elizavitri - Tumblr blog

[elizavitri]

From THE POET X by ELIZABETH ACEVEDO

“The poet talks about being black, about being a woman,

about how beauty standards make it seem she isn’t pretty.

I don’t breathe for the entire three minutes.”

~

“It was just a poem, Xiomara, I think.

But it felt more like a gift.”

~

“Nothing. But at least there’s tomorrow. At least there’s poetry.”

~

“I can’t remember

the last time people were silent

while I spoke, actually listening.”

~

“My little words

feel important, for just a moment.

This is a feeling I could get addicted to.”

~

“I have never experienced a silence like this.

A hundred people waiting.

Waiting for me to speak.”

~

“Because so many of the poems tonight

felt a little like our own stories.

Like we saw and were seen.

And how crazy would it be

if I did that for someone else?”

~

“my poetry has become something I’m proud of.

The way the words say what I mean,

how they twist and turn language,

how they connect with people.

How they build community.

I finally know that all of those

“I’ll never, ever, ever”

stemmed from being afraid but not even they

can stop me. Not anymore.”

~

“the secret hope we share,

that we are both good enough

for each other and maybe the world, too.”

***

Xiomara and I are discovering the shards and pieces that make up our voice,

Sharp and shining, all set to surprise the world

She and I know how writing is the only thing that keeps us from hurting

The only thing we have to fight back against the world

If only we can birth those words, break through the dam of our lips

Sewed shut, sealed, shushed

By the ghosts that shout in our ears and haunt our dreams

Girls like us aren’t supposed to talk, to get up onstage, to be listened to

Girls like us aren’t supposed to have important things to say

People like us aren’t supposed to stand up, we’re supposed to take comfort and refuge in being ordinary, to find safety in blending with the background

Xiomara’s journal of poems was burned by her mother

My journal of poems was drowned by a teacher

Yet sometimes we find the strength

To push the words past the thick layers of blood, flesh, skin, and face

We take back our body from the ghosts of fear

We are discovering the thrill and exhilaration as we get up onstage

And the audience falls silent to hear us speak

As we realize that we do have important things to say

And that people will listen, yearn to listen, long to read more

That our words can bring people together

Can build community and bring hope to others

Girls and kids like us who are finding their own voice

“And isn’t that what a poem is? A lantern glowing in the dark.”

[elizavitri]

On a landscape of dark, twisting, fat, thorny vines Selin rises as a long-necked half-dragon creature spreading her terrifying wings and slicing the clouds. She is coiled in a passionate kiss with Hektor who is a half-sea-monster creature, his great tail lashing the waves. Thorns are pricking their bodies—black blood spilling from the wounds—but they don’t seem to care as long as they remain in that powerful embrace.

chapter 34

[elizavitri]

From THE POET X by ELIZABETH ACEVEDO

“As she recites Scripture

words tumble out of my mouth too,

all the poems and stanzas I’ve memorized spill out,

getting louder and louder, all out of order,

until I’m yelling at the top of my lungs,

heaving the words like weapons from chest;

they’re the only thing I can fight back with.”

 ~

“Sometimes it feels                       

all I’m worth is under my skirt and not between my ears.           

Sometimes I feel                       

that turning the other cheek could get someone like my brother killed.”

~

“It happens all the time

I should be used to it …

when boys—and sometimes

grown-ass men—

talk to me however they want,

think they can grab themselves

or rub against me

or make all kinds of offers.

But I’m never used to it.

And it always makes my hands shake.

Always makes my throat tight.

The only thing that calms me down…

To grab my notebook,

and write, and write, and write

all the things I wish I could’ve said.

make poems from the sharp feelings inside,

that feel like they could

carve me wide

open.”

 ***

Xiomara is questioning why her religion overlooks the mother

And puts so much shame on girls as if

all they’re worth is under their skirt

I wonder why

we believe that our Most Loving God

wants us to practice religion to shatter love,

why can’t we say syukur alhamdulillah for a loving kiss

and a warm embrace?

