my father said I had a classic face

My father and I are good friends, though we’re not getting along pretty well recently. He’s not just a father, he’s a spiritual mentor for me. When I was a kid, he taught me how to practice the daily prayer (salah). But he himself didn’t practice it because he regarded that the way to approach Allah didn’t have to go through such a formal way. Maybe it was just such a weird fact because he chose not to do it but he kept on persuading me to pray and, hey, I didn’t seem to object him. Maybe it’s because he raised me to appreciate different ideas and different people. He often persuaded me to keep on praying by saying that my face seemed to be illuminating for the ablution water if I pray well (and he said it with his hand gently tapping my head). “Raine anakku wedok dadi ketok padhang nek sregep sholat.”

Maybe I’m not his prettiest daughter, but I’m surely his favorite. Probably it’s because I’m the bookworm who always catches up his talking when we have a discussion. When I was a little girl, we shared adventure together. He often took my little sister and me to the Opak river to go fishing with his fishing net and I was his assistant who brought the fish bamboo bag (called ‘kepis’). Along the way, he explained to me many things around us. I’d ask him anything and since he could always answer my questions I started making him a hero. It was also him, instead of my mother, the one who told his daughters bedtime stories. Later on, I found out that he made up some of the stories. No wonder, I never read them anywhere.

I’ve mentioned that I’m not the prettiest daughter, right? Well, he once told me that, instead of beautiful, pretty, sweet, or cute, my face was classic. What. Ever. It. Means. I didn’t ask him why because I could only blush and said, “Muni wae rai ndesa” (Just say I’m a rural-faced girl) and walked away. He always encouraged me to be proud of how I looked. I remember when I was little he nicknamed me Jitheng which means “The Black” to encourage me that it was okay to be a dark-skinned girl (both my sisters have fairer complexion). He even gave me a pet, a black-skinned-and-feathered Cemani hen, a rare kind of chicken (with black feather, skin, beak, and, some say, even blood and organ. But as far as I can remember, my cemani wasn't perfectly black), to show that to be black-skinned is simply unique. I keep the pride till now when I’m a grown-up. Many girls in my country suffer the inferiority complex of having dark skin and are easily persuaded with commercial ads on TV to purchase whitening products. But I’m proud of my skin color and just don’t care if I look pretty or not. Sometimes I have an argument with my mother who thinks I should make up my face and dress up properly in feminine way like my sisters (bukan hanya kaos dan kemeja yang sebagiannya kuwarisi dari bapakku^^ serta kain-kain serba lebar itu). But my father always stands up for me. He thinks I’m elegant in my simplicity.

Back to the story of my father.

When other fathers might be passing on wealth, he passes on sort of melancholy and anxiety to me. He often shared his youth life story: on his life as a college student (he studied in two different universities but failed both of them, and now he can hardly sympathize to me who has not yet graduated? >.<), his activism, his spirit of rebellion, and also story of betrayal and pain. I see in him a man who’s been through a lot of ups and downs and felt so much pain; a man who can speak eloquently of injustice and oppression, a man who’s always restless with the system. And I absorb the pain well.

I remember one night when he delivered me to school on his old bike as I had a program to follow in my junior high school. All my friends were delivered with motorcycle and passed us by. When we reached a dark road, suddenly our bike stumbled on a stone and we fell. He asked me if I was okay. Then he said, as if to himself, “Urip kuwi dinggo ngrasakke.” (Life is about experiencing). I couldn’t see his eyes because it was really dark but I could tell he was crying from his trembling voice. I didn’t really know why he cried and I dared not to ask. I didn’t cry ‘cause I was afraid I would make him even sadder. But that was my preliminary introduction to the anxious and melancholic side of my father.

I’ve known him since I was little but weird, I never really have a complete picture about him. He always seems to me as a mysterious man with so much secret in him. I never really know where he went at night, and what he did. I just know sometimes he told stories and secret things I never knew before. One day he told me that he was the man behind the riot that forced the chief of the neighboring village to resign. And he did that several years after the riot happened (Shh..this is a secret between you and me^^). He just seems to be an expert in those ‘dirty’ things…

He’s done many things in his youth, but now there he is, in a village where people don’t put so much respect on him because sometimes he criticizes the religion clerics obediently followed by most people in the village. But respect is not what he gains in his life. There are stronger and more precious things than that.

Sometimes when I go home in my Bantul house, I look at him as he’s absorbed in his new hobby of chatting via walkie-talkie with his friends and acquaintances. He’s a very good speaker, indeed, who easily charms people with the way he talks. He never forces people to follow his idea, but apparently it’s just what makes him seem to be compelling. When he talks, nobody dares to interrupt. He gains many friends with that.

As he retired, he had more time to spend at home. Besides the walkie-talkie, sometimes he makes fishing net or reads books I give him or composes Javanese poems (called geguritan). The neatness and perfection of his hand-written Javanese letters are so unbeatable. Sometimes I also see several English poems among his works.

We sort of share our spirituality. Haven’t I mentioned that he never prayed when I was little? Everything seems to reverse now that he never skips his five-time-a-day prayer and often reads the Qur’an. Together with several friends, he even founded a group that do the Qur’an recital program every week. One day he confessed in front of my friends visiting our place that it was me who had brought such an influence. I don’t know. I even find myself less obedient now (malah anakke sing genti edan, haha!). It’s not that I skip my prayer times, I’m just seeking a different interpretation on the religion I’m embracing, the more tolerant Islam.

My father doesn’t recite pretty well, but seeing him with the Qur’an on the bamboo bench often brings tears into my eyes. How I wish so much that he’s blessed with happiness, peace, and serenity. No matter how tough the situation he deals with.

I love you, Dad. I’m sorry if it takes me time to prove it. I know I’m always a little girl to you and thank you for worrying me but I’m a big girl now. I can take care of myself.