As I sat at my usual coffee spot yesterday evening, I became unusually aware of being an outsider on a number of levels. Generally speaking, this is not the sort of thing I would commonly notice or think of in quite this way, as I have always tended to be a loner in any case. Were I in America among Americans, I would still mostly likely be sitting alone at my table, but this would be as a matter of intention, of choice on my part rather than something outside the purview of choice. In other words, it would have been my goal to be alone so that I could fully devote myself to whatever activity I had in mind--writing in this blog, for instance, or reading a book--although other options, theoretically, would have remained available in some degree.
Here and now, however, I find a number of essential distinctions which render both the matter of choice more obscure and the matter of separateness more acute. Uncustomary levels of alienation pertain which are uniquely beyond my control. First is the issue of language. Accessibility to the world on the most basic level is no longer a matter of choice but of language. Just as one may listen to a dog barking or a cat meowing or a bird chirping and know that the creature is either happy or frightened or angry, one may perceive in a very elementary way the tone or character of this or that social exchange or group dynamic. One may perceive as well through physical cues, just as with the dogs, cats or birds, whether he is observing a close knit group of familiar friends or a more formal, less intimate congress. Beyond this vague and rudimentary perception, however, the outsider remains for all practical purposes wholly on the outside. It will not do for him to bark, meow, or chirp as an avenue of entry to any conversation, either of men or beasts, lest both man and beast think him insane.
Language is the key. And it unlocks the only door in the whole damn house.
Now, my aptitude for Indonesian is such that unless a person is speaking directly to me, what I hear from folks sitting at nearby tables is generally not much more meaningful than a buzz. (Whereas we had before the dog, cat, and bird, now we have a swarm of bees). Through a combination of concentration and desire, I would, in the English language, be able to follow nearby conversations, to take part, at least privately, and perhaps even make use of a point of entry, to intrude myself, as it were, by way of a particular and convenient avenue of comprehension and connectivity. It would not be likely, but it would nonetheless be possible. Moreover, language, or the absence of language, cuts both ways--for the Indonesian, who either does not speak English or does not speak it very well, must experience little inclination to converse in a limited, non-customary tongue.
So yeah, we begin with the issue of language. Now we move on to the issue of color, or type, or ethnicity--whatever you want to call it. I am aware, though not uncomfortably so, of being the one white person sitting in a sea of brown people. I'm used to it, so much so after eight years that I'm only vaguely aware of it. In fact, I'd likely be more aware of another white person in the mix and likely think him strange and 'foreign'. The local people are aware of this too, and, in a way, even more so--for here is someone in their midst who does not fit, who sticks out like a sore thumb, who is an outsider, who is not 'one of them'. This is a dynamic rather more pronounced in Asia than in America, for in America we have a society composed of every color and there's nothing unusual about seeing a person of one or another color, nor would we think one or another person to be a foreigner based on color. I'm not saying that there is any value judgement based on color in Indonesia. That sort of prejudice, sadly, is the more common property of America. I'm just saying that here, if you are white, you are a foreigner. It's pretty much as simple as that. Here, therefore, is another level of separation.
Which brings us to culture, frame of reference, the parameters of familiarity as opposed to foreignness. One is fluent, adept, able in his or her own sphere. We seek the solid ground of what is "like" and tend to stand away from uncertain terrain of what is "unlike". Not only is the stranger alone and outside the group, but because he is alone and outside the group, he is a stranger. He is in any case not Indonesian, not Balinese, and not very likely Hindu. He is an alien--not the extravagant sort that comes from outer space, but just the common garden variety sort that has come for some inexplicable and equally uninteresting reason from somewhere else.
Language. Type. Culture.
And, lastly, age.
This popular, crowded coffee spot is frequented, especially in the evening, almost exclusively by young folks, men and women in their 20's and 30's. And one 65 year old man. Now there is a divide that trumps language, color and culture put together! Other gaps, though wide, may be bridged by the energetic, or perhaps by physical attraction, or both. But age? My goodness, now there is a chasm indeed! For the old man, in this venue, is just and only that. He is old. He is pointless. He is irrelevant. There is no society in the world that has not, regardless of all else, reserved a lonely table for him.
