Indo

He was blue-eyed
and I, brown,
but his skin a shade more
chocolate than my honey,
and I tried to find
common ground;
but there were none,
save one.

His story begins with escape
from Java, all the way
to Holland,
and the embracing of a culture
that accepted his family
more than their own:
Indonesia, he said,
was just a bad memory;
a something to put
behind him, a something to
relinquish, as the Dutch
did Jakarta.

Mine begins with the transgression
of an upper class daughter
of an Indonesian ambassador -
and her relations with
a Caucasian Canadian man;
my mother said her parents
were not pleased,
at first, not until I -
and particularly my brother -
came along, he the sole male heir
of my grandfather's blood.

He grew up half-and-half,
knowing nothing of Indonesia
save the stories his parents told him,
He grew up speaking Dutch,
living Dutch,
taking Dutch with him
as his badge of identity;
but for his burnished skin,
none would know any different.

I grew up half-and-half,
six years in Indonesian curriculum,
ten years in hot, muggy weather.
I grew up speaking Bahasa,
living as a bule,
taking my hybridity with me,
"Indonesian" here in Canada,
"Canadian" there in Indonesia.

What do we have in common?
We are "Indo," we could be "bule,"
but the label matters little,
if at all,
for that night, when we met,
there was nothing cultural
we could share
about Indonesia;
so we made do
with the fact that
we both spoke English
and had human stories
to tell.

Untitled

If the last was not enough,
well, here is another,
And if the other was too rough
well, at least we have each other
still, for a friend carries a price
most with hearts are willing to pay
even if that friend entice
your lust and make you fray
at the edges-like, unravelling slowly
finding yourself in a predicament
where without that friend life feels lonelier
and worthy, somehow, of lament.

This one is for you, in all my confusion
I feel as if I ought to like you,
Or at least live in that delusion
just in case you feel it too.