In My Shoes is a documentary in which fie young people who are children of LGBT parents give yo a chance to walk in their shoes - to hear their own views on marriage, making change and what it means to be a family.
Tomorrow I will have been a dad
for a month. Can you believe it? Since becoming a father I have learned a
couple of things that people don’t tell you prior into entering into fatherhood: For starters I have had to make peace with
the fact that I will never be completely clean again; Doing things I did before
will now take me five times longer; I had learned that I can do so many more things
with one hand that I could have ever imagined; and dealing with another human being’s
bodily fluids is gross but you get use it.
The first couple of weeks since
bringing home our son were a huge learning curve for all of us. Babies don’t come with instructions and they
communicate with you in one of three ways – smiling and cute sounds (which is adorable
and nice), crying (not so nice) and screaming (the world is ending and we will
all die). Luckily for us Michael is a
relatively easy baby and he only becomes stabby when he is hungry. Also, apparently if he doesn’t get his bottle
after the first three subtle hints that he is ravenous (which I am now acutely attuned
to) the apocalypse is upon us and his vocal acrobatics during the perceived end
of his world is astonishingly and ear piercingly loud.
During this month I have also
realized that your baby’s poop is very important. In fact so important that it is the first
thing hubby and I discuss in the morning and several times during the day. Charming isn’t it? You determine your baby’s general health by
their amount of poop, times he pooped in a day, its color, its smell and its
texture. Frankly, this grossed me the hell
out the first two week but then something miraculous happened – I started
looking at his poop scientifically and then it all changed. I no longer gag with each poopy diaper and I
now can manage to mentally block out the smell.
You know that smell that can linger in your nostrils longer than it
should. Yes, that smell!
The only time I really got freaked
out by poop was when I learned that projectile poop is not an urban baby
legend. It’s real people! And it is fucking
disgusting! I made this unfortunate
discovery last week. I was busy changing
Michael’s nappy in which he pooped and as I was cleaning him evidently he was
not quite done pooping yet. He let out a
fart that was actually a poop and it sprayed all over me. I nearly died! I stood there in total disbelieve and denial while
holding Michael’s legs in the air with one hand, a wet wipe in the other and I
was totally dumbfounded as what I was supposed to do next.
Do I finish changing Michael’s
nappy while covered in shit? Or do I clean myself first and then finish
changing his nappy? It was a real
profound debate I had in my head that lasted probably three minutes. I decided that even though I wanted to throw
up, felt like I was dying due to my OCD and gagging from the smell, that it
would be good parenting to first finish changing Michael’s nappy before attending
to myself. I remember thinking to myself,
as I was soldiering through, that nobody has ever shit on me before and I pray
to God that it will never happen again.
But, we all know in all probability it will. If poop is not bad enough vomit is worse.
I am not a fan of vomit. This is also the reason why I will never be
able to suffer from bulimia. I don’t
like to vomit. I don’t like it when
other people vomit. And most of all – I don’t like being vomited on. It is right up there with being shit on. Unfortunately babies vomit and in eight out
of ten times Michael do it, it is on me.
People I am so over vomit right now I can’t even begin to tell you. Apparently it is normal for babies and they
out grow it. When I asked our pediatrician
exactly when this happens he told me it depends on the baby and they are all
different in that regard. Which was
totally the wrong answer I was looking for and he probably saw it on my face. Luckily Michael’s vomiting has gotten better,
but it still happens every so often.
Some days are better than others.
The last important thing I
learned was this morning. Michael is on
starter solids now. In simple terms for
people who don’t have kids, starter solids is basically food that has been
totally transformed in a food processor from something that looks appetizing to
a rather unappetizing paste like substance.
One day when you are old and toothless you will become acquainted with
it. Michael has taken to solids quite
well. After all he loves eating for
which I am grateful. However, timing
when feeding your baby is very important; as a parent you need to have a
crystal ball handy to be able to predict each and every eventuality before it happens
while feeding your baby.
You must be able to predict when
your baby will be sticking his hands in his mouth while he has food in it and
prevent him from doing that. If you don’t
there will be a mess. You have to know
when you look away for a split second that your baby will stick his hands in
his plate and rub sweet potato purity all over his face and clothes. If you don’t there will be an early bath and
wardrobe change. And like what happened
to me this morning you have to be able to predict when your baby is going to
sneeze while his mouth is full of food.
