Our Son Turns 17!

And We Go to the Circus Do Portugal

Apr 19, 2024

It was the Cinco de Mayo. May 5, 2015… when the tiny-boned, 50-pound Indonesian immigrant boy came squinty-eyed, up from the bowels of the long dark international tunnel in Tom Bradley Terminal at LAX. He was with his “Bou Ani” (his father Nanda’s younger sister, therefore his “aunt” in Indonesian), pulling his navy blue trolley suitcase that looked far bigger than he was. It and he were an awkward “misfit” there at LAX, arriving on a Mexican holiday, rather than on an Indonesian one, since he was born and raised in Medan, Sumatra, just like his “Bou”, my wife, Surya. He was eight years old, looking fragile and overwhelmed - at the first day of the rest of his life… in America.

No, that’s not Exsel (his given Indonesian name) at LAX. But it is him at Santa Monica Beach, a few days after arriving.

My friends tell me that I was lucky,

You got him at eight, dude. You missed the diaper rash and the all-night baby crying. The best years are always the ones just before adolescence, from eight to thirteen. Enjoy it while you can.

A congratulations? Or a warning?

What did I know? Not only was I a first-time husband at 54 years young, but now I was going to be a first-time father at 69!

I think I’ve written about “the master plan” before. About the idea of bringing Exsel to LA. (But damn, I can’t find it on this Substack.)

Anyway, it originated around 2014 with Anna, Surya’s youngest sister (of four), back in Medan, Sumatra, where Anna was living with her own family of four, her single mom, and her older brother’s family of six - which included Exsel, his mom and dad, and his two brothers, one two years older, Felix, and the other, Pudan, two years younger. They were all living in this stolid, three-story 3rd-world house on the corner of a commercial street in the center of town that my father’s inheritance gift helped “procure”. It was a very busy Manalu hive. “Manalu”, that’s the name of the family of the Batak Lake Toba Sumatran tribe from which my wife and son hail. Also, beware, when you visit, there are hundreds (maybe thousands?) of Manalus in Medan, birthplace of this tale.

And within this matriarchal tribe, populous family, and busy hive, Exsel was not particularly thriving. He’d get in physical fights with both brothers, all day long, and… being the slightest built of the three boys, he would often take the brunt of the fisticuffs… though not without giving it his scrawny-ass all.

However, all the adults in the Manalu clan were sure that Exsel was the brightest of the three brothers, as well as the most curious, friendliest, most optimistic, funniest, and most flexible.

So one day…. out of the unsuspecting Los Angeles blue, I got to hear these Manalu family thoughts and dreams, all compiled into a single focused thesis, as conceived by Anna, and relayed by telepathic and empathetic conduit, via my clever Manalu wife, Surya (who had herself been waiting years to fulfill the impatient emotional needs of her biologically ticking clock).

It came in the guise of an innocent “conversation” on “the purple couch”, my favorite, in the living room of “Lucretia Gardens”.

But since I really can’t remember whether I’ve already told many of you - all the gory details before - I’ll just cut to the chase and summarize… and then, as my wife says, “move on dot com”.

So… on the purple couch, my dear wife tells me… that… Anna thinks that it would be…..

a good idea if Bou Ani and Pak Trules (that’s me) have Exsel come visit us in LA. For a month.. and hey, while we’re at it… we could JUST LEGALLY ADOPT HIM. As our son!

Of course….

Only if you want to, Pak Trules (name of respect). After all, you already met him in Bali, remember? Just… think about it, Pak Trules…. it would give Exsel such an opportunity. And you…. too! You’ve never been a father before. Think about that too, Pak Trules! It could be your last chance.

You get the picture.

As I do as well.

Very quickly.

So…. I say…. a very flexible and considered….

Ok, I’ll try it. See how we all like it.

And…

I immediately find out about getting the US Visa for Exsel.

Which turns out is - impossible: Muslim country. My age. Not a member of the World Adoption Organization. etc. etc.

But… not for no reason has Trules been called: “The Hardest Head in Hollywood”.

