Archive for the ‘English’ Category

The Eyes With No Pearl Earring
April 14, 2014

As drops form a pattern that blurs the glass window to the world outside, I look at the falling rain and think about you.

You don’t know this, but in the stack of posters that lie underneath the black couch, mixed with old advertisement papers and condoms that might have expired this year, there’s a picture of your smile as I’ve never seen before. The face of you smiling in my memory has always been with the pair of round pale cheeks and eyes softly nice, unlike your usual straightforward stare. The smile that is wide enough to melt your cool obliviousness and eyes so sweet they melted mine as I gazed into yours, mellowly acknowledging that those eyes looked at another. The laughable, almost ridiculous irony, is that I’ve always thought that picture of your smile was focused and clear – as you had too, but after in quietness I sneaked your smile into my phone memory, it turned out to be blurry, just like the picture of the people around you. You remarked to me that the picture was blurred at the edges, around Oliver’s face and mine. We all were actually blurred.

In that poster, the one hiding under the couch, the one of you surrounded by even more people, is your face, slightly blurred as well, unlike the other faces. I suspect that you were unprepared for the picture. Perhaps you were in motion. Yet as I looked intently at your face, immortalized on a coloured piece of paper, the fascination swayed me in deeper and deeper. You look straight at me, yet it isn’t the cool gaze that had enthralled my eyes for a year – it is a look I’m not familiar with, yet I’m savouring that gaze curiously veiled in uncertainty.

It is the same uncertainty that a girl with a humble pearl earring once revealed through a painting. Your lips are as parted, and your eyes as whole as hers.

As I cling to you, the uncertainty sinks its fingertips deeper into my memories. As I reluctantly separate myself from the paper, so do the knuckles of uncertainty.

Yet as I lay helplessly in the crackling voice of Lykke Li holding in her nearly audible cry, I look back at the eyes that I gazed into in the dark as I plainly anticipated the word “friends.” The eyes whose genuine concern was clear under the yellow light, that I stubbornly, effortfully refused to face yet couldn’t run away from for long. The eyes that I impatiently tore my own from, that I wished deep down would watch me disappear but not see my thick sobs filling the air. The eyes that I knew that night would not look at mine like the year before, that would mirror someone else’s eyes.

And then, the eyes on the paper, the ones blurred with uncertainty. The eyes that I wonder about – the eyes unadorned with a pearl earring.

Underneath the sky the rain has stopped, leaving the wind to blow wistfully on the bowing grass.


Oliver’s Silver Flask
December 31, 2013

This December, five days before Christmas I was invited to a friend’s annual winter party. Oliver and I have known each other since January, so it was his first party that I attended, and I felt very honoured to be a guest. Not only is he a very good friend, knowing Oliver has been a very positive experience for me. Personally, I have learned a great deal from him. From his personality and perspective, from his knowledge and attitude towards other people, I felt that my personal being has improved positively, and I would like to honour our friendship and show my gratitude with a gift. Although I’ve set aside a certain amount of budget, yet a sudden change of plan forced me to weigh whether I’m willing to spend more, and after considering the great significance of his role to me, I decided that a higher price should not matter. I ordered a silver flask that was small enough to fit into his bag of books, knowing his affectation for sneaking in some vodka. Since I didn’t want the gift to be a seasonal object – “Christmas 2013” or “Merry Christmas” is too season-specific and gets boring after a while – I decided that the flask would be beautifully adorned simply with his engraved full name.

Coming an hour late to the party after picking up the flask and getting a bit lost, I obscurely pulled out the grey gift box from my bag and handed it to Oliver. He immediately opened it on the coffee table, and I was really glad to see his joyfulness when he unwrapped the thin white paper and saw the flask. It was quickly passed around the room from hand to hand along with his continual remark, “Look at what Tempe got me!” I suggested that he washed it first, but he wouldn’t hear me and filled it with Jack Daniels straight away. Throughout the party Oliver kept thanking me for the gift, and, not knowing how to respond properly, I only replied, “I’m really glad you like it.” His last acknowledgment, however, touched me the most. He called me and said, “When I’m 83 years old I would show this flask and say Tempe got this for me.” Hearing that put a warm feeling in my chest. One of my consideration in getting a flask with his name was that he would be able to use it for a long time, and that it would hold an long-lasting significance, yet to hear those words verbally from him touched me very deeply.

