Without Clucking Like a Hen

I have a lot of names in Indonesia. In school, I’m Miss Polly. When I’m walking down the street and I hear “Miss Polly!” from a passing mini-bus, there’s guaranteed to be a student in white button-down and blue tie waving from a window. Ely and Ester call me Pol, as in “Hello? Anyone home? Pol?” when they show up at my front door unannounced. Adults I pass in the street shout out either “Mister!” or “Miss!” depending on how much high school English they remember. Children are the boldest, of course: they follow me laughing and yelling “Bule!” White person! 

Yesterday I put on my little brother’s hand-me-down Red Sox cap and walked to the local supermarket in the afternoon drizzle. Sometimes I imagine a hat and sunglasses will keep passing drivers from noticing I’m a bule. Except Indonesians don’t wear hats or sunglasses.

As I walked into the crowded store, an employee in a bright orange uniform announced into the PA system “Look! A white person just came in.” I smiled, gave a little wave and walked past him as he called “Mister, mister!” While I was comparing water bowls for Louisa—can puppies get lead poisoning from metal dishes?—the employee approached me again, without microphone this time. We had a typical and brief conversation; where are you from, how long have you been here, where do you live and so on. As soon as we’d finished talking, he pulled the mic out of his pocket and started talking into it like a game show host: “Here is Mister Polly Furth from America!” I half-smiled, half-shrugged and walked away.

And the man followed. He followed me down the fruit aisle and up the drink aisle and past the cereal, peppering me with questions and hamming it up into the microphone. I picked up instant noodles; he chattered at my shoulder. While I was debating various brands of instant coffee, he thrust the mic in front of my nose. And I snapped: “I do not want to talk. I am trying to shop.” He laughed; I marched to the checkout, pointlessly indignant.

On the walk home, I couldn’t get the song Mr. Cellophane out of my head:

Cellophane
Mister Cellophane
Shoulda been my name
Mister Cellophane
'Cause you can look right through me
Walk right by me
And never know I'm there.