If you don’t you, your baby and everything around you will be covered in
a carrot and mince puree. Lovely, and
then not only will there be two wardrobe changes but cleaning as well.
I cannot believe I have been a
dad for a month already. It is a lot of
work, it’s messy work and physical work.
I have almost lost 5kg as a result.
But that being said it is extremely rewarding work and not a day goes by
that I don’t look at Michael with total amazement and pure joy. Not a day goes by that I am not in total awe of
this little human and the blessing he is.
Being a dad is awesome. Except
when it is not, you know that 2% of the time when you are pooped and vomited
Spaulding is a Comedian based in Europe, exploring gender, sexuality, culture,
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Today a week ago our lives were
permanently changed forever, for the better.
Last week this time we were in Cape Town to fetch our son. After ten months of waiting we finally
reached the final stage of our adoption journey and it was both thrilling and petrifying
at the same time. Thrilling because we
finally got to meet our son and bring him home and petrifying because we had no
clue what the hell we were doing.
One thing I realized last week
was that when you are travelling with a baby is that people at airports are so
much nicer to you. As most of you know
airport security and I have no love for each other; mainly because I am always
treated like a suicide bomber or drug mule by them. But last week was completely different. I managed to board the flight with things
airport security is convinced can bring down a plane: deodorant, nail clippers
and four bottles exceeding the liquid limit.
Also, I set off each and every
metal detector and nobody molested me with that frisking business. When security wanted to question me about the
said contraband which their x-ray machine picked up I just said “Shsss… my baby is sleeping” and I was
let go and not taken into a brightly lit back room and stripped searched as I
have become accustomed to.
On our flight back with Michael I
was a bit worried. I have always been
one of those people who got annoyed when people board one of my flights with a
baby. Now I have become one of those
people. I was concerned that with the
change of air pressure with the ascent and descent that his ears would hurt and
that he would cry. Then that I would cry
and that the cabin crew would have to take both of us to the back of the plane
and drug us while hubby pretends not to know who we are. Luckily this didn’t happen. Michael drank his bottle on takeoff and slept
like the angel he is through the duration of the flight.
We couldn’t believe our luck with
our son. He was so well behaved and once
we got home we gave him his last bottle before bedtime and decided to bath
him. That is when all hell broke
loose. We apparently bathed him wrong
and he threw a tantrum the likes I have not seen since Cher announced that she
was retiring from touring. He screamed
and he was only 2% bathed before we abandoned the idea completely, dried him
off, dressed him in a cute onesie and settled him to bed. He gave us both a look that I could swear
meant “What. The. Fuck. You have no idea
what you are doing?” and he was right.
The next day the Kangaroo mom
phoned me and told me that our bath was probably not hot enough and that we
should act with more determination when we bath him. Her advice worked and our boy now loves bath
time. The Kangaroo mom also gave us a
schedule. Being OCD and suffering from
anxiety I LOVE schedules, lists and order in general. It makes me feel safe and this is what
separates us from the animals. Our son
seems to agree with me on this. Or at
least he did until Sunday.
I was told some time ago that
babies can be assholes sometimes. They
just are and there is nothing that you can do about it. I never believed this until Sunday
morning. Everything went well until
around 8am that morning. Michael decided
to cry for no reason. He didn’t have a
wind, dirty nappy, was hungry, tired or was being snagged by his clothes. He was crying which later turned into full
out screaming. He screamed for a full hour,
eight minutes and twenty five seconds.
He was being an asshole and we all needed a hug after because he freaked
us the fuck out and whatever it was that he cried/screamed about was out of his
system. Also, he gave me three new grey
hairs because of it. Luckily we have not
had a similar dramatic performance of “I
am screaming because I can” since from him.
Michael is a delightful baby and
is actually really easy to take care of.
