I once had this conversation (mostly in Formal Indonesian):

Barista: “Where are you from?”

Me: “America”

Barista: [confused expression] “………….. Are you……. mixed?” [in English]

Me: “Mixed?”

Barista: “Are you half-White?”

Me: “No, I’m 100% Chinese.”

Barista: “…. But you said you’re from America.”

Me: “Yes, I am a Chinese person from America” (Grouped terms such as Chinese-American do not exist in Indonesia).

Barista: “When did you immigrate there?”

While in America I’ve occasionally been assumed to be an immigrant. The assumptions were never malicious save one incident. Yet it was striking that some Americans’ first thoughts were that I had immigrated despite my fluent, inflection-less language and Californian mannerisms. Why was it more probable that I had immigrated and gained cultural fluency/mastery than that I was native to the US?

Then I moved to Indonesia. Chinese have lived here for 200+ years. If it is conceivable to Indonesians that Chinese are born in Indonesia, then why not in America also? How can I not belong to my country both in my country and half a world away?

The Power of (Hyper)visibility

My country is not mine as a result of cultural hegemony. My country has been advertised and popularized to the developing world as one of gleaming progress, luxury, and power. To the average Indonesian, America is both exotic destination and aspiration. The face of my country is White.

It is not difficult to see the pervasiveness of Whiteness within Indonesia. A vast swath of Indonesians (i would actually guess most) ingest large amounts of American entertainment, legally or otherwise. Most American brands utilize ads with White faces. Mannequin busts modeling Muslim headscarves have European features and skin shading. The cosmetic industry’s most popular products are skin whiteners.

Whiteness is power. Children of mixed White/European heritage are usually the popular kids at Indonesian schools. Tales abound of social spots where Indonesians were denied for not having “proper dress” while White foreigners might be spotted in the same place in jeans and tank top. My White friend’s Indonesian housekeeper was consistently barred from arranging a meeting with her bank until my White friend went with her. It took one trip and five minutes of waiting to make it happen.

Whiteness is status. White lecturers are highly coveted by Indonesian Universities because their presence increases the Universities’ prestige and enrollment. Owning American or European brands is a sign of achieving one’s best life. Sprinkling English words in your daily speech makes you unarguably cool. White expats are invited weekly to weddings for people they barely know because it affords the wedded couple bragging rights.

Whiteness is exotic. Children of mixed White/European heritage are consistently rated the most beautiful/handsome. It is common for Indonesian tourists to approach White tourists for selfies. Starbucks is consistently one of the most Instagrammed locations by college students and young adults. For some odd reason, many still think KFC is quality date material even though Indonesians have perfected fried chicken and sell it at 1/4 KFC’s price.

Even White-adjacency has its time in the sun. English is the language of Whiteness. It is consequently the cultural currency of choice in a nation of polyglots. I overflow with White cultural currency. I help Indonesians become cooler, more exotic, Whiter - one English lesson at a time.

The Invisible Bule

“Bule” (boo-LAY) is a tone-neutral Indonesian word for a White person. It originally meant “albino,” meaning they have less color than others. The term makes complete sense from the perspective of a normative Indonesian. Many White foreigners here resent the term, considering it pejorative and “othering”. I admit to a certain amount of schadenfreude because I’ve had to be “yellow” all my life. Yet…

To be bule is to be under constant curious scrutiny. Stares and whispers of “bule” follow White people wherever they walk. It is entirely common for White people to hear Indonesians talk openly about them because they assume the bule does not (yet) understand Indonesian language. One bule friend said to me, “Sometimes, I wish I could crawl out of my skin for a bit so that I could walk down the street without being gawked at.”

To be bule is to constantly live at arms’ length. The exotic is easily welcomed yet often too foreign to identify with. Bule will be invited to events more often than I will be. Yet I will be invited into homes first. Indonesians will listen to a bule more readily than to me. My words will most likely be accepted first. The bule will garner more immediate respect and politeness than I would. I will breach the barrier between politeness and familiarity first. I am a bule whose bamboo packaging makes me more palatable and thus more approachable.

My grandfather once decIared to me that I am a banana. My father once told me I am jook-sing. Here in the eastern soil of Indonesia, I am a bule who hides in plain sight til I open my mouth. The crowd swallows me after I saunter back into it with no one the wiser. I am rice wrapped in bamboo, something intimately familiar, even comforting. My water connects nowhere; I belong nowhere. Occasionally, it comes in handy.

Coda

I went to one of the many wartegs in my area for the first time. As I ordered food, I asked the vendor to identify a dish for me. He handed me my plate and started the familiar dialogue.

Him: “Where are you from?”

Me: “I’m a Chinese person from America.”

Him: “And you’re already speaking Indonesian? Mantap!”

He spoke the last line as I turned to head inside to eat. At the word, “Mantap”, he backhanded my left buttcheek in affirmation of my learning. I ate my food in amused silence. I had just been welcomed to my new country with the universal sign of brotherhood. Guests are greeted. Brothers are butt-slapped.