A little research. A little graft. A lot of ingenuity and desire and I simply… make it possible.

And Boom!

May 5, 2015. My knees knocking, my brow sweating… and there’s my…. adopted son to be!

Exsel. LAX. Tom Bradley Terminal.

And now….

He’s suddenly

Seventeen!

How the hell did that happen?

Well…

Like my friends had told me… it’s easy.

At first.

The boy immediately puts down roots and flourishes. He’s bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Even with no English. Zero. He just picks it right up. Within a week, he’s miraculously enrolled in 2nd grade at Elysian Heights Elementary School, a 3-minute walk down the old wooden stairway from “Lucretia Gardens” where we live in Echo Park. Where good-hearted Mr. Garcia uses Google Translate to get Exsel to sit down, stand up, get to lunch, and go to the bathroom. Of course, there is always “Bou Ani”, Exsel’s 24/7 interpreter and link to his Medan birth family, who Exsel seems to honestly… not miss at all. No visible signs of homesickness, except some nightly dreams about Felix and Pudan for a few months,

…and some regular cravings for nasi goreng (fried rice) and Indonesian tv cartoon shows that we manage to stream for him on his new i-Pad (actually Surya’s old one)!

All we have to do is bring him downtown to the Grant Park water fountain right across from the Los Angeles Music Center, and we can literally see our new charge - grow roots.

All our friends just love him. He, instinctively, makes them all laugh.

Me genius.

Those are nearly the first words he says in English, pointing his thumb at his face, still missing his two front teeth.

Our friend Margrit, a Hollywood talent manager, is so enthusiastic about his gregarious and funny personality that she brings him in for a “screen test”, which he flubs pretty badly, not yet being able to read a script very well, nor having the paperwork to work legally in the country.

But of course, adopt him we do. What, am I supposed to return him for a refund? Why the hell would I do that anyway? Whereas Surya has some instant buyer’s remorse about becoming a mother, perhaps because she works so much, or maybe because it’s just not innately in the Batak DNA, au contraire, it’s me, ol’ Pak Trules, who takes to parenting - like a fish to water.

No books, no classes, no conscious preparation… just… au natural, self-taught… more or less the same way I learned everything else I’ve ever done: traveling, teaching, dancing, clowning, filmmaking, becoming a husband… and now, whatayaknow… becoming a father.

What’s so hard?

HaHa!

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Soon Exsel is speaking English like a native, with absolutely no Indonesian accent, which, to this day, his Bou still has. Then again, he has to take ol’ Pak Trules “pre-school class” every morning on the purple couch, a daily inquisition of reading, dictation, and spelling… but hey, what else do you expect from an A-1 type Dad? Poooooor kid…

…who’s now zipping through elementary school like a native, driving a car (kidding!), making friends with Oscar, Miguel, Sadie, and Mara. He’s in the Running Club with Principal Garza, galloping up Baxter Street, the steepest hill in LA, and overall, becoming a big fish in the 300-student small pond.

Principal Garza and 6th grade graduate, Exsel

Next up? Middle school and… high school… which we decide to combine into one: Eagle Rock Junior and Senior High School, about a 10-15 minute drive from our house, from where, of course, ol’ Pak Trules, becomes the willing daily chauffeur. By this time, post-2017, I’m retired from USC after 31 years of professing theater. I figure and feel “That’s long enough.”

I also figure,

Act 3 is bringing up and raising a son,

a pretty full-time job, if ever there was one, if you’re lucky enough to have the time to do it. Especially when your much younger wife is working full-time herself in the ever-changing restaurant bidness - during and post-pandemic.

For middle school, Exsel finds himself playing sports with all the jocks. He rides the bench in football and basketball (he’s still small for his age), but nevertheless, ol’ Pak Trules is at every game, either on his newly-purchased outdoor folding field chair, or just riding the pine himself on the hard-ass gym bleachers for B-ball. For soccer though, the kid’s a star, fast on offense, sneaky on defense. Him fast, me stationary. But hey, it’s a proud stationary.

