A Glimmer of Spring

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[A stone’s throw away from home.]

Sometimes I pause and wonder about what I have done to deserve everything that I have today. I’m never the most hard working student in the classroom, not the best friend/protege/leader, not the most devoted daughter at home, and my husband is definitely the better half in our partnership. And yet here I am, attending a ridiculously expensive university without paying a single penny, accomplishing almost every plan on my list, and supported by a family with unconditional love every step of the way.

Other than a few romantic heartbreaks, I almost always get what I want—friends, grades, schools, organizations, awards (not necessarily in that order). I have heard and sympathized with stories of failures before, of course, but the magnitude of how it shapes a person never really hit me. For so long, I have lived in my privileged bubble and remained clueless about living any other kind of life.

Until I get to know my husband, and with him his past failures that I have come to admire.

When he first opened up to me about the failure after failure after failure that he experienced, I was in denial. How could it be? He has passion, infinitely talented, and not only dares to dream big but also works hard to accomplish it. Compared to the indecisive me, he knows what he wants. He could be so certain about what he wants he decided to quit college. Yet across the table, sat me, almost taking all of my achievements for granted.

I thought, he must’ve been perceiving these events under the wrong framework. Maybe what he thought were failures are simply smaller-sized successes that help him learn. Like when he did not make the cut to the city’s baseball team despite training for months, it just meant that he was finally good enough to be in the semifinals. Or when we could not fundraised for our little short film, we could’ve focused on the fact that we got more than a handful donors that trusted us with their money.

Only later I realized that taking your failures into such perspective takes not just a discipline mind-training, but actually knowing that you will succeed at some point. I came from a position of privilege to be able to tell him that his pain is temporary, that it will pay off someday, as long as he keeps trying. It’s like telling violent crime victims that he/she was going to be okay—they might be, but what just happened would stay with them for a while.

Over time, I also learn the possibility that the only reason I haven’t truly failed (in a way that matters) is because I have avoided all the scary fights. I have told people I wanted to be a published author practically forever, but I have not finished a manuscript until this very day. I very rarely take a chance in anything that has even a glint probability of rejection. I never run as a president of anything in my life, and I only led projects when I know I have the resources and capacity to deliver.

On my wedding day, I told everyone how Wikan keeps me grounded, and I meant it. He reminds me every day how whatever I achieve in life is nothing but a privilege, allowed by the never ending support from my family and the people around me.

Here’s to growing even taller in the summer.


A Breakdown of Winter

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[Maybe listen to Wikan’s wonderful playlist while you’re here.]

“So, after a semester, did you feel like you’ve grown, Afu?” Was a question from my good/amazing Bangladeshi-American friend that caught me off-guard during our small-group dinner a couple weeks ago. My instinct—which I followed—was to answer yes. But when he continued with, “In what ways?”, I had to think it through.

Indeed, when you’re over a quarter-century old, what would constitute ‘growth’?

I told him, now I don’t worry so much about being liked.

During the early months at grad school, my energy was put into making sure that my counterpart enjoyed talking to me. I was determined to show how great Indonesians are. I would tackle every awkward silence with a random topic, laugh at the unfunniest jokes, and look interested in the most boring subjects. Lately, however, I cared less about putting these extra efforts. I realized that not every two people are meant to click with each other. If the other party does not bother to make conversations, I won’t. It doesn’t mean the end of the world. I sure hope that it doesn’t mean that I’m becoming a mean person, either. I hadn’t given up completely on trying, I’d like to think I just understand better when it doesn’t work.

Finding genuine friends that made Boston home definitely helped.

Perhaps, I continued, it was because I finally discovered a comfort zone comprising of a few really good friends whom I know I could be real with. These people probably don’t have a clue how much they mean to me, but strong connections are rare, and I deeply cherish the one we share. To be able to talk about things that matter to you with people who give a damn and don’t judge is truly, truly life-changing.

Never did it occur in my head that I would make friends again at the age of 24. Thought that game was over years ago, but—again—never doubt what the universe had hidden for you in the right time. Our group spent the rest of the night talking about languages, Harry Potter, and a bunch of other stuff, but at home, I continued reflecting on how—if—I grew.

