A C H A P E L TA L K
by Rachel Elisabeth Slack Diamond ’01, Trustee November 2, 2018 voces
Brace Yourself and Be There
S
eventeen years ago, being South African was a real rarity here at Groton. And now? We’re everywhere … students, headmaster, trustees. Goodness you must be bored of us! We are slowly taking over … in a not so secret way. Today we are conducting our trustees meetings in Xhosa. Zulu will become a language requirement; Dr. Reyes is fluent, didn’t you know? South African history will replace American, cricket will replace baseball, and the South African anthem will be sung at every sit-down. Whew, Temba asked me to break it to you all slowly. Glad that’s done. I joke. Of course, Dr. Reyes is not fluent in Zulu. All this South African influence is fantastic, of course. Thank you, Groton, for being so welcoming and accepting of us Saffas. Walking into our Headmaster’s House and hearing Brenda Fassie and seeing books on South African politics dotted about. My heart soars, as it did the day it was announced Temba and Vuyelwa would be head of school. Temba and Vuyelwa, your commitment to inclusivity and ubuntu is inspiring for all of us and makes me a very proud South African Grotonian. Today I would like to talk to you about something my grandmother said years ago. It has lingered in my mind and has given me strength and guidance during difficult and uncertain times, including my time here as a student. My grandmother was the matriarch of our family—an extraordinary and controversial woman, and she certainly was not of today’s age. She didn’t talk about feelings, show weakness or vulnerability. “Life’s Tough, Get on with It.” She was a Lady of Duty. Strong and determined. During World War 2 she volunteered as a nurse and was stationed at Robben Island (where Mandela was later imprisoned), which at that time was not a prison but a hospital for injured soldiers. Much later in her life, and in
a very matter-of-fact way (like “please pass the cheese”), she told us the story of how a soldier fell and died on the far end of the island. She was ordered by her commander to drive there alone in a pick-up truck and load his dead body in the back. She would have been seventeen years old at the time. After the war, she married my grandfather, a shy and intellectual man who later became a successful businessman and committed politician—Grandma was behind him every step of the way and was much responsible for his meteoric rise in the public space. She ran his life outside of the office—amongst many other things, she organized dinners every night of the week, so business and politics could be discussed and decisions made. In the 1950s, when my grandfather was running for a seat in parliament, she attended all his political rallies. During one rally, she thought nothing of taking off her shoe and bopping the horrible NAT member (from the party of the apartheid government) over the head when he dared heckle my grandfather. Boy, did she give him a piece of her mind. She showed up for us, her granddaughters, in ways my grandfather never could. She read every one of our reports, came to our plays, made us write thank you notes. She watched over our love lives and careers with a very critical eye, always challenging us on areas of our lives that weren’t up to scratch. My sister, Rebecca, was once called to a meeting after breakfast on how to drink red wine—she was probably twenty-five years old at the time. Rebecca had obviously lost her composure at some dinner. She made Rebecca sit down and practice pouring and sipping wine. “For goodness sake, pour it in gently, come on, and then don’t just slosh it down … always drink wine with some decorum.”
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