By 9th grade though, start of middle school, there’s an observable osmosis. No more sports or jocks. He’s hanging out in the neighborhood park, across from the school, with a few school friends, but with more of the locals and homeboys. He’s getting a “taste of real life”: schoolyard basketball, drug deals in the park (he swears he’s clean: “no sex, no drugs, no alcohol.”), with trips to Target, the nearby mall, and food trucks. He’s “Mr. Popularity” on all sides of the fences. And me, I’m still “Senor Chauffeur”… now to all sides of downtown LA and the Eastside.

Then…

….we move to Santa Fe!

I’ve definitely told his story before here.

It’s not a happy one.

We tear him away from 10th grade, and away from ALL his friends.

He absolutely HATES IT!

And ME!

Meanwhile, it’s taking 6 years to get Exsel his Green Card. Permanent legal residency in America. Surya and I absolutely hate that. The Little Man is mostly oblivious to it, because we try to keep him that way. However, the family can’t leave the United States for the entire time. International Traveling Trules is cruelly America-bound, as are his wife and son. No retirement villa in Bali to retire in, no Indonesian birth family to visit for Exsel, no… nada.

And, as you may have heard, Mr. Trump’s administration is not especially friendly to immigrants, so Exsel officially becomes an “illegal alien” for the entire 6 years he’s overstayed his “tourist visa” (that I wangled him in 2015), minus the first 2 months that were legal. He’s not exactly skulking away from the USCIS and the Immigration Police, but… he is vulnerable.

Finally… in the Fall of 2021 (count it, 6 years!), after many legal frustrations, pratfalls, and contortions, we get a letter from Mr. Trump himself,

Welcome to America, Exsel.

Of course, it’s a form letter.

But finally, our boy is here in America — legally.

We immediately buy the 3 tickets, jump on a plane, miss our connections (ok, I’m a bit rusty), and go whole-heartedly, south of the border, to San Miguel de Allende, in central colonial Mexico. I jauntily walk the cobblestone streets, Surya prays gratefully during Easter, and Exsel… well, I don’t exactly know what he’s doing anymore!

Except that, he’s changing even more visibly.

In the Fall of 2022, plopped down in a foreign Southwestern adobe town, having been yanked out of LA and 10th grade, against his will, he’s a sullen and angry 15-year-old. No logical parental explanation can reduce or assuage his understandable internal fury.

Very fortunately however… after a miserable first semester at Santa Fe High, during which he clams up and practically refuses to open his mouth, we win the Santa Fe school lottery and he gets accepted into a small, artsy alternative school, Monte Del Sol, right across the road from our home. And amazingly, he changes his consciously-chosen, rotten attitude, opens up, and makes friends again. Lots of them. He wins the “Best Newbie” award in the 10th grade. “The Friendliest”. “The Best Dressed”.

He starts a school “mentorship” in fashion with a professional designer in Santa Fe. My longtime New York, LA, now Santa Fe, costume designer friend, Lisa, gives him a professional, industrial-strength Singer sewing machine, and he starts puttering with, and learning… fashion.

Now he’s in 11th grade. He has a Gang of Seven of inseparable friends. And whereas he went achingly to LA last Spring Break in 10th grade, he stayed here in Santa Fe this one.

He’s now into painting, sewing, and learning the piano.

We just transformed our garage (formerly “Trules’ curio shop”) into Exsel’s NEW STUDIO -

-- complete with an upright grand PIANO! (Thanks to Alex Murzyn and Bob Fox, my generous jazz-playing buddies.)

Two days ago, his school took over the entire El Museo Cultural de Santa Fe, a prominent art gallery in the City’s downtown Railyard for the DragonFest Art Show.

The kid didn’t even tell me about it! (I told you he was sneaky.)

But… naturally… ol’ Pak Trules… somehow… finds out about it… at 4 p.m. - the day of!

So natch… I call him… and he says yes, other parents are coming.

I just forgot to invite you.
Right, Exsel.
But you can come. We’re going on last. I’m playing the drums and a little keyboard.

