Don’t Judge My Father by His “Sarung”

I really meant this title as a different version from the proverb “don’t judge the book by its cover.” Well, I know that many people have strong tendency to look upon someone from his/her outer appearance, and that’s okay. But sometimes, they become absorb to outer appearance, until it hinder them to see what really exist beneath that appearance. And my father is no exception, means he always become the target of “that look” if you know what I mean, being so unique and just the way he is.

As I said, my father is not a type of man who always polishes his appearance all the time. He is not a hippy, though, he is really just a very simple person. He can be looks like a gentleman if he wants to, but that only happens when he has to work. He is original-minded person, and because of all those things, he often be the target of, well, “that look.”

One day, he went to the mall with me and my sister, because she needed a new backpack. He wanted to bought a nice, expensive backpack for her, because he thought a nice backpack would be more worth-saving than a cheap but flimsy backpack. Right after his afternoon prayer, without took-off his sarung and only wore sandals, he went to the mall with my sister and me. (For those who don’t know what a sarung is, well, it’s a piece of cloth usually wore by Indonesian men when they are praying or in casual circumstances, and it’s not a kind of cloth someone would wear to go to the big mall).

Anyway, we found a fancy surfing-store which sold many nice backpacks, and my sister dragged me inside. My father still a little bit left behind, because he was busy looking at the display of a watch store. When he entered, from behind the racks, I saw the surf-store’s young clerks and cashier were looking intensely at my father (I knew their eyes were on his sarung and sandals). My father, however, seemed indifferent and continued to looking around.

After found a backpack she liked, my sister went to the cashier and put the backpack on the desk. “Can I put this here for a while ? I still want to looking around,” she said, and the cashier nodded. So she dissappeared again behind the racks, but then we saw our father approached the cashier desk. There were no other visitors in that store, so he assumed that the backpack was my sister’s choice. He picked up the backpack to examine it, but the cashier snatched it roughly from his hand.

“Excuse me, sir,” she said coldly, while the other clerks also stared at my father as if he had done something wrong. The next scene almost made me laugh my heads off, when my sister quickly approached the cashier desk and said to my father, “I’m done.”

“Is there anything you fancy ?” Asked my father.

“No.”

Then, under the stare of clerks and cashier, my father took out his wallet and presented…a Golden Visa card. You wouldn’t believe how quick their faces changed, from a dislike and suspiciousness to almost an adoration. Inner thought : “so this ‘sarung’ guy holds a Golden Visa. Quick ! Kiss his sandals !” The cashier tone when she said “thank you” to my father was overly sweet and brilliantly polished, with the slight tone of regret. Oh yeah, I thought, the joy of having a Golden Visa.

Despite the hilarity of that episode in the store, I felt sad. Because my father, behind his eccentric appearance, is truly a nice, kind man. But some people has chose to honoured him because of his Golden Visa, not his kindness.

Poems by Michelangelo (4)

Another sonnet written for Tommaso Cavalieri in c. 1534. I love this one for the deep devotion and admiration reflected in the poet’s words.

English version :

With your beautiful eyes I see sweet light which with my blind eyes I certainly cannot see; with your feet I carry on my back a weight which my lame feet certainly could not bear.

Though lacking feathers I fly with your wings; with your mind I am always carried to heaven; on your decision turns whether I am pale or red, cold in the sun, warm in the coldest mists.

In your will alone does my will consist, my thoughts spring from your heart, which your breath are my words formed.

On my own I seem like the moon left to itself, for your eyes can see nothing whatever in the heavens except what is lit up by the sun.

Italian version :

Veggio co’ be’ vostr’ occhi un dolce lume che co’ mie ciechi già veder non posso; porto co’ vostri piedi un pondo addosso; che de’ mie zoppi non é già costume.

Volo con le vostr’ ale senza piume; col vostro ingegno al ciel sempre son mosso; dal vostro arbitrio son pallido e rosso, freddo al sol, caldo alle più fredde brume.

Nel voler vostro è sol la voglia mia, I miei pensier nel vostro cor si fanno, nel vostro fiato son le mie parole.

Come luna da sè sol par ch’io sia, chè gli occhi nostri in ciel veder non sanno se non quel tanto che n’accende il sole.

Too Many Times I Used Umbrella

After several days of hot weather (and several fires, too), it was finally rainy season in my town. Before that, I already learnt not to trust cloudy sky, because cloudy sky doesn’t always lead to rain. Sometimes they just linger for a while, and then cheerily blown away by those damn wind (oops, did not mean to curse, sorry). But that day was different.

