Talking Story 
by Polo

From The Asian Reporter, V20, #6 (February 9, 2010), page 7.

I’ve been thinking, I’ve been thinking a lot, about February 14, 2010. About next week’s triple holiday celebrating Oregon’s birthday, America’s Valentine’s Day, and Lunar New Year — all that, occurring all at once on February 14. Imagine the confluence of our several cultural rivers. Imagine what we make of Portland.

It all started, this ruminating did, as I was driving our tired old Toyota round and round and round that fantastic freeway loop skimming lovely River Willamette. Maybe you’re out there too, late-late Friday nights: Northbound I-5 along our river’s East Esplanade; then west, across that high elegant arc of Fremont Bridge; banking south onto I-405’s cold concrete grove right through downtown; then east and north again across that nightmarish Marquam Bridge; then back to our silent Willamette’s eastern shore, running side by side with her for just a moment on her dark, delicious way to our deep blue sea.

All that, at a mile per minute. About 14 minutes per loop. About four loops until I’ve calmed enough to start a quiet weekend. All of it under the spell of Carlos Santana’s "Black Magic Woman."

"Got a black magic wo-o-man (dum-dum dum dumm)

"Got a black ma-agic woman (dum-dum dum dumm) …"

You know what I’m talking about.

I know you know what I’m talking about, because almost every time I’m doing this bluesy Portland loop-thing — windows wide, full-tilt Santana bass spilling out into another late-late Friday night — I’ll look left to see another exhausted community mechanico zooming by in his less asthmatic ride. That Somali son of a goat herder. That Hmong son of a highland shaman. That Mexican son of a humiliated steel bender. To name a few. Windows down. Music up. Round and round and round each goes, until night absorbs their sorrow. Until our generous river restores their confidence. Or gas gets low. Or the wife calls.

So, like I was saying: I was thinking and thinking about this coincidence of celebrating these three disparate ethnicky holidays, on one of those Friday freeway night rides. How late, I cannot say. How many loops into my end-of-work week ritual, I do not recall.

When I happened to glance up, to check my rearview — I saw a small ancient lady. In my mirror. On my backseat. I kid you not.

Instinctively, I turned down my tape player. Way down. Everyone knows elder aunties don’t care a lot for head-bashing bass. Grammy winning, Latin beat, or not. It aches their old joints. I eased up on my accelerator pedal too.

She seemed to appreciate that.

I ramped right, yawing us nice and easy into that awesome incline merging onto Fremont’s top deck, higher than any ocean-going steamer. Oregon’s and America’s flags tug hard at tops of tall aluminum poles swallowed by Portland’s brooding overcast.

I checked my mirror again. She was still there. Sitting quiet. So I looked a little longer, looking for cultural clues, the way you do before properly addressing a more elegant generation. I cleared my throat.

Her eyes were almond, her nose was flat, her lips booboo. And she had ver-ry big white hair. Mad white hair, practically filling my rearview mirror, weirdly distorting car lights staring inside.

I rejected Carlos and tuned into 89.9 FM. All Classical.

A distant ring of recognition started. I checked our mirror a little longer still.

We descended steep left into Portland’s northwest. Into 405’s concrete canyon.

"Jah," I said to myself. Yes. "Jah’illaah. I know this grandma."

I know her well. She gave me my life by giving up hers, 50 years ago. Because of this frail nonya, I lived. I am.

And although I didn’t know it, not while she and me and a Japanese carload of monster memories cruised effortless along 405 at an easy 60 — this ancestor auntie was about to transform me into who I’ll be for my next 50.

Call it, call her, some kind of a super-duper Saint Valentine’s card.

Smack center of our quarter-million-mile Toyota’s backseat sat our Ibu Ellie. Our babu auntie, the only soul who didn’t walk away from where, and from when, my ticker first got broken. Real bad.

She spread her skinny self over us, as best she could, Ibu Ellie did. And took furious blows from inexplicable rage. Blows from our neighbor boys. From their nascent nation. For 400 years of humiliation. From pickaxe and hoe handles. And iron pipes. Blows meant for big brother and me.

Fifty years I’ve carried her suffering. Her acrid urine, her hot blood, stained deep my skin. Her whimpering "Oh ampun’illaah" — Oh god have mercy — fresh on my lips every next heartache, every next bone break, from continent to continent to continent, right up to the agitated northwestern ledge of this one. America.

Suddenly, rain, an ocean of Oregon rain, blinded our windshield for those scary few seconds it takes to fumble for your wiper knob. I turned them up high. They swept strong as pulang oarsmen. I slowed some more.

