a-sliceofpizza-blog - Tumblr blog

[a-sliceofpizza-blog]

He said he liked driving me home. He liked it when I took off my shoes and put my legs up on the seat. Pulled them close to my chest as I leaned against the window. He liked watching me safe. He liked that I don't have to worry about getting home because I know he'd be driving me home anyway. Walking me to my doorstep. Shaking hands with my parents.

it's my favorite part too

[a-sliceofpizza-blog]

cute dinner and rough sex. i’m into that.

and let's make love after

[a-sliceofpizza-blog]

A View on Prejudice, Privilege & Pride

I will come off as pretentious. Keep in mind that this is simply a personal account, and will therefore be, biased, by my own prejudice and privilege as an upper middle class kid.

I was born and raised in Jakarta. While the traffic wasn’t this bad when I was little, I am used to the swift city life. Since I moved, and my new house put a distance of 20 km between my school and my bed, I had to get up at 4 am every morning. (I will wake up at the ass crack of dawn, anyway, since I have to pray, anyway) I shower, and sometimes, due to time constraints, eat breakfast in the car. 

I went to a private school. I had to pay about 1 million rupiahs every month. That’s about 100 USD. But the education I received was well worth the money. Most often, with Indonesian public schools, you would find teachers who slack off, but my teachers were very determined, caring, and friends with us. There were a lot of extracurricular activities that supported many interests. I would say that my best qualities were developed mostly during the three years that I spent there. I found my best friends in high school. Ivo, the one who probably had the most to do with my rapidfire English, Myra, the one who I could talk about the universe with, Ima, the one who I know I could confide in with no judgment. But I developed a very specific branding during my years of high school, and that is the MUN person.

Model United Nations is a simulation of a United Nations conference where participants pose as delegates from an assigned country to talk about world issues in the many bodies of United Nations. As ‘the MUN person,’ who also helped found the MUN club, I, of course, have to be well aware of the world issues surrounding me. What a good thing that my high school encourages proactive behaviors and critical thinking - because it means that almost everyone inside that high school building, could at least share two sentences with me about the current presidential election. Although I would say that I am the one who is truly most vocal about it. Third-wave feminist. Environmental friendly. Social justice warrior.*

And that’s who I am. I care about deep shit. I text my friends at 3 am angry about how much the government doesn’t care about renewable energy. My friends text me back about the horrifying practice of female genital mutilation. We discuss democracy, racism, prejudice.

We love Hollywood. We might not watch it, but we know SNL. We know that Lin-Manuel Miranda is going to appear in the next episode of Carpool Karaoke. We criticize Marvel for not making a Black Widow movie, for the butcher of her character in Civil War. We talk about how representation can truly help fight prejudice that exists against Muslims. We get excited about Quantico. We fangirl over bands. We fall in love with A-list celebrities with abs like Apollo’s, we fall in love with real boys. 

But really, my high school is pop culture and a dash of social justice activism.

And I’ve made my home in that. 

Surabaya is none of that. 

Correction - ITS is none of that. The girls that I’ve met are nothing like what I’m used to - and that’s not a bad thing. I’m probably not the girl everyone’s used to. For one, I don’t wear hijab. My hair was military short when I started as freshman, and my glasses are round and big. And I talk. Oh, I talk a lot. These girls are demure. 

Oh, of course some of them talk as much as I do. But they don’t talk about politics. They don’t give a shit about pop culture. They listen to local songs that I don’t recognize. Speak a language I don’t understand. Joke things I can’t begin to fathom.

So the solution to fitting is simple, right? Find a common ground. Find a group you can click with, just like you did in high school. And I did - the first time, it was three girls. Then one of them got away, then it left us with two, but all they did was talk about boys, inside jokes I’m not a part of, so I decided to walk away. 

(Hey, I’m sure all you do is not talk about boys, if you’re reading this. I’m coming to a conclusion, I promise)

I tried fitting in with others girls. Can’t. Same thing happened - all she does is talk about boys. Overthinking about boys. It’s not like my friends from high school don’t talk about high school, because trust me, we do talk about boys a lot. But I see layers beyond crushes and infatuations. I see doctors, dentists, architects. 

I don’t see anything beyond these girls. 

And that’s a seriously mean thing to say, right? I basically called them shallow. I know you’re all thinking, what a pretentious bitch. Thinking I’m better than everyone else because - what? I care about politics? That’s just saying that people who don’t care about politics as unintelligent. And that’s not true. (Politics these days are messy, stressful, sometimes it can be harmful to your mental health. There are valid reasons why people can choose not to be updated with the latest news) But I can’t help how I feel, and that’s how I feel, throughout the first year. The issue of racial divide and religious freedom were heating up in Jakarta during this time, and of course I give a shit, I was born and raised there.

And then somebody texted me, saying I shouldn’t vote for this governor for reasons that I seriously find questionable - because he doesn’t share our faith.

