Bewitched by Words by Virgilio Goncalves

Curiouser and Curiouser

I was paid, once upon a time, many decades ago, to shut up. Looking back, it wasn’t surprising because I was curious and vocal about words for as long as I can remember. As a child, wherever we went, reading aloud any words I recognised became a habit. So, I jabbered on about these words, ‘Taxi’, ‘Bakery’, ‘Bus Stop’, ‘Street’. I also recalled seeing and saying, ‘Toilets — Whites Only’. I asked, loud as a lorikeet, ‘So where do those who aren’t white go?’

I could tell by my parents’ fretful frowns that my question was prickly, especially in the context I realised much later, of living in apartheid-era South Africa. So, while I was told to shut up and paid a penny to do so, it was probably the questions asked rather than the talking itself, which earned me the hush money.

(For the uninitiated, black people in those days had to go around the back to a separate loo, usually not as well self-contained.)

Family Feuds

I was too preoccupied with sports as a child to care about schoolwork. Though enjoying English and typing classes in high school (I was the first boy at our school to join a typing class because I somehow felt the skill would come in handy one day), for most of my free time from the age of 10, I played tennis. I was capable enough in my early teens to rank seventh in South Africa. My father was one of those adults who pushed and prodded, so I voluntarily called it quits at 17. He wasn’t amused. Sadly, we never became best buddies.

While Dad and Mum (both born in Madeira) encouraged me to go to university and worked their butts off in local delis to pay for that to happen, we clashed about politics. We argued often, particularly after I decided on my choice of uni: Rhodes, in Grahamstown. It was the first white uni in the country to enrol black students. Dad disliked it even more when I told him I was helping a few black lads improve their tennis skills in the local township.

When I was arrested for joining a protest supporting black students, he was justifiably unhappy. I didn’t have the money to pay my fine and had the temerity to ask if he could help me out. Years later, when I was 65 (the age he’d died), I wrote, filled with guilt and regret, the following poem.

Introduction to Poetry

I wasn’t sure what degree to study until writing a random two-paragraph letter to the editor of a local newspaper. It was published, so I decided, based on that flimsy accolade, to become a journalist (especially as I could type). My majors were journalism and English.

While doing the latter course, we delved deeply into literature, and it was then, for the first time, that I fell for the Romantic poets, particularly Wordsworth and Keats. Reciting Wordsworth’s poems became a buzz. Following my stint at university, I moved farther away from my parents — geographically and emotionally — by joining The Daily Dispatch newspaper in East London, the first newspaper in South Africa to employ black journalists.

Its editor, Donald Woods, was a supporter of anti-apartheid activists Nelson Mandela and Steve Biko and later had to flee the country. (The movie ‘Cry Freedom’ portrayed his life.) I learned a lot from Woods, particularly about the basic concept of all people being treated equally. My course as a human being was set. And Mandela became my hero.

More Journalism Forays

I worked over the years on three newspapers in South Africa as a reporter (general news, local government, and sport) and then as a sub-editor. My love for writing grew, and this continued after our family (including my wife Lesley and our two sons, Kyle and Ross) emigrated to Australia in 1986. I was 34.

We left for a life less permeated by pandemonium. I continued working in newspapers, joining The Whyalla News, where I became editor, a stint that lasted five years. The closest I came to poetry during this time was when the paper won national recognition for editorial writing. It was called The Shakespeare Award but likely had very little to do with The Bard himself.

Further study

We remained in Whyalla, where I moved into academia, tutoring and lecturing at the local campus of the University of South Australia. Included among the courses I taught was creative writing.

Again, I delved into poetry while attempting to teach the craft to students. Later, I joined The Advertiser in Adelaide in 1997 as a sub-editor but realised, after 35 years, I’d fallen out of love with journalism. So, I studied again and obtained a Grad Dip in TESOL from Uni of SA, and taught part-time at the Intensive English Language Institute at Flinders Uni. But I hankered after my first sporting passion: tennis.

More Searching

I became a qualified tennis coach. Then, as the resident club coach at Grange, I helped dedicated members grow the club from one team of four players to 18 teams (72 players) and started a program for refugees. We coached up to 40 refugee children weekly over three years. The program won an SA Building Communities Award and was featured on ABC’s Stateline. At 58, it rendered me speechless to be honoured with the 2010 South Australian Tennis Coach of the Year.

Despite our differences, I knew Dad, now long departed, would’ve been proud. During this period, there was little time for wordplay. Later, though, I wrote the following poem.

Back to Writing

In subsequent years, while working as a travelling tennis coach on the Eyre and Fleurieu peninsulas, I tentatively dipped my fingers into pools of paragraphs. I joined Eyre Writers Inc. in Port Lincoln and was introduced, in a one-day course, to novel writing. I became obsessed with the idea. So, I wrote a novel. Then another. Not as rapidly as constructing those two sentences, but the process beguiled — the braiding of plots, the building of characters’ lives, fictitious usually, sometimes based on fact. I was engrossed.

It became a meditation. Each day, without fail, I wrote. Even on trips away, I devoted mornings to writing. At the end of each sitting, I jotted down keywords so I could continue where I left off. The next morning, at my desk again, I went into that world of make-believe. I was so smitten; I wanted to spend more stints in that space. Also, in Port Lincoln, I piloted volunteer writing classes at a high school and for older residents in a home.

Curious as ever

In 2013, we moved back to Adelaide, to Aldinga Beach, where I made up for time lost when coaching tennis full-time. I joined writing groups — Ochre Coast Poets, U3A Creative Writing, and a group at a retirement village in McLaren Vale — got my work critiqued and attended open mic events. I self-published and held book launches for both of my novels.

I have an affinity for short stories but, in latter years, have become besotted by the art of writing poems. I’ve tried all sorts – haiku, sonnet, villanelle – but felt most at ease with free verse, especially toying with various structures and last lines which try to startle. I’ve become fond of quirky. Using fodder from playtime with my first grandchild prompted me to write this poem.

I began submitting poems to anthologies and also competitions. Winning The Gawler Poetry Prize left me speechless. The judge, Jude Aquilina, always passionate about poetry, has lately become a mentor. She’d encouraged me to chase publishers to print a collection. So, I did. Ginninderra Press agreed to publish my first poetry anthology. Then a collection of short tales and a second poetry anthology. I still relish all kinds of writing, including academic and slang, but these days I’m possessed by poetry.

I count myself fortunate to have been born curious, particularly about words. While I don’t babble on as I used to as a child, I’m happy to let my fingers do the talking via the keys of my computer — and contentedly no longer care if I’m not paid any pennies.

AUTHOR BIO

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

‘Street Cents’, Stings in Tails, 2018; ‘Crushed’, The Crow, Ginninderra Press, 2021; ‘Please God No!’, ‘Country Tennis Trip’ and ‘Jealousy’, As Clear as Modder, 2022.