Sadly, I couldn’t find the words that in my mind would be appropriate. I was never taught that saying how I feel, whether positive or negative, is acceptable. The courtesy is to give a neutral comment, completely detached of my feeling, to show politeness. Sometimes I believe this moulds my tongue so that I do not say what I don’t genuinely mean. Giving a compliment is the biggest appreciation I could do for someone, and those words will contain the truest meaning of my feelings. However, after that moment when I was too tongue-tied to reply to him with equally meaningful words, I analyzed my reserved reaction and found that my lack of self-expression also caused me to keep myself from showing my emotions to the world outside. I found that I have always been afraid to tell the world how I feel because it’s like giving a hint of my mind. I don’t want to be offensive, and actively reacting to the world is offensive for me. I’m used to standing back, just barely at the edge of the circle, and observe how people interact with each other. When someone takes note of me, I see it as the person making an effort to know me based on my still, outer appearance, just as if the person is observing a lifeless statue and forms opinions about it. I’m not upset, because I know that’s what I consciously intend. By not making any active effort to let my mind be read by other people, I feel that I’m not being offensive to the world.

However, I also realize that perhaps being emotionally passive is my parallel response to the emotional passiveness of my parents. I could hardly remember them saying positive remarks about me that is filled with emotion. If what they said were compliments, those compliments sounded like statements instead, unattached to a sense of pride or joy. “You have high marks” doesn’t sound as beautiful as “you did great,” and “she does well in English” is not nearly as direct as “you do well in English.” Sometimes I felt as if my parents were showing me off, not appreciating me. They were always quick, however, to point out my mistakes and how I disappointed or angered them. In time, I learned to speak in the same detached tone, stating rather than expressing, and kept whatever positive remarks I had to myself only.

In reality, when Oliver said those words, I did have something that instantly came up in my mind: I hope when you’re 83 we will still be friends. Instead of saying it out loud, I politely smiled and turned my face so that he wouldn’t see my hesitation on what I should say. Confusion swept over me for a minute, and afterward it was already too late to bring up the matter again for me to say just that one sentence, a response that I convinced myself wouldn’t be of any significant to him anyway.

Two weeks after the party, I was still in regret that I didn’t say that sentence right away. It was my genuine feeling that I had intentionally brushed aside because I made the presumption myself that it wouldn’t matter to him. I realized then that it mattered at least to me, to directly tell people how grateful I am to have them in my life. I had that one chance before, and I let it go due to my fear, and I kept looking back and said, “I wish I’ve done that.”

Today, I saw a notification on my Facebook wall: “Your christmas present was really nice.” From Oliver. Although I hesitated for five minutes, this time I’ve learned my mistake and replied, “I’m glad you like it! And I hope we’ll still be friends when you’re 83 and showing off the flask,” followed with a grinning face.

He replied, “WE WILL.”

3.17 a.m., December 31st, 2013.

I Am Your Child
May 6, 2013

I am your child.

I am your child,

I am your arrow,

and you the bow that throws me to flight,

mighty hands of God rest upon you.

But the arrow is thin, and feeble,

unsharpened point, so fragile.

How young, despite her years.

Harsh wind sways, thunder splits

her wood wounded.

The arrow lands not where she wants to,


the lush Eden, without human in sight.

She weeps.

The bow is griefed,

the God is silent,

and the tears that drip from

the bow’s feathers aiming to the sky

are little droplets of rain

that drench from dark clouds above.