Maybe I grew because I lost, and lost, and lost, and sometimes—won.

Boston winter is teeth-grinding cold. I later figured, however, that underneath the weather, lies the even colder truth: becoming the first is tough, and I more often than not am just an average. Which was hard at first, but in retrospect made me very glad, because:

If you are the smartest person in the room, then you are in the wrong room.
Confucius (apparently)

To date, I have got more Bs than As, more internship applications rejected than accepted, and lost more competitions than actually winning them. The most exciting part is that I honestly thought I was good enough, and learning that I hardly am. In short, proving myself wrong. Again, and again, and again.

Wikan always told me that external affirmation does not matter when I have given my best, and I wholeheartedly knew that he was right. Another good friend shared an awesome quote which basically says, “Bs prove that you have learned something in the classroom while still enjoying life”. Could not agree more.

Plus, when you occasionally win, it tastes much, much better.

This last bit, I think, had been the highlight of winter (and the entire semester) for me—not that spring had been anywhere near Boston. Other than that, perhaps the Hogwarts Homecoming trip that Wikan and I did last ‘spring’ break. Tee-hee.

If you’re reading this from Indonesia, please go outside and enjoy the warm sun for me!

A Synthesis of Fall

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[Click here for suggested background music.]

If time could have a form, the past three months had been a dense-but-loose, huge-yet-fluffy block of lessons. At the background, stood trees turning into red and cold winds swooshing into the city—in a very Cantabrigian way. I had been stationed at its center, determined to make sense of everything. As my best friend Rocky said, “Back then, we tried so hard to conquer the world. Now, we realize that growing up is about conquering ourselves—and sometimes it takes even much more work.”

This fall had been just about that—falling, punnily enough, into a sea of revelations.

1. The Almost-Impostor Syndrome

I expected my first week at HKS to be filled with the fear of people thinking, “How can she even be here?” Or worse, “She’s probably here as our diversity token—after all, we need more students from Southeast Asian countries.” And there were definitely moments when I questioned whether the admissions office made a mistake by letting me in, and whether it was all pure luck and timing.

They probably read my mind, because the first thing they told us on the first day of our orientation week was literally: “You belong here. You are HKS.”

And just like that, I believed them. While I am fully aware that I’m hardly the smartest person in the room who still gets occasional visits from good-old-friend insecurities, I realized—pretty quickly—that I belonged there, and that I made the right choice.

How did I arrive there? On that same day, we were visited by NYU’s Professor Kenji Yoshino, who gave a lecture about diversity and inclusion in a post-racial/gender segregation world. Specifically, he introduced ‘covering’, which is a way for members of minority groups to hide their identities in order to blend in. It’s not the topic per se (which was obviously interesting) but the way this community actually talked about it—put them in frameworks, questioned assumptions, diagnosed with data, and discussed what we should do about it in the most practical way—I simply couldn’t resist to fall in love.

I grow fonder and fonder of the institution every day, because those four steps remain at the center of what we do; including on the day Hillary had to deliver her concession speech. Here, ‘public service’ is not a mere soundbite but air that the entire campus breathes. (I swear I’m not overselling—although it is certainly not exclusive and would likely be the case in other public policy schools, too.)

Since you’re in love, everything else appears so small. There were tons of assignments and plenty of time-consuming reflections, but like with all loves: you just have to work things out.

2. Adopting an Identity

Some people say you’ll never genuinely appreciate the beauty and/or comfort of your country until you leave them. This is especially true when you had been so spoiled by all-year-long warm weather and now it’s almost always freezing.

Some people say you’ll never truly embrace your identity until it becomes relevant to the conversation. This is especially true in a classroom with 60 extremely well-read, effortlessly critical public policy students—debating about often-cross-disciplinary issues from various corners of the world.

Being an ‘international student’ pushes me to get in touch with my identities—an activity that I didn’t usually bother to, just because it didn’t seem necessary. Being here wakes me up from my quarter-century-long ‘identity numbness’—and realize that I’m an Indonesian woman who was raised in a conservative Muslim family. Listening to opposing political views on a daily basis, I had to put my liberal self out there or I would not have a voice at all.

