Prominent Queen est. 1995

Part 1 of #LTL #byL

“There was a period in my life where I craved fried chicken so severely, but I couldn’t afford it. So, what I did, I was gazing through the window display, hoping the smell could please my appetite. 

So, I will never forget the day when my mother, your grandma, came and got me one whole bucket. I remembered crying just by that.

Imagine, the woman who used to be a boss ended up poor after marriage. But ain’t that a part of the joy in life?”

When we are younger, naturally, we always have questions. For instance, instead of wondering how beautiful my mother’s stories are, I couldn’t stop asking myself: 

Why would my mom be so stupid, choosing to be married and poor? If she had never been married, she wouldn’t be in that position, deprived of an ordinary fried chicken meal.

Since then, I kept on seeing women who were as stupid as my mom was. At least to me, they were stupid.

The exquisite scientist auntie gave up her PhD opportunity to nurture her children.

The magnificent jewellery auntie, the Crazy-Rich-Hong Kong, selling her business just so she could tend her ageing parents in the rural area of Surabaya, Indonesia

The powerful auntie who came back to our home country for good, from all the way European Union, so that she could settle down with her husband, who earned not even 10% of her previous income

When I was younger, I always condemned and hated them. I accused those women of “betrayal.” Something very absurd and unthinkable. I mean, I could never comprehend the feeling of “betrayal,” if they never technically hurt me directly.

Indeed, I was always so angry. So, angry. 

I thought I was around 14 when I realised what angered me the most about those women or my mom. It was an ordinary rainy day, somewhere in East Jakarta. My whole body was shivering, yet I still needed to attend the extra course. The teacher said I was stupid in Math, so he made me stay, along with other students who, according to him, needed “extra help” too.

I was starving. I didn’t have any pocket money left. Mom said she just paid for my brother’s school trip. I should understand better not to ask for more. So, I ate whatever was left in my lunch box in silence. Remnant of fried eggs, tiny bits of tempeh, and some little bits of kangkung tumis (water spinach). Suddenly, my stomach rumbled even worse, when I smelled one of my classmate’s, Rozy, incoming lunch. Rozy’s meal was fucking fried chicken, hot and tender, freshly out of the oven.

Rozy was always the most flashy kid in our classroom. In 2010, when everyone struggled with their Nokia phone, she was constantly already beautifully typing in Blackberry. When everyone could only do K-pop fangirling from shared pirated files, Rozy could always attend the latest concert or buy original goods. When I needed to beg for extra free time in the internet cafe, Rozy always told the whole classroom how convenient she enjoyed the internet from her room.

And Rozy always began her tale with the same line, “My mother got me this because she got bonuses from her office.”

I never exactly knew what people exactly do in the office back then. The little occurrence I saw my mom coming from the office, she was always exhausted. She never brought me anything flashy. The closest to most incredible treat she could get me was chocolate-sprinkled Dunkin Donuts, every first Monday of the month. She said it was because Dunkin Donuts were always overflowingly served in the office, and nobody wanted to bring home some.

It was not even for long either, because when I was 10, my father asked my mom to resign. He said the household needed a boy, an actual child, not just someone that would be sold off (to a husband). So, my mother complied. And since then, I didn’t even have chocolate-sprinkled Dunkin Donuts treat.

Coming back to that afternoon, precisely that fateful afternoon, when Rozy proudly exclaimed to everyone, “My mom just delivered me this hot and delicious fried chicken,” I remembered the built-up resentment in my chest. I remembered crying in front of my near-empty lunch box. I remembered the physical hurt that came along out of nowhere. Quickly, I ran towards the girls’ washroom.

I cried over and over again. “Why couldn’t my mom give me fried chicken lunch like Rozy’s mom can?”

Because of how “difficult” I was as a child, I never really had a friend. Thus, at times when my anger pent up, there would always be voices inside my head, answering from one to the other. Just like one of these times.

“That is the money cut, you idiot. How can you be so inconsiderate as the first born?”

“But mom said she has savings.”

“Yes, but it is not for fried chicken lunch.”

“I wanted fried chicken for once.”

“So, work, and have your own money, never got married.”

“But I want fried chicken now.”

“Suck it up, weak. Stop crying. Go back to the classroom, get all-A. That’s how you get into the best uni and never return to this life again.”

Eventually, I did cry more. Still, I did not realise two very strong things bloomed and planted inside: I would never eat fried chicken and I would leave all those dependant lifestyles behind.

Like a blink in the eye, 20 years went by. Long had gone the life I knew before; my hometown, my country, even the tiny house I lived in. I barely talked to my mom, dad, or my brother. It could take days, weeks, even months for me to reach them.

I heard that Rozy had become an actress herself, beloved by famous directors and producers, for her beauty, right after high school graduation. Yet, at the age of 23, she gave up it all, to marry the son of a rich business tycoon. Her husband could not be in the limelight, so Rozy had to succumb to that. It had been at least 5 years that the public had not heard of her. 

I still resented those aunts who gave up her life, my mom, even Rozy. Why would all of them give the beautiful life of having for one’s own, as a woman, for the sake of “love,” “family,” “friends?” Why would they betray me?

By the way, when I was 21, landing my feet in the country which was once oppressed mine, I realised “the betrayal” I felt: I hated them all for reinstating again that women must rely on someone else’s money. Men’s money.

It has been years that I lived on my own. Frankly, it was never easy. Still, after years of working, I got to save my own money. A lot of them, actually. So, I always got myself things.

When starving hit, I treated myself to whatever I desired (except fried chicken). 

When boredom came, I took myself places. 

When sexual desires arose, I bought myself sex toys. 

When I wanted to have luxuries, I got myself that.

Strangely, in the last 5 years, I realised one thing: there was something missing in all this.

Foods did not taste as good

Travels no longer pleased me

Sex toys, or “parties,” could not bring me to nirvana

And luxuries, they all seemed pointless

Every time I called my mom, she was reminding me of God. I remembered that one of these days, I would just silently chuckle, and murmured, “Yes, mom.”

Long had gone the drive to fight back, to assert how much I know more than she ever was. I just wanted things to resolve. 

Just like I wished the 5 years longing I now bear, consisted of only-heaven-knows-what to be resolved.

So, that night, after refusing to eat for days, I took myself out. Walking in the middle of the silent street, only filled with restaurants hoping for people to order take-outs. Yes, it was another series of locking down to prevent further spread, after a specific pandemic hit 3 years back. 

And as if a de Ja Vu of stories that were never mine, I passed by the window of the fried chicken store. The smell which filled my breathing reminded me of those times; of Rozy’s and my mom’s. Unconsciously, my fingers rummaged inside my pocket, trying to find my debit card. 

I smiled slightly in victory. Because unlike them, I had the money to get myself fried chicken.

So, as I was so confident walking into the store to buy whatever was sold, another realisation pang inside me. Immediately, I walked away, cursing as to why would I get something, fried chicken, a meal that shouted pain the loudest.

Yes, unlike them all, Icould get myself the fried chicken.

But also, unlike them all, I didn’t have someone getting it for me either.

My mom had grandma, her mom, getting it for her, in the time of unanswered desire

Rozy had her mom, sending it to her even in the ordinary afternoon of boring schooldays

And me, I only got myself, always

Is this really part-of-the-joy-of-life I chose?  Is it really the other joy of life which I had always strongly rebelled against my mom? Is it? Is it?

Whether I loved or hated it, only time could tell

But for now, I was always sure: I have no more business with fried chicken, ever

Groningen, Netherlands

January 11th, 2022 – 10:53 ETC