[elizavitri]

With a folded face Papa wolfs down his breakfast and splits without saying a word, leaving Mama with the blues and the dirty dishes.

chapter 34

[elizavitri]

From THE POET X by ELIZABETH ACEVEDO

“The words sit in my belly, / and I use my nerves / like a pulley to lift / them out of my mouth.”

~

“maybe my silence / Just made him feel more alone. / Maybe my silence. / Condones the ugly things people think.”

~

“Xiomara, bare-knuckled, fought the world / into calling her correctly by her name.“

“she should be remembered / as always working to become / the warrior she wanted to be”

~

“Mami says she thought it was a saint’s name. / Gave me this gift of battle and now curses / how well I live up to it.”

~

“Sometimes it feels / all I’m worth is under my skirt and not between my ears. / Sometimes I feel / that turning the other cheek could get someone like my brother killed.”

~

As she recites Scripture / words tumble out of my mouth too, / all the poems and stanzas I’ve memorized spill out, / getting louder and louder, all out of order, / until I’m yelling at the top of my lungs, / heaving the words like weapons from chest; / they’re the only thing I can fight back with.”

***

This week I’m reading The Poet X by Elizabeth Acevedo.

The novel’s narrator Xiomara is Dominican-American.

I am Indonesian, Madurese.

Xiomara was named after a warrior.

I was named after the girl who’d saved my mother from being harassed by a group of boys.

Xiomara is always correcting people’s pronunciation of her name, because she knows how meaningful that name is. She wants to be remembered for working hard to become the warrior she was named after.

I am always correcting English-speaking people into pronouncing my name the correct way: Eh-lee-za, not Ee-lie-za. I want to be remembered as someone who lives with many fears and everyday overcoming those fears.

Xiomara is questioning why her religion overlooks the mother and puts so much shame on girls as if all they’re worth is under their skirt.

I wonder why we believe that our Most Loving God wants us to practice religion to shatter love, why can’t we say syukur alhamdulillah for a loving kiss and a warm embrace?

Xiomara’s journal of poems was burned by her mother.

My journal of poems was drowned by a teacher.

Xiomara’s mother curses her for how well she lives up to her name. Xiomara writes poems and stands up for herself when boys and men call her dirty names, and she protects her brother from bullies.

My mother wants me to be someone’s hero too, but she doesn’t understand that defending cornered girls mean more than pulling them to safety, but also dismantling the structures of power that keep them vulnerable and at risk.

I hope someday she’ll understand the purpose of my rebellion, that I am trying to live up to her good wishes for me.

[elizavitri]

When the sun goes down, we’ll be staring at the city from the top of a mountain somewhere. It’ll look so small, like it can all fit in drop of water. Then we’ll lie down on the grass and watch the clouds turn to stars.

chapter 33

[elizavitri]

“You gotta be brave before you can be good.”

From the movie HEARTS BEAT LOUD.

[elizavitri]

From JUST KIDS by PATTI SMITH

“He wrote to me a note to say we would create art together and we would make it, with or without the rest of the world.”

“In my low periods, I wondered what was the point of creating art. For whom? Are we animating God? Are we talking to ourselves? And what was the ultimate goal? To have one’s work caged in art’s great zoos—the Modern, the Met, the Louvre?”

“I stand naked when I draw. God holds my hand and we sing together.”

“I craved honesty, yet found dishonesty in myself. Why commit to art? For self-realization or for itself?”

“Committing to great art is its own reward.”

***

What does it mean to make it? Why do we create? Why do we do what we do?

I have been asking myself those questions a lot lately.

I want my art to live within people, to touch people’s lives, and to nurture them the way food does. I want to make works that mean something.

This much I know: I want to create good works and I want to do it right.

When I wanted to create a house from the stories of women overcoming trauma and repression, I knew I couldn’t do it alone. Doing it right meant engaging other artists, survivors, and various stakeholders. It meant holding workshops for other survivors. It meant holding psychological first aid training. It meant devising promotional and campaign strategy. So, the idea of creating an artwork developed into creating a collaborative art event, into creating a sustainable arts organization.

