Boys say that girls are hard to understand. We send incoherent messages that have to be decoded unsystematically or arguments that seem to counter themselves in the end or emotional bursts that you don't see coming. But guys, you are natural thinkers, right? Think about this, no matter unsensible it all seems, we, girls, understand each other. So, there must be something that holds the key to the puzzle of a woman's mind. It should not be a code impossible to crack.
But, the truth is this: We don't understand ourselves, that's why we understand each other. See, I'm talking like a true woman. What I meant is that there's a part of me that struggles with my own thoughts and feelings. Sure, you can think of it as a minor bipolar syndrome. For example, in the latest Glee episode, there is a mash up song "I feel pretty/Unpretty" which I think represents how a girl feels. Sometimes we are very unsure of how we should perceive ourselves. Most girls experience some degree of body image problem; there is always something that we don't like about our body, too skinny, too chunky, too short (hands up!), crooked nose, fat calves, flat chest, kinky hair, and the list goes on. It's very hard to honestly be cured of those feelings even when we try hard embrace our shapes and sizes, but we want to! That's where the contradiction starts; we'd say a guy should not be fixated with physical looks, but at the same time we spend lots of effort on make ups and picking dresses, we'd say I am secure with how I look, but crumbles at the insensitive comment on our flabby arms.
In our modern society, there are mixed messages on the roles of women. Those who assume the role of housewives are often called traditional because nowadays women work as much as men do. We have aspirations and dreams, passions and needs to be productive citizens of the world. We want the freedom to choose a career path or to pursue a higher education. We want to be bold, explore, be challenged. We want to do the things that guys can do, the things they take for granted, because they have never been questioned or called out as too small. We want to be more than what guys can be because with the same ability and intelligence, we are more compassionate and more understanding. Then, from there, we go from being traditional to being a feminist. While this new found freedom creates a lot of options for women, it confuses us on where to draw the boundary and it gives way to unchecked feelings of pride for being a woman who could do more than we are supposed to.
As the roles of women diversify, we see supports from many female oriented organizations and events. For example, there's a Society of Women Engineers, mother's day, scholarships geared towards women, and books like "Half the Sky." It shows that as hard as we fight to be equal, there is still a need for such support in the society in effort to escalate our position and reinforce our ability. And the fact that we need that shows that in our part we still believe that we are a minority; somebody who is an equal do not need to raise issues or raise awareness. There is a problem though, we would want to be equal, but at the same time, as women, we want to be protected, we want our prince charming, we still expect man to be the primary breadwinner, we play the "victim card" sometimes, or the "sexual card" for that matter. In short, we want a lot of things. And here's our deep secret: we are confused.
Kartini, the much hailed Indonesian pioneer in women rights, was highly commended for her courage to stand up for what she believed and for her drive to pursue an education in whatever form. I hail her for the fact that she understood her place, as somebody who respected her husband, for understanding the value of learning regardless of gender, for loving her parents, for knowing her boundaries and rights. As we try to define a "modern Kartini" I think it's important to remember those values, the fact that a woman is of a man, and there is a time and place for respect.
So, breath easy guys, you don't actually have to be a woman to understand a woman. You just have to be considerate of this confusion and give us time to place ourselves, as we give yours to do the same. But, in the case of an emergency (like a girl breaking down, or freaking out, or super angry at you, or anything that doesn't make any sense), a little tip for you, just be quiet and sit next to her. We would appreciate that, thanks in advance.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Thursday, April 28, 2011
On Writing by Kate DiCamillo
When I was a junior in college, I took an expository writing course taught by a graduate student named Trey Greer. On the first day of class, he assigned a five hundred-word essay: describe something, anything. At the time, I was convinced that I was a real writer, an undiscovered Eudora Welty or William Faulkner. Understand, I had absolutely no interest in writing. I wanted to be a Writer; and so I put off the work of the essay until the last possible moment. The night before it was due, I went grocery shopping. And sitting outside the Winn-Dixie , perched on top of a hundred-pound bag of Purina dog chow, was a woman with a tambourine.
"Girl," she said, when I walked past her, "give me some of that change."
I stopped and stared at her.
"That's all right," she said, "go on and look at Bernice. She don't care." She beat the tambourine softly against her thigh and started to sing a song about the moon rising up in the night sky like a gold coin and how it was hanging up there all shiny and new and nobody was able to get hold of it and spend it. She called it a "smug old moon."
