Finding My Nation's Footprints On My Family's Bloodline
The 1920s. Western Java. A woman sits on her front porch. In broad daylight, she’s wearing nothing but a cloth, and a brassiere. Her children come home from school and shout, embarrassed, "Mom! Get back inside!" She smiles and follows them in, shamelessly. That woman was my great-grandmother. Read morethe language we speak.
my childhood memoirs, a language so effortless, always bittersweet. Read moreShould Have
I heard their voice Seemed so far behind Baby girls with intellectual poise Ears under one’s nose nearby Read moreThoughts from a Girl Far From Home
“Where are you from?”
The question comes up almost every time I meet someone new. It’s a fair question; I’m at university, I’m an international student – it’s perfectly reasonable for someone to want to know where I’m from. (The implications of that question directed towards someone who is an immigrant is another issue entirely, and not one that I’m qualified to talk about.)
I answer easily, “Indonesia.”
“Oh cool, which city?” they continue.
Here is where I pause. “It’s complicated,” I want to say. “My parents are from different parts of Sumatra, but they both moved around a bit before settling in Jakarta for work. That’s where they met and where I grew up.” The split second it takes me to think up this response is enough to realise I was way overthinking the question.