All There Is To It

This morning, for the first -- but hopefully not only -- time in my as yet nascent poetic career, I was brought in to a creative writing class as a Guest Poet.  Buh-dum-dum-chh.  The invitation was extended by an esteemed lecturer in the English Department at Gadjah Mada University, who wished to share my poetry with her creative writing students and requested that I visit the class to address them on the subject.  That's a fancy way of saying that last week, most likely over a Bintang, Emma asked me if I would mind letting her students read a few of my poems during their unit on poetry, and if I'd be interested in coming to her class to answer their questions.  Since I'm always up for masquerading as legitimate in pretty much any regard, I said, why of course.  It would be my pleasure.

As one might guess, it turned out to be totally and deeply and wonderfully my pleasure.  I sent Emma a handful of poems from my senior thesis, of which she selected three to share with her creative writing class (for those who know the document, the poems were "Grazie," "Saying Goodbye to Aunt Michiyo," and "Before").  The students' assignment was to read the poems and think of questions to ask me, and Emma and I agreed it was a toss-up -- maybe they'd be into it, maybe they wouldn't.  With college students, you really never know (and don't we know it).  But wouldn't you know, they were into it.  They were really into it, in a way that made the block of time from 9AM to 10AM this morning probably one of my favorite hours in Yogyakarta.  No lie.

Their questions were smart, inquisitive, and heartfelt; everything from "There are many images of traveling in these poems -- what is the meaning of that for you?" to "Why do you choose poetry as your medium to write about your own experiences?  Does it scare you to share such personal information with others?"  Not only had they read the poems carefully and thought critically about them, but they were also clearly thinking about their own writing processes, and were viewing my visit to their class as an opportunity to see into a "real writer's" creative process and hopefully glean lessons they could integrate into their own.  Of course, to sit in front of 30 students and get to talk about yourself for an hour would probably rock anyone's socks, but it was really a very exquisite sensation to realize that through the simple action of attaching five Word documents to an email to Emma, I had helped set in motion an experience that would wind up being -- as far as I could tell -- actually inspirational for a handful of young writers.  Is there anything cooler than that? 

As English majors, they've done their time poring over the classics, and they seemed delighted but baffled to be presented with poems that they could actually access, that actually spoke to them -- which baffled me.  And also reminded me why teaching poetry is something maybe I might want to do in the future, if only for those moments, like today, when a student looks up and says, "But I understood this poem.  I liked it.  I got it.  Is that really all there is to it?"  And that is the message I tried to leave them with: Yes, my friends, that's really all there is to it.  There is no secret meaning you didn't find behind the lines.  Poetry is actually awesome.  No lie.

At the end of the class, a few students came up to express how much they had enjoyed my poems, and to thank me for visiting their class ("No really guys, thank you").  The last was a shy girl who introduced herself and said, "I am not brave enough to speak in front of the class, but may I ask you a few questions?"  And after her questions, she took out her notebook and said, "Could I ask you to sign this for me?  I would just like to have your signature as a souvenir."  And then I just about died.  Seriously, my autograph?  All I could think of was that this young Indonesian girl, probably an aspiring writer herself, had been so moved by a couple of my poems that she wanted me to sign her notebook.  Now there's a moment I'll never forget for as long as I live.  Check.

I kind of wished it wouldn't end, that the lovefest of poetry and mutual inspiration could go on and on, but of course it did and I had to go back to the real world of another hot Friday in Yogya.  But I realized on my way home with Emma that a sizable portion of my best experiences here -- baby turtles as a gift, improvising a new version of my favorite board game, tagging along with my friend to her creative writing class -- have all been because of students.  And that, really, is all there is to it.  I like to say that teaching ESL, while fun, is not my life's calling -- and that's probably true -- but it sure has given me some unforgettable experiences (not to mention prime blog material).  And since I'm not likely to be handing out a whole lot more autographs anytime soon, I'm going to relish this moment and expand my statement from a previous blog: not only do I have the best damn students in the whole damn school, but I'd go ahead and wager that students are the best damn part of this whole damn thing.  

Jus alpukat, of course, clocking in at a close second place.  Very close.

