In my right hand are two plastic-wrapped pieces of roti naan, heated from frozen in vegetable oil and spread thinly with palm-oil free, sugar-free, nothing-but-nuts-and-salt peanut butter, a rarity in these parts and a delicacy whose value I can't but acknowledge. This is the last bit of my dinner, the follow-up to an egg-vegetable-garlic scramble that I pulled together from the remainders of last week's grocery trip; in an effort to conserve money and clean out the fridge before my upcoming trip to Indonesia, I've landed on creativity and breakfast for dinner. I walk with speed but full alertness, circumventing the holes in the sidewalk that drop precipitously to the dark, murky waters of the open sewage system, sidestepping the occasional metal cover that my sandals, I know, won't quite grip, pausing just before the tree whose roots hide a red ants nest to wait for passing and parking traffic to settle, pinpointing the men I know cat-call and picking a jalan jalan path that considers both road danger and personal dignity. I feel eyes peeling from my body as I slip through a crowded patch. Young Chinese** teenagers pull at each other, wide-eyed. One nearly collides with me, and I hear the giggles bubble from behind as the sounds of evening call to prayer begin to rise in front. It's a soothing, gentle sound, the call to prayer, and it calms the jostling air around me. I scan to the left—a blind corner and a thin sidewalk. There is less traffic, though. Safer than the following turn, constant host of cars that bear down, and down, and down. I make the call, but pause between two parked cars for a brief moment. I see a headlight. I know the speed with which people often park here. I know the road logic, now. I am small; I am not to be looked for; I am to do the looking, all. I wait between the fender and the bumper. The two protect me; none can park here.
I'm right. She speeds into the open spot.
The sky blinks white light. The whole sky. It just blinks, quickly, like a wink. The flash startles me, but in a pleasant way. No clear bolts tonight, just a dissolved energy and a saturated atmosphere, then nothing. Blackness polluted by soft yellow street lights, sharp rising lampu-lampu restoran. Two turns more and I am inside.
I watch from the corner of my eye as the woman with fat red caterpillars on her slippers (they sit where the strap makes a Y whose stem is grounded in the sole of the shoe) watches me. Her eyes are burning my side as I try to write, and I turn to look her in the eyes. "Hello," I say. She has an asymmetrical haircut—a bob with a chunk on the front of the right side, about one-quarter of her total haircut, that is two inches longer than the rest, cut diagonally so that the longest strand curves to meet her chin. The hair is a dyed auburn red, like an old, oxidized penny. She blinks away an embarrassed gleam and a quick smile runs over her lips before she drops her eyes to the blinking screen in her hand.
I turn back to my writing of memories from earlier in the day:
I have successfully taught my action song kids the difference between a half step and a whole step, and they seem to understand both conceptually and in practice. After practice, we make a team huddle, their first, it seems. I can feel the energy purify. Joy, simple and unfiltered. They fall into giggles afterward. "Again, again!" During our goodbyes, they insist on salaaming me, making me hold my high-five until they have done so. One person yells, "I love you, Miss Sara!," and they're off, all shouting confessions of love, without a trace of a giggle. It feels pure, too. Their eyes are clear and happy. They leave.
My choral speakers, the third that shows up, are sitting in a circle when I return from the bathroom. They're practicing. I hear them before I see them, and my heart lights up. They sound wonderful. I watch, now; I do not think to interrupt. It's perfect, this moment, as I watch them lead each other, collaborate, seamlessly fill in solos for those absent, point to each other to take over bits that need taken over. Fluid, seamless, no need for a director. Beautiful.
The medical assistant emerges from behind a light-brown door and nods in my direction. "Sara Lynn." I walk through and lay down and grit my teeth for the wound cleaning. I focus my mind on the texture of the day and let the pain just be pain, a sensation I do not own. The doctor asks about my travel plans and teaches me how to take care of the wound, myself. I note his words carefully.
I exit the room, nodding to the woman who now nods in return. She rises, brushing past me as I walk to the next door and reach for the knob. This one connects to the outside world. I scan, right, left, and step, one foot after the other into the night. A horn honks in the distance.
*Note: My word sketches are brief portraits from daily life, brief attempts at describing the textures of my day-to-day in Malaysia/abroad.
**Society in Malaysia is incredibly racialized, and ethnic background is deeply tied to religious culture, which in turn (and in combination with other cultural markers) heavily dictates how people interact with one another, dress, speak, and even eat. It also influences where people live and play, and most people here conceptualize themselves and one another in very explicit ethnic/religious terms. Sociologically fascinating. FMI, send me an email. :)
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