You’ve probably read my father’s and mother’s stories here, and maybe the introduction to these autobiographies. I’m not one for big autobiographies of my own, but I’ll give you a little background in how I grew up being an Indo.
I was the first generation American of my family. I was born in Fort Wayne, Indiana. Before starting school, I spoke Dutch and Indonesian. I loved the chocolate sprinkles on my bread, and I can remember shadow puppets in frames in our house. My grandmother spoiled me rotten, and I remember my grandfather as stoic. With the exception of my father, my family was from my mother’s side. Her name was Irma Sara Huster, with sisters Margareth and Ruth. My grandfather’s name was John Veenstra, and my grandmother’s name was Rosa T. Veenstra. There was a huge extended family, including cousins, great-uncles and great-aunts.
I can’t tell you as much about my father’s (Heinrich Paul Huster) side of the family. My grandfather was Ferdinand Johann Adolph Huster, and he died as a prisoner of war. It’s embarrassing but I can’t remember my grandmother’s name off the top of my head. If I do, I’ll edit this post later (it’s Walda). My father had 5 or 6 brothers, and an adopted sister who lived with my grandmother in Indonesia. I can remember one uncle nicknamed (and I’m not sure of the spelling here but) Puck, who lived in Canada. My family is spread across the world. Many lived here in the US, but many more lived in The Netherlands, Indonesia, and Canada. Who knows where else. Maybe someday I can piece together some geneological information. I’m sure there are records in The Netherlands, but many of the records in Indonesia were destroyed during WWII.
We were a middle class family, which was pretty good considering my family lost almost everything during WWII. My first day in kindergarten set the scene for the rest of my life. I was very excited to go to school with the other kids in the neighborhood. Here’s where it gets not so much fun. Our teacher sat us down in a circle and asked all our names. Back then I went by John, which is my legal name. Anyway, the teacher asked us all what we had for breakfast. Hands went up. Some kids had cereal, others toast, eggs, all the usual stuff. When it was my turn, I answered in Dutch, “brood met kaas.”
I was called retarded, made fun of, and laughed at, all on the spot. That was literally the last time I spoke Dutch in school. After that, over the years, my Dutch began eroding, to the point where I can understand it conversationally, but I can’t speak it, or read and write it. I’m still trying to relearn Dutch, trying some tutorial programs, but to read Dutch, I have to rely on translation services like WorldLingo. After 40 years, I’m frustrated and angry that I lost my ability to “talk” fluent Dutch.
Now growing up in 1960′s Indiana, you were either white, black, or Chinese. If you were from the middle east, you were called Chinese. If you were from India, you were Chinese. Basically, if you weren’t white or black, you were Chinese. Well I damn well knew I wasn’t Chinese, so I constantly would get into fights, then go home upset and not be able to explain to my parents what had happened. Establishing yourself as an Indo, trying to explain what a Dutch-Indonesian was, is pretty difficult when you’re 7 years old. Frankly, over the years, it really hasn’t gotten much easier. Filipinos, Koreans, Chinese, you name it, they all know I’m not white, but couldn’t figure out what the heck I am. You can lose your language skills, but there’s no hiding your race.
Here’s how the conversation usually goes.
“What nationality are you?”
“American”
“No, what I mean is, where are you from?”
“Indiana.” (To many, a foreign land unto itself.)
In this politically correct country, nobody has the guts to ask me what race or culture I am. Don’t ask me the right question, you’re going to get answers you don’t want.
Oddly enough, over time, white folks tend to take me as white, while growing up at one point, my best friend was black, and his family treated me like one of the family. Guess when you don’t fit in, people squeeze you into the place they best understand you. Round peg, square hole, as it were.
Where was I? Oh yeah. As my Dutch degraded, I started corrupting my parents. They learned what a taco was, and started saying, “Oh gross.” This is a story unto itself, and I’ll probably tell it here sometime, but I once was asked what “screwed” meant. Fortunately, at age 9, nobody expects an answer anyway. I’ll have to tell you sometime how I knew what “screw” meant at age 9. Wasn’t my fault, I was minding my own business, and…well, like I said, I’ll save that for another time.
Believe it or not, but growing up, we had another Indo family as neighbors. With one evil neighbor behind us, I’m sure they were thinking that all of us Indo’s were dropping property values. I’m pretty sure my family fully expected I’d marry the neighbor girl who was my age (who had translated to the teacher what “brood met kaas” was when I was in kindergarten.).
So, long story short, I grew up surrounded by Indo’s and the Dutch so I never lost touch with that community growing up. Michigan is north of Indiana, and just crammed full of the Dutch, so when I visited up there, they knew exactly what I was, and where I came from on sight.
Now, my family is gone, and after moving to Washington state, there isn’t a huge Dutch population centered anywhere. I’m hearing there’s some Indo’s here since someone contacted me on this blog, but again, not a real grouped community. A lot of Koreans here, but just a sprinkling of “my people.” A lot of Koreans. Did I mention that?
So there’s a sort of slapped together history of who I am. And yes, “it’s Jack now, kus mijn bodem.”
And that’s why this site is named Brood met Kaas. Revenge for kindergarten.
Now I’m going to go have some bread with chocolate sprinkles.
