The Life Experience Paradox

We were dressed for a night out and standing in line outside a club in the cool air. I had never really been to a club and wasn't all that sure what to expect. I knew it wouldn't be like the clubs on the beach in Ecuador, pumping reggaeton that pulsed through the open air dance floors. I could imagine only what I had cooked up between what my friends had said and what I had seen on movies.

Finally, we were at the door presenting IDs. I pulled out my passport and pointed at my date of birth.

"I'm sorry, but California does not recognize a passport as a valid US ID," the young lady at the podium yelled to me as politely as she could over the music.

"What? What do you mean you don't recognize a passport?" I replied.

"Do you have a driver's license or a state ID?"

"No."

We had to leave but my friends hid their disappointment fairly well. We all had questions. I was asking how could they not recognize an ID that was issued by the US government and valid all over the world as a valid ID? But my college friends', however, were asking how does she not have a driver's license yet if she is 19 years old? 

My husband asked me to write a blog post on this because it is such a common thing that a lot of people don't recognize is going on. A TCK may have endless experience navigating through airports into countless foreign countries, but not know how to drive a car until they are 20 years old. A TCK may have been doing their own laundry or buying groceries since they were young but does not know how to open a bank account. How is it that someone who can haggle a price down in several languages not know how to write a check? How can someone who has had a passport their whole life not have a driver's license?

Meanwhile, a TCK is looking at the world and wondering other things. How do people know you are who you say you are if you don't have a passport? Is independence based on having a car or on international survival skills? Is knowing how to write a check more important than knowing how to haggle for the price you want?

And when it comes to job experience, often TCKs are not allowed to work in the country they grew up in, although they feel they possess incredible life experience. That life experience will not necessarily show up on a resume.

It is a strange paradox. Signs of maturity or rights of passage are so different between the two worlds and often collide or crash in the strangest situations. This is where the importance of developmental years plays a huge part in a TCKs life. There are certain steps that are normal in adolescence that TCKs don't often have the opportunity to take. Adolescence is when you are weighing and testing the societal rules. But if the societal rules are always changing around you then you are not afforded this opportunity. And on top of that, some of the normal activities of adolescence can be limited because of security or the agencies that have brought a family to a country.

Maintaining long term friendships is a hard thing for me. I was not given many chances to do so, and was afraid to many times because all the previous times those people had been taken away from me. My husband, on the other hand, is great at long term friendships because the friends he has are the ones that grew up with him in his home town. HIS WHOLE LIFE. I can't even wrap my brain around someone who was around for my whole life, aside from my brothers, maybe. He can look at a friendship for a long run. I look at friendships for the moment. You can imagine how I have had to play catch-up on this subject in our marriage.

It's a strange thing, but mostly just something to be aware of. A TCK may be exponentially mature in some things, and seriously lacking in others. The technical term is delayed adolescence, but I try not to use that term because it makes me feel like there is an inferiority. That is not the case at all. Imagine that there is a bar graph of all the subjects you mature in during your life. A TCK might have some subjects that have jumped far above the expected place for their peers, but others that are far below it. Their non-TCK peers may be going through the steps of adolescence on schedule, but next to a TCK will seem below on some subjects, and above on others.

Both sides are based on opportunity. Different opportunities create different outcomes. Having one or the other does not make you better or worse; but it can be sensitive. It was hard on me to have to explain that I didn't know how to do certain things simply because I didn't have the opportunity, things that were so commonplace amongst my peers. I felt I was extremely mature in some things, but seriously lacking in others.

It feels like you are a living paradox. The truth is, delayed adolescence doesn't doom a TCK to never mature in those subjects. It just means the maturing is delayed. The same is true for non-TCKs, they will mature in the other subjects over time. Our graphs are always fluctuating.

I feel like it always comes back to this idea: different is not better or worse. Everyone has a story to tell and every story is worth telling.

Those are concepts worth living by whether you are a TCK or not.

In what ways have you lived out this paradox of maturity in some subjects but not others? When have you been the rookie at life and when have you been the expert?