And that’s not a thing in my circle of friends. We call that bigotry. And here’s what I take away from this: I’m surrounded by bigots. And I don’t like that. 

So I distance myself, which is a stupid fucking move. Because it’s the second year, and my high school friends have already moved on with newer friends, and what the fuck have I done? Calling people shallow and bigots? 

Not fitting in is one of the reasons why I’m not happy where I am. I recognize the problem - they are so different from the friends that I’m used to. But I don’t know what to do. Tailor myself to be like them, in order to fit in? I should stop being so judgmental, but I can’t. I miss talking about existential crisis with my high school friends. I don’t want to talk about boys or seniors or anything they talk about. 

Second year is coming. I still have no friends. 

*i hate that term so much i use it very ironically

[a-sliceofpizza-blog]

July 30, 2017

It all started with a dream, as most things do.

It’s very Asian of my extended family to start asking what I want to do in the future since I was five. And my answers since then had been very varied. I went from a dancer, to a painter, to a writer, to a journalist, to a diplomat, to an engineer. Notice how, as the years went by, I dropped the arts and moved towards a more practical field. Why engineering? Well, here’s another Asian stereotype for you: my parents had both been engineers. My brother, as well. Naturally, I had to be an engineer as well.

The thing is, I’ve fallen in love with writing. I wrote my first story when I was in primary school. The computer that I was using was the newest at its time, big damn CPU under the desk, and I remember feeling very professional as my hands danced across the keyboard. I asked my dad about the uppercase letters, and he introduced me to capslock. I still remember what he said, “I knew you would ask eventually.” He was wearing a white t-shirt. 

Since then, I devoted time to writing. I write books, and I never finish them. Stories keep changing, away from the way I planned it in my head, away from the way I wanted it in my head. I never cared that I never finished the story. I keep making new ones anyway. It didn’t occur to me that there was a way I could make money, if I only finished those stories. This thought only occurred to me as a I entered middle school. So I tried to finish a story. When people asked me what I wanted to be when I grow up, I told them, “A writer.”

They shot me down, as always, and like a child who had only first learned that it was not okay to eat food off the floor, I began to tailor my hobby into something that sounded more professional. “A journalist,” I said, though I had no experience reporting prior to this proclamation. Though journalism and writing stories were two different things. During this period, superhero and dystopian movies began to rise to popularity. I dreamed of reporting a war, fleeing from explosions, exposing the dark secrets of humanity, like it was not a common knowledge that humanity, at its core, is a rotten little thing.

Social media activism became a thing in high school. Following my dream to become a journalist, I kept up to date with the news. I learned about the war in Ukraine, the war over transboundary water it Turkmenistan, the war in Gaza, the war in the world. The war that didn’t shed blood, the war to fight for equal rights, for women, for marginalized groups, for indigenous people. And like the little kid who idolized Katniss Everdeen, I wanted to be a hero. So I joined Model United Nations. Pretending to be a delegate of some obscure country I had never heard of, a delegate of Israel, a delegate of United States of America, of Kazakhstan, of Costa Rica. Writing solutions to save the world. To end problems. I wanted to be a diplomat. I wanted to major in International Relations. At this point, in high school, I could make my dream come true, so I applied for an International Relations program at Gajah Mada University, and I got in. 

The story should have ended there. Then, anxiety kicked in. I am a science major. What am I doing, wasting three years of crying over physics only to dispose it in university? Being a diplomat isn’t a practical career. I’d have to fly over states, dabble in politics - are you ready for politics? I have to pick for something more practical. More - secure. Something that makes money. 

Engineering. 

For Indonesians, Bandung Institute of Technology is the MIT. Chemical Engineering is my pick. My mom’s a chemical engineer, she makes tons of money, she is financially stable - and isn’t that what we want in life? I can tolerate physics, and I love, love chemistry. Yes, this is the perfect fit. The another anxiety kicks in - can you even get into ITB? Are you smart enough for ITB? Because I have never been the brightest in the room. I should play it safe. I should apply where my chances are higher - I should apply to the second best, to Sepuluh Nopember Institute of Technology. My brother graduated from there, he is doing fine, I should be fine, too. I applied there, and got in. I didn’t even need to take a test. 

I didn’t realize at this point my dreams are not dreams. They have become - plans. I didn’t know when, but my brain had rewired itself. To dream no more, to be realistic, to be - mature. But I was young, am still young, what the fuck do I know about being mature? 

Surabaya was an entire 800 kilometers away from Jakarta, where I was born and raised. I should be able to handle the distance - we should be able to handle the distance, I thought, looking at my boyfriend, my best friend of six years. I should be able to handle making friends fine, I should be able to fit in. Four months aren’t that long. Besides, a change of scenery could be great for me, and Surabaya is the second biggest city in Indonesia. Why shouldn’t I be happy?

Yeah, well. Apparently, there are many reasons why I am not happy.