Yesterday we lost Margaret “Maggie” Agusta, a trainer and mentor at The Jakarta Post and a great supporter of the women’s rights movements whose powerful and honest essays on Magdalene have touched the hearts of many. To honor her memory, our music columnist Fajar Zakhri wrote this essay and poems.
For better or worse, I’ve always harbored a nonchalant attitude toward death. The way I see it is it’s a trivial fact of life: just as people get born, people also come to pass. But as was the case with my high school paramour, the passing of Maggie Agusta had me more than a little gobsmacked. The first time proper – which, as fate would have it, proved to be the last – I had the honor of sitting down and spending some time with her was a little over a year ago when she and her son Paul hosted me and a group of friends in their residence.
We had a lively chat, with Maggie naturally acting as the sage matron. Over the course of two hours, I felt genuinely blessed just being in her presence, acquiring new knowledge along the way that ranged from the throwaway (apparently you burn calories instead of stacking them when consuming plain, unflavored popcorn) to the profound (as it turns out, the chemicals in your body only begin to, proverbially speaking, settle down past the age of 25 – as Maggie relayed this piece of information, it’s as if a lightbulb went over my head. This was the explanation I’d so desperately needed as to why it felt like my system was turbulently coming to terms with many things in my life as soon as, and after, I’d hit 26).
Maggie’s gentle, tender manner of speaking, coupled with her vast, steady stream of lore so generously imparted to us wide-eyed millennials over mouth-watering oatmeal cookies, endeared to me greatly.
“It’s like paying a visit to our grandma’s,” joked a friend who tagged along after the enlightening jaunt. Except that most of us who were there most likely lacked the grandma figure in our lives, let alone someone like Maggie. I never had much of a relationship with my own grandmas prior to their respective passing, and despite the myriad women in my extended family, I doubt any of them would hold a candle to Maggie’s ASMR-inducing demeanor and unassuming grace, and most of all, her wit.
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Margaret “Maggie” Agusta at Women's March 2017. Photo from Maggie's Instagram
I was both nervous and excited to meet Maggie that day, partly because coming to someone’s house is always nerve-racking and partly because of her essay on being a parent to a gay child. My lifelong rocky relationship with my own mother means that the rift between her and I is so enormous that I know for sure despite being otherwise out, my mother will most probably never come to terms with my gayness even if she repeatedly lets me know that she loves me and all that performative, motherly jazz. Which is fine. I’ve personally made peace with the fact that not every parent-child relationship is meant to be all sunshine and flowers.
That said, I’ve always been intrigued by seemingly bright and flowery parent-child relationships, especially when gayness is thrown into the mix. Having your parents be okay with your being gay is one thing, but having them not only accept but also live with your same-sex spouse and take him as one of their own the way that Maggie and her also-departed husband Leon did is a level of acceptance that so many gay folks in Indonesia and beyond would typically chalk up to nothing but wishful thinking.
That rainy afternoon, this was the scene that played out before my very eyes, leaving me fascinated and moved in equal measure. I remember reckoning that Paul must have also owed his fine skills as an actor and filmmaker to his upbringing in the type of household that encourages honesty and openness, one that makes perfect sense to have laid the groundwork for someone who would go on to craft possibly the most important gay-themed film in the history of Indonesian cinema.
I had met Maggie and Paul at Women’s March shortly before I visited them at home. I will fail to accurately recall the words of encouragement she uttered to my friends and I as we exchanged pleasantries and whatnot, but I will never forget the look on her face as she scanned us in our most outlandish, queer get-ups (for one, I had a skirt, combat boots and red hair on), perhaps feeling moved herself at the sight of these youngsters being their authentic selves while demanding to be seen and heard as such, all in the sweltering afternoon heat.
I felt her compassion, but most of all, I felt her pride. I may not have been part of her bloodline, but those two afternoons, she was most definitely the maternal figure I’d never quite realized I needed in my life.
With these memories in mind, I figured there was no better way to honor Maggie than by posting the two poems that are more or less retellings of the home visit and the visceral impact that ensued, on the very website that she always championed.
Thank you for your words, Maggie. Here are mine to you in return.
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Smoking Weed
Last night I smoked weed for the first time
Told you I was close to getting high
But not all the way high
And it's true I laughed a lot
In my dreams I laughed even more
Probably laughing at life
And all the stupid games that account for
Our struggle and strife
In the pursuit of meaning
When maybe none of this
Means anything at all
Earlier that day I met somebody wise
Who talked to me about life
Imparted her wisdom and insight
To my anxious heart and troubled mind
It was cosmic how one thing led to another
She suggested taking it slow
Whenever I think about going faster
At full speed there's no room to breathe
Much less space to grow
In the space of two hours
She taught me all there was to know
About rules and obligations
Trials and tribulations
How to avoid the error
When we punish ourselves
For mistakes we made in our youth
And how our youth
Lasts longer than we think it should
So when we think "I should"
Retort with "Well who says that?"
Maybe that's how
We'll get our common sense back
This morning I was thinking about
How much I depend on the validation of others
To give me a pass
And determine my worth
How life's big lessons get forgotten
In the thick of the moment
Can't see the bigger picture
It's images and projections
That reflect not who you are
But what you become
When you're forsaken
Amid the mounting demand
You're trying to understand
When you're wearing thin
You no longer care
Whether surrendering is a sin
Another day you'll atone
But right now you're just stoned
I felt her compassion, but most of all, I felt her pride. I may not have been part of her bloodline, but those two afternoons, she was most definitely the maternal figure I’d never quite realized I needed in my life.
Chemically Settled
Somebody told me past the age of 25
Physiologically you start settling down
And beforehand the chemicals in your brain
Were in constant turmoil
Coming into their senses
Realizing the perils
Of adulthood
With the type of attitude
Best described as stolid
And sometimes I might as well be 16
Preoccupied with matters no longer valid
Like how my psyche is supposed to develop
And why mind is enveloped
In letters so trivial
Rendering the blank spaces emotional
I am terrified by the absence
Of the fire that used to be burning
Now I am disenchanted
By the mere thought of trying
And if I am cooling
I might as well turn cold
The faith I’m losing
I trade it with hope
That comes and goes as it pleases
I’m no longer won over by wishes
Or doomed with self-lacerating
It’s only my will depleting
Does this mean I’ve stopped growing
And I would tell you I want to make a living
Enticing the crowd with words and sounds
Making them sympathize and perhaps cry
That’s how my success is defined
Seeing new shades in well-worn hues
Distilling the red from the brewed blues
That’s the kind of life I would choose
And I would tell you I’m willing to work for it
Until boredom creeps into the blank spaces again
Throwing me out dejected
From moments of stillness
I would crave the hustle and bustle
And feast on scraps of pain
I would bow out of pressure
And cave in to mistaken graces
Though somehow someway I would still try
To make them understand
Draping accoutrements
All over the mundane
Sharing a self-baked cake
In tiny little bites
Hoping you’ll munch on it
And digest it to your mind
Hoping it tastes good enough
Hoping I am good enough
Hoping my mind settles down
And still learns not to give out
Read Fajar’s review on Anggun’s post-natal elevation.
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