Tukang Putu (putu sellers) wander the neighborhoods on foot, carrying two heavy metal boxes on either end of a flat bamboo rod. One box holds money and ingredients to make putu. The other is a steamer/kettle combination. A kettle is heated over a gas canister and the steam is released through a valve at the top. The valve is usually open just a crack so that a whistling sound comes out, akin to a teakettle that has reached boiling point. That whistle heralds the arrival of Tukang Putu. Or, as is often the case with me, the whistle represents missed opportunity.
To make the putu, Tukang Putu will take a small 1.5 in. x 2 in. bamboo cylinder, fill it with pandan-infused rice flower and a spot of palm sugar, pack it in, and set it on top of the steam valve. The steam will cook the flour and melt the sugar under high pressure in the next 30 seconds. He will make as many as ordered and set them on waxed paper, old newspaper, his son’s old homework, or whatever he has on hand. Finally, Tukang Putu will take a generous handful of coconut shavings and set it on top of the putu. A good size serving can feed two people for 0.40 USD.
The result of Tukang Putu’s labor is a wonderful, bite-sized dessert that is delicious and easily shareable. It has the mild caramel sweetness of palm sugar tinged with the vegetal flavor of pandan. A second flavor of salty-sweet dried coconut follows soon after. The flavors are subtle; the texture surprisingly soft and spongy.
The Point
Being treated and labelled as jook-sing had an immense influence on my early identity. I was neither Chinese nor White; no ethnic identity to belong to. Later experiences contributed to my increasing sense of stasis. I was citizen yet foreigner, religious yet neither conservative nor liberal, educated yet unhirable. I lived in the interstices of society, planted in my own little square foot of cultural real estate.
It is human nature to label and categorize. Labels are attractive. They define boundaries and help us to make sense of the world. Some can be bought, like Nike or Rolex. Some are imputed then owned, like “B***er” or “N***a” or “FOB”. Wearing the proper label can contribute to a sense of fraternity. Wearing the wrong one makes us pariahs… except for those others with the same label. The fact that labels can be restrictive or weaponized is secondary to the fact that walls and corners are wonderful resting spots.
For clarity, I was neither pariah nor maverick. Many beautiful people accept me as I am without question. The privilege of the middle-class and having good friends is that I could afford to tote my emotional baggage in a wheeled-suitcase rather than shouldering it in a rucksack. My baggage still follows me everywhere.
I had learned to define myself by everything I was not rather than what I was. The power of not depends on three things: (a) a majority group who believes things should be a certain way; (b) the importance of the group touting said standard; and (c) my willingness to bend to it. Moving to Indonesia meant I was suddenly surrounded by people who had zero expectation of me. Everything I was not ceased to matter because I could in no way be anything other than foreign.
My nature and component parts have not changed. I’m still planted in my own small square of cultural real estate with others like me. Yet the soil has changed. My function, ability, and purpose evolved with it. What was weakness in one space becomes strength in another. For plants and people alike, the soil matters.
I am now free to deconstruct and reconstruct myself as I will. I can unchain myself from only being a hollow bamboo in my own small niche of psychic cultural property. My bamboo is a protective factor against alienation rather than mere appearance. My hollowness is a space to nurture my American identity rather than be perplexed by it. What little Indonesian cultural knowledge I’ve absorbed strengthens my bonds*.
Rather, I have taken my parts and become Tukang Putu. My words are the whistle that tells people a foreigner is among them. My Chinese skin and Indonesian cultural knowledge (such as it is) makes my foreign-ness approachable, graspable, even comfortable. I freely offer (unlike actual Tukang Putu) my rice in the form of English lessons, cultural knowledge, stories many want to know about. Throw in a little sugar, heat, and time, and the friendships made are delicious and shareable.
My story is not about new beginnings though it is one. Neither is it a story of deconstruction and reconstruction though they are present. It is a story of new soil that changes my understanding of myself and my place in the world. I thrive because of myself rather than despite myself. I am jook-sing. I belong in the interstice; my water connects everywhere.
Footnote
*To be fair to my Indonesian friends, the story would feel completely different if I was a native Indonesian. My case is freeing simply because everyone knows I am a foreigner.