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There was a kind of fascination—when I was growing up (and still today, I think)—toward the United States that most people often describe with a merry-go-round of expressions such as ‘the land of opportunities’, ‘dreamland’, or ‘a place where the roads are paved with gold’. There are over 190 countries around the world, each beautiful and unique in its own way, yet none seems to compare with the glitters and promises of America.

The ‘American Dream’ is a concept that has captured the world in a way comparable only to the popularization of its ideals: freedom, prosperity, and success. That all men are born equal with the undeniable rights to Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness is probably the most quoted part of the US Declaration of Independence which every liberal on the continent treats with as much sanctity as a priest would a quote in a religious text. And they are right to do so, because like it or not: the idea that we’re equal to each other despite our race, gender, religion, customs, age, status, and what have you; or that we are all born with the right to live, to be free and happy is incredibly moving and hopeful.

As a teenager, I never asked too many questions and was quite content with the idea of America that came to me via American TV shows in the late 1980s and early 1990s (i.e. MacGyver, Airwolf, Saved by the Bell, Knight Rider, Jack and the Fatman, Hawaii Five-O, Melrose Place, Beverly Hills 90210, Remington Steel, Moonlighting, Baywatch, Murphy Brown, Party of Five, et cetera). I didn’t even care about the ‘reality gap’: how ridiculous it was (when I think about it now) that Richard Dean Anderson had everything he needed at the time and place he needed them to construct bombs, diffuse detonators or stop a bullet train from crashing into a ton of brick; and how strange that the man who used to drive a talking car and wear dark-colored jackets suddenly went bare-chested all the time in a show populated by trunks, boobs, and confused men who ran around chasing them from one screenshot to the next. I could not be bothered with these things. The way I looked at it—how wonderful it was to live in a place like that!

Growing up, I did not have any of the privileges that the teen characters in Saved by the Bell or Beverly Hills 90210 took for granted. And I’m not talking about the kind of privileges that come with wealth; but rather simple privileges like having my own locker or being asked what particular school subjects I was interested in. Or parents who would allow me to question the world rather than tell me to accept it for what it was. Or teachers who could act as confidantes rather than mere figures of authority. So I spent most of my teenage years looking up to these fictional characters whose lives I envied oh-so-much. Years later, after 15 months of being a freshman at a university, I made the bold decision to set myself on a voyage that would take six years to complete. I quit school and left for America.

I was 19.

At the time, a couple of my distant relatives had been living in Chicago; but I was never in contact with them before and I wasn’t about to make contact just because I suddenly found myself in a foreign country, alone. I decided to experience everything on my own. I enrolled myself into an international language school in Boston, MA and opted to live with a host family rather than share a room at the dormitory. The 22-hour flight I had to endure between Jakarta-Singapore-St. Louis-Detroit-Boston was excruciating only because I easily lost track of time. Though as soon as I stepped off the plane at Logan Airport, I knew I was in for an adventure.

Fortunately, for me, though it did come as a surprise, America was everything I had expected it to be (and more). To the bewilderment of my host family, I experienced little—if any—culture shock during my first year there. I knew exactly what to do at a birthday party when they blind-folded me and handed me a wooden stick and told me to keep swinging until I heard lollipops fall out onto the ground; and I didn’t feel the least bit awkward when my host family asked me (and my roommate) to be on candy-duty for Halloween. In my spare time I would go to the local public library and use one of the computers to send emails to friends and family back home. I would stop by CVS and buy a small package of Tootsie Rolls whenever I had a craving for sweets. In the summer, I would sit on a bench in the middle of the Commons and dream up plans for the future. I would close my eyes and breathe in everything until my chest swelled and I thought I was going to explode from excitement. It felt right to be there. It felt right just to be. And then I got an internsip that would mark one of the most important moments in my life. It was in the offices of a literary magazine in Boston’s North End that I decided to become a writer. I didn’t know exactly how I was going to do it—but I was absolutely certain of what I wanted my life to be.