It was started on early morning. The sun was hid beneath the clouds. Then, the sky was just getting darker and darker. Finally, about 11.00 AM, drip…drip…drip… and it was rain ! Not small, insignificant small drops, but a heavy rain. Chilly wind blew through the window, and I just couldn’t hold the urge to stand and hopping happily. “Yay ! Rain !” Thank God I was in my house, not in my workplace or market or somwhere else, because I know I will still hopping happily when it happens and makes people look at me like I am insane.

I love rain. I always have since I was a little girl. So much love that sometimes I feel bad just because I’m happy while everyone have their business disturbed by constant pour of water from the sky. Rain makes everything around me become shadier, quieter, more peaceful. Rain enhance the smell of grasses, mosses, flowers, and earth. The sounds of water dripping on any surface have rythmic quality that can be as effective as any relaxation music record. And the sad thing about all of that ? I have no more guts to come out barefooted everytime the rain happens.

When I was a little girl, I had no burden. I didn’t have paperworks and important documents to be protected, and I have no destinations that required me to wore anything fancy. So, when everyone hurriedly protected themselves from rain, I had all places for myself, running-junping-splashing around like a maniac. Didn’t think, just became one with the spirit of rain, if such things are real, though I do feel something magical everytime rain hits my skin.

Now, several years had passed. And I just realised now that too many times I used umbrella. That day, I was crying for no reason. Why, oh, why, I thought, I abandoned my friend, the spirit of rain, for some paperworks and documents and fancy clothes ?

Things that Go...

That was a hot, sunny day in Balikpapan. The road, I notice, was getting more crowded than 4 years earlier when I left the city. Everyone seemed to have a motorcycle or a car, ranging from an old, rattling pick-up to a shiny, brand new Daihatsu. I was in a minibus, ready for my first day at work. In the minibus, I notice, was a tiny dustbin strapped behind the passanger’s door. I was slightly intrigued with this, because dustbins are not the things tipically found in Balikpapan’s minibuses.

“Every minibus now must have a dustbin”, the driver said. “If not, we will have to pay the fee.”

“The rule is only for the minibus ?” I asked.

“No, it is for private cars, too.”

Good, so this is a real progress then, I thought. About two seconds after that, I saw the driver threw out an ice-tea plastic through his window.

Several minutes later, a passanger in a fancy blue Toyota in front threw out a plastic bag contain leftovers of fried bananas.

A little girl in school uniform at the back of passing motorcycle threw an ice cream wrapper onto the road.

At right, a man in government-office uniform passing by with cigarette in his left hand (attention : he was riding a motorcycle, not a car). Something small but hot suddenly prick my eye. I didn’t want to judge, but I highly suspected it was an ember from the man’s cigarette.

Halfway to my work-place, I already lost count about how many people did …that. I looked at the road, to people who still threw rubbishes non-chalantly outside their dustbins-equipped vehicles, then I looked back at the tiny dustbin behind the door. Suddenly, I can’t hold the urge to laugh my head’s off.

What are You Laughing At ?

Some people said, if we want to know a person’s true nature, we should see how he or she treats children. Others said we should see how he or she treats the inferiors. Maybe you have your own criterias, I don’t know. I do have my own criterias. But now, I have one new criteria in my mind. I once read a fan-fiction story, in which the main character said a very meaningful line, “if you want to know a person’s true nature, you should see when he or she laugh.” And recently, I just found out what that line means.

Few days ago, I got a severe allergic reaction attack plus a mild food poisoning. I had to stayed in bed for several days, worst experience in my medical records. At first, I felt a little bit queasy in my stomach after I ate a portion of re-heated shrimp at lunch, and then itchy red spots started to appear on my skin. It was few at first, and I felt good enough to go for work, so that’s what I did. I went for work. It went well for the first one hour, but after break-time, I gave up. I went down to instructor’s office to take a rest (by the way, I’m teaching at study center), and felt gradually worse than before.

I tried to hide my true condition from my friends, but eventually they found out, probably because my face was already turning redder and redder. “What happened to you ?” One asked. It was impossible for being discreet anymore, so I told them truth. What I ate, how it started, and so on. My boss finally took pity on me and told me to go home. I packed my bag and went to the front office, where several of my friends already sat and chatted. And when they saw me, walking gingerly because of stomachache, with my face already turned red and hot while my body felt so cold, do you know what they did ? They laugh.

