Bule Bubble

It seems so unreal.

“I am moving back to the United States at the end of May, and I am interested in your current position as…” My friends in Indonesia keep saying, “Before you leave for America we have to…” It’s heartbreaking. “I don’t want to lose you, Chris.”

I don’t want to lose Indonesia either, but it seems as though I am pretty homeward bound, knowing that this will not be ‘goodbye.’ However, I could not pass up the opportunity to check out a job in Indonesia. It did not work out. The opportunity fell into my lap from friends of friends, and I thought why the heck not at least go check it out.

From the outside it seemed like a good fit: International School in Cipete (South Jakarta), humanities teacher: English Literature and Social Studies. They hired both a fellow ETA and a friend of an ETA. They accepted. Good salary. Good benefits. Housing stipend. Year contract. Round-trip airfare. 10 month school year, 12 month salary. In a nice area of Jakarta near the ‘bule’ places like Blok M. But as Eyang (grandma) said over lunch, “Everyone loved this place. Everyone but Christine.” For this job you would have to be a certain type of person, and quite frankly, I am not that person.

Everything happened quickly. I sent my resume Sunday at midnight, and first thing Monday morning I awoke to a phone call. The school wanted to schedule an interview that very day, but I needed a moment to grasp what was happening. I needed to turn my life upside-down for a day, sobbing, debating, and shocking people. I signed up for a year in Indonesia with Fulbright. Everyone could handle that—me included—but after that, the consequences had yet to be realized let alone discussed or planned for.

With very little sleep and a confused heart, I woke up the next day at 5 AM to leave around 6:30-6:45 AM for my 9 AM interview. I was going. I had to see the opportunity through. I owed it to myself. No one wants to spend the rest of their life wondering if they made a mistake. And whose high school graduation speech ended with, ‘I hope you don’t feel the pity of opportunities lost?!' That would be me.

Although Cipete isn’t far away—about 20 km, a 30 minute ride—it took me the entire time to get there. Macet, macet, macet. Traffic is killer and it never goes away. 5 AM, macet; 11 AM, macet; 1 PM, macet; 3 PM, macet; 8 PM, macet; 10 PM, macet. One of the things we accept living in Indonesia. I had a lot of time to think about my options and future.

I learned a lot that day. I entered the office and listened as one of the headmasters, lets call her Ms. A, had staff translate information from Indonesian to English for her. Ms. A had lived in this country for well over 15 years, as she was not from Indonesia. Ms. A ran a school full of Indonesians, with a few international students, but couldn’t talk to families in their own language. I listened to the phone call, and I understood the Indonesian conversation. I’ve been here for 7 months, and my effort to learn the language could be a 100 times better. This wasn’t a good sign of things to come.

You learn a lot about a place when you sit in their office.

Ms. A made a sarcastic joke to her translator about how ‘ojeks,’ motorbike taxis which are a popular form of transportation, would never go to her house. Haha. The implication was that she only took taxis or drove herself. During the interview she thought I would be impressed with her suggestion to take a bejaj to work (meaning her school) everyday. She said it with a big smile and tone that meant I was supposed to think it sounded cool and would ask her what a bejaj was. I didn't.

"Do you know what a bejaj is?"

Yes, I've lived here for 7.25 months.

Ms. A's office staff were Filipino. No Indonesians and not everyone spoke Indonesian. In fact, I only heard two people that could. Ms. A didn’t smile, didn’t radiate empathy, and was not friendly to her staff or the students who walked into the office. Not to mention that I woke up 4 hours early to get there on time through hellish rush-hour Jakarta, and they were late to interview me.

My interview wasn't an interview. They were going to hire me. They picked out my housing, my salary, and apparently my lifestyle. They had big plans for me. On top of teaching, I was going to create a library reading program, very tempting. All I had to do was demo teach in 2 hours—which they said would be no problem, just something they are required to do—and after would sit down, negotiate the final terms, and offer me the job. I kid you not. I’m not ‘sombong’ (arrogant).

Some of this sounds wonderful right?! Put in a resume, get a callback that day, go for an interview the next day, get a great package offered, and the job?! In Indonesia. The place you love. A place where it can be difficult to get a good job. With just two months left. Just like that.

No way could I do it.

The school was rigid and uptight. “The students will not speak Indonesian during and after school.”

But they live in Indonesia. Most of them are Indonesians.

“Group A gets only 3 hours of Indonesian a week.”

Ok, I understand the school is preparing them to work abroad, but they are INDONESIAN. This is THEIR country.

“You must follow our curriculum exactly. From this textbook. You have to use this. You do not make up your own curriculum.”

I opened the book.

“For your demo, you are teaching this short memoir about flying in CT. We always use this textbook.”

Sigh.

How to get out of doing something you don’t want to: I took the book to the library and looked around. I didn’t want to be here. I didn’t want to teach this. I love teaching English as a second language. I love adapting curriculum. I love not always using the textbook and having freedom to use other materials. I live for the challenge. For creativity. For teaching something worthwhile. “Oh captain, my captain.”

A group of boys were sitting in the library on the floor quietly talking. Ms. A came in and said, “Are you in here to study or for the AC.”

“The AC Ma’am.”

“Get out, now. You know better.”

End of story. No greetings, no nice words, no handshakes, nothing.

