publishing industry and innovative literature in official and unofficial languages. I want to dream of universities that have enough money not just to house students and maintain their infrastructure, but enough to build new things, attract a diverse array of donors, and simultaneously combat societal challenges whilst still championing the importance of scholarship on its own terms.

I want to dream of municipalities that go beyond succeeding in not stealing money, that listen to their citizens, fund public art that will stand along perfectly tarred roads, invest in small businesses and dance schools, and establish community gardens.

I want to dream of public libraries that don't have to shift their budget from print periodicals to security, libraries that can lend out tools and host video game tournaments and build makerspaces.

I want to dream of a world in which students don't feel that they have to choose what they pursue for the sole purposes of increasing their chances of employment.

Most days, I can't dream of these things, because I have to grow up and be pragmatic, realistic, or, often, fatalistic. Most people don't care, and I have to accept that this will be the case regardless of whether I am in a public, corporate, non-profit, or higher education context. But today, I will dream, and I hope that you will, too.

1. (This reframing was inspired by a LinkedIn bio of all things—bizarre and yet extremely on-brand.)

2. As Maggie Nelson wonders in On Freedom: Four Songs of Care and Constraint, "Given my interest in [care, art, scholars establishing a "politics of care"] why, I wondered, was my first response to "an aesthetics of care" as something that would extend beyond an animating principle for certain artists, yuck?" Part of her response to herself is that "while I've always taken issue with art that aims to endanger or terrorize its audience or participants, I've never gone to art looking for care, at least not in any direct fashion." Personally, I think my yuck reaction comes from my general contempt for buzzword-ification and the over-theorisation of practical interventions (the perpetual theorisation and over-use of decolonisation is a good example). That said, I care a lot about a lot of things, and it irks me when I feel a lack of care amongst the people and systems I encounter.