My identity, values, and ideologies are suddenly put under the spotlight, lurking behind every statement and academic argument that I made. Likewise, I had to be aware of my friends’ identities, values, and ideologies in making sure that what I say does not disregard or discriminate them in any way. This process creates an entire layer of thinking on top of the actual thinking—which had been a novel, challenging, yet rewarding experience so far.

Outside of school, Wikan and I also have the opportunity to learn about what being a minority is really like, from mistakenly assumed as Chinese, down to being told to ‘go home’ just several days before the Election. I am determined to never forget how that made me feel when I fly back home and resettle as the country’s majority.

3. The Freedom to Write (About Anything)

The highlight of the past month, however, would have been how my writing brain had officially been liberated. GAAAAAH. It feels goooood. Sure, I wrote op-eds before—but as I’ve told you before, having a job means you’ll always be restricted by someone else’s (cue: the company/organization you work for) territory to a certain extent in whatever you present publicly. Now, being my own boss, I get to write quite about anything—and it took tons of load off my shoulder.

Indeed, not having the 9-to-5 commitment to spend in the office is also helpful, although it turned out grad school actually takes much more than 8 hours a day—more on that later. With most credits going to Professor Greg Harris who forced me to write every week in his policy writing class—I’ve so far managed to publish the following pieces which made me feel, again, liberated:

And I certainly look forward to write much more! Wikan had been reminding me about the book draft I haven’t touched for months, and speaking of Wikan…

4. The Not-So-Unorthodox Marriage Life

Legally, Wikan and I had been married for roughly four months. Mentally however, we’ve been husband and wife for almost two years, literally making the most mundane to the most important decisions together throughout. One of the first decisions we made together as partners was the color of my room, which we also painted together (sort of). However, the honeymoon period of our relationship ended as soon as I got my grad school letter of acceptance in early 2015, where we had to risk our still-very-fragile connection then had I left for school immediately. We decided that I stay, and a little over twelve months later—after many self-discoveries and moments of learning about your partner better—we decided that we would like to do this for the rest of our lives.

In case I haven’t properly introduced him: Wikan is way more talkative and creative than me; he’s a dreamer, and a spontaneous one. While we are both liberals who believe in—among others—women’s authority upon their own body and therefore abortion, we are very different in nature. I tend to be more impatient and pragmatic, while he’s all about perfectly-done poached eggs and idealism. While we are united in our love for good design, minimalist furnitures, well-made movies/television series, tech, tidiness, and great YouTube channels (we know a lot), we fundamentally diverge in perceiving—at least in the early stage of our relationship—whether being rational and dismissing the emotional is actually a virtue (guess who’s who).

But of course, we’ve figured that out for a while already. So what’s new?

“Why do we choose partners so different from ourselves? It’s not chance or cliches like ‘the heart wants what it wants’. We choose our partners because they are the unfinished business from our childhood. And we choose them because they manifest the qualities we wish we had. In doing so, in choosing such a challenging partner, and working to give them what they need, we chart a course for our own growth.”

—Jay Pritchett, Modern Family

The fact that he’s pretty much the opposite of me in a lot of aspects means that there will be constant turbulences as long as we’re together, and in a marriage, it becomes our reality every single day. However, it is not necessarily a reality that we deny or despise; instead, we embrace it as a way to challenge ourselves and as Jay beautifully put it—chart a course for our own growth. After all, turbulences only tell us that our relationship is still perfectly airtight. Lack of them, on the contrary, signals that some parts are not intact, or there might be gaps that need fixing.

Hence every now and then, Wikan would—as soon as he detects that something’s wrong—make me talk about instead of suppressing it. He believes in healthy quarrels instead of pseudo peaces. As a result, we had never been silent to each other for more than 15 minutes and I’ve always ended up loving him more after we fight. Having been a conflict-avoider my whole life, this means pushing myself to be more self-conscious about the things I don’t like and finding ways to communicate it constructively; understanding that—after all—we’re there to be the safety nets for each other.

Of course, moving to another country, being on our own, and having to find a new rhythm at home play a great deal in shaping our recently-legalized partnership—but I think it’s pretty much what marriage is about anyway.