A Day in the Big Durian

Last weekend, after over 7 months in Indonesia, I finally made it to the capital.  Hello, Jakarta.  The city lives up to its nickname -- "The Big Durian" -- by having a notorious reputation and being, as well as I can figure, something of an acquired taste.  In the words of the Lonely Planet: "At first glance, this hot, smoggy city, which sprawls for miles over a featureless plain, feels like nothing more than a waiting lounge for the millions queuing up to make their fortune.  Jakarta's infamous macet chokes its freeways, town planning is anathema and all attempts to forge a central focal point for the city have stuttered and ultimately failed.  The first -- or only -- thought on most travelers' minds is how quickly the city and its polluted streets can be left behind."  Come on, Lonely Planet, why don't you tell us what you really think.

As it turned out, though, Jakarta wasn't half bad.  The annual international Java Jazz Festival was happening that weekend, and my friend Megan was planning on going and staying with her friend Yuyun, who had picked her up a ticket.  When Megan asked if I wanted to come along it was obviously no question (jazz plus the hemisphere's worst traffic jams?  I'm totally in!), and Friday morning found us at the train station in Yogya, waiting to board the 8-hour train that would carry us across Central Java and right into the pulsing heart of the Big Durian itself.  The train ride, while long, was pretty comfortable, and the hundreds of kilometers of rice paddies and countless small villages we passed through were certainly a sight to see.  Definitely a different view from what I used to see through the window of the Amtrak train between New York City and Springfield, Massachusetts -- there's just not a whole lot of beautiful mosques by the side of the road in New England, dontchaknow.

Once we arrived in the city, we took a taxi to a big mall where Yuyun had said she'd meet up with us after she got off work.  Stepping into that mall was like stepping into Singapore, and I felt so shabby in my t-shirt and Balinese "fisherman pants," as Megan calls them, that I was actually a little embarrassed.  This shopping mall, with its eight floors of high fashion boutiques and restaurants, skylight roof and elevator that flashed different colored neon lights, was like what I imagine the future might be like.  Only it was still the present.  Yuyun finally found us drooling our way around a hipster bookstore, and we went to eat at restaurant she liked whose specialty was -- get this -- pancakes.  We ordered one savory (which came with an egg), plus one blueberry and one caramelized banana (both of which came with a scoop of vanilla ice cream on top).  I mean, breakfast-for-dinner is one thing, but dessert-for-dinner?  Now that's just asking for it.  Which, obviously we did.

Yuyun was stoked to show us around Jakarta, and we spent most of the day on Saturday touring some of the sights of the city until the Jazz Fest started at 5.  Our first stop was the Masjid Istiqlal -- reputably the largest mosque in Southeast Asia -- followed by the old Catholic cathedral across the street with some of the best stained glass I've seen since Europe.  The highlight of the day, however, was the National Museum, which had exhibits for all of Indonesia's main ethnic groups across the different islands, including huge 3D maps, costumes, masks, musical instruments, puppets, and even model houses, which meant I got a sneak peak of the traditional Torajan houses I'm going to see when I travel to Sulawesi in a few weeks (I'll report back).  On our way back to Yuyun's to change for the Jazz Fest, we stopped at another mall to grab lunch at this Japanese-Italian fusion restaurant, which had about 50 different kind of Japanese-themed pasta, many of the dishes served up with egg yolk and eel.  Did I mention that the entire front facade of the restaurant is a glass case featuring the plastic-food incarnations of all of their dishes?  Just like in Tokyo.  What a nice touch.

Then, on to the Jazz Fest.  I haven't been to many music festivals, in Indonesia or otherwise, but this one certainly did not disappoint.  Over the course of the evening, weaving our way through what felt like about half of Jakarta in the Expo center, we saw a mix of Indonesian and international bands, my personal favorite being a Brazilian guitarist named Ivan Lins.  Every other song he played was about his hometown of Rio de Janeiro, but in my opinion, that was part of the charm.

After some pillowtalk back at Yuyun's, Megan and I crashed for a couple hours of sleep before having to be up and on our train back to Yogya by 8:45 the next morning.  Bye-bye, Big Durian.  Clocking in at just under 40 hours, it was a short first taste, to be sure -- but that's the first step in acquiring any taste, right?  I imagine I'll be back for seconds.