TV don’t teach nobody nothing!

I was reading Barack Obama’s Dreams from my Father the other day, and flowing with this man’s poetic language, when I bumped on a line that made me put the book down. He was talking about Maya, his sister by his Indonesian step-dad. He said,

“I scolded Maya for spending one evening watching TV instead of reading the novels I had bought for her” (DfMF 123)

I remember my feelings at that particular moment. Affront. Indignation.

Ok. I lie.

I remember wondering if in fact it was true that television did not teach anybody anything. I was astonished by how much I wanted to defend television. I felt a powerful emotion towards this piece of machinery, especially given my rather African background. Isn’t it true that the world has come to believe that radio is the one technical gadget that defines Africans? And isn’t it true that television in Africa has been regarded as the luxury that only the few rich ones can afford?

I remember growing up without television, until I turned nine. Then my dad brought into the living room this (it seems to me now) rather small strange looking television set. It wasn’t as big as our neighbours’. It was squeezed, reminded me of maths. You see, our teacher taught us the essentials of a cubicle. It was like a square, only three dimensional. That is how I imagined a real life cube to be. Small, compact, perfect. And it was black and white. I loved it.

Anyway, from the time this thing made its way into our house, I was glued. I never could explain it. My father could never explain it. In fact, my father tried to pry me away from it with everything he had. On some nights, when all the other children were asleep, and I was left there, staring into this machinery, my dad would stumble into the sitting room, reeking of alcohol, for he loved his beer (of course he had just arrived home). He would try to string enough words together, words that were designed to threaten me from the television.

“You have school tomorrow, what are you still doing up?”

Or

“This thing will make you go blind!”

I would calmly turn around and tell him I was doing homework. That without TV I could not do my homework.

Too drunk to argue, he would leave the room, sighing, and possibly look for my mother to blame for the destruction of one of his daughters. Nonetheless, they basically left me alone.

My older siblings, realizing that I got away with it, began joining me in my night vigil, watching, droning, thinking.

But none of them ever understood what it was that drew me to that television. It wasn’t the images per se, it was the comfort it brought me, the knowledge that a better or worse life than mine existed out there. It was the way in which I could lose myself in some senseless movie for hours without blinking, and the way I would be irritated when my mother chose a particularly interesting TV moment to send me to the shops, which were far away, at least by my standards. A kilometer journey was way too far, because I had to make the journey back, and then I would miss half of my He Man cartoon programme, or Sheera. I despised it when mum came home, bountiful, loud, interefering.

Yes, I watched way too much TV.

Then I grew up. I went to boarding school, where there was none. I entertained myself with watching people, following routine, numbing myself against the inevitable drone of class, games time, dining time, preps, sleep. I read novels. I discovered the hidden world of fantasy. I got lost in it. First, it started with the interesting stories from African writers. Kenjo Jumbam, I remember. I loved The White Man of God. I was fascinated with the child’s point of view that the author employed. I read. I later discovered Mills and Boon, and I thought I would die from the enticing romantic stories. Still, I discovered other romances, books that were taken away from me before I reached the end of these tantalizing narratives. The pain of loss that I felt then, I cannot dare to recount.

Meantime, in between, our television set was stolen, so for a whole year, as my mother pestered my father to buy a new television, we listened to radio. I got lost in the fantastic stories of Radio Theatre. Most of them were about romance, and AIDS. I enjoyed listening to the triumphs of the voices, and was as defeated as the characters were, when disaster struck.

Then I went to college. There was TV, but then there were so many other things going on. And so, once again, my love for TV was in abeyance.

Many years later, I could finally afford my own TV. I watched. I bought every single television series I could get my hands on. I hated movies, because they ended. I bought the entire series of Friends, bought Ally McBeal, Desperate Housewives, Nip/Tuck, Prison Break, 24….the list is endless. I was a woman possessed.

Then one day I asked myself, what had I learnt watching all this TV? People are busy reading. There is this new fad all over me. People no longer buy TV sets because its so …. Working class? People now only listen to Classic FM, or read M&G, or just read plain old classics.

Elizabeth Gaskell. Theodore Dreiser. Charles Dickens.

What was I doing to myself, enjoying this?

To make it worse, I wasn’t even a fan of news, and newspapers. I was doomed.

I was often chastised for not being more receptive to good books, and newspapers, and the news. But what was I supposed to learn from all these, if not repeated narratives of war and destruction, and mayhem, and cheating politicians. What was I supposed to do with things I had absolutely no use for? How was I supposed to learn from all these?

I thought. Then repeated the last series of Ally McBeal. She was funny. Very confused. Too much angst. Like me. But still quite funny.

Perhaps TV was bad, but it was definitely good for my mental health.