Chapter One: A Society and Culture that was born out of greed.
I was brought into this world in June of 1972, a first generation American from parents who were born in the midst of world war II. I have one sister and two half-brothers. My parents from what I know, were from the Dutch East Indies, born from generations of Dutch ship-men, Dutch Nobles and whatever else that created someone like me. I have been able to trace the start of my family to the trade lines from the Netherlands to Persia and ultimately Indonesia where both my Mother and Father were born. Along the trade path is where my culture and history becomes un-clear until WWII.
I grew up with dark skin almond eyes, straight jet black hair, but my parents spoke Dutch, and lived a Western European life. My parents, grandparents, and great grand parents lived in the Dutch East Indies which are now known as the Islands of Indonesia.
From what I have read and have been told, the Dutch; like all the other western Europeans, occupied Indonesia for the trade and commodities. The Dutch East India Trading Company was a thriving force, transporting goods from South East Asia to Western Europe. Colonies for the Dutch were built, Indonesians were used as slaves and like any culture occupying a foreign country, races became intertwined. This is where I think, my life and story begins.
My Father was born in the late 1930’s on an island in Indonesia called Sulawesi. My Mother was born in the city of Jakarta. Both parents by this time were already mixed with Eastern European and South East Asian heritage.
From what I have researched, by 1941 shortly after the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor; both my parents were placed in what they called concentration camps. Both of my parents survived the camps and the small war between the Dutch and the Indonesians. The Dutch; war torn by the Germans and the Japanese gave up the Dutch Colonies in Indonesia and in the years following WWII everyone with Dutch heritage were reluctantly allowed to repatriate to the Netherlands by the Dutch Government.
All this is fuzzy to me and finding the truth about what really happened in regards to my family remains unknown, and for my story it doesn’t start until 1972. I was born in a then small city in Orange County California. My first memories began in the home of Richard Nixon, Yorba Linda California.
One of my first memories was when I was in Kindergarten. It was my first day and my Mother dropped me off at Elementary School, drove off and left me there alone. I cried alone wondering what was I supposed to do, but a teacher did find me and I made it through the first day. After which, I remembered walking home alone with a note pinned to my chest from the teacher.
My life continued and it all appeared normal. I remember warm times, running outside to greet my father and carry his briefcase in. Sitting on his lap and watching television. The smell of scotch, cigarettes and his deodorant was normal to me and it felt like home. The language in the home was a combination of English and Dutch. Slang words in Dutch, but they always spoke to me in English.
Food was an entirely different world; we ate Asian food. Rice was always on the menu accompanied with beef, pork, chicken and fish always made in an Asian style. Noodles, peanut sauce, tofu, beef tongue, sambal, (an Asian hot sauce always home made in the kitchen by my mom) and fish. I hate fish.
This is where my con-fucking-fusing life starts to come to light. According to my birth certificate, I was classified as a Caucasian, but when I look in the mirror I see brown skin black hair and slanted eyes. This is the late 70’s in a county and town that was ALL white.
One day, I am at the grocery store with my mother; I remember standing outside the store and a perfect stranger who was clearly an adult asked me if I could speak English. I answered yes and he mumbled most likely some racist comments and walked off. Now, this isn’t a story of poor me and how I was discriminated against because of how I looked and was treated, but when your five years old it didn’t help. I understand the plight of all the “non-American” races that are true Americans to this nation and the struggles they have and had to overcome, but this is not about them. This is about my personal experiences and mostly about a world of abuse from my family that I still have to endure to this day.