Or as Hemingway put it in his story, A Clean Well Lighted Place: "Our nada who is in nada, nada be thy name …"
Here and now, however, I find a number of essential distinctions which render both the matter of choice more obscure and the matter of separateness more acute. Uncustomary levels of alienation pertain which are uniquely beyond my control. First is the issue of language. Accessibility to the world on the most basic level is no longer a matter of choice but of language. Just as one may listen to a dog barking or a cat meowing or a bird chirping and know that the creature is either happy or frightened or angry, one may perceive in a very elementary way the tone or character of this or that social exchange or group dynamic. One may perceive as well through physical cues, just as with the dogs, cats or birds, whether he is observing a close knit group of familiar friends or a more formal, less intimate congress. Beyond this vague and rudimentary perception, however, the outsider remains for all practical purposes wholly on the outside. It will not do for him to bark, meow, or chirp as an avenue of entry to any conversation, either of men or beasts, lest both man and beast think him insane.
Language is the key. And it unlocks the only door in the whole damn house.
Now, my aptitude for Indonesian is such that unless a person is speaking directly to me, what I hear from folks sitting at nearby tables is generally not much more meaningful than a buzz. (Whereas we had before the dog, cat, and bird, now we have a swarm of bees). Through a combination of concentration and desire, I would, in the English language, be able to follow nearby conversations, to take part, at least privately, and perhaps even make use of a point of entry, to intrude myself, as it were, by way of a particular and convenient avenue of comprehension and connectivity. It would not be likely, but it would nonetheless be possible. Moreover, language, or the absence of language, cuts both ways--for the Indonesian, who either does not speak English or does not speak it very well, must experience little inclination to converse in a limited, non-customary tongue.
So yeah, we begin with the issue of language. Now we move on to the issue of color, or type, or ethnicity--whatever you want to call it. I am aware, though not uncomfortably so, of being the one white person sitting in a sea of brown people. I'm used to it, so much so after eight years that I'm only vaguely aware of it. In fact, I'd likely be more aware of another white person in the mix and likely think him strange and 'foreign'. The local people are aware of this too, and, in a way, even more so--for here is someone in their midst who does not fit, who sticks out like a sore thumb, who is an outsider, who is not 'one of them'. This is a dynamic rather more pronounced in Asia than in America, for in America we have a society composed of every color and there's nothing unusual about seeing a person of one or another color, nor would we think one or another person to be a foreigner based on color. I'm not saying that there is any value judgement based on color in Indonesia. That sort of prejudice, sadly, is the more common property of America. I'm just saying that here, if you are white, you are a foreigner. It's pretty much as simple as that. Here, therefore, is another level of separation.
Which brings us to culture, frame of reference, the parameters of familiarity as opposed to foreignness. One is fluent, adept, able in his or her own sphere. We seek the solid ground of what is "like" and tend to stand away from uncertain terrain of what is "unlike". Not only is the stranger alone and outside the group, but because he is alone and outside the group, he is a stranger. He is in any case not Indonesian, not Balinese, and not very likely Hindu. He is an alien--not the extravagant sort that comes from outer space, but just the common garden variety sort that has come for some inexplicable and equally uninteresting reason from somewhere else.
Language. Type. Culture.
And, lastly, age.
This popular, crowded coffee spot is frequented, especially in the evening, almost exclusively by young folks, men and women in their 20's and 30's. And one 65 year old man. Now there is a divide that trumps language, color and culture put together! Other gaps, though wide, may be bridged by the energetic, or perhaps by physical attraction, or both. But age? My goodness, now there is a chasm indeed! For the old man, in this venue, is just and only that. He is old. He is pointless. He is irrelevant. There is no society in the world that has not, regardless of all else, reserved a lonely table for him.
Or as Hemingway put it in his story, A Clean Well Lighted Place: "Our nada who is in nada, nada be thy name …"
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