money is time
I’d woken up the same way since 2012: at five o’clock in the morning, tired after escaping a madman in my sleep and hopeful there were leftovers for breakfast. That morning, however, felt like I’d woken up on the wrong side of the bed: I noticed a primary school girl wearing a white blazer. Immediately, I knew her parents were unreasonable people.
My school, like most South African schools, required uniforms. Many schools allowed learners to customise their uniforms to show off achievements, but school uniforms are expensive. It's unreasonable for parents to buy extra special — and extra expensive — versions that will be quickly outgrown because of puberty or graduation.
That’s why I felt a little guilty when my dad spent a small fortune on my special blazer. I made sure to wear it every day and he made sure to ask me, on the days that I didn't, if my friends remembered my achievements when I wasn't wearing my blazer. I didn't blame him for his not-subtle sarcasm — bragging rights were expensive, and he wanted his money's worth.
Still, I couldn't deny how good it felt to wear that blazer. It made me stand out in a school where conformity was the norm, where every girl tucked her shirt into her skirt when she wasn't supposed to. Wearing the blazer made me look distinct, even on days when my achievements weren't being celebrated.
Naturally, some learners couldn't afford the special blazers. They usually opted for the shiny badges sold at the front office. In fact, many learners preferred the badges to the scrolls that could be sewn onto their blazers. The scrolls, hidden under the arms, weren't easy to see, while the badges were prominently pinned to the lapels. Some learners went so far as to buy badges that duplicated their scrolls for everyone to see their achievements. After all, bragging rights were expensive, and they wanted their money's worth.
However, these badges and scrolls weren’t just about showing off accomplishments. They also signalled participation. Some learners accumulated so many badges that they were sold only on Fridays to keep up with demand. Most badges didn’t even reference specific achievements — a musical note for singing in the choir, a school crest for house affiliation, a shield for being a member of the MDC. I didn’t bother with badges; I thought my scrolls were enough.
Apparently, not everyone agreed. One day, I overheard two girls whisper as I passed them in the corridor: “A red blazer with no badges?” It didn’t matter what I’d achieved; it only mattered how much I looked like I’d achieved.
It took me a while to understand why learners cared so much about these badges. Then it clicked: for many, participation was a luxury. Extracurricular activities might technically be free, but they required time, and not everyone had time to spare. Learners who cared for younger siblings, worked jobs, or relied on rigid transport schedules didn’t have the freedom to stay after school for clubs or events.
Meanwhile, wealthier students could do it all — join six clubs, study thirteen subjects, found charities for stray puppies, and build apps to organise their closets, all before graduating from high school. They attributed their success to passion, hard work, and time management. However, for poorer students, time wasn’t something they could manage; they didn't have enough of it to manage.
Although the saying goes, "Time, is money," it should be, "Money is time." The more money someone has, the more they can do with their time. I'm not saying that time management skills aren't important or that some people don't need them. However, they're only applicable to spare time. If someone's time is used up by family responsibilites, work, and commutes, there's little left to manage.
The badges weren't just badges — they were signals for who had the time and privilege to participate. In a world where appearances mattered, but were too expensive to maintain, badges were the only way to look like you'd done plenty — had plenty.
My school, like most South African schools, required uniforms. Many schools allowed learners to customise their uniforms to show off achievements, but school uniforms are expensive. It's unreasonable for parents to buy extra special — and extra expensive — versions that will be quickly outgrown because of puberty or graduation.
That’s why I felt a little guilty when my dad spent a small fortune on my special blazer. I made sure to wear it every day and he made sure to ask me, on the days that I didn't, if my friends remembered my achievements when I wasn't wearing my blazer. I didn't blame him for his not-subtle sarcasm — bragging rights were expensive, and he wanted his money's worth.
Still, I couldn't deny how good it felt to wear that blazer. It made me stand out in a school where conformity was the norm, where every girl tucked her shirt into her skirt when she wasn't supposed to. Wearing the blazer made me look distinct, even on days when my achievements weren't being celebrated.
Naturally, some learners couldn't afford the special blazers. They usually opted for the shiny badges sold at the front office. In fact, many learners preferred the badges to the scrolls that could be sewn onto their blazers. The scrolls, hidden under the arms, weren't easy to see, while the badges were prominently pinned to the lapels. Some learners went so far as to buy badges that duplicated their scrolls for everyone to see their achievements. After all, bragging rights were expensive, and they wanted their money's worth.
However, these badges and scrolls weren’t just about showing off accomplishments. They also signalled participation. Some learners accumulated so many badges that they were sold only on Fridays to keep up with demand. Most badges didn’t even reference specific achievements — a musical note for singing in the choir, a school crest for house affiliation, a shield for being a member of the MDC. I didn’t bother with badges; I thought my scrolls were enough.
Apparently, not everyone agreed. One day, I overheard two girls whisper as I passed them in the corridor: “A red blazer with no badges?” It didn’t matter what I’d achieved; it only mattered how much I looked like I’d achieved.
It took me a while to understand why learners cared so much about these badges. Then it clicked: for many, participation was a luxury. Extracurricular activities might technically be free, but they required time, and not everyone had time to spare. Learners who cared for younger siblings, worked jobs, or relied on rigid transport schedules didn’t have the freedom to stay after school for clubs or events.
Meanwhile, wealthier students could do it all — join six clubs, study thirteen subjects, found charities for stray puppies, and build apps to organise their closets, all before graduating from high school. They attributed their success to passion, hard work, and time management. However, for poorer students, time wasn’t something they could manage; they didn't have enough of it to manage.
Although the saying goes, "Time, is money," it should be, "Money is time." The more money someone has, the more they can do with their time. I'm not saying that time management skills aren't important or that some people don't need them. However, they're only applicable to spare time. If someone's time is used up by family responsibilites, work, and commutes, there's little left to manage.
The badges weren't just badges — they were signals for who had the time and privilege to participate. In a world where appearances mattered, but were too expensive to maintain, badges were the only way to look like you'd done plenty — had plenty.
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