Driver's Ed 101: Xenoracism

I recently got my driver's license.  This is a Big Deal, dear reader.  It has been 7 years, litres of rescue remedy and thousands of rands in the making, this particular milestone.  I started giving it a shot (as you do) when I was 18, and legally allowed behind the wheel.  It went...well, not fantastic.  I failed the first test I ever took within the first five minutes (not exaggerating at all).  Up until that point, I had lived a basically failure-free life.  I was an academic achiever, used to excelling at every test I'd ever taken, and to fail this life-changing one (that most of my peers were passing) was a bitter pill to swallow.  I remember a conversation I had with my little brother (who got his license before me, by the way - huge confidence boost for big sister) in which he asked me how the test went.  I paused before answering carefully, "It didn't go well".  To which my brother earnestly replied, "Don't you either fail or pass?  How can it not 'go well'?" 

I can laugh about this now, but driving has always felt like this elite club that I needed to get into (I have been told many a time, by many a lift-giver that it will change my life) but that was closed to me.  First it was because my paralysing fear of failure.  I didn't attempt to get behind the wheel again for another six years.  And when I finally did, I was out of my parent's house, and the expensive lessons and test booking processes were no longer their bill to foot.  So the second barrier was money.  This year, after a failed first attempt, I got a good job, that pays enough to give me access to the instructor I needed to get over my fears, and learn how to drive.  And so it was that I came to be standing in the office of a traffic department employee, bawling my eyes out in disbelief at my good fortune.  I passed.  I could join the life-changing club!

Well, sort of.  I forgot one minor detail.  You can take the license-ness out of the girl, but good luck with the carless-ness.  Still, not as huge a problem as the damn driver's test, I thought.  So, armed with enthusiasm and my giant (in comparison to everyone else's snazzy, credit-card format) piece of paper that proclaims me legal on the roads, I set out to hunt down a car.  And I found one too.  Reader, I have never understood 'car people': I don't understand how you can enthuse about a mere metal machine and its various parts as much as they do.  I'm not a believer.  But I believe in this car.  I drove her around for a bit, got to know the different parts, got a feel for how I could negotiate my test-fresh skills into something more solid and concrete.  I love this car.  I want this car.  (Don't need it, though.  I need a car, not this one.)  I was smitten.  Filled out the paperwork, attached all supporting documents, dotted I's, crossed T's and fingers. 

I had been told and knew that my lack of a credit rating would maybe count against me; I was prepared for this.  What I was not prepared for was for the banks (including my own, who I have been with for 11 years) to tell me that I was considered a 'high risk' client, because I am not a citizen of this country and do not own property.  So, let me get this straight: I have lived here for collectively 15 years, I've had a bank account for 11 of those, I have been a permanent resident for 7 years, I have paid rent in this country (in one city) for 5 years, I have worked and paid taxes for 3 years, I have a South African identity document, and I am a 'high risk' client.  Not only that, but three of the other banks wouldn't touch me.  Really? 

I swung from extreme frustration and helplessness to deep sadness.  Aside from all of those feelings, I once again reflected on all of the relative privileges I enjoy as a non-South African permanent resident of this country, and what my obvious privilege says about the sytematic barriers those who don't enjoy the privilege I do must face.  I have an ID document, which (although it clearly, categorically states where I was born, and that I am not a citizen of this country) which opens doors that are resolutely closed to many immigrants (to say nothing of the many South Africans who don't have IDs).  This is arguably the first instance, since I obtained my ID at age 18, that I have ever encountered a closed door.  I cannot imagine what it must be like to encounter this kind of frustration, as a matter of course.  I can't imagine what it must be like to be an African immigrant trying to create a life away from your life, and face this institutionalised, systemic xenoracism (in addition to the constant threat of blatant, often violent xenoracism). 

I am incredibly privileged: I will probably be able to write off this and future encounters with institutionalised xenoracism as administrative nuisances.  I'll escape unscathed, and will probably gain entry into the elite club I so long for.  It will feel like a hollow (albeit life-changing etc.) victory.  I can't unknow the taste of what it must be like to try to make a life in a place that officially considers you a non-person, unworthy of the life you're fighting to build.  It seems useless and futile to, when faced with brutal, violent xenoracism, appeal to people's human decency in a society where xenoracism runs like a poison through the structural and institutional lifeblood.