on the
day before I was to begin, my father took me aside and told me that I must be dressed properly for school. Until that time, I, like all the other boys in
Qunu, had worn only a blanket, which was wrapped around one shoulder and pinned at the waist. My father took a pair of his trousers and cut them
at the knee. He told me to put them on, which I did, and they were roughly the correct length, although the waist was far too large. My father then took
a piece of string and cinched the trousers at the waist. I must have been a comical sight, but I have never owned a suit I was prouder to wear than
my father’s cut-off pants.
On the first day of school, my teacher, Miss Mdingane, gave each of us an English name and said that from thenceforth that was the name we
would answer to in school. This was the custom among Africans in those days and was undoubtedly due to the British bias of our education. The
education I received was a British education, in which British ideas, British culture, British institutions, were automatically assumed to be superior.
There was no such thing as African culture.
Africans of my generation — and even today — generally have both an English and an African name. Whites were either unable or unwilling to
pronounce an African name, and considered it uncivilized to have one. That day, Miss Mdingane told me that my new name was Nelson. Why she
bestowed this particular name upon me I have no idea. Perhaps it had something to do with the great British sea captain Lord Nelson, but that
would be only a guess.
on the
day before I was to begin, my father took me aside and told me that I must be dressed properly for school. Until that time, I, like all the other boys in
Qunu, had worn only a blanket, which was wrapped around one shoulder and pinned at the waist. My father took a pair of his trousers and cut them
at the knee. He told me to put them on, which I did, and they were roughly the correct length, although the waist was far too large. My father then took
a piece of string and cinched the trousers at the waist. I must have been a comical sight, but I have never owned a suit I was prouder to wear than
my father’s cut-off pants.
On the first day of school, my teacher, Miss Mdingane, gave each of us an English name and said that from thenceforth that was the name we
would answer to in school. This was the custom among Africans in those days and was undoubtedly due to the British bias of our education. The
education I received was a British education, in which British ideas, British culture, British institutions, were automatically assumed to be superior.
There was no such thing as African culture.
Africans of my generation — and even today — generally have both an English and an African name. Whites were either unable or unwilling to
pronounce an African name, and considered it uncivilized to have one. That day, Miss Mdingane told me that my new name was Nelson. Why she
bestowed this particular name upon me I have no idea. Perhaps it had something to do with the great British sea captain Lord Nelson, but that
would be only a guess.
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