A strange benefit of my Chinese-American heritage is that I grew up acutely aware of the cultural soil. I never learned much about my mother tongue or culture. I longed to engage the Chinese culture I grew up in but I was not Chinese enough. I could only embrace it as an identity. I engaged in White-American culture, but I was just Chinese enough that I could not embrace it.

To my peoples I am jook-sing (”bamboo rod”), a traditionally pejorative term used by Chinese living in the West to refer to someone who has lost their Chinese heritage. Bamboo stems are hollow and compartmentalized such that water flows into one end but never flows through to the other. The water connects nowhere; the bamboo belongs nowhere.

Then I moved to Indonesia where Chinese people have lived for at least 200 years. I am an amalgamation of Eastern and Western culture planted into Western soil. What happens when the jook-sing is transplanted into Eastern soil?

Hollow

It turns out that everyone’s first assumption is that I’m an Indonesian citizen. This lasts till I open my mouth.

Anyone: “[…. insert anything I cannot fully understand….]”

Me: “Sorry?” [this is usually the red flag that I am not as advertised]

Anyone: “….. Where are you from?”

Me: “From America”

Anyone: “Oh! I thought you were Japanese. Or Korean! Because you look like one!” The less PC among them will take their fingers and use them to narrow and slant their eyes. They apparently had yet to attend a diversity sensitivity course.

I am unsure why I am not Chinese here. The first two guesses are always Japanese or Korean. The third (if any) is usually Filipino. It could be that their boilerplate idea of Chinese people are primarily as Indonesians. My lack of native-tongue fluency and native mannerisms most certainly disqualify me as Cindo (the Indonesian colloquial for Chinese Indonesians) despite my appearance. Maybe I am not Chinese enough and I get moved on to the next available racial template.

I’m not bothered by it, merely puzzled. We really do all look alike to some degree. If you feel guilty for thinking so and have kept it to yourself out of self-preservation or shame, I am here to affirm you. We all look alike. You should still keep it to yourself.

Compartmentalized

Anyone: “How long have you been here?”

Me: “About 8 months.”

Anyone: “Wow! Your Indonesian is so good!”

Me: “Thank you very much! Not fluent yet; so I’m still learning.”

Anyone: “You’ll get there eventually…. What do you do here?”

Me: “I study Indonesian language.”

Anyone: “Great!” / “Cool!” / “Amazing!”

Their admiration and compliments are genuine and I am encouraged by them. Their enthusiasm puzzles me, as if they are proud that an American wants to learn Indonesian. Yet it only makes sense to me. Why would I not?

Then I can tell everyone where I’m really from:

Me: “I’m a Chinese person from America.” Them: “There are Chinese people in America?! That’s new to me!”

I can talk about the city:

Me: “I like this city! The traffic is less congested than [insert city] and people are friendlier!”

Them: “So much better than that other city, right?! We are definitely more polite here. Have you been to [insert unknown tourist destination]? You must try it!”

I can tell them about the foods I ate:

Me: “I’ve tried papaya leaf, chicken feet, gizzard, cow foot, etc.”

Them: “Great! Have you tried jengkol yet? It makes your pee smell!”.

Friendships are built on moments like these.

American citizenship and speaking ability (such as it is) automatically lend me some small level of celebrity. I suddenly become out-of-the-ordinary, exciting, even cool. I become the authority on all things American. What is it like to have four seasons? Does everyone own a gun? How much does it cost to live there? Does America actually lock children in cages? Is Starbucks everywhere? The list goes on.

Yet my instant-mini-celebrity status automatically sets me apart. My mere presence raises others’ social statuses as soon as it is known I came from America. I once gave a talk at an English club. I was warned prior not to let any of the club’s female members take selfies with me lest they post on social media that they just caught an American boyfriend. In another instance, a male friend brought us to a concert to meet his friend in the chorale. She asked him, “Where do you find friends like these?” She meant “Western foreigners,” not, “people twice your age.” I am certain he brought us to the concert to impress the girl. I was happy to be his wingman. Even so, I prefer not to let incidental celebrity come between me and Joe Indonesian. It is hard to blend in with a flashing neon, “Westerner!” sign over my head.

Bamboo

Indonesian friends and neighbors have always encouraged me in my learning progress. They correct me, cheer me on, teach me new words, and explain the finer points of language to me. For example, the word “kawin” on an official national ID card is asking for marital status. Yet “kawin” is currently used in the vernacular to either discuss animal breeding or to ascertain one’s virginity. “Menjalin hubungan” (weaving relationships) formerly meant making friends. It turns out it is currently used to form relationships with someone you are attracted to. So, yes, I have accidentally told people that I am trying to find girlfriends but am already not a virgin (or that I breed animals?). I am thankful for friends.

A close friend recently told me, “Wow! You’re starting to speak like an Indonesian! You sound just like us! Your accent is gone and I don’t have to ask you what you mean!” My friend’s words are telling: Novelty is salient. The details that are out-of-the-ordinary, like my accent or my American sentence structures are the things noticed first. It is the little things that highlight me and declare me foreign.

I suppose I am jook-sing regardless of the soil. In America’s Chinese communities, my American-ness (my White-ness if you will) was salient. In White / Brown / Black America, my Chinese-ness was salient. Here in Indonesia, it turns out I am neither until I say otherwise. I can look like an Indonesian if my friend’s words are any indication. I either have to hammer down the little things or just keep my mouth shut all the time. My water connects nowhere; I belong nowhere.

My language school will eventually test my mastery of Indonesian language. Yet to me I will achieve ultimate mastery when the questions disappear. Strangers will have no clue that I’ve ever been anything but Indonesian, one bamboo stem hiding in a bamboo forest.

Coda

I went to a restaurant a few days ago. I flagged a waitress and inquired about open tables.

Me: “Excuse me miss, are there any tables open right now?”

Waitress: “Ya, Koko (honorific used for Chinese men), there are lots of empty seats upstairs.”

She addressed me as “Koko”! Elation welled up suddenly, irrationally, powerfully. My joy surprised me. I tried not to look foolishly happy that seating was upstairs.

Me: “….. Sorry?”

Waitress: “Koko, there are seats upstairs.”

Me: “Thank you!”

My thanks was genuine. She called me “koko” twice! I headed upstairs before she could ask where I was really from.