I am what is called a double blood or described in other words.
A child born to parents with a different cultural, ethnic background. I am Papeda and Stamppot. Over the next few weeks, I will discuss what this means for me. What life experience this duality entails and the life lessons I have been able to learn.
Before I go any further, for those of us who don't know what Papeda is, let me explain first. Papeda is a Moluccan dish, a kind of porridge made from sago flour. This flour comes instead from the Sago palm, a common tree in the Moluccas. Papeda is a well-known dish within the Moluccan culture. It provides the population of the Moluccas with food and is also regularly served when there is something big to celebrate. But now the question of what the title of this blog “confess color” has to do with Papeda.
Those who know me personally or have read Kata² before. Knowing that I am of Moluccan-Dutch descent. I am the daughter of a Moluccan father and a Dutch mother. My father and mother have 4 children besides me. I am the youngest and, after my parents divorced, I grew up in a Moluccan neighborhood together with my father and a sister who was one year older. This was a fresh start and a new beginning for my father, my sister and myself. In this letter I speak from my experience and point of view.
How I experienced it, I'm going to share that with you now. I think I was 6 or 7 years old when we moved to the Moluccan neighbourhood. I was a little girl, raised in a village in Zeeland and did not yet know much about the Moluccan culture, language, customs or habits. It was like a whole new world opened up for me. Looking back on this time, I can honestly and openly admit that it was quite a big transition. I got to know a lot of family in a very short time and came to other Moluccan neighborhoods, where I had never been before. And yes, if you come home and you are with family and friends, then that is equal to eating together with family and friends. The Moluccan kitchen is still one of my favorites and is at the top of my list.
One of the dishes I ate is Papeda.
In addition to the Moluccan cuisine, I also learned our language, because at home, with family and friends, people spoke in our own language. Speaking the language was quite a sensitive thing for me at the time. To my knowledge I have never spoken about this before and certainly not written about it. As an adult, I can say that as a child I felt ashamed and hurt at times. Why and for what then, you might want to know now. Well it's like this. Apparently I had a separate and different pronunciation than usual. My pronunciation of the letter T, for example, was an invitation to some people to laugh or tease. I still assume it wasn't hurtful or ill-intentioned, but honesty and openness first. It did touch me as a child and I translated this into, I'm different, I'm weird, I don't quite belong and more of those thoughts. But if I am different, then who or what am I?
Looking back on this time, I now realize that before my parents' divorce, I never cared or was aware of any particular identity or choice within it. It was as if the “outside world” demanded a definition. Sometimes that happened very directly and sometimes it was less obvious, but it was there. How did I experience and experience this?
Laat ik vooropstellen en benadrukken, dat de nu volgende voorbeelden, vanuit mijn ervaring en mijn perspectief zijn geschreven.
When I went to live in the Moluccan neighborhood as a little girl, most of the families had parents who were both of Moluccan descent. The ratio was approximately 9 Moluccan families and 1 Moluccan – Dutch family. I belonged to that 1 in 10 because in those days mixed marriages were more the exception than the rule. I lived in the neighborhood, I played in the neighborhood, I went to the same primary school with children from the neighborhood, I went to the same church and Sunday school every Sunday. In short, I was 1 and part of the neighborhood and yet it sometimes lay and felt different. Sometimes I felt that while playing, because sometimes I wasn't allowed to participate. Sometimes there was laughter because I didn't know the customs yet or didn't understand everything that was said. But it was also sometimes said directly that I was not allowed to participate, because my mother is a belanda (Dutch). Yes, and there I was, a little girl searching for connection, of something she apparently wasn't yet. I had to prove myself, so to speak, to fit in.
The contrast between being different and the warmth and love with which I was surrounded. The feeling of being at home and the warm and loving togetherness with my Moluccan friends and family. I learned about our adat (our traditions/customs). I learned the menari lenso (dance) and participated enthusiastically during the katredji (dance). Cry together, laugh together, share together, stand for it together and go for it. I could go on forever, naming beautiful, warm and loving memories.
Have I always found it easy to be a double blood? No, in my youth and growing up I really had to find a way in that and that went by trial and error. It was only later that I was able to balance things and see and feel from my own perspective. You could say, as it were, that my double blood challenged me to discover who I am. Beautiful and enriching that as I grew up, I managed to build a bridge between what seemed like two worlds.
But more about that later in part 2 Stamppot (stew).
I still love Papeda and the other delicacies from the Moluccan kitchen. I embrace and feel rich with my Moluccan family and friends. If people want to know how I got my tan or where I come from. I tell with all love and pride.
Beta anak Maluku,
Nusa Ina
Confess color