So what?

I have been trying to write this post in my head and in drafts for months now. In my mind I keep coming back to this place of "So what?" This Christmas I found myself talking about my blog but somehow unable to put into words the importance of it to me, why writing about TCKs is so engrained into my life. I couldn't even explain exactly how I am a TCK. And for each moment that passed with my extended family where I pretended it wasn't a very big deal I felt less and less myself.

Trying to blend in

I sat in a very precarious yet familiar moment when one family member mentioned that the city my extended family lives in was my home. I think I missed the original comment but I walked right into the moment and knew what was happening in an instant. My mom and an aunt who reads this blog were explaining something I found myself unable to explain to my family this Christmas.

But let me try and explain it here, now. It matters if you are a TCK. It isn't just a name or a box, a label to wear on your sleeve. It is something that was woven deep inside you. It shapes the way that you see the world, the way you speak and think. It may mean that you have so many homes and yet don't know which one is home. And it may mean that on the outside you are one culture and on the inside you have so many other cultures, but these things are you. You are a TCK.

And to ignore it is to ignore one of the most amazing (yet often difficult) aspects about yourself. 

So if you would just allow me to drag my giant soapbox into your office, your living room, your workplace, wherever you are reading this from. If you would just allow me and help me to hoist myself up on to it and tell you that this idea of TCKs is not a fad. It isn't a joke or a made up name. It isn't an idea that only lives on paper. It isn't new or flashy. But It is rich and valuable, a culture hidden amongst many others, often overlooked or misplaced.

It is hard to explain. It's hard to spell out to those around you and especially to those who think and for all intents and purposes do know you very well, or have known you since you were young. 

I haven't written a post for a while because I got stuck on the "So what?"

So here it is: So what, you are a TCK? So explain it. So live it. So use it. It is you, and you should be allowed to be you, and others should allow you to be you. It might take time and effort and mind-changing, but it will be worth it in the long run. Everyone wants to be known, it is part of the human condition. Give yourself that chance. 

And I will try and give myself that chance too.

What do you think is valuable about being a TCK? How do you explain it to those around you?

Sailing Ships

I am currently soaking up the words of an old book, Gifts from the Sea, which my dear friend, boss, and mentor gave me when I was leaving Egypt. It is written by someone older than me, wiser than me, and beyond my time and language but I love it. I love it because of those very differences from my own life, because it allows me to sit and think of my world from a perspective so much greater than my own. That alone is rare, since often I find myself feeling, especially in this college town, as if I am the most experienced person in the room (often I am not, but it can feel that way sometimes since my experiences are not greater but different). But more than that, it is a book that holds pieces of my mentor and friend. She has underlined things, written in the margins, left markers and coffee stains. The pages are warped from travel and salty air, from sun and sand. It holds a piece of someone I love and all of her wisdom as well.

As a TCK I find that often I have two options when it comes to people I love when I am leaving. I can choose to leave them behind, or I can choose to take them with me. Both options require risk and pain. When I leave people behind I disconnect, and usually this happens even before I leave. I start to build up those walls so that when I leave the pain seems distant. In reality I can't really block off the pain and instead I block off the conclusion, the chance to leave someone behind with the heartbreak that only comes from deep care and the beautiful sharing of that care and heartache. If I choose to take them with me I must also be careful. There is the risk that I will forget to be where I am, that I will try to stay only in that old world and refuse to be in the one where my body actually resides. I can waste away my life staring at computer screens, hoping for the next call, email, text. In that circumstance I build up walls, trying to keep those loved ones in, and instead blocking out the potential for new friendships.

I can understand both sides. I've done both. I sometimes do them simultaneously with different people at different times. I have to remind myself to check in on those I have left behind, and I have to remind myself to step out to those who are in front of me. I remind myself that no man is an island and you don't want to hold anyone captive on your own island you have built. 

