Fathering a Minang Matriarchy
Hana Miller, The Jakarta Post - WEEKENDER | Tue, 03/24/2009 3:31 PM |
Hana Miller’s maternal line is descended from the Minangkabau people of West Sumatra, famed for its matrilineal kinship system. Here, she looks at her own experiences to explain how that plays out in everyday terms.
The first thing that most anthropologists like to set straight about West Sumatra’s Minangkabau culture is that it is matrilineal and not matriarchal. In other words, while family assets such as land and property are passed down through the mother’s lineage, the patriarch remains the main authority of the house and is responsible for the welfare of the family. But we all know men who surrender and refer to their wives as “the boss”, and let’s face it: it’s funny because it’s true.
The Minang half of my family is a living example of why people confuse matrilineality with matriarchy. While my aunts are all breadwinners, three of my four uncles have committed much of their lives to support, “serve and protect” my grandmother, the family’s indisputable matriarch.
When the Indonesian half of my family comes over on the weekends, there are certain things guaranteed to happen. My grandmother, Oma, will sit as far away from my grandfather, Kakek, as possible. My mother will sit at the head of the table. Everyone else will get all shy about sitting next to my bule father, and so that’s where I usually sit. And then, as plates and platters are served on the table, we all forget about our seating arrangements and dive into a sambal-lathered feast of Padang favorites. You know it’s a good meal when it ends with half of the people at the table wiping sweat off their foreheads and the others loosening their belts.
What usually follows is a cup of coffee and an off-the-cuff group discussion facilitated by my mother and aunts. Last time they barraged one of my uncles about his need to get serious and find a wife. He had to smile through the process and my father’s input – “Leave him alone! He doesn’t need a wife” – was quickly dismissed.
Meanwhile my other single uncles had conveniently snuck away to smoke or to pray. As usual when Kakek has gotten bored with the conversation, he wandered off to find a soccer game to watch on TV. Soon after he’s left the table, Oma will do her thing and go into story mode, more often than not slipping in the odd critical comment about her marriage.
My grandparents got divorced in 1961 after having seven kids together, four boys and three girls. A few years later, Oma ordered (yes, ordered!) Kakek to marry her sister, who was a single mother at the time. They never had any kids together. My grandma, who grew up in a small village near Bukittinggi in West Sumatra and was the eldest of three sisters, moved to Jakarta in 1973 with her youngest son. Several years later, Kakek and Oma’s sister moved nearby so that the sisters could be close in their old age. A few years ago Oma’s sister, who was also my step-grandmother, passed away.
I’ve never heard Kakek say a negative word about Oma. When I once asked him to write me his “life story”, he graciously wrote: “In 1946 I got married, as a matter of good fate, with a woman from a different upbringing.”
As the son of a cobbler, he worked hard to climb the social ladder by joining the military and eventually working as a surveyor, earning his right to marry my grandmother, a woman educated in a Dutch high school, the eldest descendant from a royal Minang blood line, and a star among villagers and soldiers for her performance in plays and published poems.
What Kakek didn’t tell me was that he didn’t attend his own wedding. It was just a few months into the national war for independence and my grandfather was in another part of Sumatra looking for work, so his best friend stood in for the ceremony. This was not unusual in those days apparently, when food and fuel shortages were common, but to me it is a fact exclusive to my grandparents and their unconventional relationship.
A few weeks after my grandmother’s sister died, Oma called my mother in tears. She was worried that my grandfather didn’t have anyone to look after him and that he wasn’t eating well. It was a telling moment, revealing who she really thought needed looking after. Soon after, my eldest uncle, who had been living with my grandmother along with two of her other sons, was conveniently moved in with Kakek. Oma, who has always been in the good care of her many children, was sharing the love.
That isn’t to say that my grandfather was neglected by his children, or that they were neglected by him. If I wanted to know how any one of my aunts or uncles did in school as children, Kakek would be the one to ask. Apparently, he rewarded kids for getting good grades by taking them out for nasi bungkus, a treat worth working for at the time. My mother also fondly remembers being awoken every morning with a cold wet kiss on her forehead, which my grandfather planted on each one of his children after washing with cold water for his early morning prayers.
These days, however, my grandfather mostly stays out of group discussions. Last time we had a gathering, after he finished eating his gado-gado he interrupted the noisy group of children and grandchildren to ask, “So what is the occasion anyway?” He likes things to be clear, straightforward and organized. To him, life should be serious, disciplined and structured. As a man who tried to support a family while his country was trying to support itself, these are far-reaching values.
When I asked him recently whether he had anything more to add to his “life story”, he boldly sidestepped the question and took the opportunity to tell me, “I just pray that you take life seriously.”
To me this was the advice of one generation to another. To him I am probably very much my grandmother’s granddaughter, having just a bit too much of a good time in my life.
I have a recording of a conversation with Oma in which she weaves together anecdotes about her life: The time she unintentionally gave her little sister a terrible haircut and hid the clippings under the carpet, how people came to her to prophesize winning lottery numbers, stories she made up and told us as kids about princesses and village simpletons.
