Iâve just hung up a phone call and Iâm fighting the urge to scream.
I want to scream for my motherland Indonesia. I somehow foresee its fate: a resource-rich poor country heading inevitably for an uncertain future where oil is USD 200/bbl; where the sky gets greyer and allies turn enemies. For Godâs sake, no! Indonesia deserves better.
But it is being run by a corrupted, patriarchal, narrow-minded government; civil servants who donât have any idea of how to serve and respect their civilians.
A humble junior engineer who happens to work in some oil company, I am merely plankton in the sea of oil people. Iâve just hung up a phone call, I said. It was with a (male, senior) officer from the governmental body that happens to be the Poseidon of my sea. He expected me to respect him; three-headed spear and all. I did. I expected him to respect me, tooâplankton as I was. He did not.
How dare you, you probably think, to expect Poseidon to bow to crappy plankton?
Well, when it comes to respect, Iâd venture to propose that thereâs a certain degree of respect that you have to pay fellow human beings out of nothing at allâ simply because you respect Humanity. I have sat and chatted with ambassadors, and I treated them with the same respect as when I sat and chatted with a janitor. Why should this Poseidon be treated any better? We human beings are equalâ even God see us that way.
I was modest enough, though, to let my more refined nature get the better of me and be nice to His Excellency Mr. Poseidonâ acknowledging his older age and male superiority. The Javanese culture I grew up in favours older people, and I donât oppose this gracious custom. (The male superiority part of course sucked; nonetheless I managed to cope with it.)
All the same, I refused to respect him more than that. Not when he failed to show integrity, kindness and humility. Higher respect is earned- not bestowed nor bought. His job title and his money canât help him earn my respect when he failed to respect the fellow human being in me. He took all my efforts on politeness for granted. A typical government officer in a spiritually retarded country.
For Godâs sake, no! Indonesia deserves better than spiritual retardationâ especially with so many challenges ahead. Indonesia could do better without a bunch of Poseidons who sit up high looking down to people they are supposed to serve.
I hope the day will dawn when we could build relationships (both professional and personal) based on mutual respect. It would be the start of a true civilian society, and the spark that ignites progress. On that day we could say to His Excellency Mr. Poseidon, with all due respect, âGood riddance!â
I am no dancer. Iâm pretty good at memorizing steps, but my body moves like a log despite the correct footwork.
My dance instructor tells me again and again, âElok, itâs all in your head. If you believe you can, you canâ.
âBut indeed I canât. I canât shake my torso like you do; canât wiggle my bottom like you do; can't wave my hands like you do. Every imbecile knows itâ, says I stubbornly.
The funny part is, I do believe in self-fulfilling prophecy. And my case is exactly that.
My mum first took me to a traditional dance class when I was little. I remember the joy at the beginningâ dancing with my peers and having great times swirling about the room. That was until I heard what my dance instructor said to my mum.
I wasnât actually eavesdropping. My dance instructor was talking to my mum, but he was fully aware that I was there listening to every word he said as well. My dance career (or what could have been) ended right then, right there.
He told my mum that I couldnât join the other girls in the next performance because I wasnât up to their level yet. My mum argued that the girls and I joined the class at roughly the same timeâbut to that, the dance instructor shook his head, saying that it wasnât a function of time. Simply put, I was no dancer, and no matter how long I practiced, the sad fact would remain.
Finally my mum nodded, if quite gravely. I stared at the two of them -at the agreement they made- with innocent eyes, thinking that if two grown-ups said so, then it must be true: I was no dancer. I was silently accepting my âfateâ.
This ghost of my past haunted me in good many years that followed. Every occasion that included dancing saw me running home or elsewhere. I wouldnât dance because my dancing suckedâand to be forced to dance in public was my worst nightmare.
Even to this day the ghost haunts me still, but I can see that it has reduced itself from a gigantic no-no to an obstinate, tiny prejudice towards myself. The fear of being humiliated has evaporated somewhere along the fight. I was on the stage last month-- line-dancing with several other ladies in IPA Cocktail Party. I dance in every social event my function arranges. I attend a regular dance class and somehow bear with being the stupidest in the room (trust that my being the stupidest is a very rare occasion *cough*).
Ten years ago I would never had dreamed of enjoying dancing very much to the point of buying pricey dance shoes. I do now. But the thought that I am no dancer obstinately lingers. I guess it means that I have to pay more respect to Freud-- childhood trauma does leave a lasting mark.
As Iâm writing this, one of Jewelâs songs quietly plays in the back of my head, âI have this theory/ that if weâre told weâre bad// Thatâs the only idol weâve ever had// But maybe if we are surrounded in beauty/ someday we will become what we see.. //â