In Debt to Parents
April 1, 2013

About a month ago, I had a conversation with a friend from China, a fellow international student. She told me that, being a lesbian, someday she would like to come out to her parents. Five minutes later, I got a rough idea about how strict her parents were – in making sure she followed their “life guidelines.” Having read quite a few opinions about coming out to the family, a friend and I tried to advise her that she should come out when she is financially independent. She laughed and said that even if she has her own place, her mom would come and drag her back and lock her up in the house for three months (of course, this was a hyperbolic joke on how restrictive her mom is). Finally, she said that she hated how her parents controlled her life with money.

At this statement, I shut my mouth up. This was exactly how I felt several years ago, and I still do occasionally. The culture in which I grow up is different than the one here. Children don’t have to get part-time jobs to get pocket money or save up for college. Parents would make sure they have enough money to pay their children’s education and lifestyle fees, even to support the children after they have their own jobs, buying their first cars or houses. In turn, children should be obedient to what their parents say.

For international students like me and my Chinese friend, the matter is taken way worse. My parents told me that the fee for a year of my education equals to the amount it took for my sister for her four-year schooling in one of the country’s most expensive universities. I need four years too – at least (of course, I could take courses in summer, but it doesn’t contribute to reducing the fees). That doesn’t include other fees for rent, groceries, etc.

I’ll have to confess: I dislike getting in contact with my parents. Whenever we Skyped each other, my mom would ask, in her intentionally-innocent tone, “So, have you thought about your future?” I would tell her my plans for the fifth time, then she would say, “Are you sure you’ll get a decent payment?” Afterwards, I would be reminded – and evoked to feel guilty – on how the fees for me to study abroad is not cheap, that I should at least take a major that promises definite future. Then she would ask – again, with the innocent tone – why I didn’t choose to take Psychology instead, because “You like it, don’t you?” Every time this question rose up, I had the strong temptation to remind her that three years ago she told me I wouldn’t fit into Psychology, that I didn’t have what it takes. Now that I have decided on a major that, I hope, would support me in reaching a future I have always dreamed of, she would rather opt for the better-than-nothing unfitting major. But no, I shut myself up to avoid an argument. Only by God’s miracle – and Dad’s compassionate intervention – that I’m still studying what I’m passionate in. But it’s not over yet. My parents – yes, Dad included – would like me to stay here, find a job, and get myself a Permanent Resident card. Because it would be useless to pay for my extraordinary university fees if I don’t get one. What I want is to get a job somewhere abroad because I want to see the world, not to get privileges for later years. Also, I’ve read a lot of news about people who abuse their newly acquired Permanent Resident status – and I’d hate to be one of the jerks.

On the other hand, I dare not say what my friend stated. I feel that children do have responsibilities to listen to their parents who obviously want only the best for them, even if what they define as “the best” is different from ours. Contrary to how it may seem, parents are not being controlling just because they like to. They have the good intention of making sure we live comfortably, and, due to our young age and lack of experience, feel that it is their job to guide – or perhaps lead – us. And to control with money… Well, they work hard for their children and give what they have to their children. The good intention comes even without the extra amount of money. They are two different subjects that happen to come together – and can be used to support each other.

Knowing this, yes, I would be in debt to my parents for all the fees they paid during my whole life. This is the downside of not getting a government loan, with signed legal contracts and exact amount to pay. What makes my debt indefinite and innumerable is because it comes with the good intention and care, which will always be priceless no matter how much I pay them in money or obedience. Coming out or not coming out, it’s hard enough for me to turn from them and say, “No.”

Being Indecisive – Deadlines
April 1, 2013

(This is a follow-up of the previous post on a different subject)

Instead of typing this post out, I could take care of other more-important matters. For example, I could work on my work permit application. I could also work on an Italian assignment, or scour Kijiji for a room-for-rent. Read Soucouyant or complete the requirements for my visa to visit Italy. Instead, I’m typing this post out.