Still I wonder everyday, is that what I really want to be doing. Is doing the right thing can only be done through the organization? Should I focus on my own creative work? Yet the organization has huge potential to answer the pressing challenges faced by our society. What if I need the support of the organization again down the line? How do I make it as an artist and build an arts organization from scratch? Can I be sure that working on the organization is not my way of sacrificing myself, the way my mother gave up college to send her brothers to school, gave up dancing to work in a pharmaceutical factory for the family, and gave up writing to take care of house and children and now grandchildren?

What does it mean to make it? Why do I create? Why do I do what I do? 

[elizavitri]

I squeeze his hand, and he does mine. For a moment, it feels enough—to have friends who believe you, despite the whole world. Even if everyone else calls us thieves and thugs, it will not be the only story told about us, because our friends will tell a different one, they will tell the truth. When we’re driven mad by what the world is making us to be, when it seems so much easier to just give in, our friends will remind us of that truth, that we don’t have to be what they believe us to be—we can be so much more.

chapter 31

[elizavitri]

From JUST KIDS by PATTI SMITH

“We scavenged the streets every trash day and picked up some of our most beautiful and cherished furniture.”

“I struggled to suppress destructive impulses and worked instead on creative ones.”

“Of all of your work, you are still your most beautiful. The most beautiful work of all.”

*** I loved reading about how Patti and Robert made a beautiful life for themselves with very little money—scavenging the streets every trash day and picked up some of their most cherished furniture. How beautiful it must be have a life, a love, a friendship that is also a work of art.

When I lived in Europe, some of our most beloved furniture, including my writing desk, also came from the trash. Creating something beautiful and worth a lot with very little means will always be a challenge I’d welcome.

“Telling myself that at least I am free.”

After I graduated college, I remember that above all what I wanted was to be free. How could I be free if I had to say bullshit about company products that are promoted as green but was just as destructive as anything? I knew I couldn’t be free if I’m tied down to a man who wanted me to only be one thing. Later I learned that I could freely choose to be in a monogamous relationship and it didn’t have to be a loss of freedom (read The Double Flame by Octavio Paz). Much later, I learned about freely choosing a religious interpretation that works with your conscience and that is liberating.

I remember having no money and being constantly hungry—for food, for sex, and to create. All the while struggling with shame, depression, and morbid timidity, trying my damnest to suppress my self-destructive tendencies and to be well enough to write.

I remember going on dates with men I didn’t really like, just so I could get dinner. I considered sex work, but I was living in Jakarta at the time and I thought I needed to show my surroundings that a woman could be sexually free and didn’t do it for gifts or money. This perspective was flawed, because sex work is a job like any other, and perhaps I could’ve shown the world instead that a sex worker could be a noted novelist (many examples already if you Google), or better yet I could’ve got rid off this feeling that I had to show world something. My mother gave me a lot of fucked-up advice regarding relationship, mostly about how women should be obedient and be patient with men, but one thing she got right: never accept gifts or anything from a man that makes you in his debt.

Never have I felt lower in my life than when I had to accept money from men, even from my partner at first. Now I’ve learned that many artists can only create because they have a partner or a parent or someone who makes it possible for them to live and work on their art. And they do it not so that you are indebted to them but because they believe fiercely in you and your art, and your relationship is still one of equals. If I don’t have to go on dates for food anymore, it’s because of my partner. Sometimes I’ll have my own income from published pieces, translation works, or art projects, and that helps my pride. But I’m grateful that I can focus on my work and, through InterSastra, the arts organization I’m building, open possibilities for others to be creative as well.    

[elizavitri]

I see printed on the first page of tomorrow’s newspaper a blurred, bloodied picture of my dead, abused bodies lying by the dumpster in the back of the mall.

chapter 28

[elizavitri]

He was holding her from behind. His hands were roaming all over her land—her hills, valleys, plains, and forests.

chapter 25

[elizavitri]

From JUST KIDS by PATTI SMITH

“We wanted, it seemed, what we already had, a lover and a friend to create with, side by side. To be loyal, yet be free.”

