It is a Thursday morning, and I just had a breakdown in class. My aching body is sprawled across three portable retractable chairs, hurriedly lined-up by distraught classmates. Like ants coming to the aid of a fallen comrade, my classmates congregate around me. They stand, crouch or kneel far enough to give me space to breathe, but close enough to let me feel an aura of support. They don’t ask me stupid questions like: “are you okay?”. Instead, they minister to me in touch, brief words of faith and smiles that spread through their eyes. With my head resting on a parka jacket, hastily repurposed as a makeshift pillow, I cry freely and openly; not so much out of distress rather more out of relief. Here in the rehearsal room, surrounded by other Theatre and Performance students on Hiddingh Campus –
I am allowed to feel.
I wish I could blame this psychophysical crash on the infamous NINE WEEKS, but breakdowns as a T&P student are like bowel movements: you don’t like having them because they’re a messy business, but you need them every once in a while because they release built-up toxins. And there are more than a fair share of toxins to contract on Hiddingh. Before I draw a circle around to how wonderful it actually is to be a T&P student, let me sketch an average day for you.
You arrive on Hiddingh early in the morning. You are grateful you’re in third year now— it means you don’t have to drag yourself to the insensitive hellhole, that is Upper Campus, for morning electives. That also means you get to spend your whole day, every day (rehearsal weekends included), on a campus the size of an Upper Campus lecture theatre. Oh, and since the Drama Department merged with the Dance Department last year to form the Centre for Theatre and… Dance… and Theatre Performance of… the Studies of Dance… Centre nton nton. We now have about 200 first and second years with whom to share the same limited space and air. As if it’s not too much being reminded that you are a body in space (with no social constructs), you have to duck and dive your way through socio-political correctness, otherwise you are branded as racist, sexist, bigoted or dare I say, PROBLEMATIC. Honestly, I think we are all over the whole ‘trying so hard to not offend people’ thing, but there’s this unuttered smog of fear to be the brave one on campus to voice that. Or maybe the smog is just cigarette smoke? Because everyone smokes, all day, everywhere (and anything) on Hiddingh. You’d think that being artists of the body who are sensitised to the physiological needs of fellow bodies in space would prevent one from blowing smoke in the direction of an asthmatic classmate. I guess not.
Anyway, the whole day passes by in a blur. You love engaging with every part of your being, you’re stimulated to devise art in a safe, open space and you can’t wait to tell stories alongside somewhat likeminded people. But the giving of yourself on a daily 10am – 6pm is exhausting. Fatigue sets in your mind that tiptoes on the tightrope between theoretical and practical academics. You zone out during Voice class to envision your friend’s Fay’s roti you’re gonna koppel during break. You tried mealplanning, but the idea of peeling 12 beetroots on a Sunday afternoon was just not flying. Your body shows the effects of inadequate self-care. You’re also breaking out because you’re on your period (or maybe it’s the roti). Nothing says fun like Movement class while bleeding through your vagina. But, hey! You keep your chin up because the end product of your hard work is always worth the taxing process. You need to take extra care of yourself during these times— spiritually, emotionally, physically, timemanagementically, adultingcally… But it doesn’t help that the Student Wellness program is shockingly underdeveloped on this campus that needs it the most.
Before you know it, it’s 17h45 and your official school day has ended. You made it through another day! You’re constantly surprised at the resilience of the human body, which forces you to appreciate your own. Through all the breakdowns, sicknesses, labour and toil, your body pushes through. You have to take extra care of it, if not just for you then for the sake of your art too. You’ve got a rehearsal tonight, and an essay to submit by midnight. But that’s okay. You are in love with what you do. You think about how miserable you’d be if you’d given into the social pressure to surrender your life to black tax slavery — studying to be what everyone back home expects of you so they can live out their restless dreams through your restricted life. You’re blessed to be where you want and doing what you want.
As the 200 first and second years scamper to catch the Jammie (because one can never be sure whether the next one will feel like coming on time or not), you amble over to one of the couches in the Workshop Building. There’s 15 minutes before rehearsal begins. In T&P student time, that sounds like a luxurious nap.
It is a Thursday evening and I had a breakdown in class this morning. It’s the second time that I’m laying my body across space meant for sitting. I reflect on my day. I remember that breakdown and I’m glad I allowed myself that opportunity. And I’m glad I did it in public. Breakdowns remind you that you are alive, that you feel things and do so deeply. They are your body’s signal beacons, warning against approaching danger. “You are drowning!”, they shout. “Don’t supress me, don’t ignore me. You are drowning!”. Sometimes, when you give in to these signals publicly, you design an environment for other people drowning around you to stop pretending they aren’t. Your tears remind them of their own submerging waves.
Today was that time. Despite all the frustrating drama (don’t excuse the pun) that comes with being a T&P student, I would say it’s pretty amazing to be able to exist and work in a space that grants you the freedom to feel.