2019 BAAFN Award
Maiya Whalen - 2019 BAAFN Award Winner
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Home at Last
by Maiya Whalen
by Maiya Whalen
I am the child of two worlds. A bridge between the East and the West. The product of my Indonesian mother and Irish-Armenian father. My summers were split between two cultures, the salty and crisp air of Boston, Massachusetts and the blistering humidity of Jakarta, Indonesia. I grew up celebrating with the white lights and pine trees of Christmas and the red envelopes and delicious feasts of Lunar New Year. I ate chicken nuggets with chopsticks, and rice with a fork.
As a child, these differences were as inconsequential as the color of the kue lapis that I chose to eat. I existed in these two spheres without a second thought as to how I was different. But as I grew older, so did the gap between my two identities. My differences crept into every corner and crevice of my life. My eyes were too small, too inky to be white American, but my 5-foot 8-inch stature towered over my petite Indonesian family. Once able to read the Indonesian words that flowed on the books left in my aunt’s room, as each summer swept by, so did my ability to read these books. I still understood the Indonesian words that poured out of my family, but every time I opened my mouth, nothing of the same would appear. It was as if my American-ness held my tongue; it prevented me from speaking anything other than English. I nodded along to every conversation, understanding, but barely able to contribute more than a word or two. I felt paralyzed. Too Asian to be just American and too American to be just Asian.
But these differences also lent themselves to unite me with not one, but two worlds. As I grew older and more aware, I finally realized the value of being two races. The way that I could have the best of both worlds: American and Asian. Each time I returned to Indonesia, I breathed in the sun-sweetened air as if we’d been apart for centuries. The rambutan fruit grew sweeter and sweeter each time I tasted it and the tang of starfruit pinched my tongue each time I took a bite. The vivid greens and yellows that painted the countryside grew richer and richer each time I came back. I recently returned to Indonesia after years of being apart, and everything felt just right. The way the bebek tasted, the sight of luscious palm trees, and the sounds of crickets and ceecak in the pitch black night. Everything I touched, tasted, and smelled felt like home. Because I was. I was home.
But my home also lies in Boston. I love the way the trees light up in the dark nights of the winter, the way snowflakes fall and create soft blankets over the earth, how the air is crisp and clear as I walk the cobbled steps by Faneuil Hall. I love the way the old glass streetlights shine through a rainy, fall night, how the green desk lights at the Public Library glow on a sunny afternoon. Boston is where I was born, where I was raised, and I am as rooted there as a maple tree.
Being part of two cultures means that my identity may be split, but I am still completely myself. Even though on the surface they may seem wildly different, Indonesia and America are similar in more ways than one. They share the same sky, the same air, the same stars. They are connected by the same ocean and their winds both fly under the wings of birds. People in both places smile and laugh, even without knowing the same language. When I am apart from either place, their essences still live inside of me. Indonesian and American blood flow within me and nothing can ever break their bond apart.
After 17 years on this earth, I have finally found home within myself. I have one half in America, and one half in Asia, but I am still entirely me; I am Asian-American, not one or the other and no matter where I am in the world, I realize that as long as I embrace both of my identities, I will always be home.
___________________________
As a child, these differences were as inconsequential as the color of the kue lapis that I chose to eat. I existed in these two spheres without a second thought as to how I was different. But as I grew older, so did the gap between my two identities. My differences crept into every corner and crevice of my life. My eyes were too small, too inky to be white American, but my 5-foot 8-inch stature towered over my petite Indonesian family. Once able to read the Indonesian words that flowed on the books left in my aunt’s room, as each summer swept by, so did my ability to read these books. I still understood the Indonesian words that poured out of my family, but every time I opened my mouth, nothing of the same would appear. It was as if my American-ness held my tongue; it prevented me from speaking anything other than English. I nodded along to every conversation, understanding, but barely able to contribute more than a word or two. I felt paralyzed. Too Asian to be just American and too American to be just Asian.
But these differences also lent themselves to unite me with not one, but two worlds. As I grew older and more aware, I finally realized the value of being two races. The way that I could have the best of both worlds: American and Asian. Each time I returned to Indonesia, I breathed in the sun-sweetened air as if we’d been apart for centuries. The rambutan fruit grew sweeter and sweeter each time I tasted it and the tang of starfruit pinched my tongue each time I took a bite. The vivid greens and yellows that painted the countryside grew richer and richer each time I came back. I recently returned to Indonesia after years of being apart, and everything felt just right. The way the bebek tasted, the sight of luscious palm trees, and the sounds of crickets and ceecak in the pitch black night. Everything I touched, tasted, and smelled felt like home. Because I was. I was home.
But my home also lies in Boston. I love the way the trees light up in the dark nights of the winter, the way snowflakes fall and create soft blankets over the earth, how the air is crisp and clear as I walk the cobbled steps by Faneuil Hall. I love the way the old glass streetlights shine through a rainy, fall night, how the green desk lights at the Public Library glow on a sunny afternoon. Boston is where I was born, where I was raised, and I am as rooted there as a maple tree.
Being part of two cultures means that my identity may be split, but I am still completely myself. Even though on the surface they may seem wildly different, Indonesia and America are similar in more ways than one. They share the same sky, the same air, the same stars. They are connected by the same ocean and their winds both fly under the wings of birds. People in both places smile and laugh, even without knowing the same language. When I am apart from either place, their essences still live inside of me. Indonesian and American blood flow within me and nothing can ever break their bond apart.
After 17 years on this earth, I have finally found home within myself. I have one half in America, and one half in Asia, but I am still entirely me; I am Asian-American, not one or the other and no matter where I am in the world, I realize that as long as I embrace both of my identities, I will always be home.
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