THUNDERBOLTS
chapter 6
Our cousins either went to private Christian schools or were sent abroad, while we were thrown into public schools since elementary school. They are often showered for their ability to sing Mandarin songs, and during
it was me and Watti sitting in a corner, drooling at the small envelopes in the hands of the parents, but could do nothing about it. Sing “Manuk Dadali” certainly will not make money My life and Watti as if in two realms. We are amphibians that get weird in the middle of land animals and get tossed by fish when they plunge into the water. Being Chinese in a public school is not at all simple. School is a time of struggle to neutralize the sense of hearing so that this heart does not need to grimace when the anecdotes that concern the Chinese race get to the ears.
Often, we all forget about us being Chinese or indigenous. However, when my friend on the street cursed,
“China loleng!" to a horde of unidentified Chinese children, I also fought half to death so as not to be offended. When the 3rd graders who were hanging out at the stalls exchanged stories about their first drunken experience with cheap alcohol and commented, "it's crazy!
like being pounded China is not galawan!" When someone hits a prank while pointing at a little Chinese child, "Pity, yes.
Small is China." As we passed and doodled the uniform, my eyes pegged on a line of words, "Anti-China Bandung". And, in the world where I'm melting
oh, yeah, that all sounds normal. Though not. Not when your skin is yellow and hard to burn though
sun dried all day in the field and your eyes remain narrow even though you are glaring wide. All my efforts never worked. My heart is still pierced.
On the contrary, when we moved the world, our Chinese physique did not help. Both skinned consequences
yellow and narrow-eyed, we were then labeled as outdated because we did not pass the same Aaron Kwok. And, I whispered to Watti, “Who, anyway, Aaron Kwok?" My heart sings and wonders when cousins gossip
in Mandarin, then giggling to see the two of us. My heart was in revolt when the parents criticized the scathing
be discovered
dating an indigenous guy. Don't
Watti blamed my brother. What he sees every day, what he sees
talk to her girlfriends at school is
guys with brown skin, big eyes, and no
two names. And, you know, only during family events can I and Watti be a compact team that protects each other.
For all of Dedi's attitude and the consequences for us, I rarely thanked him. However, when I saw Dedi defending the establishment that was the foundation for us to grow up, I actually admired the wall that had been lining us all along. Therefore, the ears of Dedi seemed to be made of anti-heat plates that were not melted by all the talk of our brothers. He also firmly determines his attitude
only one and his children's tuition was under ten thousand silver, but not necessarily my uncles were strongly electrocuted. Call me crazy, but it feels like there's a transparent relationship between the two of us. Not a father, but more like a friend. There was Elektra II in me who had contact with Vijaya II in her, and they were both conversing like two peers. After long believing in the existence of Elektra II and Wijaya II, I ventured to talk to Dedi. Hopefully at the first glance we will not need to say, but just nod our heads because of us
both have understood. High-level conversations that ordinary people do not hear.
"Deed..."
"Hmm?"
"mmmmmmm. Ded...."
"Hmm?"
"Why, sh, Dedi became an electrician?"
I also watched my father closely. Studying his reaction. His head that was barely clinging to the base slowly moved up. His eyebrows are lifting,
the sign that he was digesting my question. His head moved slightly. Shoulders up. Then Dedi sighed.
I was waiting tense. Here it is, I thought. The answer to all mysteries. Just tell me, Ded. I'm a miracle kid, right? You're not my father. We're outer beings
space, coming from one of the strange named planets in the Star Trek movie. You're kind of my mentor. Poor Watti.
he will not be able to face this reality. Oh, yes, Ded, let me call you Superwija. Dan, you
can call my real name: Superetra.
"So," Dedi paused for a moment, turning to me, "Dedi doesn't understand the engine of the car. If you understand, maybe become a mechanic." After answering, Dedi returned to work.
Such is. Goodbye Superwija, Superetra. In real life, nothing has changed.
Me, the lazy Bungsu who rarely has action. Watti, the Hyperactive Scroll that always acts. And, Dedi stared
we both looked the same. For him, life is not who excels above whom. For me, life is sitting on a dark cinema bench watching my brother roll with the waves of the times.