This is what they said, “next time you eat shrimp, you have to bring some for us. Why, you got sick alone because you didn’t bother to bring some for us.”

If I didn’t ill, that was a joke. But in my condition that time, nothing I could think about except “what a cruel joke ! I even have to try hard to be polite, let alone to laugh along.” Thank God I still had self-restrain to kept myself from snapping at them. Along the journey to hospital, inside my mother’s car, my mind wandered into that story, and that line. “You should see when they laugh.” Yes, I finally understood that. How many times we found ourselves laugh at something that clearly didn’t have to be laugh at ? When someone stumped and fell and clearly in pain ? When someone said wrong answer in the classroom ? When someone “looked funny” because they have imperfect feature or body parts ?

I’ll let you people answer that.

Poems by Michelangelo (3)

This sonnet was written in 1534 by Michelangelo for Tommaso Cavalieri, his prodigy and, later, best friend until his death.

English version :

Not even by raising my thoughts as high as possible can I imagine another figure, whether of pure spirit or of earthly flesh, with which my will arm itself against your beauty.

For, separated from you, I seem to sink so low that Love deprives and strips me of all strength; so when I think of lessening my sufferings he, doubling them, threatens me with death.

It is useless, then, for me to spur on my flight, doubling the pace at which I fly from hostile beauty, for the less speedy never gains distance on one who moves so swiftly.

Love with his own hands dries my eyes, promising that I shall hold all effort dear: for he who costs so much cannot himself be base.

Italian version :

Non posso altra figura immaginarmi o di nud’ ombra o di terrestre spoglia, col più alto pensier, tal che mie voglia contra la tuo beltà di quella s’ armi.

Chè da te mosso, tanto scender parmi, c’ Amor d’ ogni valor mi priva e spoglia, ond’ a pensar di minuir mie doglia duplicando, la morte viene a darmi.

Però non val che più sproni mie fuga, doppiando ‘l corso alla beltà nemica, chè ‘l men dal più veloce non si scosta.

Amor con le sue man gli occhi m’ asciuga, promettendomi cara ogni fatica: chè vile esser non può chi tanto costa.

What Will They Grow Up Into ?

If you spend half an hour everyday in front of TV at morning, afternoon, evening or night time, you will likely getting swept away by a flood of news. And what kind of news that make people open their eyes and ears so quickly after being woken up in the morning better than criminal news ? Sleepy eyes will opened quickly hearing words like “rape”, “murder”, “fornication”, and “sexual abuse”. Some people I know will choose to continue their sleep when they heard words like “economic review”, “political awareness”, or “celebrating the Month of Reading” and “A Day Without Smoking” from their TV. Okay, just kidding. But you get my point.

Some people will comment for sure, either by deep observation to the problem, or merely just lean to their pseudo-science theories. Students, teachers or social workers will discuss the cases, while others will bring those up at coffee-break when they already have run out of conversation. Another will prefer to react emotionally, while others will just watch nonchalantly and forget them after the news over, thinking about them as another world’s problems that completely out of their reach (as long as those are not happened to them or someone they know).

Speaking about that, I remember a short story I’ve read seven or eight years ago. It was Seno Gumira Ajidarma’s “Ratih”. The story was about a little girl, who saw a dead-body floating in the river near her house, and she tried to tell her parents and neighbours, but they didn’t believe her. Doesn’t matter the detail, but there was a monologue—thought of Ratih, actually—that made me quite thinking for a while. The point was, when she saw that body, already swollen and rot among the water-plants, still clad in his shirt and trouser and wore a wrist-watch, she thought “who was he ? What was his name ? What was his job ? What had happened to him long before he became like this ? Did her mother know that her son, her beloved son she gave birth and raised with so much hope, someday would ended-up as a floating dead-body in a river ?”

Now watch the picture of a baby I put on the top. I believe all of you have seen face like that. Cute, eh ? Everyone will agree about that; babies are the symbol of innocence. They are born pure, sinless, know nothing about the complication of human minds, passions, and lusts. Their faces invite nothing but smiles, “pooh-pe-doohs”, and several unbelievably super-cute names like “little-pooh-bear”, “honey-bunny”, “my little lamb”, and so on. But not for me, because after read that short-story, I couldn’t help myself to think like this when I see a baby : what will they grow up into ? How can we believe that people such as burglars, murderers, child-molesters, Hitler, Jack the Ripper, Ted Bundy and Ed Gein were used to be babies with cute face and moonlighted innocence ?

Intriguing, and kind of sad.