Strong Roots By Sylvana Hutabarat Whenever I think of my experiences growing up in the United States as a full-blooded Indonesian, I recall my father's garden, which he started when I was just ten years old. He returned from a three-month trip to Indonesia and we all circled his luggage scattered on the living room floor. As I leaned over the red leather suitcase searching for the long awaited do-dol candies, I spied an odd looking shape wrapped in newspaper. My father smiled and opened it up so that I could see three gnarled, root-like objects. Flower bulbs, he told me, to begin his garden. Bulbs from the Indonesian tropics, I thought, here in Northern United States? We didn't even have a green house to protect it from Virginia's harsh winters. The soil outside was rough and infertile, only the strongest native weeds dared to live there. I immediately thought my father crazy to believe those plants could ever thrive, naively wishing that he had spared the extra space in his suitcase for more candy. I like to think that the bulbs not only survived here on US soil, but thrived. Nevertheless, my father planted the bulbs. He buried the roots with loving care; he watered and watched patiently until finally one day tiny green shoot began to show from the dull brown earth. Looking back, I remember watching the bright green leaves overpower the rest of the foliage in the garden. There was an exotic yellow tint to it, alien in color yet strangely attractive. It stood out on it's own, lovely and otherworldly. I like to think the bulbs not only survived here on US soil, but thrived. The harsh, foreign land challenged it in a way that tropical Indonesia could not. In addition, the stem's surreal and exotic beauty complemented the sloping landscape, innocently bringing out the best in the other flowers surrounding it. The most challenging thing about being an Indonesian American is recognizing your own uniqueness no matter how much you want to fit in and become like everyone else. My family came to America not knowing what to expect from the alien soil. My father brought back with him four young children, unaccustomed to the cold September air, the unfamiliar landscape, and most of all, the strange culture that surrounded them. With time, however, the unfamiliar became familiar, and the foreign land became home. My siblings and I grew so accustomed to America that our memory of Indonesia became pale and hazy. Our English was flawless, our knowledge of American culture could have rivaled the native borns. We grew up with the Cosby Show and gathered together with popcorn and candy for Super Bowl Sundays. Friends who knew us often forgot that we weren't completely American until they arrived in our homes. "What's that?" one of my friends, Nicole asked as she entered my house that was filled with smoke from one of my mother's famous fish dishes. Her nose curled with disgust as she sniffed the unfamiliar odor. "My mom's cooking," I replied, not really wanting to elaborate beyond that. Nicole laughed innocently and put her hand on her mouth, "It smells like raw sewage!" My parents were a constant reminder that no matter how hard I tried, I could never be a true American. My head bowed with shame for a moment as I suddenly wished it was the smell of fried chicken that reeked the house and not my mother's gulai. "Let's go play outside," I suggested with a shrug and soon we were running around, forgetting our differences once again. However, when I came home later that day, I inhaled the strong, spicy odor that filled the house and moved eagerly towards the table for dinner of fish curry and rice. My friend, I thought as I swallowed eagerly, didn't really know what she was missing. Indeed, many Americans didn't know what they were missing. Not only did a lot of them deny some of the tastiest cuisine, they refused to open their minds and explore the unfamiliar. It took me a long time to get the courage to offer some of my American friends rendang, or ayam balado, and although they asked for lots of water during the meal, they admitted that it was indeed very delicious. I beamed with pride. I felt as if I did a little something to expand their way of thinking, even if it was merely food. In my youth, I was grateful for the fact that my Indonesian heritage allowed me to have Indonesian food almost every day of my life. To me, at the time, that was the only advantage. My parents were a constant reminder that no matter how hard I tried, I could never be a true American. I was embarrassed by them because of their thick, sometimes incomprehensible accent. I flinched if anyone treated my mother in a condescending way because they felt that her speech was an indication of her intellect. As I grew older, I grew more defensive of her. Most of my friends loved my mother for her genuine affection. She always greeted with a friendly smile and remembered everyone by name. They respected her and I made sure they were aware of all her hidden talents and her wisdom as an individual that may not be apparent at first glance. But strangers