I cannot believe that one can fall in love with a little human so quickly. He has only been with us a week and I cannot
imagine our lives without him. However,
I can imagine my life without another one of his weapons of mass destruction in his diapers though. Poopy diapers are vile and I believe they are
the way God punishes us for being shitty children to our parents. What makes it worse is each time I have to
change a poopy diaper and gags Michael laughs at me. He is very proud of his poop and loves seeing
We are lucky that Michael sleeps
through the night. Between 7pm and
05:30am the only times he makes us get up is because he lost his gawd awful
dummy. Then we just find it, give it to
him and he falls back asleep again. The
whole routine literally takes ten seconds at most. So we are not sleep deprived at all. However, getting out of our PJ’s before 11am
is almost impossible. I also have now
for a week smelled either of sour milk due to baby vomit or Avon baby lotion
and sometimes of both. I have also gone
to the shop with my shirt covered in baby vomit without noticing it or actually
caring. People who judge baby vomit
stained shirts are assholes.
It is still early days of
parenthood for us but thus far Michael has been a blessing and a joy. Some nights I just sit by his cot and watch
him sleep and every time he wakes up from a nap and gives me that beautiful
smile of his when he sees me melts my heart.
I still find it hard to wrap my head around the fact that I am now a
dad. I am just so very surprised at how
naturally it has come to me. I mean I
have always said when I was younger that I never wanted kids. And look at me
now. My life feels complete and whole and we are all three tremendously
happy. Well, until the next hour long
tantrum that is.
After ten months of an agonizing wait it finally happened. This week we got “The Call”. The call we were hoping and waiting for. The call that would say that our lives will now forever be changed. The call that would make hubby and I and our family so incredible happy. The call that said we are now going to be a family.
When we started on our adoption journey in August of 2013 we entered into the process being very optimistic. However, we soon learned that adoption is a very emotional process fraught with emotional pitfalls that one should navigate around with the greatest of care. I will not lie and say that the process was easy because it was not.
We have had some fights along the way. Hubby and I have fought with each other. We have fought with our social worker. We have even fought with ourselves. Mostly this happened out of sheer frustration and most of the fights hubby and I had were over stupid things that we now look back on going “What the hell was wrong with us”.
The hardest part of the adoption process is not the screening, the psychometric assessments, the interviews, home visit or panel interview. The fact that adoption is not a cheap venture was also not such an issue. The hardest part of the adoption process is, after all is said and done and you are finally declared paper pregnant, the long wait. The waiting can kill you. Or possibly drive you nuts.
We have been paper pregnant since November 2013 and to be honest very few days passed since then that I didn’t think about whether our baby was born yet. Very few conversation between hubby and I did not include the adoption in them. So we did what we could to occupy our minds. We prepared the nursery, bought all the things we could buy that we would need. We even had our baby shower in February this year.
It was like we were psychically willing our child into this world. We dreamed about babies. We noticed the gazillions of people with babies, gay and straight, in the shops and at restaurants. Isn’t it weird how you all of a sudden see babies everywhere while you are waiting for yours? It was like we were being tortured and tormented by the universe as we were reminded around every corner of that we were waiting for.
Then on Monday, as I was heading to my Botox appointment, I got the call. Well, actually I got two. The first one was to inform me that we have a baby and the second one was to arrange for a meeting for the next day. As hubby’s Botox appointment was before mine I sent him a text that read “Wait for me outside and under NO circumstances can you leave. This is important!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
Hubby probably thought I discovered something about our plastic surgeon online that freaked me out. Or that I WebMD self-diagnosed myself with the Ebola Virus again. But this time it obviously was nothing like that at all. I have not self-diagnosed myself with an exotic disease in ages.
As I arrived at our surgeon’s office hubby was waiting for me and was all like “Are you dying again” and I was like “We are all going to die someday. You are stuck with me and I am going to live well into my nineties and you are not allowed to die before me!”
Then I told him the great news. He was in tears which also almost made me cry but I never do that in public. Very few people have ever seen me cry. Also, when I cry I prefer to do it in private as it ain’t pretty people. It’s like my gift to society. You’re welcome.
