Face value
Broto Dharma | Wed, 05/20/2009 3:43 PM |
Discretion used to be the better part of valor, but not anymore, at least on the airwaves. For a society that values our privacy and keeping unpleasant secrets from public view, we have embraced reality TV in a big way.
One of the most popular shows today has a sleuthing duo who help clients discover the cheating ways of the love of their life, or a long-lost parent. A new show, hosted by former heart-throb Anjasmara, crosses into the anything-goes style of US talk show host Jerry Springer in the 1990s, with people opening up their hearts and then taking a few swings at the other guests on the show.
Inscrutable no more, we have joined this crass and brash world of ours. Let’s wash that dirty linen in public, for the dirtier it is – torn, faded and stained with suspicious substances – the better the prurient spectacle for us at home.
Away from the reality TV obsession, we keep up appearances and show our best face to the world. For those of us living in ultra-competitive Jakarta, that often means blurring the line between truth and reality, or even creating a whole new persona in the effort to fit in.
A few months ago I met Ferdy, someone I had heard a lot about for his cultural preservation efforts. Don’t take my word for it – he, it turns out, will tell you himself ad infinitum. If Daffyd from Little Britain is the only gay in the village, Ferdy, according to Ferdy, may be the only true cultural lover in these parts.
He is not alone with his personality cult of one. At breakfast recently, a friend from out of town related meeting a mutual acquaintance, “Sara”. We both started giggling when it turned out our experiences were almost identical. Sara’s favorite topic of conversations are 1) how she drank herself into oblivion the night before and 2) her fun game of polo over the weekend – delivered with a “dahlink” or two and a searching gaze for her next conquests.
I’m a lot of things, and some of them are not pleasant, but I’m proud to say that I am not exceedingly pretentious. I really have no time for airs and graces, the pretending to be something we are not. I also giggle inside when I see people put on pedestals or others standing on ceremony simply because of someone’s name or inheritance.
Travel back two generations on both sides of my own family and there is a steam-engine driver and factory worker to be found. Fortunately, educational scholarships gave both my parents opportunities, and afforded me and my siblings a relatively privileged upbringing.
In my line of work, I often meet celebrities. Someone I know once accused me of getting a high from meeting them – of basically being a star ****** – but I really don’t. I find their stories interesting, just as I do the taxi driver or the hotel workers that I also encounter frequently. The famous are just like regular folk – some are friendly and genuine, others neurotic and a few are real pieces of work. And, like us, they also have to don the masks society requires of them to get by.
I also believe that those masks – whether in the form of carrying the latest popular tote or waxing on about ourselves and our accomplishments – are just our attempt to be accepted. Deep down, beneath all of our careful personal image-making, most of are the fat kid afraid to be the last one picked for the team.
Years ago, I was introduced to a famous journalist who, probably because I was younger than her and a no-name, treated me with disdain. Turns out I was not the first or last to suffer the cold-shoulder treatment. After knowing a little bit more about her background, I surmise that her notoriously dismissive ways (unless you are someone who can help her career) probably mask her own insecurity.
But there are some who cannot wear masks. I often saw “Ardi” at events around town, a young man who always stood out from the crowd through his ultra-fashionable, effeminate attire. His flamboyant appearance was too threatening for me, and I never bothered to get to know him.
I read recently that he died suddenly. His mother told of how she would walk behind him in a public place, and see how people mocked him. I felt sad at his death, and also guilty at my own shallowness for not wanting to know him. Just like Ferdy and Sara, I’m still wearing my own masks, still keeping up appearances. I also know that Ardi was a braver and probably freer man than I’ll ever be. + Broto Dharma
One of the most popular shows today has a sleuthing duo who help clients discover the cheating ways of the love of their life, or a long-lost parent. A new show, hosted by former heart-throb Anjasmara, crosses into the anything-goes style of US talk show host Jerry Springer in the 1990s, with people opening up their hearts and then taking a few swings at the other guests on the show.
Inscrutable no more, we have joined this crass and brash world of ours. Let’s wash that dirty linen in public, for the dirtier it is – torn, faded and stained with suspicious substances – the better the prurient spectacle for us at home.
Away from the reality TV obsession, we keep up appearances and show our best face to the world. For those of us living in ultra-competitive Jakarta, that often means blurring the line between truth and reality, or even creating a whole new persona in the effort to fit in.
A few months ago I met Ferdy, someone I had heard a lot about for his cultural preservation efforts. Don’t take my word for it – he, it turns out, will tell you himself ad infinitum. If Daffyd from Little Britain is the only gay in the village, Ferdy, according to Ferdy, may be the only true cultural lover in these parts.
He is not alone with his personality cult of one. At breakfast recently, a friend from out of town related meeting a mutual acquaintance, “Sara”. We both started giggling when it turned out our experiences were almost identical. Sara’s favorite topic of conversations are 1) how she drank herself into oblivion the night before and 2) her fun game of polo over the weekend – delivered with a “dahlink” or two and a searching gaze for her next conquests.
I’m a lot of things, and some of them are not pleasant, but I’m proud to say that I am not exceedingly pretentious. I really have no time for airs and graces, the pretending to be something we are not. I also giggle inside when I see people put on pedestals or others standing on ceremony simply because of someone’s name or inheritance.
Travel back two generations on both sides of my own family and there is a steam-engine driver and factory worker to be found. Fortunately, educational scholarships gave both my parents opportunities, and afforded me and my siblings a relatively privileged upbringing.
In my line of work, I often meet celebrities. Someone I know once accused me of getting a high from meeting them – of basically being a star ****** – but I really don’t. I find their stories interesting, just as I do the taxi driver or the hotel workers that I also encounter frequently. The famous are just like regular folk – some are friendly and genuine, others neurotic and a few are real pieces of work. And, like us, they also have to don the masks society requires of them to get by.
I also believe that those masks – whether in the form of carrying the latest popular tote or waxing on about ourselves and our accomplishments – are just our attempt to be accepted. Deep down, beneath all of our careful personal image-making, most of are the fat kid afraid to be the last one picked for the team.
Years ago, I was introduced to a famous journalist who, probably because I was younger than her and a no-name, treated me with disdain. Turns out I was not the first or last to suffer the cold-shoulder treatment. After knowing a little bit more about her background, I surmise that her notoriously dismissive ways (unless you are someone who can help her career) probably mask her own insecurity.
But there are some who cannot wear masks. I often saw “Ardi” at events around town, a young man who always stood out from the crowd through his ultra-fashionable, effeminate attire. His flamboyant appearance was too threatening for me, and I never bothered to get to know him.
I read recently that he died suddenly. His mother told of how she would walk behind him in a public place, and see how people mocked him. I felt sad at his death, and also guilty at my own shallowness for not wanting to know him. Just like Ferdy and Sara, I’m still wearing my own masks, still keeping up appearances. I also know that Ardi was a braver and probably freer man than I’ll ever be. + Broto Dharma
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