I think of myself as a ship on the sea. I sail from harbor to harbor. Each harbor leads me to new people who I will eat with, walk with, laugh with. And each time I push off I must navigate choppy waters. I cannot hold all those people from the last harbor on my ship or it will grow heavy and sink. But I cannot dock at a harbor and never leave the boat, for what good would that be, to be at a harbor and never set foot on it? 

Sometimes my travels lead me back to old harbors, and while things change there is something special about those places, the people who stayed. Sometimes I go to new harbors and find old friends, the other ships that are navigating the same seas around me. But it is as if every place I go I am given a gift. A place to call home, a guarenteed friend, a memory. I can hold onto these things without my ship sinking. I can read my books, I can visit and step back into a part of that old world I left behind.

We have just left American Thanksgiving and while I am not so accustomed to celebrating the holiday I am so thankful for my many harbors. I am thankful that I have family (though not by blood) in Canada who will gladly let me dock my ship in their harbor. I am glad that a heart friend who just got married has sailed her ship close to mine, and that one of my youth might sail my way soon too. I am glad for the people who hand off old books with wisdom that allow me to carry their thoughts with me here on my journeys. I am glad for my friends who extend friendships to those they don't know simply because we are all sailing rough seas on ships. 

Thank you, all you harbors and ships out there who have intersected with mine. I hope we intersect again on the seas of life in the future. I hope my walls are never too high to keep you trapped within or without. May your ship stay light, afloat, and may you find new and old harbors and ships everywhere you go.

How do you deal with leaving old places and coming to new ones?

I Am Sitting In An Airport

I am sitting in an airport. It feels just short of glorious. A lot has changed since the first real memory I have of airports. My first real memory is like a rigorous roller coaster:

It was before planes where pedestrians were weapons and everyone, boarding pass or not, could go all the way up to the gate. If you are young you might not know there was a time where this reality existed, but it did. We were all there with a mixed excitement for what was coming and a growing realization of what we were leaving behind. I was looking for my best friend who had promised to see me off. No goodbyes were final because this would be our final goodbye. She didn't show. Her parents thought, because of her grief, that it would be better if she didn't come. It stuck to my heart with irrevocable pain.

There is a picture someplace, that I don't have on me right now. My two brothers and I, along with my parents, are standing in front of the gate holding a giant map. One of us is pointing to Pennsylvania, where we were leaving, one to Ecuador, where we were heading to school, and one to Uruguay, where my parents were moving. My face is slightly blotchy and twisted into disdain.

Some place between that gate and being seated inside the plane my emotions shifted. I was buckled in, staring out the window, telling my mother that I didn't remember the last time we flew. I was 3 or 4 years old the last time and at the age of 10 it was a lifetime ago. I relive this moment every flight. I sat and looked out the window, my forehead against the double paned glass. My heart leaped to my throat as we gained speed and lifted off the ground. I watched the world sink below me, everything transforming into perfect toy replicas of their life sized selves. The world fell away and took with it all the problems that were sitting in that airport, in that place.

I am sitting in an airport. It feels just short of glorious. I am 25 years old and I have averaged around four flights a year since that first time back. I can pack a carry-on to hold 100 lbs if I need to. I have a system. I know the flow of an airport. I know that it pays to dress nicely and speak nicely to everyone in transit because you don't know what they are leaving behind. This trip might be costing them much more than money. I've learned that everyone around you has a story. I once met an older man who gave me Spanish literature suggestions. A young man who grew up in Dubai as a TCK and couldn't believe his luck on meeting another TCK. A woman whose sister had cancer. A man who was struggling with how much freedom to give his teenage daughter.

I am going to visit a dorm sister, one of my best friends. We have the kind of friendship that leads to hours of talking at the very deepest levels over coffee and laughing to tears over hardships and hilarious moments of the past. I know that soon I will be watching my world here drop below the clouds and I will go to another one. It holds familiar and unknown. And sitting here in the airport I get the feeling that this concept, this up and down, this missing my husband but excitement to see my friend, this stepping out of my life into another, this is what I am made for. This is what I know. This is what I do.

