"M" is for Magic

Yesterday: “...me, and a gun, and a man on my back...but I haven’t seen Barbados, so I must get out of this...”

An old and dusty Tori Amos song circa Little Earthquakes wafted into my new bedroom as I swept behind a bed that had not been moved since the time of Christ. This song of hers is one of her more raw, brutal tunes (and one of my favorites because of its honesty). Simultaneously, as I scooped the dirt of years past into a dustpan, I could hear the call to evening prayer all around me, outside my windows, permeating the air waves. An Arabic male reminding disciples of Allah what time it was. Tori singing acapella on my computer.

As usual, I had gotten distracted. In the middle of my living room sat an open box filled with gifts from previous female American ELFs in Malang. A DVD player, an iron, novels, maps, hair gel, Bahasa lesson books, English lesson books, a blender, kitchen rags, batik shirts, pot holders, a rolling pin: all gifts from women who came before me to a woman they would probably never meet. Tori and the Qur’an still battling it out around the pile at my feet.

It’s been a full few days while I settle into my apartment. Four cockroaches, countless mosquitoes, and endless scrubbing. Outside my nesting routine lays a much more chaotic and unpredictable scene. Venturing to the mall alone for food still renders staring. The other day a group of teenage boys “accidentally” brushed up against me on the escalator, got in front of me, then turned behind their shoulders to look at me, smiling mischievously, waiting for my reaction. Thankful for my many acting classes, I resisted the urge to move a single muscle in my face as I met their gaze. Stupid Bule (Bule= “native”, “foreigner”, think “gringa”) I am not. Crazy, maybe.

I control my anger in situations like these because for the first time in my life, I am the “other”. I’ve been a privileged white girl for 31 years. I’m here for a reason. Besides, anger is so banal. I know they’re curious. These boys, in my opinion, were quite rude, but the ones that look and don’t touch just want see the real thing. The American in 3D. Alone, I am an anomaly. A pale female freak out and about. This is the first time in my life I’ve ever had to think about why people might not be able to stop themselves from starring at another human being. I never knew I had it so easy.

Without internet at home or a television worth watching (Indonesian t.v. makes zero sense to me) I’ve been devouring Obama’s book, Dreams From My Father. The man can write. Well. Both having lived (living) in Indonesia and Chicago, I foolishly feel we have something in common, regardless of how marginal. But the more I read, the more I realize why he’s so much more than our current President. And the more I’m proud of my country for electing him.

Driving along the roads of Malang, women stand in the dirt, off to the side. Their hands outstretched, hair unbrushed, faces unwashed, bellies empty. Human trafficking happening. Women and children for sale. I hold my breath in utter disbelief and horror as the cars and motorbikes start to move away from them. Why don’t I see that in Chicago, even though it happens there too? How (and when) did we learn to hide it so well? More importantly, where is the police to take these women to a safe house?

Earlier today I was eating breakfast in Duncan Donuts with Wayan when a white man in his mid 40s walks past our table. They extend a familiar greeting. I perk up in my seat at the sight of another ex-pat. I’m not the only one! Hurray! “M” is from Texas and has been living in Indonesia for 10 years. He’s the father of four young children and teaches English in the area (he used to teach at my University, hence his greeting with my co-worker and friend Wayan). His Bahasa is perfect. We get to talking, and I feel myself relax as I speak to his daughter (maybe 9 years old) about their most recent visit back to the States when Mike asks if I’d like to join him and his family for a “meeting” on Sundays where other ex-pats will be gathered. I said, “Yes, I’d really like that”. He then continues, “Now, I don’t know if you’re a Believer, but we usually go to Wendy’s afterwards for dinner, and....” Suddenly he goes mute. The word “Believer” hangs in the air between us as his mouth continues to move, forming words with blurry, distant sound. All I can do is study his shiny gold wedding ring, look at his perfectly groomed head of ash blond hair, notice his nicely pressed clothes and think, “No, not here”. The coffee colored girls at the side of the road flash before my eyes once again with nowhere to go. Not here.

It’s explained to me later that “M” no longer works at my University because he converted a number of former Muslims (students) into Christians. A Missionary in Teacher’s clothing. Perhaps I’m being too sensitive, but those who are hired to teach English abroad have one job: teaching ENGLISH. That’s all. Religion is personal. What happens between you and your God is no one else’s business. Change someone’s religion, and you change their way of living. Literature class is not an invitation to pass out fliers that invite students to “free conversation classes with native speakers” only to have the topic of conversation be about Jesus and why he should be your personal savior. The white man with the invisible cross “teaching” his students a new way to pray. I thought I was here to educate college kids on contemporary drama, not to evangelize. I thought they hired me to plan lessons, not to persuade. He leaves our table with a smile and a wave. I sit in silence. Yes...even here.

Every day I notice walls I never knew I had inside of me being pushed. Bending a little in slightly uncomfortable directions. I’m going to this “meeting” because I have to observe before I condemn. And because I’m curious as to how I will be approached and how I will chose to respond.

Not to worry; this liberal feminist knows where she stands and to whom she prays. She’ll listen, meet new people, and then return home to familiar lyrics playing in her clean corner while mutable, unfamiliar chaos buzzes past her door.

I recently underlined an excerpt from Obama’s book that eloquently captures the root of (some of) what I’ve been experiencing while mopping my tiled floors and meeting other “natives” over iced Americano:

“For there were many churches, many faiths. There were times, perhaps, when those faiths seemed to converge-- the crowd in front of the Lincoln Memorial, the Freedom Riders at the lunch counter. But such moments were partial, fragmentary. With our eyes closed, we uttered the same words, but in our hearts we each prayed to our own masters; we each remained locked in our own memories; we all clung to our own foolish magic” (163).