“One cannot imagine the mutual happiness we felt when we sat and drew together. We would get lost for hours.”

“We promised that we’d never leave one another again, until we both knew we were ready to stand on our own. And this vow, through everything we were yet to go through we kept.”

***

This one is not a YA novel, but a memoir by one of my idols poet-musician Patti Smith, recounting her friendship with artist Robert Mapplethorpe when they were young. Reading this reminds me what it feels like to have faith in yourself that you are an artist, even though you have nothing to eat and no works published or showcased. It makes me dream what it feels like to have another artist who believes in you so fiercely, who is always there for you every step of the way.  

I wanted that too—someone who supports me to be the best version of myself that I want to be. I yearned for a community of artists and writers like Hemingway’s in 1920s Paris, but I hated navigating the social politics of the literary scene, often fraught with harassment.

Within the arts and literary community, I didn’t know at that time any artist couples who were equals. Many women seemed to suffer from their relationship with fellow artists—people doubted that her success were due to her own merit, or she would sacrifice her creative work to support her partner’s. That’s why I never looked to other writers or artists as my potential life partner. I wanted to make sure I’d never give up my own creative work so men could do theirs.  

I am so grateful that now I do have a partner who loves for who I am and supports me in everything that I do—and we have a relationship in which we are both equal, happy, and free to be ourselves.

Sometimes I believe that it is all you need to make good work: hard work and someone who believes fiercely in you.

[elizavitri]

He may have destroyed my poetry book, but he can never destroy the source of those words: me. Even if he drowns my next book and the next one after that and so on, he will never stop me from writing.

chapter 21

[elizavitri]

The krosbois.

From Ali Topan Anak Jalanan the movie.

[elizavitri]

School tells you that you are good or bad by what you wear and what you look like: if you wear your skirt under your knees or if you wear the hijab, then you’re good, but if you color your hair or have tattoos, or if you’re a boy and have long hair, then you’re bad. Morals, it seems, is all about clothes and appearances, not actions or behaviors.

chapter 13

[elizavitri]

FROM ALI TOPAN ANAK JALANAN by TEGUH ESHA

“Percuma belajar sopan santun kalau yang mengajari juga tidak mau memakai sopan santun itu,” kata Ali Topan.

*

Bel sekolah berdentang. Jam pertama hari itu adalah jam yang paling tidak disukai oleh murid-murid, yaitu “pembinaan budi pekerti” oleh Ibu Dewi. Ali Topan memberi sebutan “pendidikan overacting” untuk jam pelajarannya

*

Mereka melihat Anna dan Ika sebagai anak kecil melihat boneka-boneka. Anak-anak tak punya hak cukup untuk memilih jalan hidupnya sendiri. Hukum wajib dan larangan, semata-mata datang dari pihak orangtua. Kebebasan berpendapat, kebebasan menentukan apa yang disukai dan tidak disukai oleh Anna dan Ika, cuma ada di dalam hati. Tak pernah diberi kesempatan.

*

Kehadiran Ali Topan dalam hidupnya membawa kesejukan di dalam hati. Tapi orangtuanya menganggap justru sebagai badai yang memporak-porandakan segalanya. Tanpa alasan yang masuk akal. Hingga Anna kesal dan mulai nekat. Diam-diam ia sudah ambil keputusan untuk memberontak, merebut haknya, seperti Ika.

*

“Lantas apa maumu? Apa yang kau cari, Ali Topan?” kata Bobby. Dia ini paling doyan omong gaya tinggi, gaya teknokrat sama Ali Topan.


“Aku tak mau apa-apa dalam hidup yang singkat ini. Yang kucita-citakan adalah menjadi suami yang baik bagi istriku dan menjadi ayah yang baik bagi anak-anakku kelak, kalau Tuhan mengizinkan lho,” sahut Ali Topan dengan irama tukang pantun.

