If I Were A City, I Would Not Be My Hometown
With this fostered and perpetual desire to leave, I can never be a city.
"This is the house that built me
and I’m gonna burn it down.(…)
What is a home
if not the first place you learn to run from?
You’ve got to bite the hand
that starves you, and in doing so
Praise the place that birthed you.
Birthed you fucked up.
Birthed you ugly, and interesting,
and ready to scream."— From “Courtney Love Prays To Oregon” by Clementine von Radics
Today, a darling friend from a smaller city next to mine visited this town by train. We did not meet each other for the first time in this town nor did we develop this friendship I would nurture for the next 25 years here. I was first introduced to her cat, Bruno, in Taipei, a city from across the ocean, through pictures on her phone. Bruno was miles away from us, in my friend’s city, inside her home, probably napping or yowling for snacks. I first learned my friend’s habit in Taipei, in our dorm where we spent most of our time doing laundry and cooking dinner along with our two other roommates. I first came to awareness of my most tender affection toward my roommates in a city I did not witness growing up, in a city where my parents were absent, in a city that rained almost every day during our stay. Yet, we reunited in a city I would not dare to associate myself with, despite the whirlwind of sentiment I harbor toward this place that looked after me almost my entire life.
I wrote a poem in my mother language (Bahasa Indonesia) back in 2020, one of a few crafts I managed to finish as a consequence of early pandemic wave:
“kalau aku adalah kota, aku bukanlah yogyakarta.
bukan pantainya yang menghampar dari glagah hingga baron.
bukan pula garis lurus hubungkan merapi dengan keraton.jalan-jalan kecil liar di prawirotaman tidak akan sepi sejak dini hari.
lalu lintas sesak dengan kehidupan turis asing dan warga lokal yang mengais rezeki.ketika mengadah ke atas, hanya ada langit biru tanpa beton atau kawat.
rasanya, itu yang buat kamu betah celingak-celinguk genggam kamera dengan erat.kalau aku adalah kota, aku bukanlah yogyakarta.
tempat semua orang pulang dalam genggaman masa muda.
kota penuh afeksi dengan asosiasi kerinduan yang tak kunjung reda.ada harum hujan di tanah yang masih subur dengan hijaunya cinta penduduk sekitar.
kamu berkata tak akan menjumpai hal seperti ini ketika kamu tak lagi singgah di kota pelajar.kalau aku adalah kota, aku bukanlah yogyakarta.
dengan gemerlap bintang dan lampu jalan, ia hembuskan cerita bagi mereka yang merantau dan temukan cinta.
hanya ada kesempatan dan kemungkinan, hingga pilu tersapu oleh kenangan di malioboro ketika senja.kalau aku adalah kota, aku bukanlah yogyakarta.
karena tak ada yang sanggup aku tawarkan selain senyum palsu dan ajakan semu,
“ayo, main ke kotaku.””— From “kalau aku adalah kota”, first written on March 23rd 2020 by Writer.
Up until I was 8 years old, I never regarded myself as an academically gifted kid, mainly because I was—obviously—still developing, thus self-awareness was a practically unknown concept until I was at least 15. I was on the 2nd grade when they announced I ranked 5th in my class and it was the greatest achievement I never imagined I could pull; how could I possibly? I was surrounded by brilliant minds, kids were grasping knowledge like they were reaching for their mother’s thumb: it was there for their taking. This city showed me an opportunity to become as good as everyone else, while my mother convinced me that education was a prominent aspect that might lead me to be better than her.
Why should I be better? was the question long-buried within my chest; it was there but never spoken out. Why is this not enough?
This city taught me about debt. The small street in front of our house delivered people after people to our tiny home-based shop; the shop fed us, it prevented us from starving. This city’s roads escorted me to school to listen to my friends’ stories about their two-story houses, their barely present parents, their own room they did not need to share with their brother, and their plans to go to the mall on the weekend. I was almost 9 years old when I eventually moved to a different and farther (from the city center) house, thus the shop changed into a rented building: just another form of our life line.
I was 21 years old when I learned an alternative way of living. Opposing to an overachieving student lifestyle is apparently a life free from desires. What a strange life purpose it is to simply bask oneself in mundane chores, I once thought, for the advantaged shall not worry about filling their bellies by being a debtor. As cynical as I seemed to be, I started to learn more about this very alien concept. I never had any particular emotions toward this city, but once I let myself appreciate the nooks and crannies of my surrounding, the beauty was persistent and unable to dissipate. I started to notice the color of atomic tangerine scattered around the twilight sky, the wilted flower of my neighbor’s, and the peaceful walk from the parking lot to my class on Monday morning. I saw home in every form offered to me, endlessly, by the city I previously did not have a strong feeling for.
Albeit the growing fondness for this place, the capacity to find tranquility from falling leaves in the midst of scorching day, and the serenity found in reading a book from my phone during power outage caused by relentless downpour, I always imagine myself leaving. It is what I have been taught to, it is what I know of. If satisfaction was ever found, even in the slightest, then why the incessant quest of searching a way to be away? Why does the idea of escaping seems to align with the initial objective of becoming better, so irritably conclusive? Perhaps because growing up, I never strayed from home for too long that the notion of leaving equals to the capacity to fend for myself, both financially and physically. I am afraid that no amount of love I have for my city could overlap my dream to bag that freedom and become independent.
As my penchant for finding new things to be grateful of in my city grew steadily, I was also lucky enough to be given the opportunity to study in Taiwan for one semester. I temporarily left my city with good memories to be rekindled during moments of homesickness.
I experienced the walkable Taipei firsthand, with its various options of public transportations. U-bike was ridden occasionally from the MRT station to our dorm; we have ridden it through the drizzle and we have ridden it at midnight as we almost froze in our coats. Many of our encounters with new people happened in Gongguan, now its streets are fragrant with warm recollections. We phone-called the owner of a delicious 大雞排 shop nearby during countless chilly nights, eating our respective portion with a bowl of rice we have cooked beforehand and fried broccoli as a side dish. Convenience stores (7-Eleven at the apartment building behind our dorm, Hi-Life below, and Family Mart across the street) were my roommates’ past-midnight companions when our stomachs grumbled. Evident enthusiasm was shown on our faces when the Professor dissected the topics on Haussmannization and Guggenheim Bilbao Museum for our European Urban Culture and Economy class. The familiarity emitted from each and every single repeated and habitual activity in Taipei was, in fact, not familiar at all; I have never done anything I previously mentioned back in my own city, yet I could make a home out of it. It was just one place, but I should be able to make a home out of anywhere…surely?
Now that I have seen what a city could be, a city that everyone deserves, a city that offers equal, if not, more, beauty than mine does, I am firm with my stance that I would not be my hometown if I were a city, even if I wanted it. Even if I yearned for it.