We were both overjoyed. After ten months we are finally going to be parents to a three month old little boy. As I started wrapping my brain around the idea the rest of that day I was overcome with both excitement and being utterly terrified. I mean, I have never had a baby. I have only changed a nappy once in my life and generally babies scared me. Now I am going to have one of my own. Will I even know what to do? What if I fuck up? What if I am a bad parent? Can I afford all the therapy my child may someday need because he has an eccentric dad?
After freaking out a realization hit me. We are not the first parents to go through this. All parents go through this with their first child. This is probably exactly what they must have felt like; except they are not my kind of crazy. The sense that other people before me suffered gave me a sense of relief.
Also, our son is three months old and past most of the crappy and awkward baby stuff newborns go through. He is still a baby and I am sure we will have plenty of sleepless nights ahead but I plan on savoring and enjoying every second of it. Yes, even if I am covered in baby poop at 3 o’clock in the morning and he won’t stop crying. I will so Blog and Facebook that. With pictures.
Next week we will be fetching our son and I cannot wait. After the meeting we will have this afternoon we will be booking flights as soon as we find out what our court date and time is. It is exciting times in our household. The cats and bunnies have no idea what they are in for. The whole lot of us will be sleep deprived and our little zoo is now getting a little prince. He is the blessing that we longed for. I cannot believe this is finally happening. I. Am. So. Happy.
To read more about our adoption journey click HERE
So I am trying this again. I have decided that I must stop smoking. You know, because I don’t want to die. After twenty years of smoking my lungs need a
break. I probably could pave a tar road
with all the shit I have inhaled from cigarettes and I prefer not to become another
one of those lung cancer statistics. But
to quit smoking is hard and thus far I have had a zero success rate with
it. Also, I now know how crack addicts
must feel and it isn’t pretty people.
I remember when I first started smoking. It wasn’t peer pressure that got me
started. It was my sister. You see we went on holiday and my sister and
I had to share a hotel room. I was a scrawny
sixteen year old at the time and it was still easy for my sister to bully
me. She is a couple of years older than I am and as strong as an ox when she wants to be.
She was secretly smoking and didn’t want my parents to find out. Seeing as we shared a hotel room and she
being a nicotine addict this obviously posed a particular set of problems for her.
Firstly, at that time I would do anything to get my sister
busted and get her into trouble.
Secondly, I was really bad at keeping secrets especially when it was
something juicy and about my sister. So
naturally if I caught her smoking I would take our sibling rivalry to an epic
new level. Unfortunately, my sister
would have made an excellent Survivor contestant, if she liked the outdoors and
being dirty and hungry that is. She continuously
outwitted, outlasted and outplayed me right through our childhood and this time
would be no different.
My sister convinced me through her clever psychological
trickery that only really cool people smoked.
She also did not want me to be on the outskirts of society and she
wanted me to join her sistren of really hip smokers. See how I just revived a word that was last used in the 16th century. Sometimes I amaze myself. Also, I want everyone to start using the word "sistren" again because it is a really cool word. But I digress...
Being trapped in a hotel room with my sister was a
bit like being a fly in a spider web. It
was in my best psychological and physical interest to not go against her generous
sisterly advice on this particular social issue. So I conceded out of fear and started fake
smoking meaning that I would only puff and not inhale the smoke.
By the end of that holiday I was addicted to nicotine and,
for obvious reasons, could no longer tell on my sister for smoking. She had successfully tricked me in keeping
her secret and I had now joined her in keeping things from our parents. Twenty years and several attempts to quit
smoking later, I am still a smoker. In
the past I have tried many things to stop.
I have done the patches, the gum, medication and even once thought that
I could quit cold turkey. That did not
Trying to quit anything cold turkey is like playing Russian
Roulette with a fully loaded gun. And
the gun is not pointed at your head but pointed at the heads of others. The time I tried to quit cold turkey I became
a ranging emotional bitch from hell. I
had a short fuse and was generally unpleasant to be around. I also started to behave like that slow
cousin in your family that nobody talks about.
I did not like or recognize myself, at the time, and it felt like I lost
my best friend and my mind. I managed to
survive a month of not smoking and then succumbed to the demon that is nicotine
When I tried to quit smoking on Champix things went a bit
better apart from the fact that I almost died. I had the worst
nightmares while on that medication, it fucked up my liver and there were times
that it made me ill enough not to be able to go to work.