So as soon as I finished with the language program, I went back to school while also working part time to support myself. In the five years that followed, I learned that it was possible to dream the impossible and that it was okay to listen to what your heart had to say. I learned that humanity was better than religion and that faith had little to do with religious denominations. I learned that education did not belong only to formal schools and that responsibility started with the self. I learned that I was in charge of my life and that I shouldn’t let anyone convince me otherwise. Best of all, I learned that it’s never too late to change your plans—and that life is short, thus it would be wise to make the most of it.

In my sixth year of living in the US I found myself searching for a cause. By that time, I had had my heart broken and patched several times over and I was freelancing for several publications both in the Greater Boston area and back home in Jakarta. I was twenty-five and anxious for something far more fulfilling than the life I had been living for six years. I wasn’t laughing enough. My life was dictated by my daily planner and the only time I felt I could breathe was when I rode the subway on my way to and from work. Life was work. There was little time for anything else. Yet, somehow, in the American spirit of always moving forward, of always aiming for success—I had lost myself. I was on the fast track toward a place I didn’t know and I wanted it to stop for just a moment so I could think.

In October 2005, I got on a plane and left for home.

Nearly six years later, when I am prompted to tell the story of the years I had spent in the US, either while dining with friends or sharing with family, most people still think I threw away the best thing I had going for me. I should have stayed in the US and braved through the challenges, they said. I should have made a life and married an American and had American children and lived an American life. I should not have come home and be the ordinary person that everyone in Indonesia is ultimately reduced to. And while there’s nothing wrong with being ordinary, it would have been better to be extraordinary.

For a majority of Indonesians I know, returning from the US is a lot like deserting a winning war. Whatever the reason, it means you have failed at making something for yourself.

And the thing I have always wanted to say to them is there’s nothing extra- about living in America that surpasses the ordinary of being in Indonesia. I had some of the best times of my life in the US, it’s true; and I learned things I probably could not have learned if I had not left my home country, it’s also true. But I was young and ambitious and curious and I wouldn’t take no for an answer and what I did was very selfish and foolish and I should have known better. More than that, I was lucky to have met the right people. I was lucky to have received the opportunities I was given. I was lucky to never have had an unpleasant experience during my stay abroad. And I was lucky to have had the option to leave when I felt it was time.

Most Indonesians I had known in the US have now returned home and made a life for themselves. Not all of them get to be told they wasted away a great opportunity to live abroad by coming back home, but most of them do. And most of them feel this way at one point or another. I do, too. I wonder if it was true that I had thrown away the best thing I had going for me. I often wonder what my life would have been like if I had stayed and, as they said, braved through the challenges. Then it comes to me: a revelation so powerful in nature that I realize it has taken me eleven years and a voyage across the world to really understand.

The American dream has never been about living and working and being in America (though the idea helps put the dream into shape). The American dream is about life: living it to the fullest by developing your potentials and going for the impossible even when everyone else tells you not to and giving it a kind of meaning. The American dream is about liberty: to make your own choices and create opportunities where there are none to be had and understand that there are such things as responsibilities and consequences. Finally, the American dream is about the pursuit of happiness: everybody deserves another chance at making things work—because we’re not perfect and we make mistakes and that doesn’t mean we’re not worthy of a shot at being happy.

Since I came home I have written for some of the most interesting magazines (for me) in the country. I have published two short story collections, novelized a feature film and translated books that have significant meanings to me. I have also written a feature film that’s coming out in a couple of months—with hopes of writing more. And I am currently working on a novel. By no means is my life perfect and I’m not extraordinarily happy, either: but I’m writing and reading and meeting people and spending time with friends and family and I’m having a wonderful time. Besides, happiness is all about living in the moment. Isn’t it?

“Some people have to return to where they started,” said a friend, who is also one of the most celebrated book editors in Indonesia. “They have to come full circle so  they can make sense of their journey.”

There are only a few places in the world that exude the aura of possibility, of dreams coming together and inserting themselves into reality: and America is one of them. America has shaped me into the person I am today and I am forever grateful for it. Indonesia, on the other hand, is still trying to figure some things out as it wobbles through some of its decisions. And I’m glad to be here. We may not aim for the stars; and rather for far simpler things like peace and tolerance. But we’re working on it and (hopefully) getting better at it—and, for now, let that be our dream.