When she was done singing, she held the tambourine out to me and I dropped some money in it and turned around and went back home and wrote an essay describing her. I wrote down the words of the song that she sang. I described her broken fingernails (painted purple) and her blue eye shadow and how she sat atop the bag of dog chow as if it were a throne. I wrote how, after I dropped my money in the tambourine she said, "God bless you, baby."
A week after I turned in the essay, Trey Greer read it aloud to the class.
"There is something extraordinary about this essay," he said, "and I want you tell me what it is."
Extraordinary! Me! It was just as I had long suspected: I was a genius. I was born to be a Writer. I would be famous!
When Trey finished reading he said, "What is it that makes this essay worth our time?
Nobody said anything.
"It's not the writing," he said. "There's nothing extraordinary about that."
Not the writing? I sank a little lower in my desk. What else could possibly make an essay extraordinary?
"I'll tell you," he said to the silent, bored class. "The person who wrote this actually took the time to see the person she was describing. That's what writing is all about. Seeing. It is the sacred duty of the writer to pay attention, to see the world."
So what? I didn't want to see the world. I wanted the world to see me. Trey Greer, I decided, had no idea what he was talking about.
Not until years later when I finally made a commitment to writing, when I was fighting despair, wondering if I had the talent to do what I wanted to do, did those words come back to me. And what I thought was this: I cannot control whether or not I am talented, but I can pay attention. I can make an effort to see.
Because of Winn-Dixie is the result of that effort. It is a book populated with stray dogs and strange musicians, lonely children and lonelier adults. They are all the kind of people that, too often, get lost in the mainstream rush of life. Spending time with them was a revelation for me. What I discovered is that each time you look at the world and the people in it closely, imaginatively, the effort changes you. The world, under the microscope of your attention, opens up like a beautiful, strange flower and gives itself back to you in ways you could never imagine. What stories are hiding behind the faces of the people who you walk past everyday? What love? What hopes? What despair?
Trey Greer did know what he was talking about. Writing is seeing. It is paying attention.
I think of it this way: my characters sing songs and I stop to listen to them and when the song is done I give them my money and they say, "God bless you, baby."
And I feel that I have been blessed. Over and over again.
"Girl," she said, when I walked past her, "give me some of that change."
I stopped and stared at her.
"That's all right," she said, "go on and look at Bernice. She don't care." She beat the tambourine softly against her thigh and started to sing a song about the moon rising up in the night sky like a gold coin and how it was hanging up there all shiny and new and nobody was able to get hold of it and spend it. She called it a "smug old moon."
When she was done singing, she held the tambourine out to me and I dropped some money in it and turned around and went back home and wrote an essay describing her. I wrote down the words of the song that she sang. I described her broken fingernails (painted purple) and her blue eye shadow and how she sat atop the bag of dog chow as if it were a throne. I wrote how, after I dropped my money in the tambourine she said, "God bless you, baby."
A week after I turned in the essay, Trey Greer read it aloud to the class.
"There is something extraordinary about this essay," he said, "and I want you tell me what it is."
Extraordinary! Me! It was just as I had long suspected: I was a genius. I was born to be a Writer. I would be famous!
When Trey finished reading he said, "What is it that makes this essay worth our time?
Nobody said anything.
"It's not the writing," he said. "There's nothing extraordinary about that."
Not the writing? I sank a little lower in my desk. What else could possibly make an essay extraordinary?
"I'll tell you," he said to the silent, bored class. "The person who wrote this actually took the time to see the person she was describing. That's what writing is all about. Seeing. It is the sacred duty of the writer to pay attention, to see the world."
So what? I didn't want to see the world. I wanted the world to see me. Trey Greer, I decided, had no idea what he was talking about.
Not until years later when I finally made a commitment to writing, when I was fighting despair, wondering if I had the talent to do what I wanted to do, did those words come back to me. And what I thought was this: I cannot control whether or not I am talented, but I can pay attention. I can make an effort to see.