I hate myself with a ferocious guilt, and I’m drowned in guilt, because I know that everything stems from my indecisiveness. I hate that I don’t have the right motivation to spark me into fulfilling my responsibilities, and I hate that I know that I hate myself for that, and I haven’t done anything, and I hate that I know that I know that I hate myself, and I hate that I know that I know that I know that I hate myself.

The truth is that right now I don’t know if these are the things I want. But I can’t really avoid them, can I? These matters have deadlines, and I’m afraid that if I fail to do them, I’d have regrets in the future. And I’m afraid of regrets, really afraid.



Being Indecisive
April 1, 2013

I admit, I could be very indecisive occasionally. I’m even indecisive over whether I’m feeling lonely right now. If I watch a romantic scene in a movie or see photographs of my friends with their special ones on Facebook, there’s a silent longing that grows unnoticed within me. Shallow? I think so too. But whenever I feel that longing, I wonder if there is a special person I’m fond of now, and I realize that I probably want only a person, any person, to be with me. Foolishly, I imagine those romantic scenes – mixed with my own unrealistic imagination – and wonder if that is exactly what I want. If that would make me happy and fulfilled. But life doesn’t follow the rules of romantic movies, and relationships aren’t for Facebook boasts. I would remind myself – reminded suddenly – of that. Then I would question whether I actually want someone.

Indecisive? Yes, I know. I also wonder if there would come a time when I want a person, a specific person, and not just anyone who will do. I wonder if there would come a time when I stop being indecisive and actually decide if I want a relationship.

The Queen Bed
February 10, 2013

The queen bed is our

love throne,

the humble witness of

our kiss,

the vast cushion for

our embrace.

The queen bed is

where I find you with

your sweet eyes shut

tight, and

your wispy breath seeping in

and out,

thick black threads

of hair

framing your pale beauty.

It is where you find me

kissing your lips good night

and your eyes good morning,

where I praise the Lord during sunrise

for you

and beg to Him during moonrise

for you.

The queen bed is where

we find one more day to be together,

and one more day we’ve been together.

My breath you draw,

Your gasp I catch,

Skin to skin and

hand in hand,

always face to face,

cheek to cheek,

eyes in eyes and

lips in lips,

love to love and

life to live,

on the

majestic queen bed.

One Day I Will See You, God
February 9, 2013

To love another person is to see the face of God.” Hugo, Victor M.

One day I will look up to the sky,

and see a glimpse of your eyes.

The shape of your chin, the curve of your cheeks,

the strands of your lashes and the outline

of your lips.

One day I will look up to the sky

and see you, greater than the sun

without blocking its ray of life,

You who are looking down into

my little overwhelmed eyes.

You who say, “You are loved, my child,

and I love you.”

I love you

I love you

I love you echoing into my heart.

One day I will look up to the sky,

One day I will see you, God.

January 3, 2013

Alejandro is handsome

But I love Alessandra.

The Story about My Menstruation
January 2, 2013

I have a confession to make. This is something that I usually avoid discussing with people, but lately I’ve had a lingering question that rose after reading a book. It’s a graphic novel titled “Are You My Mother?” by Alison Bechdel. Although only in a small portion, Bechdel mentions several times about menopause. Suddenly I have a fear of menopause.

You see, when I was young my parents indulged me with food. When I was five or six KFC had just developed several franchisees in the country. It was pretty much the first fast food joint to be established on where I lived, and everyone was hyped. Apparently, I’d loved KFC so much that Dad brought it home nearly everyday.

I was in second grade when I arrived home, went into the bedroom I shared with my elder sister, and she immediately pointed to between my legs yelling, “There’s red on your panties!” I looked down and, sure there was, a big red stain.