I managed four months of not smoking on
Champix but then we went on holiday to Madagascar and I fell off the wagon again, so to speak. This is also when I
contracted pneumonia and as we headed back home I went to hospital directly
from the airport. At hospital I would
take off my oxygen mask to go for a smoke and when I was done I would put back
the oxygen. At least I had the good
sense not to blow myself up but pneumonia and smoking – not the
best combination. Sometimes addicts do some weird shit like this.
So here I am again.
Attempt number God knows what.
This time I am staying clear of medications and I have opted to use the
electronic cigarette and acupuncture to stop.
Thus far I must say it is going well.
I have cut down from forty cigarettes a day to around three a day. Actually, the truth is I have cut down to
about eight. No, actually the real truth is I have cut down to
ten. Addicts lie.
I am very lucky to have an understanding
husband who has placed no pressure on me at all to stop. I am doing this for myself. He doesn’t judge me when I have a cigarette
from my not so secret stash and he has been very supportive. I hope to exclusively smoke the electric
cigarette (or like I fondly call it - my electric crack pie) in about a week or two. Then I
will deal with the nicotine addiction and swop the nicotine liquid for the non-nicotine
It has been a week since I started weaning myself off
cigarettes and lo and behold, nobody
has been murdered and I have not died.
Hopefully this time I will succeed in kicking this nasty ass habit and
can spend the next sixty years smoke free.
And yes people, to the horror of some I plan to live well into my
I think the hardest part about
quitting is not so much the nicotine addiction but the actual habit. It is something to do with your hands and is
an excuse to get out of the office for ten to fifteen minutes at a time. However, now days smokers are banned to
dodgy smoking areas and treated like lepers due to anti-smoking laws. So it is best to just quit. To my lungs, you’re welcome. To the tobacco industry, I loathe all of you and you can all go fuck yourselves!
Being slightly OCD it is only natural that I value
punctuality. After all, this is what
separates us from animals. Well,
punctuality and the ability to fly through the air at 30 000 feet at a
speed of 600 mph that is. And the fact that we can blow shit up. So imagine my
surprise when I actually managed to miss my flight yesterday even though I was
at the airport four hours ahead of time.
Now you may ask yourself “How the
hell did he manage to do that?” And
the answer would be rather complicated so let me explain.
Yesterday I had to fly from Cape Town back to Johannesburg. I was in Cape Town for work and by yesterday
morning I had finished what I needed to do there and decided to go to the airport
early. I had some work to do on my
laptop and decided that I might as well do it at one of the airport lounges and
the fact that they had free Wi-Fi would also help.
So I arrived at the airport four hours before
my flight and checked in. The lady at
the check in counter looked at me funny and we had a slight altercation about
my luggage. This is totally normal as
there is always some kind of issue: If I
don’t set off the metal detector then I forget that I have a knife in my hand
luggage; if that doesn’t happen then my luggage is classified obese or looks
suspicious for drugs. I am used to being
harassed at airports. I have now come to
As I was busy working minding my own business about an hour
before my flight, I heard an announcement.
Apparently my flight was delayed and was now to board at Gate C12. I was a bit annoyed as I was looking forward
to arriving in Johannesburg at 4pm and now I was going to be thirty minutes
late. About half an hour before my
flight was due to depart I packed up my stuff and proceeded to Gate C12.
There was nobody there so I assumed the
flight was delayed even further. As my
flight’s departure time neared and eventually passed I got suspicious. I thought “What the fuck is going on? Has
it been delayed again? But if they were
boarding surely they would have been calling my name?” Nobody called my name. Not even once. As I proceeded to go to the viewing deck I
was also surprised that my plane was no longer on its spot on the tarmac. It was gone.
Could it be that they left without me?
I promptly went to information and was told that my flight
had indeed left. Without me! Now I had to go and get my ticket transferred
to the next available flight. I could
feel a panic attack looming but decided to just stay calm, compose myself and
that it was not the end of the world. I
have never missed a flight in my life and was mortified that my once clean
record had now been stained, especially since I had been at the airport for
four hours now.
As I proceeded to the
flight controller counter I immediately thought about my luggage. Where was it?
