Page 41 of Next Time Will Be Our Turn
“Why don’t I want kids, or…?”
“Why do you think they should take your last name?”
I glared at him. Now that I’d gone through at least half a dozen of these blind dates, I was quickly running out of fucks to give. “Because whose vagina will the kid be ripping out of? Did you know that some women tear from vagina to anus during birth? Whose body is it going to destroy? Guys don’t have to worry about that at all, so why should they get all the credit?”
Eten put down his latte with exaggerated care, obviously trying to buy time to think. “Because it’s tradition, that’s how it’s always been done.”
“So were public executions. They used to be tradition in many countries.”
“What?” Eten sputtered.
“I’m just saying, a lot of ridiculous things used to be commonly carried out and accepted as tradition. But we don’t do them anymore. Just because things used to be done a certain way doesn’tmean we have to continue doing them that way. It doesn’t make them right.”
Eten blinked. I wondered if he’d even registered half of what I just said. Then I kicked myself for being so mean and judgy. I forced a smile. The moment I did, I hated myself even more. Because while I hadn’t meant to come off so aggressively, the argument I was making was actually one I’d been seriously questioning.Whywere children automatically named after their fathers? The only explanation I could come up with was because it was easier to follow patriarchal traditions. I was only smiling because I couldn’t help, even after all this time, playing peacemaker. To instinctively feel embarrassed when I was too forceful about making a point. Now I was going to be known as the bitch with ridiculous notions.
But my smile had done what it was meant to do. Eten’s shoulders relaxed, and he smiled wide. “Oh, you were just kidding.”
I was too tired by then to argue further. And anyway, I thought I was never going to see him again. Who cared what Eten thought about women’s rights and fighting the patriarchy? And who was I to think that I could change the status quo? To demand equality? I was just a dumb kid who didn’t know any better and who didn’t even have a real job. I knew that the “job” I currently held at the clinic had only been given to me out of nepotism. I was the last person that feminism needed. With a fixed smile, I said, “Yeah. Anyway, tell me about your last vacation. Did you say you went to Budapest? What’s that like?”
That was me at age twenty. Full of bright ideas sparking like fireworks in my head, but with no deep understanding of what it took to live by those beliefs. Eager to make my ideas heard,but without the eloquence required to get anyone to listen or any of the courage required to follow through.
No wonder, then, that for the next two years, although my parents and their extensive social network tried hard to get me matched up, none of the dates turned into anything serious. I had plenty of female friends—mostly from my high school, all of them with equally impressive college degrees—but none of them shared my restlessness. After graduating from whatever Ivy League they’d gone to as per the Chindo norm, they’d come back to Jakarta and quickly assumed the role of a good Chindo daughter, taking care to lose any of the weight they’d gained in the States, and then some, staying out of the sun so their skin turned as pale as milk, getting regular facial and hair treatments, and being seen at the right places with the right people. Or so I thought. Much later, I learned that quite a few of them had their own reservations about the path rolled out before us, but none of us had the courage then to give voice to our doubts. Especially when the path was so familiar, so comfortable. Why risk stumbling and getting thrown into the dark wood when you could simply put one foot in front of the other and keep walking?
Chapter 13
MAGNOLIA
2005
Years passed, and in that time, the spark inside me dulled, the sharp lessons that Berkeley had taught me softening around the edges, turning sludgy. Day after day, I logged in hours at the clinic, completing mindless odd jobs, a tiny cog in a well-oiled machine that nobody would miss if it clattered out of position. Even though my job was nowhere near demanding, by the end of the workday, I would feel so exhausted that all I wanted to do was go home and veg out in front of the TV. My mind was so numb I felt like a zombie.
On the weekends, my girlfriends and I went out clubbing or drinking at karaoke clubs, but over time, these waned as, one by one, my friends found serious relationships. Sunday mornings, I gathered with my extended family for dim sum, and it really felt like every month, there was a new baby that yet another cousin had given birth to. I was only twenty-three, but already I felt like a spinster. And unlike Iris, or many of my Berkeleyfriends, I wasn’t even single because I was career obsessed. I was simply unmoored, floating along placidly to wherever the tide took me. Twice or three times a week, I sat down and wrote another letter to Ellery. My letters from that time were repetitive, unfocused. Mostly me wondering about her life and comparing it to mine, which of course I found unfulfilling.
By now, the sneak dates had largely stopped happening. This was due to several reasons: (1) the pool of guys was running thin as the more eligible ones were snapped up by my female counterparts, (2) I had gained a reputation for being difficult/weird/uninteresting, (3) my friends and family were giving up the notion that I’d ever find someone, and (4) more cousins had recently graduated, so the attention turned to finding them a suitable partner.
So when I went to have dinner with a friend and found her sitting with her boyfriend and her boyfriend’s friend at the table, I was actually surprised. My friend Anabelle introduced the guy as Parker. He was very attractive—strong jaw, thick eyebrows, great smile.
“Parker went to UCLA,” Anabelle said. That was the extent to the introductions, and truth be told, it was enough to get the conversation flowing.
“I heard you went to Cal,” Parker said.
“I did, yeah. But before that, I lived in LA. I used to go to PCC.”
Parker’s eyebrows rose and his face lit up. “PCC! Me too. When did you go?”
“From 1998 to 2000. You?”
“Ah, I went a couple years before you did. Oh man. I loved PCC. Best years of my life.”
I smiled, but there was a sadness weighing it down, becauseit was only now that I realized that was true for me too. People often say that college is the best time of their lives, but while I enjoyed Berkeley, it couldn’t compare to my PCC days. Mostly because of Ellery. I had a flash of myself curled up on Ellery’s bed, next to her, just hanging out reading, neither of us talking but knowing she was there, listening to her breathe and reveling in the presence of her. It was so vivid that my eyes filled up with tears, and I had to look down onto my lap to hide them. “Sorry, allergies,” I mumbled.
“Did you also live in San Gabriel when you went to PCC?” Parker said.
“Yeah. Of course. Where else?”
He laughed. “Good old SGV. My favorite place. I was in an apartment on Valley, oh man, it was the best.”
“I didn’t like that apartment,” Joseph, Anabelle’s boyfriend, piped up. “We were roommates,” he added.
