I am an adult female. Pretty sure you already know that. A grown woman with bills and responsibilities who unwinds or calls scrolling through Tiktok me time. This is the part where you give me the side eye and let out a sigh. Relax. I know. I know I should go touch grass. I know I could pick up a book. Maybe even finish one. I know I could journal. I know I could pray. I know I could clean my room. I know I could watch something educational. I know. Thank you. The intervention can wait.
So. The other day. I came across what the internet has termed “a low quality video”.One you’re supposedly not supposed to skip. If you don’t know. Those are the type of videos where the lighting is questionable. The camera is struggling to focus. The image is slightly grainy. The audio is doing its best. Nothing is particularly polished. Hardly two seconds in. In the back of my mind I had already put these people in a box. I had decided what kind of people they were. What kind of neighbourhood they lived in. What school they probably went to. What kind of music they listened to. What kind of house they grew up in. I had practically furnished their homes. Planned their childhoods. Given them a backstory they had not provided. All from a blurry video.
Pause. Embarrassment. A quick forgive me Lord prayer. And then I had to sit with the uncomfortable question. Why?
Why did the quality of the video make me assume something about the quality of their lives? Why did the way they looked make me decide who they were? Why do we receive people differently because their converse sneakers are torn? Because they live in umkhukhu? Because their plates don’t have avocados, mince and potatoes? Because their accents are unfamiliar? Because their hair isn’t laid? Because they don’t live in a complex with a biometric gate? Because their family looks different from ours? Because they don’t know what a Pilates reformer is? Because they went to a school without a hockey field? Because they’re pushing a Shoprite trolley? Why do we romanticise the township when it is content but judge it when it is someone’s actual home?
Pause. Sit with the uncomfortable question. Why?
I want to be able to look at my life and recognise that the woman I am. My personality. My character. My preferences. My think pieces. Even the way I see other people. Not as stereotypes. Not as socioeconomic categories. I want to look at my life and know that it has actually been shaped by conviction. Scripture. Real life experiences. Prayer. Intentional choice. Not just passive consumption. Not just AI shoved down my throat. Not just an algorithm. Not just whatever the internet has decided is desirable this week.
“Do not judge, or you too will be judged. For in the same way you judge others, you will be judged, and with the measure you use, it will be measured to you. “Why do you look at the speck of sawdust in your brother’s eye and pay no attention to the plank in your own eye? How can you say to your brother, ‘Let me take the speck out of your eye,’ when all the time there is a plank in your own eye? You hypocrite, first take the plank out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother’s eye. ~Matthew 7:1-5