Because of Winn-Dixie is the result of that effort. It is a book populated with stray dogs and strange musicians, lonely children and lonelier adults. They are all the kind of people that, too often, get lost in the mainstream rush of life. Spending time with them was a revelation for me. What I discovered is that each time you look at the world and the people in it closely, imaginatively, the effort changes you. The world, under the microscope of your attention, opens up like a beautiful, strange flower and gives itself back to you in ways you could never imagine. What stories are hiding behind the faces of the people who you walk past everyday? What love? What hopes? What despair?
Trey Greer did know what he was talking about. Writing is seeing. It is paying attention.
I think of it this way: my characters sing songs and I stop to listen to them and when the song is done I give them my money and they say, "God bless you, baby."
And I feel that I have been blessed. Over and over again.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Selamat Paskah
Yang saya pelajari tahun ini:
Bahwa ke gereja seharusnya bukan untuk saya. Bukan karena saya ingin mendapatkan sesuatu dari homili pastornya, atau ingin mendapatkan kekuatan, ataupun ketenangan. Tapi seharusnya hanya karena untuk memuji Tuhan. Ketika saya berasa sendirian dan awkward di dalam gereja karena ga ada temen yang pergi bareng atau mulai merasa kalau ke gereja pun saya ga bertumbuh segitunya (alesan menutupi kemalasan), saya harus inget, it's never about me. Tapi tentang Tuhan dan cintanya lebih luas dari samudera dan lebih indah dari aurora.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Omongan Ngelantur Mahasiswa Semester Akhir
Belakangan ini saya merasa lagi di persimpangan jalan. Dari dulu ada satu pertanyaan yang sebenernya saya masih belon bisa jawab, yaitu tentang gimana kita mengambil sebuah keputusan. Kadang-kadang ada suatu keputusan yang hitam putih, kita udah tau kalo hitam itu jelas salah, tapi tetep aja berasa ada bujukan setan untuk berjalan ke arah sana. Tapi sebagian besar pilihan itu tidak jelas mana yang salah atau engga. Kalau semuanya sama-sama OK, gimana? Kalau semuanya ada pro dan kontra, pakai metode apa kita memberi penilaian akan mana yang bagus dan engga. Orang sering bilang, kehendak Tuhan lah yang terjadi, tapi yang saya tau, kehendak Tuhan tidak seterang itu. Atau ada yang bilang, apa kamu merasakan damai ketika mengambil keputusan? Apa keputusan saya bisa didasarkan perasaan manusia yang sering mempermainkan pikiran?
Setelah diperhatikan, sebenernya wajar untuk anak-anak yang berumur mid-twenties untuk menghadapi ketidakpastian. Temen-temen saya yang baru-baru mulai kerja, misalnya, juga banyak bertanya tentang apa ini pekerjaan yang benar untuk mereka. Sebagai pegawai baru, tentunya sering merasa tidak tau apa-apa, tertekan dengan kemampuan seniornya, dan harus menyesuaikan diri dengan profesionalitas pekerja yang sangat jauh dari kebebasan seorang pelajar. Akibatnya, ada yang merasa tidak tahan, minder, merasa ingin ganti jenis pekerjaan, tapi kurang mengerti juga mesti ke arah mana. Ada juga yang sudah lulus dan berkualitas tinggi, tapi sangat susah mendapatkan pekerjaan karena kalau tidak qualified, dia sering over-qualified. Tentunya mencari pekerjaan adalah masa-masa yang sulit karena titik terang di ujung sana tidak terlihat. Maaf, kalau jadi bikin depresi, tapi emang belakangan lagi dikelilingi aja dengan peristiwa-peristiwa seperti ini. Dan saya sendiri juga banyak bertanya, akan di mana saya dalam setahun atau dua tahun lagi, akan mengerjakan apa saya.
Krisis quarter life, ternyata memang ada. Seorang teman pernah bilang sama saya. Kalau kita dari remaja kuat imannya dan bisa mengetahui jati diri kita, quarter life atau mid life crisis itu ga akan terjadi. Waktu itu saya percaya sama dia, tapi ternyata saya lihat dia sendiri pun akhirnya terkena imbas dari fenomena ini. Waktu kita lulus, di acara graduation, kita diiming-imingi oleh mimpi: "Pergilah ke dunia, sebagai almamater, dan jadilah perubahan," seolah-olah kita adalah segerombolan Superman yang diberi misi dan sudah dibekali dengan segala macam amunisi untuk menyelamatkan masa depan dari kehancuran. Dan ternyata setelah pergi ke dunia, dunia menolak kita. Dan dari murid-murid yang berprestasi, tiba-tiba kita menjadi pekerja tingkat paling bawah yang mesti kembali rela merangkak. Dan kain sayap Superman mu itu, diinjak-injak orang menjadi alas kaki.