Whoa! I can’t miss that, can I? Not after I forced him to play drums when he was 12, he was totally awesome, but quit because he hated practicing

(Here’s the link to him absolutely killing Hotel California on drums with my sound engineer and guitarist, Scott Barber, who taught the Little Man to play drums right up the hill in Echo Park in his professional “Barbershop Recording Studio”. )

I hop in the car and speed over to DragonFest.

It’s packed.

There’s one of Exsel’s photo collages on the wall… and sure enuff…

“Brayden’s” music class is the last to perform. (Of course, the alt-art school calls all their teachers by first names only.)

They do the “History of World Music” - in 10 minutes…

…starting with wooden, knee-held ceremonial drums, from the seminal African deserts and forests, which indeed, Exsel is beating, wearing… my Hugh Heffner blue silk embroidered smoking jacking.

Eight minutes later, he’s playing Stand By Me with an electric keyboard ensemble, at the end of which he and “the band” receive a standing ovation. (I’m not surprised that 5 out of the 8 band members are from his “Gang of Seven” friend group.)

Not that he’s not without his adolescent ordeals, agonies, and traumas.

My friends were right about that too!

He’s as moody and changeable as the Santa Fe high desert winds. Blowing hot in the morning, cold in the afternoon. Or is that cold in the morning and hot in the afternoon?

Or, as the Fat Man, Mr. Waller, always sang,

One never knows, do one?

I don’t know what happened to that happy, funny, innocent “me genius” young boy.

But then again, I guess - life happened. Adolescence and hormones happened. Growing up happened. And are happening daily….

Now we go to family counseling - something I never thought I’d do, having failed at and hated, any and all therapies, I ever tried in my own life.

But what I have learned is that a way-too-large part of our contemporary teenage population is… depressed, anxious, medicated, and has become - an integral part of the modern-day pharmaceutical-medical-industrial complex. It’s shocking to me. And sad.

I’m 60 years older than Exsel. He always jokes with me,

That was back in your century, Pak Trules.

…which always gets a reluctant laugh out of me.

But hell, me and my friends may have been moody, angry, difficult, and more, but “back then”, it was just part of “growing up”. We didn’t all go to our local shrinks and get put on meds.

I protest.

I have a very strong feeling that teenagers in 3rd world India, Bolivia, and… Indonesia… are not, and were not, seeing shrinks or taking meds. Not in the 1950s and 60s, and not today.

There’s something to be said for, and against, our soft-bellied, thin-skinned, and overprivileged youth. For and against, our over-privileged, psychologically-dependent American society as a whole.

Do you agree, or disagree?

In any event, you already know… that I want… and will do anything… to help my son become a happy and productive human being. If he wants to rebel like I did, so be it. If he wants to go to college, well, let’s see...

He has his whole life in front of him.

I love him.

April 15 was his birthday!

We went to Sazon (pictured above), a wonderful Santa Fe “world food” restaurant with a top chef. Exsel’s choice, of course.

And to…. the Circus! My choice, of course!

Do Circus Portugal arrived in Santa Fe for a long weekend. WhoooHooo! A small, European, no-animal, one-ring circus. The kind I love.

We brought 2 of The Gang of 7.

And…

All 3 kids loved the Circus.

I loved the Circus.

Surya loved the Circus.

You would have loved the Circus!!

No lions, or tigers, or bears, oh my, but

Crazy, dare-devil acts that had us shaking in our seats. Funny European clowns roaming and improvising with the audience. Popcorn, sawdust, and tinsel. Everything the circus used to be.

Grrrrrrrreeeeeaaaaat!

But/now/and… today?

The first day of the rest of our lives.

He was just 17….
if u know what I mean
and the way he looked was way beyond compare….

No need to continue that olllld Beatles song,

Or to quote, the Fat Man, Mr. Waller, yet again

Because who………………………………… really knows?

Do one?

Maybe that’s

Just why…

I became

A clown

after all……..

Happy Birthday, Exsel!!!!!!

Our Son Turns 17!

And We Go to the Circus Do Portugal

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