I am a wanderer, but I am not lost.

What do you feel when you are in an airport?

This one is for the Dorm Kids

We are such a small sector of TCKs, but I could not ignore us for much longer. So this one is for the dorm kids (boarding school kids).

For all the kids who grew up with two, three, four sets of parents. For all the kids who went "home" for Christmas and then went back "home" for school when Christmas was over. For all the kids who make the most of time with their families, every time, because they know exactly how limited it is. This one is for you.

For all the kids who huddled close around candles, laughing, when the lights went out. For all the kids whose friends have always and will always be their family because their family was far away. For all the kids who tucked in younger kids, and who looked up to older kids, and who borrowed everyone else's clothes. For all the kids who struggled in school because it is just impossible to help every dorm kid with homework every night. This one is for you.

For all the kids who got bullied because everyone was struggling different ways. For all the kids who cried themselves to sleep because they missed their parents. For all the kids who left first to boarding school and whose siblings went on with life without them. For all the kids who had to room with their mortal enemies. This one is for you.

For all the kids who stayed up late making mischeif in someone else's room. For all the kids who hid food in their rooms for late night snacks but would never say where so it couldn't be stolen. For all the kids whose stories either prompt intense, unending laughter, or heavy hearted tears. For all the kids whose actual siblings will be their closest friends their whole lives. This one is for you.

For all the kids who knew how to clean a house and do laundry before they hit middle school. For all the kids who have to make a distinction between university dorm life and growing up dorm life in every conversation. For all the kids who have to answer incredibly hard and sometimes awkward or ridiculous questions about their every day lives. For all the kids who can't quite explain how deeply hard it was and also how much they seriously loved it. This one is for you.

And for all the people who really saw us, who stepped outside of their lives and into ours, who raised us, who befriended us, who set aside time in their schedules to help us, and especially all the ones who married us and are always trying to find a way to break through those individulized, I can do this on my own because I have to, walls. Thank you. Because of you, we are us. So this one is for you too.

Following the Rules

"I feel like I don't know the rules!"

I am saying this to my husband, not for the first time by any stretch of the imagination, and most definitely not for the last. I feel this way often, though not always in so many words. Usually it is just a collection of moments that I string together in my head that form the overwhelming feeling I can describe, that when tied together, form only the shape of a question mark.

It may be because I am a gatherer, as a close friend put it, gathering in the expressions and words and mindsets and ideas of everyone around me as best as I can and trying to surmise them. It may be because I love psychology, studying body language and the way the mind takes in information. It may be because I love language, that every single word choice leads to an interpretation of something deeper. It may be because I love culture, its intricacies and mysteries that even those in it do not always understand. Whatever it may be it leads to things sticking in my mind long after the moment has passed.

The problem is I don't know where I fit in. Even with all those messages coming at me, I have a hard time knowing what they say. They are in another language. It is like a wall of glass rises up between myself and the world and I keep walking into it, unable to see where it stands. I can't tell if I offended or if I connected. I can't tell if I am supposed to speak or stay silent. Did I push too far? Can we talk about that subject? Are we on the same page or different planets?

"Sometimes when I don't know I just do it with more confidence hoping no one will notice," I admit to my husband.

"Then if you are wrong they might assume you are just rude." he stipulates and again I feel it rising up in me.

"How can I do it right if I don't know the rules?" and then in my head I hear and how can they teach me the rules if they don't even know they follow them?

I think about what they call my "identification" sitting in my wallet. Ironically right now it says Virginia, a place I have lived for only three months. Before that it said Texas, where I lived for four months. Before that it said Illinois, where I lived for six months. The face on it looks like me, but the rest of it does not. For it is an identification I can not identify with.

If you sit behind a desk at airport security and swipe my passport you will see a clearer picture of who I am. Like my passport, on the outside I say America, but when you flip through the pages of my life you find country after country, and even this will not tell you the whole story. But at least in an airport I know the rules. I can follow the signs, move with the crowd. I know when I must take off my shoes, and I put them back on when they give them back without prompting. I shake my head at the people who don't realize they have to take off their belt, or forget the change in their pockets. I sigh at the people who have to stop and ask where something is located, or what happens next.