Susah untuk optimis kalau kita tidak bisa melihat akan jadi apa semua kepusingan ini di depannya nanti. Dan saya masih belum bisa menjawab bagaimana sebenarnya membuat keputusan yang benar, yang sesuai dengan kehendak-Nya. Saya cuma bisa mencoba, memakai logika dan hati, membawa segala pengalaman yang sudah terjadi yang mempersiapkan saya untuk saat ini, berdiskusi dengan orang-orang yang peduli, dan berharap bahwa sedikit dari kebijakan saya ini adalah kebijakan yang membawa saya ke arah yang benar. Saya sering keras kepala, dan saya sering salah. Minggu lalu saya punya 3 buah kuntum bunga lili yang hijau, dan saya bilang, kuntum ini tidak akan mekar, karena mereka sudah dipetik. Saya yakin. Tapi hari ini, saya melihat di depan saya 2 bunga lili berwarna oranye merekah besar dan 1 kuntum yang sudah berubah warna juga menjadi oranye. Sepertinya kuntum yang terakhir akan mekar besok. Saya tidak pernah percaya kuntum muda yang dicabut masih bisa menjadi bunga. Saya pikir mereka sudah benda mati.
Saya sering salah. Tapi jam rusak yang sering kalinya salah menunjukkan waktu pun paling tidak akan menunjukkan waktu yang tepat 2 kali dalam sehari. Saya cuma bisa berharap saya pun bisa benar, di waktu-waktu dan kesempatan-kesempatan yang penting. Dan kalau saya salah, tolong kasih tau saya yang pelupa ini bahwa saya terlalu kecil untuk membuat dunia kiamat dan saya punya Tuhan yang selalu benar.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Hands
I'm still so in love with the poems by Sarah Kay. This is the first time that I listen to someone talking over and and over again as if listening to a song. This is one of her genius work entitled Hands.
People used to tell me that I had beautiful hands.
Told me so often in fact, that one day I started to believe them,
until I asked my photographer father,
'Hey daddy could I be a hand model?',
To which he said 'no way'.
I don't remember the reason he gave me,
and I would've been upset
but there were far too many stuffed animals to hold,
too many homework assignments to write,
too many boys to wave at,
too many years to grow.
We used to have a game, my dad and I, about holding hands.
Cause we held hands everywhere.
And every time either he or I would whisper a great big number to the other, pretending that we were keeping track of how many times we had held hands.
That we were sure this one had to be 8 million 2 thousand 7 hundred and fifty three.
Hands learn more then minds do.
Hands learn to hold other hands.
How to grip pencils and mould poetry.
How to tickle piano keys, dribble basketballs and grip the handles of a bicycle.
How to hold old people and touch babies.
I love hands like I love people.
They are the maps and compasses with which we navigate our way through life.
Some people read palms to tell you your future,
but I read hands to tell your past.
Each scar marks a story worth telling.
Each callused palm each cracked knuckle a missed punch or years working in a factory.
Now I've seen middle eastern hands clenched in middle eastern fists,
pounding against each other
each country sees their fists like warriors and others enemies.
Even if fists alone are only hands.
But this is not about politics, no hands are not about politics.
This is a poem about love, and fingers.
Fingers interlock like a beautiful zipper of prayer.
One time I grabbed my dad's hand so that our fingers interlocked perfectly.
But he changed position saying "No, that hand hold is for your Mom!".
Kids high-five, but grown ups shake hands.
You need a firm handshake,
But don't hold on too tight,
But don't let go too soon,
But don't hold on for too long.
Hands are not about politics.
When did it become so complicated? I always thought it was so simple.
The other day, my Dad looked at my hands as if seeing them for the first time
And with laughter behind his eyelids,
and with all the seriousness a man of his humour could muster he said,
"You know, you've got nice hands, you could've been a hand model!".
And before the laughter could escape me,
I shake my head at him, and squeeze his hand.
