For as long as I've known him, my teacher has called me names. Offensive, nasty names. Ethnic slurs that are widely considered taboo in the West, only in my case they pertained to white people in China. All I could do is bow my head down and not say anything. Had I objected, or not liked it, well, there was the door.
I'll translate the term as "white boy" but the true meaning as he explained it to me one time was something about the shape of the nose of a white person.
So, I was "White Boy No 1" and Kruger was "White Boy No 2" – the nos 1 and 2 being said in Mandarin and Hokkien interchangeably, while the slur itself remained the same. To this day, I don't think my teacher knows my name.
At times, I was so crushed by it, I wanted to call him something equally nasty. But I never did. I was convinced, deep down in my heart that this man's knowledge of kyara and agarwood, and their many facets as captured in the art of distillation were unequaled. Not to mention that most of what I knew about oud I had learned from him. If I wanted to undo all of what he taught me, I wouldn't be who I am today. So, I was determined to be his student and continue benefiting from my discipleship, in addition to employing his distillery for my oils. I just couldn't let myself allow a racial slur that could simply be ignored get in the way.
I've seen him practically ignore others' requests to teach them about kyara. When another student asked about it once, he turned to me and said, "You show him your kyara if you want. I already showed him the Jayapura."
Yet others – most others – were never let in to begin with. He'd turn to them and say:
"Why have you come?"
"I want to know about kyara and agarwood oil," they would say.
"Oh, I have lots of oil!" was the usual reply. Then he'd signal to his wife to bring a gallon of cooking oil for them to see.
"You don't need to come again," were his standard parting words.
There was a fantastic amount of humiliation you just had to take, or he wouldn't even talk to you. He'd offer tea non-stop to guests, but if they didn't like any of his quirks – much of the time, even if they did like his quirks – they were just asked to leave and not come back.
My favorite part was when anybody tried to bargain with him. He'd go into a fit, vow to raise his prices from that moment onward, and not even talk to them about agarwood anymore until they finished their cup of tea.
His mother always wondered at me. She couldn't understand how, out of all people, White Boy No 1 was able to just sit there and stick around. The secret was in enduring his temper, accepting his taunts, slurs, jibes, and whatever else he felt like trying me with.
Here's a picture of a distillation, sent from the distillery some time back. The English translation was done by his nephew, the Chinese is my teacher's handwriting. The Chinese reads: "Beautiful woman's Sri Lanka." The translation substitutes my official name of "No 1" in place of "beautiful woman". The best part? The oil is not even Sri Lankan. It is Cambodian. What he means to say by calling it "Sri Lanka" is that the oil is not worthy of bearing the name Cambodia. In addition to me – the producer – being called a "beautiful woman" for making it…
I'll translate the term as "white boy" but the true meaning as he explained it to me one time was something about the shape of the nose of a white person.
So, I was "White Boy No 1" and Kruger was "White Boy No 2" – the nos 1 and 2 being said in Mandarin and Hokkien interchangeably, while the slur itself remained the same. To this day, I don't think my teacher knows my name.
At times, I was so crushed by it, I wanted to call him something equally nasty. But I never did. I was convinced, deep down in my heart that this man's knowledge of kyara and agarwood, and their many facets as captured in the art of distillation were unequaled. Not to mention that most of what I knew about oud I had learned from him. If I wanted to undo all of what he taught me, I wouldn't be who I am today. So, I was determined to be his student and continue benefiting from my discipleship, in addition to employing his distillery for my oils. I just couldn't let myself allow a racial slur that could simply be ignored get in the way.
I've seen him practically ignore others' requests to teach them about kyara. When another student asked about it once, he turned to me and said, "You show him your kyara if you want. I already showed him the Jayapura."
Yet others – most others – were never let in to begin with. He'd turn to them and say:
"Why have you come?"
"I want to know about kyara and agarwood oil," they would say.
"Oh, I have lots of oil!" was the usual reply. Then he'd signal to his wife to bring a gallon of cooking oil for them to see.
"You don't need to come again," were his standard parting words.
There was a fantastic amount of humiliation you just had to take, or he wouldn't even talk to you. He'd offer tea non-stop to guests, but if they didn't like any of his quirks – much of the time, even if they did like his quirks – they were just asked to leave and not come back.
My favorite part was when anybody tried to bargain with him. He'd go into a fit, vow to raise his prices from that moment onward, and not even talk to them about agarwood anymore until they finished their cup of tea.
His mother always wondered at me. She couldn't understand how, out of all people, White Boy No 1 was able to just sit there and stick around. The secret was in enduring his temper, accepting his taunts, slurs, jibes, and whatever else he felt like trying me with.
Here's a picture of a distillation, sent from the distillery some time back. The English translation was done by his nephew, the Chinese is my teacher's handwriting. The Chinese reads: "Beautiful woman's Sri Lanka." The translation substitutes my official name of "No 1" in place of "beautiful woman". The best part? The oil is not even Sri Lankan. It is Cambodian. What he means to say by calling it "Sri Lanka" is that the oil is not worthy of bearing the name Cambodia. In addition to me – the producer – being called a "beautiful woman" for making it…