"Selamat malam, Joh" — Blessed evening, Boy — she said. Ibu Ellie finally said.

Tears, an ocean of Old World tears and snot messed up my face, messed up my life for one of those long moments it takes to straighten yourself up. God, I’m such a girl.

"Apa kabar, Ibu" — What’s happening, Ma — I said, sitting up even straighter.

It’s what we do. It’s how we are. Us Indos. All nonchalant, especially at grave-grave intersections. We learn this early. Kids who can’t get cool, get left.

Rain got harder, night got darker, and freeway lights got more useless as we eased onto the dreadful Marquam Bridge.

"So, how are you, Auntie Ellie?" I said. Sure I did. In easygoing English.

"Tidak-tidak, Joh" — No-no, my Boy — she answered. "How are you?"

"Ba-ik, Ibu." Re-eal good, Ma. "Al’hamdulilaah (all thanks to god) and of course to our former mayor. I now have a nice office, Ibu. Insurance too, even for my eyeballs and teeth." I raised my chin, showed her my snippers in our mirror.

"I not asking about dental and vision, Boy."

I knew that. I knew what she was asking. I shoved back another monster sob. I gripped hard my wheel. I manned up, best as I doggone could.

She knew that. She spoke softer. Ambon style. Like sing-song lagoon waves. "Time to see it another way," she said. "Tiger New Year is the time to be another way. You listening, Boy?"

"Yes, I listen, Ibu."

We hummed north on I-5, River Willamette ran broad and determined between us and downtown’s angular giants. Our wipers slapped in time to a Stravinsky concerto. "Time to see it right," she said. "And to make a birthday blessing of it, Joh.

"A birthday gift from me and you to this lovely river, to all her children’s troubled stories passing by this place. This sacred place."

"Yes, Ibu," I said.

"For too-too long, you remember only wrongs. Only those ugly boys. And every next wrong, every next mean man or bad woman brings out of your bones that ugly time. Swelling your heart. Nothing right can come to you, Joh. Not til you get this right. Not til you let go those boys and you come to me."

"Yes, Ibu."

She leaned forward. She put her hand, light as bird bones, on my shoulder. "Forget them. Remember what I gave you. My love for you. My gift. Your life."

"Yes, Ibu."

"And when you let go of them, Boy — you will see gentle men and sweet women everywhere. Every time. And you are ready for kindness. And more kindness.

"Okay," she smacked my shoulder. "Here’s what I want you to do, Joh —" Quick as a blink I dropped my glovebox door and dug for that blue Bic and that little Kinko pad stashed in there.

"Tidak-tidak not now! Aduh’illaaaah!" She squawked. "You drive now. Keep your hands on the wheel. Eyes on the road."

"Right, Ibu."

"How under Allah’s heaven did you get this far living like you do!" It wasn’t really a question, so I really didn’t have to answer.

"No. These three things you must remember. Three things you must tell your friends. Your enemies too. Listen carefully, Boy." I did.

"For our first seven days of Lunar New Year: Think only good thoughts. It’s hard. But try. Think only good.

"For seven days, say only good things. This is easier. You control what comes from your mouth. You do.

"And for New Year’s first seven days, do only good deeds. This is easiest of all. Easiest if your thoughts are good and your words are kind. Easiest because everyone will return your kindness. Everyone except demonio, bad kids, and bad dogs."

"Terima kasih banyak, Ibu manis aku," I said to where she was, in my mirror, in my backseat. But now gone. Again.

I offer our love in gratitude, my sweet mother — as we sailed, my quarter-million-mile Toyota and me, over Fremont’s awesome expanse.

* * *

Aduh’illaaaah! (Indo patois): oh my gosh. Ogh, that hurts.

Ambon: one of the Indonesian archipelago’s 15,000 islands.

Babu (or Baboe. Malay): household child-raiser. More like family than a maid. From a poorer family.

demonio (Indo patois from Spanish): demon. Guy who lost his soul.

Ibu (Malay, Bahasa Indonesia): mother. Respectful or affectionate address for a woman.

Jah and jah’illaah (Indo patois from Dutch and Arabic. Pronounced: yah): yes. And: oh my god, yes.

Joh (Indo patois from Portuguese. Pronounced: yoh): Boy. Affectionate address for educated Eurasian, from "Sinho."

pulang (Bahasa Indonesia): island or islander.

tidak (Malay, Bahasa): nope.