8 million 2 thousand 7 hundred and fifty four.
People used to tell me that I had beautiful hands.
Told me so often in fact, that one day I started to believe them,
until I asked my photographer father,
'Hey daddy could I be a hand model?',
To which he said 'no way'.
I don't remember the reason he gave me,
and I would've been upset
but there were far too many stuffed animals to hold,
too many homework assignments to write,
too many boys to wave at,
too many years to grow.
We used to have a game, my dad and I, about holding hands.
Cause we held hands everywhere.
And every time either he or I would whisper a great big number to the other, pretending that we were keeping track of how many times we had held hands.
That we were sure this one had to be 8 million 2 thousand 7 hundred and fifty three.
Hands learn more then minds do.
Hands learn to hold other hands.
How to grip pencils and mould poetry.
How to tickle piano keys, dribble basketballs and grip the handles of a bicycle.
How to hold old people and touch babies.
I love hands like I love people.
They are the maps and compasses with which we navigate our way through life.
Some people read palms to tell you your future,
but I read hands to tell your past.
Each scar marks a story worth telling.
Each callused palm each cracked knuckle a missed punch or years working in a factory.
Now I've seen middle eastern hands clenched in middle eastern fists,
pounding against each other
each country sees their fists like warriors and others enemies.
Even if fists alone are only hands.
But this is not about politics, no hands are not about politics.
This is a poem about love, and fingers.
Fingers interlock like a beautiful zipper of prayer.
One time I grabbed my dad's hand so that our fingers interlocked perfectly.
But he changed position saying "No, that hand hold is for your Mom!".
Kids high-five, but grown ups shake hands.
You need a firm handshake,
But don't hold on too tight,
But don't let go too soon,
But don't hold on for too long.
Hands are not about politics.
When did it become so complicated? I always thought it was so simple.
The other day, my Dad looked at my hands as if seeing them for the first time
And with laughter behind his eyelids,
and with all the seriousness a man of his humour could muster he said,
"You know, you've got nice hands, you could've been a hand model!".
And before the laughter could escape me,
I shake my head at him, and squeeze his hand.
8 million 2 thousand 7 hundred and fifty four.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Tuesday, April 05, 2011
Congratulations Q!
I just called a friend. I hesitate to call her my best friend or my good friend, even though my heart leans towards doing so. Partly because "best" means I can only have one, partly because we have not talked in ages except for a few facebook wall post exchanges, and partly because I would be embarrassed if the feeling is not mutual. She just got married last week and I am just so thrilled when I heard that she was going to have a wedding. Firstly it came as a disbelief because I did not expect it. But after a day or so, the reality of the news started to sink in, and I can't exactly describe the happiness I felt. I questioned myself, why am I this ecstatic? We very rarely exchange news; I don't know what's happening in her life, and she doesn't know what's happening in mine. The last time we met and talked was maybe 4 years ago (according to her) or 6 years ago (according to me). Yet, my excitement stubbornly held its ground.
As I try to rationalize, I think that it's because she's the first person other than a family member, who is "close" to me who got married. But after I got off the phone with her, I knew exactly why I can't shake off my happiness: because she is my soul mate. OK, wait! Don't cast your stones yet! I can explain!!! You know what they say about soul mates, right? That there is one person who you are meant to be with, who has been destined for you, whose fingers interlocked perfectly with yours and whose heart beats in sync only with yours (Excuse me while I throw up a little)? Well, I believe that God scatters many of these "soul mates" for us to discover, in the form of family members, friends, and of course our other halves. And when you meet them, you may not know straight away that you are "soul mates". But through distance, time, experiences, fights, you will finally realize it. This time I realize it through a simple call, a 45 minute call in which miraculously no air got stunk with awkwardness and though we've matured in some way, it brought us back to years before, to the giggles, to the daily updates, the sharings, and approvals of each other's thoughts. We've moved on far beyond comprehension, but when we talked, I felt like we haven't moved at all. It felt like just another weekly call. It felt like home. I felt like I did not have the explain what had happened all this years and neither did she, because we somehow already understood. That's when I realize that she's one of my soul mates. I can't explain it another way.
