The wonderful thing about life is its malleability. Brain plasticity allows us to learn or unlearn anything over time. Our brains obligingly develop new neuronal pathways as we make new habits. Under-utilized knowledge is ruthlessly chopped down at the stump and dispersed to the ether. Everything can eventually be overcome, assimilated, or forgotten.

Thus all living organisms adapt to their environments given sufficient time. What once was one way becomes something slightly other. Interestingly, we rarely recognize the extent of our evolution because the deepest changes are gradual. A stark and sudden change of environment or circumstance brings the full extent of our evolution to light because salience requires novelty.

I spent four months in Indonesian soil. I threw myself headlong into an ocean of new language(s). I socially gaffed my way to understanding social etiquette and nuance. Things I rarely use in Indonesia either went into the dusty recesses of my mental archives or were razed entirely. I cannot remember what a burrito tastes like, but I know I miss it. What happens when the jook-sing returns home?

Limnality

It was good to be back. Dana’s parents dropped us off at the Air BnB they had kindly rented and stocked. The house was modest with a white-picket fence encircling a large front yard. The neighborhood was quiet. The street was lined with trees and parallel-parked cars but absent human activity. This was an empty stereotypical middle-class neighborhood.

We stepped into our Air BnB. In the back of the refrigerator was a box of California grapes! I had dearly missed those. I brought the box close to my face and breathed deeply. The heady scent of sweet grapes and California soil grounded me into the present. I was back in the beautiful West Coast. It was then that I realized I could smell the fruit. The only fruit I can smell in Indonesia with any relative ease is durian, the aroma of which is some unholy cross between gasoline and organic decay.

We decided to take a nap after our 18-hour flight. I was acutely aware of Dana’s breathing as we lay in bed next to each other. The neighborhood was too quiet. There was no through-traffic. No roosters crowed to awaken the neighborhood. Noon, 3pm, 6pm, and 7pm silently passed, devoid of the ubiquitous, cacophonous, asynchronous Muslim calls to prayer from every local mosque. No children played in the streets. No adults congregated to gossip at the local neighborhood gathering spots. The soundscape was so empty.

We left our place around 8pm to take a short walk. A beautiful, dusky sunset greeted us. I was momentarily disoriented because the night sky was not pitch dark. We took a picture and sent it to our friends house-sitting for us in Indonesia. They unanimously agreed that they would be repenting and preparing themselves for the Day of Judgment if the sky over Indonesia was ever that bright at 8pm. Their guess would have been fair given the emptiness of the neighborhood.

I went to a restaurant with a friend two days later. We agreed to split an entree because my stomach had adjusted to Indonesian portions. We also ordered a chicken salad appetizer to avoid the appearance of stinginess. This was a mistake. The entree and appetizer together could easily have been split into 4 average Indonesian portions. My tiny friend reneged on eating the entirety of her half. I thus ate enough for three Indonesians in one sitting. While delicious, my GI tract resented me for several hours afterward.

On the last day of my return to the US, I went to a local mall to see an old friend. As we walked and talked, we came to a busy intersection between parking lots. A driver was some distance away, so I held up my magic hands and slowly walked towards the other side. Two things happened simultaneously: (a) the driver slowed down but was clearly not planning on stopping; (b) my friend yelled from far behind me, “Josh, what the heck are you doing?!”

I had walked on a red light and left my more cognizant friend behind. I was now squarely committed to crossing the intersection by myself. I kept my hand up, maintained my friendly smile and steady pace as my sense of dignity won over my increasing sense of panic and embarrassment. If i was going to die in a stupid way, I was determined to do so looking as if I knew what I was doing. The driver did not stop. I did not die, either.

Going Green

I ruminated on the plane about my traffic crossing. I had not been reckless or careless. Rather, I had forgotten myself. While in Indonesia I did as the Indonesians did… and subconsciously brought my new life back with me. My new life almost met an early end, but I left the US with a new appreciation for who I was/am becoming.

In America I defined myself and let others define me by what I am not. I am American-born but ethnically immigrant. I am racially Chinese but culturally White. I am a man of faith not “liberal” enough for some and yet not “conservative” enough for others. I am well educated and capable but under-experienced. To be jook-sing is to be a standalone phenomenon on my own little patch of ground. How American to be so individual. How Chinese to focus so much on my isolation.

Indonesia is different because my existence is already far outside the norms. There are no expectations from anyone to fit. In forging a new life here, I am free to define or repurpose everything. Being jook-sing is a strength I can celebrate rather than a void I must tolerate.

I doubt I will ever stop identifying myself as jook-sing. It has been impressed into my psyche for far too long. I belong nowhere; my water connects nowhere. My essential components remained the same while taking on a greenish tinge. I am not Indonesian, American, nor Chinese but adjacent to all three. I am bamboo packed with rice steeped in Indonesian pandan. I am putu.