were not so kind, and in stores when her English was limited, people would often try to take advantage of her. When she complained that a price wasn't correct, one bristly old man pretended not to understand her. Furious, I stood by my mother and look the cashier straight in the eye and asked him with my flawless English what he thought was the problem. Recognizing that he was caught, he laughed apologetically and claimed that he didn't understand what my mother was trying to say. I replied, it wasn't that difficult if he stopped and listened. Indeed, her accent wasn't that difficult if one could take the time to listen. Eventually, my resentment switched to the Americans who were sometimes too close minded and ignorant to give foreigners like my mother a chance to prove themselves. But it took me a long time to be able to face the public with my mother's odd habits and behavior. She ate with a spoon, even when we were having spaghetti. She held her purse in front of her, even in our peaceful suburban neighborhood. She was different, she was foreign, and she would never be like everyone else's mother. It took me a long time to realize that this was a good thing. My mother enabled me to see the worst in myself, the part that was ashamed of a dear sweet woman, while at the same time she brought out the best, the side that was able to defend her for all I was worth. Recognizing that he was caught, he laughed apologetically and claimed that he didn't understand what my mother was trying to say. In a way, being an Indonesian in America is a mixed blessing. As much as we wanted to blend in, out physical appearances stood out like a flamboyant flower among white lilies. I used to stare at my dark skin with adament disgust because it wasn't nearly as pretty as the creamy skin of the most popular girls in school. I frowned at my common black hair and plain brown eyes, wishing there was some way to change my genetics. But none of my sisters and I were truly in want of admirers. The fact that we had that exotic look about us attracted many boys, much to the displeasure of my stern father. How can we truly be American when we were forbidden to go to the most important American rite of passage? Prom. Our friends could not understand why it was forbidden, and indeed, neither could we. It would take weeks of begging and pleading, infuriated tears and sulking before my father, who for all his seriousness, loved us with all his heart, gave in. But even then, we were to come home earlier than most of our friends and we were to call whenever we got the chance. Now, as a college student, I realize how grateful I am for my heritage and for my parents who never allowed us to forget where our roots came from. Growing up had not been easy for any of us. We all had our share of frustrations and moments of shame, wishing that we were anything but what we were. But eventually, all the pain and hardships served to strengthen us, to give us something that very few Americans had and indeed, very few Indonesians. I've survived America's harshest blizzards, I've lived through the most painful draughts. It was a new perspective on life and people, it was the concept that different, didn't have to mean bad, that uniqueness should be embraced and not shunned. In my heart, I know that if I were to return to Indonesia, I would have to face similar prejudices, the same sense of alienation. But I refuse to allow that to daunt me. I've survived America's harshest blizzards, I've lived through the most painful draughts. That knowledge will enable me to face the unfamiliar without fear. I love the country that I have not set foot on for almost twenty years. I love listening to my mother's nostalgic stories of swaying palm trees and rocky beaches. I close my eyes and try to find some vague recollection that's not really there. It's hard to remember anything when you were two. Yet, I refuse to idealize the country of my birth, for I know now that when I set foot on that soil, it will be as alien to me as America had been to my parents. I will be a foreigner again, my differences will stick out like an offensive odor. But I am also optimistic. If I was able to get my childhood friend to swallow my mother's curry fish, I hope to have the strength to find that sort of trust in Indonesia. It won't be easy, but I'm not afraid of trying. In the end, I've realized that it's not the earth that you stand on that matters, it's the person that you'll always retain inside. My roots, I can never forget, nor will I ever wish to deny. I am unique, I am different. I like to think that if the bulbs my father had brought to America had lived among other plants like itself, it would not have performed the important feat of impacting the overall garden. It would not have been able to stand tall and proud, creating a sensation for all who beheld it. Perhaps it would have blended in with all the other brightly colored plants, sinking into the background, buried and shadowed, never knowing it's true potential. Copyright © 2001 - 2007 SiaNews.org  All Right Reserved