It was a good talk. She told me how the wedding went, how in the end more than expected came and she did not even get any food because of that. About being the first grandchild to marry so everybody in the family was excited and wanted a celebration. About how she met her husband (and I childishly giggled at hearing the word husband) and the plans for them in the near future. About weddings in Indonesia where they are primarily a celebration of the parents who have successfully raised great children. She told me about the decision to get married and how fast it all went, and I agree that you just can't factor in every single thing in the decision. At one point you just have to trust and take that leap of faith that you've picked the right person for your forever, all the important basis have been covered, and if you've missed any it can and will be worked out.
In the movie "A Little Romance", the 13 years old lead girl wonders, "I used to think, maybe a long time ago, like... like in the time of the pharaohs or Louis the 13th that, there was somebody, made just perfect for me. I mean, when you think about it and consider that your feelings of love, begin when you're about ten and if you live to say 70, well that's pretty limiting because, what chances there that he'll be alive at the same time you are? You know?" The boy echoes her thoughts, "I feel the same things. I mean, even if she lived in my lifetime. What if my perfect woman lived in India or California or Brazil? What chance is there that I'd meet her when I live in La Garenne?" The girl asks, "It's incredible isn't it?" To that, the boy answers,"Absolutely... incredible."
It is incredible, that interlocking and synchronized beating, that intertwined roads that lead you to each other. Like the two kids said, "What are the chances?" Pretty slim, I suppose. So, I'm glad that there's not just that "perfect one" for us and I'm glad that they are always uncovered at the right time. So, once again, congratulations Q for having another soul mate, this time in the form of a husband. I am sure that it is incredible.
As I try to rationalize, I think that it's because she's the first person other than a family member, who is "close" to me who got married. But after I got off the phone with her, I knew exactly why I can't shake off my happiness: because she is my soul mate. OK, wait! Don't cast your stones yet! I can explain!!! You know what they say about soul mates, right? That there is one person who you are meant to be with, who has been destined for you, whose fingers interlocked perfectly with yours and whose heart beats in sync only with yours (Excuse me while I throw up a little)? Well, I believe that God scatters many of these "soul mates" for us to discover, in the form of family members, friends, and of course our other halves. And when you meet them, you may not know straight away that you are "soul mates". But through distance, time, experiences, fights, you will finally realize it. This time I realize it through a simple call, a 45 minute call in which miraculously no air got stunk with awkwardness and though we've matured in some way, it brought us back to years before, to the giggles, to the daily updates, the sharings, and approvals of each other's thoughts. We've moved on far beyond comprehension, but when we talked, I felt like we haven't moved at all. It felt like just another weekly call. It felt like home. I felt like I did not have the explain what had happened all this years and neither did she, because we somehow already understood. That's when I realize that she's one of my soul mates. I can't explain it another way.
It was a good talk. She told me how the wedding went, how in the end more than expected came and she did not even get any food because of that. About being the first grandchild to marry so everybody in the family was excited and wanted a celebration. About how she met her husband (and I childishly giggled at hearing the word husband) and the plans for them in the near future. About weddings in Indonesia where they are primarily a celebration of the parents who have successfully raised great children. She told me about the decision to get married and how fast it all went, and I agree that you just can't factor in every single thing in the decision. At one point you just have to trust and take that leap of faith that you've picked the right person for your forever, all the important basis have been covered, and if you've missed any it can and will be worked out.
In the movie "A Little Romance", the 13 years old lead girl wonders, "I used to think, maybe a long time ago, like... like in the time of the pharaohs or Louis the 13th that, there was somebody, made just perfect for me. I mean, when you think about it and consider that your feelings of love, begin when you're about ten and if you live to say 70, well that's pretty limiting because, what chances there that he'll be alive at the same time you are? You know?" The boy echoes her thoughts, "I feel the same things. I mean, even if she lived in my lifetime. What if my perfect woman lived in India or California or Brazil? What chance is there that I'd meet her when I live in La Garenne?" The girl asks, "It's incredible isn't it?" To that, the boy answers,"Absolutely... incredible."
It is incredible, that interlocking and synchronized beating, that intertwined roads that lead you to each other. Like the two kids said, "What are the chances?" Pretty slim, I suppose. So, I'm glad that there's not just that "perfect one" for us and I'm glad that they are always uncovered at the right time. So, once again, congratulations Q for having another soul mate, this time in the form of a husband. I am sure that it is incredible.
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