P. S. Wikan is an incredible cook.

All in all, I have been having the most amazing time of my life. Thought I had passed my most blessed stage long ago but just proved myself wrong. The universe had only been kinder and kinder throughout.

To friends who read this through until this very line, please let us know when you’re in Cambridge! We’d be more than happy to host and give you a tour.

Separation Blues

Being the first kid in the family, I had been used to being the one who left. The one who is being dropped off, sent off, or called in from miles away.

My first departure from home took place way back when I was barely 14—it was my first night at the boarding school. I cried myself to sleep; wanting the separation to be over the next morning. I remembered feeling devastated. The darkness made it impossible to think about anything else than the comfortable place where everyone I loved were, where I could sleep with the lights on.

I remembered missing the familiar texture of my bed. I didn’t know then, but I know now that I cried for selfish reasons.

Good for me, I figured out soon that the distance between Tangerang Selatan and Bogor was less than two hours. I figured I could took an angkot every other week. I stopped crying the day after.

When I started out college three years later, I had been smarter. I skipped the crying part right into the conclusion that Depok, too, was only an hour away from Bogor. Going home was a piece of cake.

Fast forward to the time I had to live in Singapore for a while. This occasion, I spent a good hour crying the night before my flight—probably because apparently I was still smart. I knew what living abroad entails: being on your own, making friends with strangers, but worst of all, being away from your family and closest friends—this time by a distance that is much further than mere two-hour angkot ride or one-hour commuter line trip.

My first night at the dormitory, I cried again. Facing the side wall, trying to keep my voice close to non-existent because I didn’t want my new roommate to think I was a freak.

It was not so bad because it turned out my scholarship can cover a round-trip at least every two months. That aside, I’m pretty sure I also cried for selfish reasons.

Yesterday, though—yesterday was different.


Before anything else, it’s probably relevant to highlight that Boston/Cambridge is not exactly close from Jakarta. You either have enough cash to afford a 24-hour flight, or you’re just stuck being away from each other for the rest of your program (20 months, that is).

Knowing how my hormones usually react to separations, I expected myself to wail either several days before, or at the airport scene.

And yet, there were no tears. Wikan and my entire nuclear family members and a couple of our best friends were present—which would’ve been the perfect let-go/crying scene for yours truly—but to my own surprise, we left very calmly. There were exchanges of hugs and kisses, prayers and wishes, but that’s about it.

We waved for the last time, didn’t bother to take a final look, and off we went through the immigration desk to the boarding gate.

Before the airport, there were also farewell dinners. Ones you spent with your work colleagues, best friends, good friends, and intellectual friends. At each one’s end, there were exchanges of hugs and kisses, prayers and wishes, but that’s about it.

It felt unnatural.

Was it because my subconscious perceives grad school as such a significant deal, separations seem like a sensible price? One that isn’t even worth a short, good cry? Was it because I have Wikan—my very definition of home—coming along, it doesn’t really feel like being away?

While I do consider the latter as truth, it still feels wrong not to at the very least feel sad about leaving everything behind. The familiar faces, roads, foods, scents, and rains. But there was nothing.

The answer arrived five hours later, when I broke down at the airplane.

It was midnight when the flight attendants switched the lights off. I put on my eye mask, and leaned to sleep on Wikan’s shoulderif anything, feeling a bit giddy because of the show I just watched.

In complete darkness however, without a cue, my mind floated itself home—playing a scene where my frail father struggled to pick up his mug because his muscles had now began rebelling, my kind mother juggling through responsibilities when she should’ve just stayed home and spoil herself, my grandmother stuck to her bed probably wondering how quiet our house would be when my youngest brother goes to college in a year. There was also my aunt and uncle whose only daughter just got into college—who else would they be taking care of? And just like that, I wailed.

I wailed, this time weirdly not because my family wouldn’t be there for me, but because I wouldn’t be there for them, probably in the period when they need me the most.

It suddenly hit me that without me or my cousin and younger brothers, they would be five old parents, getting even older, while taking care of one another. As much as it would make a beautiful movie story, the thought of it makes me sad.

Banda Neira’s Di Beranda triggered this realization a while back (sent it to my mother when she told me she’d been crying for how empty the house was after my wedding), but tonight it hit me much harder. Maybe because it lacks anticipation. Like a Katrina on a summer day.

