I remember sitting and listening to him talk, even if I couldn’t fully understand him. He did a lot of talking back then, when people came to visit us in our ramshackle little house in the village of Schoenmakerskop, near Port Elizabeth. Now I know this was a difficult time for him, because of what was happening in South Africa. The ANC [the organisation defending the rights of the black majority] was banned, and my dad was being watched by the South African Special Branch. They were convinced he was plotting something, because a group of black actors called the Serpent Players came to our house to rehearse the plays my father workshopped and wrote with them.
These plays have now been performed around the world. Back then, these black actors made our home a vital, energetic place. His play Sizwe Bansi Is Dead was first produced in our neighbour’s sitting room, with the audience consisting of me, my mum, our neighbour and African women domestics. But putting on plays with black actors wasn’t considered normal, and there was a lot of hostility towards my dad from the white people in the village. When he and I walked to get the newspaper we’d pass various houses with dogs. Some were ferocious and nasty; some not. But the dogs that really snarled all seemed to be from the houses of people whose politics were in extreme opposition to my dad’s, whereas the people who were supportive of my dad seemed to have friendly great dogs. Then one night our house was searched by Special Branch.
I slept through the whole thing, but it left my mother distraught and my father enraged. The tension from that made me retreat into the natural world — the bush, the beach — a glorious, safe place to be. I first saw Sizwe Bansi Is Dead at the age of 10. Since then, I’ve found whenever I see my father’s plays that there is this moment when the theatre darkens and the lights come up on stage and I wonder: “What’s he going to tell me?” That’s a special moment of great intimacy with my dad as he reveals what really matters to him. He and I have had a very intense relationship all my life.
Right now it’s wonderfully easy and incredibly uncomplicated. But as a teenager, with my father being such an enormous presence in South Africa, it was hard. And in those days there was always a bottle of Jim Beam on the table. My father was a drinker, and alcoholism takes its toll on both the drinker and his family. That got harder as I got older. In 1980 we left South Africa when my father went to teach at Yale, and his drinking got worse. In our family, we have a phrase: “people-poisoning”. It’s about how people can seem to devour you. I was totally sensitive to my dad’s moods and was always looking out for him. Sadly, if one’s doing that a lot, it makes one resentful and angry. But three years after that he stopped drinking.
And, oh God, thank God he did! The difference it made. Yet sometimes I’d meet someone who’d say: “You know, I miss the old Athol.” That made me so angry. I tried to be an actress, and my dad directed me in two plays. The first one, when he was still drinking, was hard. I had such grave doubts about myself as an actress, and theatre was really his world. When he directed me again later on, it was better, but I hated my twenties so much, I thought I was going to have a nervous breakdown. When I told my dad this, he wrote to me saying: “If you’re finding no joy in acting, stop it.” I would not have trusted anybody else saying that, but I trusted my dad and I stopped. I’d been very close to him. Then through my teenage years and early twenties, ?I’d grown mistrustful. The glorious thing about my father’s sobriety was that I could reveal things to him again. I’m intensely private — as is he. So this revealing rarely happens face to face. Usually it’s by phone or e-mail. I have a child of my own now, who’s 21/2. Gavyn’s birth has made our relationship less complicated. Before, I was always a daughter, subconsciously pleasing my father. Becoming a mother gave me a certain confidence. And my dad is a wonderful, doting grandfather. Now, when I see how much my dad loves Gavyn and how much Gavyn loves him, I feel I’ve really accomplished something.
ATHOL: Lisa is the greatest adventure in my life. She has challenged me in every way. She has brought me such joy, and the greatest gift anyone could ever have: a grandson.
From a very young age, Lisa made me look at the world in a different way. The first time was one evening when she was in her pram. Like the baboons of Africa, I wake up and my day ends with the sun rising and setting — I am a sun worshipper! On this evening, she pointed at the sky with delight and said: “Dada, Dada, look, look!” She was pointing at a full moon. From that moment, I’ve also loved to watch the moon wax and wane.
Lisa was a wonderful, feisty little girl, very close to me and her mother. Sheila, her mother, is such a rich, quiet, ?warm, generous person. I’m a creature of moods.
One day I was in a very bad mood because the South African government had taken all my papers.
I went for a long walk along the coast, and as I walked I could hear the gulls. Then I began to notice there seemed to be one very persistent gull crying at me. I stopped and turned and there was little Lisa, running as fast as she could and crying: “Daddy, wait for me.”
When she was slightly older I returned one day to find a note pinned to the door: “I’ve taken the dogs and I’ve run away for good. Love Lisa.” Underneath was a postscript: “You’d better find me quick or I’ll be very cross!” As a teenager she was rebellious. Oh, yes! Gloriously so! What convent girl isn’t? She was quite a worry to Sheila and myself. The real test came when we went to Yale. Lisa wanted to stay on in New York, and Sheila and I worried about her feisty spirit in New York, but she sailed through it.
But I’m afraid I was drinking very heavily during that time. I am aware now that Lisa and her mother must have suffered terribly through me. But despite all the despair I put them through, they never threatened to leave me. Eventually I realised my drinking would cost me everything I loved. I stopped, and I haven’t had a drink for 20 years.
In her twenties, when Lisa became an actress, I directed her in a play of mine at the National Theatre in London, and she acquitted herself very well. But the ups and downs and rejections make acting an incredibly painful business. And Lisa is emotionally terribly sensitive. She began to write travel pieces for The New York Times, and short stories which she’s had read on public radio. And what a thrill it is to see her write her first novel.
After she got married she came to live quite near us, in southern California, and she had her son, Gavyn.
Ah,Gavyn! He has wormed his way so intensely into my heart that sometimes I think I’m his father. Lisa and I joke about it, and I have to take a grip on myself and say: “You are not the father, you are the grandfather,” so I know what my role is. Now Lisa is separated from her husband, so we see a lot of her.
But Gavyn is growing up in one of the most troubled countries in the world. Sheila and I daily compare situations between the United States and South Africa.
The difference is that, in the United States the censorship, dumbing down and corruption is far more subtle.
So here we are today: Lisa and Gavyn a 10-minute drive from me and Sheila. The other night I was playing with Gavyn on the floor, and Lisa was cooking, and I thought: “How lucky I am.” In South Africa my nickname was Lucky, and that’s what I’ve been: lucky. Very, very lucky.
Interviews by Ann McFerran. Photograph: Brad Swonetz