Was it on the plane? Has it been
molested? Will I ever see it again? If it is broken into will that person judge me?
As I got to the front of the counter I told the lady about
my predicament. She got on the phone,
bashed away on her keyboard and then looked at me with concern. “It
seems that there is a problem. According
to my computer you boarded the flight, so why are you standing here?” she
said while giving herself unsightly frown lines. “Well,
I don’t know. I am not on that flight”
I replied sarcastically.
there was another passenger booked on the same flight who had the same name and
surname as mine and they checked off the wrong person. As if this was not bad enough there was a
problem with our luggage as well.
I was told that they kept my luggage onboard the plane and
had bumped his luggage off. So my
luggage would arrive in Johannesburg two hours before me and his two hours after
him. “Well isn’t this just great. You
know this is how planes blow up, don’t you?!
Aren’t you supposed to match passengers to their luggage?! Just wait until the terrorists discover this
loophole. It will be 9/11 all over again”
I screamed. Softly. As I didn’t want to get arrested and I really
wanted to make my next flight.
Eventually I made it onto the next flight, dripping with
sweat and smelling like a funky monkey. Seeing
as I was a last minute addition to the flight I was banished to the very back
of the plane where all the degenerates who have punctuality issues are
seated. And to make matters worse I had
the middle seat.
As I sat down the
person to my left was some kind of far right Afrikaner bearded man in kaki
clothes and to my right was a nice Indian lady.
I apologized to the lady about my odor and told her I just had a very
rough day. I did not apologize to the
kaki bearded man. All three of us were
reading. I was reading Chelsea Handler’s
Uganda Be Kidding Me, the lady was reading 50 Shades of Gray and the kaki
bearded man was reading some book on Siener van Rensburg (a right wing profit). This made me rather paranoid.
The flight was rather uneventful as we did not crash or go
missing. Our pilot was a rugged, tall and
a ridiculously good looking man. The
only problem was that he was finger fucking his iPhone before and after the
flight. Possibly also during the flight as
it is apparently not necessary to tell people to fasten their seatbelts when
there is severe turbulence, which we had!
But I forgave him because he was gorgeous.
After arriving in Johannesburg I immediately went to the
baggage claims counter. Also there was a
young woman who lost her glasses. They
are still missing. There was also a
woman who just flew in from Washington DC on a Delta Air flight who lost her
blood pressure medication on the plane.
Her description of what she kept them in was rather vague and she may
have suffered a stroke since. We should
all really pray for her as she seemed really distressed.
Eventually, I was reunited with my luggage
and it is a miracle that nothing was missing from it. Well, actually the only things they could
steal from it were dirty laundry, my toiletries and prescription medication
that would not even make them high.
I arrived home last night just after 7pm; meaning that I was
technically in transit for six hours instead of three. This was the first flight I have ever missed
and it was not even my own fault. How
was I supposed to know that there were two Gate C12’s and that some other
person on the same flight shared my name?
I am however impressed with myself for not having had a panic attack,
breaking down falling on the ground crying like an emotionally disturbed child
and for keeping my shit together.
Sometimes you just need to relax and say fuck it. This is what I did and it really helped. I however still hate airports.
Like so many people I am following the Oscar Pistorius
murder trial. I mean it has its own 24
hour channel on television and has its own Facebook, Twitter and Instagram
accounts. There are also live video and
audio streams. And no matter where you
go or what you do Oscar is there. If he
sobs or vomits in court it trends on Twitter.
When he covers his ears it immediately gets hundreds of likes on Instagram. Phrases like “I put it to you” and “my lady”
have also even made it into our pop culture.
The Oscar Pistorius trial has infiltrated our daily lives on so many
levels and has piqued our macabre interests.
But one thing we tend to forget is that no matter what happens with this
trial Oscar Pistorius is screwed either way.
Look, I will be the first to admit that the events that
transpired on the morning of 14 February 2013 are tragic. Reeve Steenkamp died and the only two people
who really know exactly what happened that morning are Reeva and Oscar. And Reeva is dead and the veracity of Oscar’s
version of events is questionable at best.