Prior to writing this down (which was Wikan’s idea), I finally had the good cry. Partly because I felt sorry, but mostly because I felt sorry about not telling my parents about how sorry I felt, how I do wish I could spend more time with them, how I regret not making enough time for them when I still could.

I know for a fact that I would feel twice as devastated had Wikan not come along with me. But I wonder if that would be another selfish kind of sadness—of wanting to have him around, of not having to be apart, of never having to feel lonely again.

I wonder, if you can only start thinking about someone else when you stop being selfish—or can you do both? Do I start shifting to the other kind of separation blues because I finally have everything I need? Is this part of growing up?

On Marrying Your Black Swan


[Captured by Ben Laksana, July 23rd, 2016.]

Nobody thought I would’ve tied the knot at age 24—yours truly didn’t either. It seemed too early, rather rushed, and surprising. But as Nassim Taleb points out in The Black Swan, regardless how much we’d like to suppress it, unlikely events take place all the time and almost always, they are the ones that yield in massive consequences. It also observes that, upon discovering an outlying phenomenon, humans would tend to frantically search for a simpler explanation—a rationalization that would ease their anxiety about what weird thing just happened. Love, fate, momentum? And yet when you look closely, it really is just a random occurrence. Our wedding was, in itself, a personal-scaled black swan.

Translation: I did not see it coming.

The universal formula had always been that girls with ambition wouldn’t—shouldn’t—settle down so early. The less universal formula is that there’s a laundry list that has to be ticked and unless a perfect match is found, one shall never stop looking. Being in our early 20s, we still had a long time to go, and Wikan hardly fit in my then set of criteria, but here we are, married—for 20 good days.

The truth is: we figured out early on, that we’re not huge fans of being away from each other. Especially when it involves a distance of over 23 hours of cross-oceanic flights and 12-hour difference, which was what would’ve happened had I started my master’s program next month alone. We’ve heard the opposing arguments: temporary separations could make hearts grow fonder, and if anything, it would’ve been a legit test to how strong our feelings were.

Nonetheless, we’re also aware that it would result in humongous, unnecessary pain and loneliness. Some can work out long distance relationships, but why do we have to go through the same agonizing drill for two solar cycles when there’s an obvious remedy in front of us?

Not to mention the imminent the risk of growing apart—had we led separate lives, every day we would’ve met different people, exposed to potentially conflicting values, and constantly develop new understandings that might not be as easily synchronized the way we are able to do it today. Sure, Skype calls could help, but there are obvious limitations.What if your other half is facing a hard time and you couldn’t be there for them? What if you stop caring? Naturally, if there’s a way to mitigate that, we just had to take it. Now we’re legally bound to live together, to move across continents, time zones, and languages—nobody could forbid us to.

For any two people who just want to be there for each other in any possible circumstances, who dream of not only growing old but also growing up side by side: getting married feels like being granted the ultimate visa. You simply win more by obtaining it sooner, not the other way around.


As for the checkboxes, Alain de Botton writes this eye-opening essay about why we will keep marrying the wrong person, which basically sums up the story of how Wikan has drastically changed the way I looked at relationships and, well, marriages. That it is more about making the effort to meet halfway than hunting for the person who is already sitting on the right spot from the beginning:

The person who is best suited to us is not the person who shares our every taste (he or she doesn’t exist), but the person who can negotiate differences in taste intelligently — the person who is good at disagreement. Compatibility is an achievement of love; it must not be its precondition.

Lastly, there is also a good chance that both of us slightly see this whole marriage thing as, the way Ben Laksana put it, a ‘rite of passage to freedom’. That signing three times on the sacred pages of ‘marriage book’ would disarm our parents and family from the kinds of justifications that they could use to govern our lives, or force their values onto ours. Don’t take it the wrong way, however; we love both our parents and they are great, but being able to decide for ourselves and gaining more independence to do so is one of the things we look forward to. Please go read the entire piece for more on that topic.

[In case this is not what you’re looking for, the also-honest-but-more-romantic reason is parked on another lot. Hahaha.]

To be continued to Part II for more thoughts on the procedures and weddings themselves.