***

This is a breakthrough teenage rebel novel from Indonesia, written in everyday language, the way real teenagers back then spoke, not in the formal, good and proper Indonesian language (bahasa Indonesia yang baik dan benar), the only form that is often said to be fitting for literature. Even today, Indonesian novels that use everyday language is often considered less seriously, deemed lower in quality—but I think it increases the novel’s value in realism (I also write the dialogues in my novel in everyday language.) At the time of its publication in 1977, this book must’ve been considered crass, rude, and was probably looked down upon by the literary elite, but it still managed be a cult hit and a movie, directed by the author himself. The use of everyday language can also be seen as a refusal to conform to state-sanctioned euphemism, propaganda, and forced politeness of language to cover up and avoid talking about corruption, government atrocities, race and interfaith relations, and anything real in life.

The story centers on Ali Topan and his friends—he is a somewhat idealized portrait of the male teenage rebel: handsome, very smart, defiant, with a troubled home life and a tender heart. Yet he is hardly a street kid (anak jalanan), he comes a from a blue-blooded dysfunctional family with housekeepers and drivers, but he distances himself from his them and prefers to hang out on the streets with his friends and speed all over town on his motorbike. His father spends all his free time with sex workers and his mother retaliates by dating young men his son’s age.

Ali Topan refuses to be blindly obedient and dutiful (berbakti) to his parents and teachers, as is expected of a son and a student. He shows other teenagers that to be defiant (durhaka) is the more moral choice when your parents and teachers abuse their authority and have done nothing to earn your respect. 

The novel is set in real locations, presenting a complex portrait of 1970s Jakarta, especially Melawai-Bulungan-Pasar Minggu-Kebayoran areas, sprinkled with glimpses into the country’s economic and political scape at the time: people’s fear of and admiration for the military; the vague yet pervasive feeling of surveillance on the streets and in schools; the creeping liberalism that places money as source of respect and encourages corruption, and that if you have the money you can basically hire the police as your own private security; and so on.

Ali Topan is in love with a girl named Anna Karenina, because she’s beautiful, because he needs someone to love, and because she’s sympathetic to him although he is considered bad by others. The author is not proud (gengsi) enough to make his main character an unconquerable boy immune to all feelings, even including a scene of Ali Topan being vulnerable and writing a romantic love letter to Anna. Through Anna he learns to be less selfish, putting her needs before his own.

Like Ali, Anna is a privileged girl with rich parents and a driver, who secretly lusts after her. Her parents limit her movements very much, because her older sister became pregnant outside of marriage by a Betawi boy, an ethnic group that is often looked down on by the aristocratic Javanese people. In the beginning Anna was docile, but after hanging out with Ali, Anna dares to defy her parents and even stands up for her sister.

Ali and his friends demand honesty, justice, and upright role models, while performing and perpetuating certain unfair attitudes. They constantly objectify girls and women and divide them into marriage material and not: cewek opletan vs cewek Mercy (girls who look like public buses vs. girls who look like Mercedez Bens). Ali doesn’t acknowledge or isn’t aware of the unfairness in calling his mother “jalang” (bitch) and his father “main perempuan” (playboy)—the former term positions women as immoral and the latter as object. When Ali’s older brother got their houseworker pregnant, the family ordered her to have an abortion; Ali then told her to run away and keep her pregnancy because aborting it would be shameful and a sin. Ali seemed convinced that he did the right thing, not realizing that he didn’t even ask the her what she needed or what she really wanted to do, or if her sexual relation with Ali’s brother was consensual or not.

Perhaps, though, the boys’ unfair attitudes can also be attributed to the lack of role models around them—the adults are too busy posturing with no humility, drunk with whatever small power they have and using it to their own benefit, and when they don’t get respected, they abuse that power even more to force respect out of others. (Although, we mainly see the parents and teachers as characters who fail at their roles and responsibilities, not as fully fleshed individuals with complex reasons for their behaviors.)

In the end, this is a story of friendship, love, and family—the nation’s young generation craving for something true and fair in a country that was becoming increasingly corrupt and unjust.