At one point, between laughs, she pauses and says, “You know, my life was hard and unhappy” and you can hear my mother and I both burst out laughing in the background. It’s an inside joke I guess. We all know that she’s a bit of a drama queen. That was why my grandfather married her after all. I guess he knew what he was getting himself into.
The first thing that most anthropologists like to set straight about West Sumatra’s Minangkabau culture is that it is matrilineal and not matriarchal. In other words, while family assets such as land and property are passed down through the mother’s lineage, the patriarch remains the main authority of the house and is responsible for the welfare of the family. But we all know men who surrender and refer to their wives as “the boss”, and let’s face it: it’s funny because it’s true.
The Minang half of my family is a living example of why people confuse matrilineality with matriarchy. While my aunts are all breadwinners, three of my four uncles have committed much of their lives to support, “serve and protect” my grandmother, the family’s indisputable matriarch.
When the Indonesian half of my family comes over on the weekends, there are certain things guaranteed to happen. My grandmother, Oma, will sit as far away from my grandfather, Kakek, as possible. My mother will sit at the head of the table. Everyone else will get all shy about sitting next to my bule father, and so that’s where I usually sit. And then, as plates and platters are served on the table, we all forget about our seating arrangements and dive into a sambal-lathered feast of Padang favorites. You know it’s a good meal when it ends with half of the people at the table wiping sweat off their foreheads and the others loosening their belts.
What usually follows is a cup of coffee and an off-the-cuff group discussion facilitated by my mother and aunts. Last time they barraged one of my uncles about his need to get serious and find a wife. He had to smile through the process and my father’s input – “Leave him alone! He doesn’t need a wife” – was quickly dismissed.
Meanwhile my other single uncles had conveniently snuck away to smoke or to pray. As usual when Kakek has gotten bored with the conversation, he wandered off to find a soccer game to watch on TV. Soon after he’s left the table, Oma will do her thing and go into story mode, more often than not slipping in the odd critical comment about her marriage.
My grandparents got divorced in 1961 after having seven kids together, four boys and three girls. A few years later, Oma ordered (yes, ordered!) Kakek to marry her sister, who was a single mother at the time. They never had any kids together. My grandma, who grew up in a small village near Bukittinggi in West Sumatra and was the eldest of three sisters, moved to Jakarta in 1973 with her youngest son. Several years later, Kakek and Oma’s sister moved nearby so that the sisters could be close in their old age. A few years ago Oma’s sister, who was also my step-grandmother, passed away.
I’ve never heard Kakek say a negative word about Oma. When I once asked him to write me his “life story”, he graciously wrote: “In 1946 I got married, as a matter of good fate, with a woman from a different upbringing.”
As the son of a cobbler, he worked hard to climb the social ladder by joining the military and eventually working as a surveyor, earning his right to marry my grandmother, a woman educated in a Dutch high school, the eldest descendant from a royal Minang blood line, and a star among villagers and soldiers for her performance in plays and published poems.
What Kakek didn’t tell me was that he didn’t attend his own wedding. It was just a few months into the national war for independence and my grandfather was in another part of Sumatra looking for work, so his best friend stood in for the ceremony. This was not unusual in those days apparently, when food and fuel shortages were common, but to me it is a fact exclusive to my grandparents and their unconventional relationship.
A few weeks after my grandmother’s sister died, Oma called my mother in tears. She was worried that my grandfather didn’t have anyone to look after him and that he wasn’t eating well. It was a telling moment, revealing who she really thought needed looking after. Soon after, my eldest uncle, who had been living with my grandmother along with two of her other sons, was conveniently moved in with Kakek. Oma, who has always been in the good care of her many children, was sharing the love.
That isn’t to say that my grandfather was neglected by his children, or that they were neglected by him. If I wanted to know how any one of my aunts or uncles did in school as children, Kakek would be the one to ask. Apparently, he rewarded kids for getting good grades by taking them out for nasi bungkus, a treat worth working for at the time. My mother also fondly remembers being awoken every morning with a cold wet kiss on her forehead, which my grandfather planted on each one of his children after washing with cold water for his early morning prayers.
These days, however, my grandfather mostly stays out of group discussions. Last time we had a gathering, after he finished eating his gado-gado he interrupted the noisy group of children and grandchildren to ask, “So what is the occasion anyway?” He likes things to be clear, straightforward and organized. To him, life should be serious, disciplined and structured. As a man who tried to support a family while his country was trying to support itself, these are far-reaching values.
When I asked him recently whether he had anything more to add to his “life story”, he boldly sidestepped the question and took the opportunity to tell me, “I just pray that you take life seriously.”
To me this was the advice of one generation to another. To him I am probably very much my grandmother’s granddaughter, having just a bit too much of a good time in my life.
I have a recording of a conversation with Oma in which she weaves together anecdotes about her life: The time she unintentionally gave her little sister a terrible haircut and hid the clippings under the carpet, how people came to her to prophesize winning lottery numbers, stories she made up and told us as kids about princesses and village simpletons.
At one point, between laughs, she pauses and says, “You know, my life was hard and unhappy” and you can hear my mother and I both burst out laughing in the background. It’s an inside joke I guess. We all know that she’s a bit of a drama queen. That was why my grandfather married her after all. I guess he knew what he was getting himself into.
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