Ok, so teaching spoiled, rich kids, at a private school with teachers who would rather the quiet students not linger in the library. At least someone was using the library…

I continued to stare out the window as Indonesian workers cut the grass and trimmed the trees: the only Indonesian workers I saw in the entire school. The teaching staff are ‘bule.’ So are we giving the message:

“Children, if you don’t want to be like your fellow groundskeepers, please study hard…and not come to the library for AC.” or “We only hire Indonesians to do these kinds of jobs. This is why you must go abroad and why we don’t teach you Indonesian. If you stay here, we won’t give you opportunities at this school or in your own country except to mow the lawn.” or "This could be you. Please thank us for the opportunity to save you now." Rich Indonesians on the inside. Poor on the outside. Where were the role models?!

I tapped my pencil on the book. I started writing out the lesson plan. Date, materials needed...objective:

…to build relationships between America and Indonesia. To work together to have a healthier, safer, better community and society. To teach English to children who want to learn and desire the opportunity for a good education. To have access to education. To make learning fun. To make them learn something, anything. To make it relevant and real. To be proud of who we are. To understand and appreciate cultural differences. To always maintain our identity and sense of self.

Tap, tap.

Sigh.

An Indonesian worker outside walked by, smiled, looked away instantly, and put her head down.

Tap, tap.

My phone vibrated: “Miss Chris, will you still meet us at Dufan today? We are there now. Let us know if you will come. We will wait for you. Students from class X2.”

I had a date with my students. We made plans to go to Dunia Fantasi (Dufan), which is Indonesia’s Disneyworld. I look downed at flying planes in CT. This was a no brainer. I didn’t want to be here. I didn’t want to work here. I got up, told my interviewers I had to meet with students at Dufan, they unhappily rescheduled, and I left. I hope they anticipated my email politely declining their opportunity. Some things are best done in an email.

I learned a lot about the ex-pat and bule lifestyle (one part of it) during this interview. The school was in a rich area of Jakarta and resembled a gated community. During my interview both women—another headmaster also interviewed me—couldn’t believe I lived alone in Depok. They didn’t seem to grasp that I LIVED here. I take public transportation. I have Indonesian friends. I work at an Indonesian school. I eat Indonesian food. I teach to poorer Indonesian students.

Ms. A didn’t even know most of the Indonesian places I named in my interview. She glared at me when I used an Indonesian phrase or two. They informed me that their staff were foreigners. I would work with them and be friends with them so I wouldn’t be lonely. I would hang out with bule. They would help me do everything. If I was coming from America, this might sound a lot better. But I reside in Indonesia. I don’t want only ex-pat, bule friends. I don’t always want to speak English. I don’t want to live in a bubble. I don’t want to take the taxi home. I want the BUS. We are in Indonesia.

Ex-pat, bule Indonesia can be rough. I love their grocery stores, restaurants, bars, and bookstores. I live for them. I love my American friends here. I have an Indonesian maid. But I do not respect the lack of empathy for the place in which you live. You cannot erase Indonesia and being Indonesian from Indonesian students because you think that allows them to have a better life. They have options. The goal of this school was to send Indonesians abroad for better opportunities. I get it. But why do all of these kids have to go abroad? Can they not succeed in Indonesia?! Can they not learn their own language, go to their own schools, and work to better Indonesia? Do they have to go to college abroad to succeed? Do they have to go abroad to bring back the west to Indonesia and share their new enlightenment?

Maybe the class field trip to Bali did me in. Did I mention I was supposed to teach 7^th grade?And they don’t learn Indonesian history. China and Europe. Bali, really?

I left the building and switched languages. I spoke Indonesian to the guards. They gave me a big smile. They knew, what I knew: I would not be back.

I am a village girl. I want to teach to the less privileged. My students don’t always think they want to be in school, but when the teaching starts, they really do. They try. They listen. They participate. Yes, they have bad days. Really bad ones. But some travel 40 minutes by angkot to be there before 7 AM. They come to class, arms gashed and bleeding because they fell off their bikes. They start to get teary eyed if a teacher asks them to leave class, and they sit by the door, listening in. When you invite them back in (I don’t kick them out, but I have teachers that do), they say ‘thank you so much miss,’ look to their neighbor, and start the assignment. When they fail, they try even harder. Sweating, hot, and tired, they still participate. They share books and resources. Sometimes desks and chairs. Chairs snap apart from under them. Their markers don't work. They know that tomorrow their father could die and they could be pulled out of school to raise their family. They know that when they graduate, they may be that beggar on the train. They go to their crappy library with no real books and study together. There is no AC. They want a good future and they know they may succeed or fail. There are no guarantees for them. No wealthy parents to save them with connections in the corrupt government. Life is not that easy for most of them.

My teachers—they are Indonesian. If I want friends, I better learn some Indonesian. Their training and skills might be hit or miss. But they have fun. They like their jobs. Some follow the curriculum, but others veer off. It's OK. It's encouraged. They are allowed to joke with students in any language. My school is a mess. My students will never learn as much or as thoroughly as the international school. Their career options may or may not be more limited. But at least they learn who they are. They are taught to embrace it.

They and my students have hope. My students could be a teacher at their own school. In fact, one graduate is. And one is also the leader of English club at UI. And another writes for the Depok Monitor. All of them are their own groundskeepers, so to speak. My students have to sweep and clean their own classrooms. They have to take responsibility for their lives. If they want to go abroad, go to school in Indonesia, or get a good job, they have to study even harder.

That international school was not for me. It was a mini-America. A small bubble of everything Bule, unaware that they were in Indonesia. They breed that in their students. And if the school was aware, they were certainly afraid Indonesia would penetrate the walls.

I should have known better.