My Speaker’s Voice

I believe in the JBL speaker in the side pocket of my backpack. With its ability to resist the scorching Jakarta heat or the frigid Connecticut winter nights, blast music through its plastic ridges, and break the silence, my pink and cylindrical speaker is my voice for who I am and what I stand for.

In the fall of 2019, I stepped foot in the place I would call my home for the next four years. I stared at the yellow license plate as the black Nissan faded into the distance. Dragging my two suitcases along the pebbled floor, roaming around in circles, I walked straight into a stampede of students exiting the cafeteria. Stomped on and squashed by the towering students, I noticed the lighter complexion of the forearm pressing against my left cheek. As I recentered my pupils, the flurries of the white skin heading towards the doors augmented, now blowing right past me. Attending schools where every student surrounding me looked exactly like me, I swore that my eyes deceived me.

Two months later, I remained in complete amazement. Having been surrounded all my life by men, women, and children all with the same shade of brown as me, witnessing the pure, white skin captivated my eyes. The glow of the blonde hair of the girl who sat next to me in math, the blue eyes of the star Quarterback, the freckles on my science teacher's face, I couldn't get enough.

Shrugging off the jokes about the tanner color of my skin, the comments about the way I talked, the expressions of disgust when I cooked the food my mother packed in my suitcase,

I wanted to be like them; I tried to be like them.

Growing up in a British school curriculum, worshiping the sounds of Underground British music a la Dave, Stormzy, and Skepta alongside my closest friends, I forced myself to abandon my ties to that genre that many thought of as foreign. Whenever I entered a room full of students hanging out, I reached for my speaker, switching it on, omitting its trademark shuffling sound. Compiling songs from the airport taxi's radio and the featured Top 50 Charts on Spotify, my playlists were queued and ready. But, once the music broke through my speaker, the crowd would disperse soon after. This occurred every time. So eager to impress, I kept trying, taking every opportunity. Opening my fifth time with 5 Seconds of Summers's trending "Easier," cries erupted from students.

"Yo, what is this, man?!" "Who put this man on aux?" "Who likes this type of music?!"

Humiliated. I withdrew myself. From student activities, from dinners, from their presence, I locked myself away. Even after exercising all that effort, submitting to their demeaning acts, I could never be one of them.

Each day after, I glued myself to my speaker. Locating quiet, empty spaces, I would sit and listen to the lyrics of Dave, Stormzy, and Skepta for hours on end. Dave's piano instrumental in "Picture Me," Stormzy's pain-filled voice in "Lessons," and Skepta's soothing afrobeat in "Energy (Stay Far Away)" resonated through the ripping speaker and serenaded my ears. I felt at home. 10,000 miles away. I wanted to go back home.

This was until a group of Seniors approached me, overhearing the music from my speaker. Asking me about the music, telling me to "put them on," I felt valued. My culture extended beyond me and shed onto others for the first time. No longer did I feel the need to become someone else.

My speaker became my voice, blasting my favorite Grime tracks for everyone to hear, sharing what I perceive as my culture and a piece of me from home. A part of me that I dug beneath the ground shot out and planted its roots, spreading through the community. The small cylindrical tube I take everywhere in my bag saved me from becoming someone I was not and could never be; it took a stand for me and made me realize the beauty of my own identity. Like Dave, I recognized that being Southeast Asian was "all I [knew], there ain't a thing that I would change in it."