The inspiration for this blog actually came from a post in
this blog. Upon reading the article, I realized I do not belong in the two categories, Indonesian or American, but I straddle both, down the middle road, as an Indonesian-American.
There seems to be a negative connotation attached to the concept
of Indonesian-American and with the idea of growing up in the States, or
any other foreign country, and residing there in the long run.
How can we be Indonesian, if we do not live there?
How can we be Indonesian, if we have grown up here?
How can we be Indonesian, if we choose to reside elsewhere?
Pride does not come from living within territorial boundaries. I believe pride comes from a deep understanding of our background and heritage, as through that understanding comes appreciation.
I always pester my parents about my ancestral history, whatever that history was. My ancestors may be mere farmers toiling away in the rice paddies or regents of a kingdom long-gone, I did not care. I just wanted to know who they were, what they did, and how our lineage came to be.
As a child I rummaged through storage boxes tucked away in a closet to find hidden treasure, and what I considered treasure back then was books and papers about Indonesia, about my family. Discovering a map that had details and photos about the provinces and ethnicities was a moment of pure excitement. I took in the information provided like a hungry bee, taking in the facts of Java, Sumatra, Sulawesi, and the like as if they were sweet nectar.
The Internet was not available then, the libraries weren’t well stocked with books about Indonesia, and our little town nestled in the hills of West Virginia did not have a sizeable Indonesian population. The only family with kids were my own, a friend of the family with a child two years younger left a few years back. My sister and I were the only Indonesian at our schools, and at times, the only Asian and the only Muslim.
When the local university had its International Fair, our very small, and tight-knit, group of Indonesian students would utilize the Fair to introduce our beloved nation to the Fair’s visitors. We had our little booth, tucked away in a corner, by the entrance, and we’d decorate it with whatever Indonesian paraphernelia we had at hand. It wasn’t much usually, but it sufficed to pique the attention. Eyes would widen whenever they came to our little booth. The batik cloth, the wooden figurines, our colorful attire and glistening headdress set us apart from the other booths. During the international fashion show, we would take in first place.
In sixth grade, I decided to forgo the usual Halloween costumes of witch, ghost, or some monster and chose the Indonesian traditional clothing from Padang to wear to the annual Halloween parade of Central Elementary. The elaborate gold headdress was so heavy, I had to prop it up with my free hand every now and then. Fellow classmates oohed and aahed at my costume, teachers and passers-by stopped to remark at its beauty. I had never won an award for costume anything, but that year, I won for most original.
My fascination with any and all things Indonesian grew.
As the years passed, our family had our shares of culture clashes (which is another article in itself), and many a time did we even question our Indonesian-ness, most especially my sister and I. We grew up not amongst fellow Indonesian children, but side-by-side with Americans and with other children of international students. We faced numerous walls in our attempts to understand ourselves.
We felt we were neither here nor there, neither this nor that. It will take a 1997 and 2005 trip to Indonesia to awaken ourselves to embrace the path of “middleness”, the path that is neither this nor that, but something in between, the coming together of the divided into a harmonious unity.
As children of migrants, of parents who have immigrated permanently or emigrated transiently (i.e. educational pursuits), we cannot be tasked with the decision to choose between Indonesia and America. It is not an either or scenario for us, as both are deeply intertwined into our being, both firmly implanted within our roots, both have shaped us into who we are today.
We are Indonesian because of our past, our heritage and we are American because of our present and future. The two have to be balanced equally for any children of a migrant to become functioning beings in their societies. And though odds are seemingly against that notion, it is possible. Complete assimilation, or rejection of the new culture and society, should not be our goal as children of migrants as it will wreak further havoc in our sense of identity and self, propelling the complete imbalance of whatever equilibrium we have right now. We will eventually lose touch with all that has made us what we are today and sever relationships with bodies that can solidify and strengthen the foundations we stand on.
We are not a peoples without a past, without a history, without ancestry, therefore it is of the utmost importance that we endeavor to embrace, understand, and appreciate our heritage. At the same time, it is also vital for us to embrace, understand, and appreciate the culture we live in now.
It is the coming-together of our Indonesian-ness and American-ness that we can move forward as individuals and collectively as a society. We cannot choose either or, we are not this or that, we are both, and we will go our way, down that middle road…
I recently brought up the idea of giving our little Bubba a play kitchen, complete with refrigerator, stove, and maybe even microwave. Here he can learn the functions of said objects without actually tampering with the real-life versions and getting hurt by his experimentation (i.e the jamming of little fingers in refrigerator doors or spilling of hot oil atop a little head). He can pretend play he’s whipping a divine meal on his play stove and storing up goodies galore in his play refrigerator. The possibilities are endless!
