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The revelation hit me at the end of a commute so soul-crushing, Face ID declined my face card: I could never afford the lifestyle my parents afforded me as a child.
Picture this: me, barely held together by stubbornness, spite and Tolak Angin, smushed between a middle manager’s toddler-sized backpack and some random schmuck's uncomfortably sweaty poly-blend shirt.
It’s a typical scene in the late-stage capitalist dystopia that is Jakarta’s rail-based transportation, five days a week for the rest of your working life.
But as I stood amid the throng, gripping a slightly collapsing Givenchy and a not-fully-paid-off phone like my life depended on them, I just couldn’t accept that this is all life has to offer – especially for someone who’s supposed to be, or allegedly, a nepo baby. The last time I checked, nepo babies don’t do public transportation, except maybe business class on Singapore Airlines.
Your (dad’s) network is your net worth
Many conversations and thinkpieces have been had about nepo babies, from celebrities’ children landing roles others would kill for, to the progeny of politicians seemingly having a new flex every other Tuesday.
Yet for all the eyeballs that have rolled their way, there’s not a lot that’s been said about those whose moms and dads don’t have enough cultural cachet to warrant a headline, but have enough pull to get a foot in the door.
In the interest of transparency, I must confess to inadvertently nepo-babying my way into my first job here at The Jakarta Post, only to find out much later that my mom’s coworker’s brother was the then-editor-in-chief, and that they let me send in my application even though I was a few days past the submission deadline.
Nine years have gone by since then, but my impostor syndrome is still difficult to shake off. Even when other reporters and editors assured me my skills are ultimately what keep me on the payroll, mental images of other applicants not making the cut – either because they didn’t have someone to open the door, or didn’t know that the door was open in the first place – continue to haunt me.
At some point, however, I also realized the culture of having an ordal (orang dalam, lit. inside person) to secure a job or position is so deeply ingrained in our society that moral outrage over personal connections is ultimately a waste of time.
The next best thing you can do is to throw in the towel and find an ordal yourself. Or, you know, scouring your dad’s old high school yearbook in the hopes of finding well-connected industry and political figures is always an interesting way to spend the evening.
A question of privilege
Just like how my friends would jokingly prescribe the term “crazy rich” to people who get their es teh manis from Teazzi (shoutout to the Four Seasons Oolong Milk Tea, the real MVP), the definition of nepo baby has slowly shifted to include people whose parents afforded them supposedly nicer things in life, or at least a safety net to fall back on.
At its heart is, of course, privilege, which determines whether “rock bottom” is actually “above sea level”. Yet therein lies the embarrassingly late revelation that what I had considered the bare minimum was actually rather exceptional, which allowed me to somehow cushion the blows of everyday life just a tad better.
I understand that, in my case, opportunities are at times facilitated rather than earned. Having acknowledged this fact, I’ve also fallen into the all-too-common pitfall of downplaying my achievements, which can read as a desperate ploy for compliments and reassurance. Nevertheless, it feels slightly more palatable than pretending that I started from the bottom and slugged through the Green Line just like everyone else.
Still, my inner saboteur’s annual burnout often brings me somewhere quite dark. I have this gnawing fear that somehow people will figure out that I’m actually a mediocre hack with a shopping addiction masquerading as a thoughtful writer I made myself out to be.
Of course, part of my own frustration is that, for all the trappings of being a nepo baby, I continue to complain about getting smacked around by backpacks at rush hour and having to rely on public transportation because even a modest family car like an Innova is just not within my means.
Then I remember the alternative: unemployment. Perhaps my issue is really about coming face to face with the reality that my inherited expectations are stickier than the economic circumstances I actually live in. Or, maybe it’s entitlement? It may as well be.
I can only hope that the understanding and acceptance leg of the journey will come sooner, if not for my own personal growth then for the benefit of other people who have to deal with my out-of-touch sensibilities, or pray that I become an even bigger nepo baby so that my bags and limbs are no longer in different cardinal directions on the ride home.