At an age that young, I did not understand the concept of “menstruation” or why I should keep it secretive from male friends. I was actually proud that I had something that seemed unique – none of my friends, not even my sister, had had period – and even more, that everyone seemed to treat me specially when it came to the menstruation topic, so I talked about it with my female friends. Four years later, I’d had a girl asked me in the washroom if it was true that I got my first menstruation when I was in third grade. Ashamed enough to have it at a young age and to have an acquaintance asked about it, I didn’t correct her that I actually got it a year earlier. After that incident, I stopped talking about my first menstruation with anyone. Actually, I barely talk about my periods, but it’s only because unlike my friends who have it rough – accompanied with cramps, physical exhaustion, mood swings, unsteady flux and a boost in appetite – my periods are normal, if not barely noticeable apart from the appearance of blood. The fact that my periods have been pain free and unobstructed in flux is the only thing I appreciate.

To this day, even though I feel deep guilt whenever I thought about this, I’ve been blaming my parents for my early menstruation. I blamed them that I am now the shortest in the family. I used to blame them that I’m overweight, but I’ve accepted it now because I realized that I could fix it. Height isn’t something I can fix. I truly wish I were taller. I’m working on this issue with myself right now.

Anyway. It was not until I was in either fourth or fifth grade when an optometrist, noticing my unusual height (I had a growth spurt from second grade to seventh grade and stopped growing pretty much since), suggested that my parents brought me to a hormone doctor. I remembered that his last name was Batubara (it means “coal”). He examined my breasts for several minutes and then asked Dad and I to wait outside so that he could have a talk with Mom. During the examination, however, he remarked that it had been too late to make any corrective attempts.

I never got to hear his full explanation since my parents never brought it up anymore. I never asked too. I never had a concern about it until lately. The only question I’ve asked my Mom when I was in high school was, “Had I got menstruation at the proper age, would I have been taller now?” She looked at me for a moment. I can’t remember if she looked surprised, but I remember getting a vibe that it wasn’t something she’d like to talk about. I can’t even remember if she looked at me while answering or looked away, but she said, “Maybe.” After that, I avoid bringing up the issue with Mom again. However, that one remark by the doctor alone is enough to fuel the blame on my parents, that had they brought me to a professional earlier, I might have been “corrected.”

This issue had been forgotten during the last years, but now that I’m reading this graphic novel, I’m reminded about it again. I start questioning if I’ll get menopause earlier. I learned that girls usually get their first periods around thirteen years old. If I had mine six years earlier, wouldn’t that mean menopause would also come six years earlier too? Will I get menopause when I’m in the early forties, or even perhaps in the late thirties?

Furthermore, is it too late if there ever comes a time when I want to have my own children? Will the any remaining ova I have be qualified enough?

The only thing I want now is to have a talk with Mom about what the doctor had said, to know the truth about what had happened to me instead of suspecting possibilities. I can’t do it now, though, because I’m far away from home and this is not something I feel like discussing on BBM or through Skype. I want a face-to-face conversation. A real, serious talk.


I wasn’t planning to write this too, but it came up to me suddenly and I wondered about it.

Last year my family (parents and aunt) were talking about my 10-year-old cousin who Mom suspected was going to get her first menstruation soon. She said that if so, my cousin would not be able to grow taller much more. Dad then said that it was possible, if my aunt was willing to do it, to bring my cousin to a hormone doctor and have her menstruation delayed so that she could still grow taller.

I wonder if he learned about that from Mom.

I asked him spontaneously if it could also make me taller. He commented casually that it was what we could have done if it weren’t too late.

I wonder if he ever felt guilty about it.

My aunt and Mom became silent afterwards and they moved to a different topic. I’m sure that what happened to me has been a common knowledge to my extended family that is uncomfortable to discuss, but thankfully have been learned. They must have learned not to do as what my parents did, not to feed their children fast food. I would probably become a legend in the family, the girl who had her menstruation too early, a valid character whose story would be told over and over again to new mothers and later generations as some sort of a “health warning.” I’m a living proof of it.

(P.S.: I’m reading a book titled “Fast Food Nation” by Eric Schlosser. I must be the gladdest person to know that health warnings about fast food on children have risen these days)