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Skips a Beat
Side A. England 1969-1976:
I’ve been born three times. The first time was in the beat between Neil Armstrong declaring, ‘That's one small step for man.... and one giant leap for mankind.’ He had taken his first step on the moon, and I had half-heartedly fallen to Earth. It’s not that I was apathetic about my birth; I was born with half a heart. The proper medical term is Hypoplastic Left Heart Syndrome.
Dad believed I was destined to be the next glam rock sensation, or at least the lead vocalist of a new family band he was putting together to rival The Osmonds. I still have no idea why he chose a fictional androgynous rock star as his hero, or why he would name me after him, but there I was - Ziggy Stardust Jones, dropped into a council estate in north London with half a heart. I was one small band member for Mum and Dad, one giant ongoing experiment for the medical profession. I suppose it could have been worse. I could have been named Hunky Dory.
He named my brother Rod Stewart, and my sister Suzi Quattro. We had another sister, The Sweet, but she died at childbirth, and so we remained a three-piece band. Evidently, my dad was obsessed with music, and his dream was to become a Radio 1 disc jockey and host Top of the Pops. He dressed us up to each resemble one of his favourite artists, and then made us lip sync their tunes. It was humiliating, prancing around like a bad tribute act to the songs of Slade, Elton John, Shawaddywaddy, The Bay City Rollers and Queen. I was a poor cover version of them all and never the person I wanted to myself. There was no way I could be a rock star. I was too shy and too sickly plus I persistently failed to demonstrate the synthetic rage expected of a punk rocker.
For the first six years and three operations of my life we lived on a council estate in a place called Tottenham, an oft-maligned district blighted by sky-high unemployment, drug dens, gang violence, and riots. Dad, having failed to impress at every DJ audition he ever tried for, wanted out. We were moving to the other side of the world.
Side B. South Africa 1976-1977:
The flipside of my family album begins in South Africa. There were three things that prompted our sudden Dad accidentally killed a man; my ten-year-old brother Rod nearly died in a gang fight; and my heart was getting worse. After various operations Mum and Dad were told that in order for me to survive, I would need to live in a warmer climate.
The second of my three births was the day our genial South African maid, Aganus, ululated as she prayed for a holy spirit to fall on my head and give me 'a new heart for Jeeeezussss!’ Not knowing anything about this Jeeeezussss character, (someone who she said had died for my shins) I cowered beneath our kitchen table, covering my head with my hands to protect me from whatever was about to fall on me. Thankfully nothing did, but I felt different after the experience. The daughter of a wise Xhosa sangoma or traditional healer, Aganus told me that I was born again and that because she had given me this second birth, she was now my African Mama.
Aganus had another son whose real name was Godfrey but because he only had three fingers on his right hand, he became known as Got Three. I liked him and was glad to have a friend in this new country. And so, defying an archaic system called apartheid which decreed that black and white people couldn't mix, Got Three and I became the best of friends. He lived in a metal shack in the nearby town-ship of Soweto. I was envious. I wanted to live on a ship too, instead of in a polluted industrial town choked by an oil refinery, a steel works, and a coal mine. The third time I was born was in 1977 in a hospital in Johannesburg. Born again - and again - but this time with a new heart. A black heart.
I’ve been born three times. The first time was in the beat between Neil Armstrong declaring, ‘That's one small step for man.... and one giant leap for mankind.’ He had taken his first step on the moon, and I had half-heartedly fallen to Earth. It’s not that I was apathetic about my birth; I was born with half a heart. The proper medical term is Hypoplastic Left Heart Syndrome.
Dad believed I was destined to be the next glam rock sensation, or at least the lead vocalist of a new family band he was putting together to rival The Osmonds. I still have no idea why he chose a fictional androgynous rock star as his hero, or why he would name me after him, but there I was - Ziggy Stardust Jones, dropped into a council estate in north London with half a heart. I was one small band member for Mum and Dad, one giant ongoing experiment for the medical profession. I suppose it could have been worse. I could have been named Hunky Dory.
He named my brother Rod Stewart, and my sister Suzi Quattro. We had another sister, The Sweet, but she died at childbirth, and so we remained a three-piece band. Evidently, my dad was obsessed with music, and his dream was to become a Radio 1 disc jockey and host Top of the Pops. He dressed us up to each resemble one of his favourite artists, and then made us lip sync their tunes. It was humiliating, prancing around like a bad tribute act to the songs of Slade, Elton John, Shawaddywaddy, The Bay City Rollers and Queen. I was a poor cover version of them all and never the person I wanted to myself. There was no way I could be a rock star. I was too shy and too sickly plus I persistently failed to demonstrate the synthetic rage expected of a punk rocker.
For the first six years and three operations of my life we lived on a council estate in a place called Tottenham, an oft-maligned district blighted by sky-high unemployment, drug dens, gang violence, and riots. Dad, having failed to impress at every DJ audition he ever tried for, wanted out. We were moving to the other side of the world.
Side B. South Africa 1976-1977:
The flipside of my family album begins in South Africa. There were three things that prompted our sudden Dad accidentally killed a man; my ten-year-old brother Rod nearly died in a gang fight; and my heart was getting worse. After various operations Mum and Dad were told that in order for me to survive, I would need to live in a warmer climate.
The second of my three births was the day our genial South African maid, Aganus, ululated as she prayed for a holy spirit to fall on my head and give me 'a new heart for Jeeeezussss!’ Not knowing anything about this Jeeeezussss character, (someone who she said had died for my shins) I cowered beneath our kitchen table, covering my head with my hands to protect me from whatever was about to fall on me. Thankfully nothing did, but I felt different after the experience. The daughter of a wise Xhosa sangoma or traditional healer, Aganus told me that I was born again and that because she had given me this second birth, she was now my African Mama.
Aganus had another son whose real name was Godfrey but because he only had three fingers on his right hand, he became known as Got Three. I liked him and was glad to have a friend in this new country. And so, defying an archaic system called apartheid which decreed that black and white people couldn't mix, Got Three and I became the best of friends. He lived in a metal shack in the nearby town-ship of Soweto. I was envious. I wanted to live on a ship too, instead of in a polluted industrial town choked by an oil refinery, a steel works, and a coal mine. The third time I was born was in 1977 in a hospital in Johannesburg. Born again - and again - but this time with a new heart. A black heart.
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Published December 31, 2020
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