My friend, who was quite close to me and knew a little about the “father situation” answered me with worried eyes, “It’s the same as your father’s.”
I had two options: I could lie or I could admit my lack of knowledge on the matter and bring up the drama of my father’s absence. Naturally, I lied—although that isn’t quite the right word for it. I felt inadequate being in a classroom full of people who knew exactly who they were; and my way of coping with that particular feeling was to say things that weren’t true. I still do this. For example, I have a habit of introducing myself using a false pronunciation because my name is “white” and the correct pronunciation would make me look fraudulent—the foreign name does not match my local appearance.
That day, I asked my mother in the car, after she had picked me up from school: “Mom, what’s my ethnicity?”
“We’re Javanese,” she said lightly.
“My friend said that our ethnicity comes from the father’s side,” I went on without looking at her.
“We’re Javanese,” she repeated herself.
That night, my mother called me into her bedroom. Well, this can’t be good. She then told me that my father came from Manado, which makes me Manadonese.
Read also: Life is a Coffee Bean – Short Story by Eric Musa Piliang (The Jakarta Post, March 26, 2018)
Night came. I was invited to my mom’s room. This can’t be good. A little less random and casual than she does nowadays, she told me that my father was Manadonese. I imagined how hard it must have been for her to share that information with me; so I didn’t ask further questions. I don’t know why I was so indifferent about this whole thing. I remember in the second grade when my teacher asked me to write down the names of our family members and I left the part where my father’s name was supposed to be completely blank. My teacher yelled at me, thinking I had either failed to understand his instructions or simply too dumb to recall my parent’s name.
However, I didn’t try to explain it. I stayed silent—which is my go-to response to all things that are related to my mother’s past.
After revealing my father’s ethnicity, my mother continued her information-sharing session by claiming the sinetron (soap opera) actress I admired was actually my father’s niece — this meant she was my cousin. Now that’s interesting.
***
My mother stopped pinching me and said, “Too bad you have never met your father. Well, what can I do? He doesn’t want to see you.”
Nice, I thought. I could do without that bit of information. So … um, thanks, Mom.