Oscar’s defense is making him out to be a pussy. When Barry Roux put it to one of the witnesses
that Oscar screams like a woman when he is scared, it caused even some on his
own defense team to struggle not to laugh.
This also led to the meme that went viral that read “What if I put it to you that when my cat
gets scared he barks like a dog”.
Before this happened I must be honest and admit that I
didn’t even know who Reeva Steenkamp was.
It is sad to think that she had to die horribly before she became world
famous. I’m sure this was not part of
her ten year plan nor was killing her in Oscar’s either.
There are many people speculating about Oscar’s guilt or
innocence and I for one will not tender my personal opinion on this in a public
forum. It would be irresponsible as it
is too soon in the trial to make any predictions. However, one thing is certain – Oscar is
guilty of murder. Whether he is found
guilty of premeditated murder or culpable homicide the fact stands that he shot
and killed Reeva. Nothing in this world
will change that. Whether he killed her
in a fit of rage or accidentally, she is dead and this will follow him around
for the rest of his life. He will always
be known as the Olympian who shot and killed his girlfriend.
Oscar’s career is over, sponsors will not touch him and even
if he walks away from this it would take a miracle for him to revive his career
that he destroyed with four gunshots on Valentine’s Day in 2013. As the world watches the graphic crime scene
photos and imagines how terrified Reeva must have been in that toilet cubical
that morning; the terrible pain she must have been in and the undignified
manner in which she died; it is hard to believe that he will find any
forgiveness anytime soon.
Emotional tears, vomiting in court and retching may have
worked to win over a jury elsewhere but this will have no effect on the judge and
assessors in his trial here is South Africa. Some members of
the public may feel some sympathy for him as he breaks down in court, but
skeptics like me still speculate if this is due to him suffering from Post
Traumatic Stress Disorder, extreme guilt or if it is remorse. Only Oscar will be able to answer this.
There have also been numerous jokes about this murder on the
internet. Some jokes are quite funny and
others are more distasteful and disrespectful.
Also having a dark sense of humor and having a tendency to laugh at my
own private jokes my husband caught me last week laughing while I was in the
shower. He asked me what was so funny but
I was rather hesitant to tell him.
You see, while I was in the shower I imagined what the scene
must have looked like that morning:
Oscar on his stumps running into the bathroom, all angry or scared and
then firing off the shots. I found that
mental image extremely funny but then immediately felt guilty for
laughing. Naturally hubby did not find
this funny as he doesn’t always approve of my sense of humor. Sometimes I don’t either.
My husband and my father-in-law refuse to follow the trial
and I think they are missing out. I mean
honestly, how can you be angry or happy with the verdict if you didn’t follow
the trial? How do you have small talk
with people in awkward social situations if you cannot comment on the goings on
of that week’s trial? This is our OJ
Simpson and if you don’t follow it you will miss out on catchy phrases like “If the gloves don’t fit you must acquit”
from the OJ trial. I will be very pissed
off if the only catch phrase we are going to get from Oscar’s trial is “I put it to you”.
At this stage of the trial I have many questions about what
happened. I want to know why Reeva was
still in the clothes she arrived in when she was shot that morning even though
she brought an overnight bag with her; what was found on the iPhones and iPads;
why their phones were in the bathroom; why he carried Reeva downstairs; why
Oscar didn’t phone an ambulance; did they have a fight before he shot her; if
he truly thought there was an intruder why did he not wake Reeva up, is that
not normally the first thing a reasonable person would do; and if the bathroom
light was on when he shot Reeva why did he choose to conceal that fact.
To be honest, I think by the time we get close to the end of
this trial everyone who has followed it will be suffering from Oscar
fatigue. Many people would have learned
a great deal about how the South African court system works and how it is not
glamorous and that real life forensic police work is nothing like the CSI you
see on television.
But that being said, it remains tragic. A woman who very few people knew of is now
dead and famous for all the wrong reasons.
The once proud son of South Africa is now a fallen hero with very little
chance of redemption. Even though many
of Oscar’s fans will still love and support him no matter what, he is screwed
either way. Oscar is now a
murderer. Oscar is that guy who killed
his girlfriend. This is how he will be
remembered and there is very little that he can now do to change that.
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