People wandering LAX 

But that is me in real life, setting off alarms and wandering around looking lost.

"Whenever I'm not sure I just ask," my husband says and I am shocked that he might sometimes be unsure.

But maybe it is time I start stopping to ask. "What are the rules here?" I will start to say. "Is this okay to say?" I will remember to ask. "Too much? Too far?" I will wonder aloud with my mouth instead of silently in my head. I will show my ignorance and hope for grace in the moment instead of forgiveness after it.

And then, like in the airport, after I sigh and shake my head, when I see someone who needs help, I will hope someone will help me, even though I don't know the rules.

A Cracked Mirror

It had been a while since I had interacted with a TCK when suddenly I was surrounded by them. If you have never been surrounded by TCKs you need to try it. They spanned from middle school age to just older than myself. Planning for this special weekend was unique. I had to fight the urge to plan out every minute, knowing that my kind is expert at bonding, especially with a whole slew of people who would never ask you where you are from.

I love how close they are all sitting

We all piled into a semi circle of couches almost immediately, introducing ourselves and each other, laughing, and feeling a hint of what home might feel like to others. It was beautiful.

The younger ones knew only that they were different to a small extent. They were living still in limited worlds where everything still seemed normal. The older ones were soaking up every moment like a sponge, recognizing how unique this experience really was, and relishing a moment where everything really did seem normal.

I found myself incredibly emotional, pausing to take mental photos, actual photos, and to store up each precious moment in my heart as a stockpile for later, a reminder that I am not alone in the world. Each face was a stranger and also a reflection, and we had so much fun. The conversation sat at a defaulted depth of our cores. TCKs are notorious for hating small talk and it showed. We reached inside ourselves and held our beating hearts, not on our sleeves to be seen, but in our hands, ready to pass out to anyone with empty hands to hold it.

Even the non-TCKs felt it. Bonding. It happened without prompting and never stopped. No one was excluded. The thought of it, even now, years later, still fills my heart up to the brim.

I thought, these people are all like me.

And then something happened. One of them wasn't.

He was, but he wasn't.

I sat talking about never wanting to go back, about wanting to bounce from place to place, not even daring to utter what had become a banned phrase in my mind, "settle down". Then I looked up at him eager to see him nod and agree with the enthusiasm only a similar soul could comprehend. But he didn't. He said it. He wanted to settle down. It caught me off guard.

No. I had heard people say this in theory, my older brother had said it before. In my mind I would laugh knowing that he was bred to explore, that in his heart he is a traveler. Staying in one place too long would burn under his feet and his eyes would wander to the sea.

But this was different. This TCKs eyes did not wander to the sea, they wandered to the land he hoped to go back to, a ground where he would raise his flag, claim, and then settle. Inside me was screaming that this could not be. What kind of TCK does he think he is? It felt
wrong. In my perfect world of mirrors one cracked.

It still astounds me from time to time, but I can understand it better now. To find a place that stays familiar, to not move again, to root yourself in a people, a place, a home. I don't know if my eyes will cease to wander to the sea. I think it will be some time before that happens, but I know now that a TCK is not a mirror. We all have a texture, an echo that resonates within us at the same frequency and tone, but how that texture shows up under our individual colors, how that echo sounds in the midst of our unique symphonies is always different.

When I read about TCKs it is like reading a choose your own adventure book. Do those still exist? All of our stories start with the same first chapters, the base of our experiences and characteristics are the same, a life between worlds. But then as you move forward there are splits in the paths. Each person lets those first chapters shape them differently. Some never settle down, some never move. Some stop reading the news, some dig deeper into it. Some love their past, some forget it.

No matter where your adventure takes you, though, your first chapters are the same as mine, as other TCKs. And when you throw a bunch of us in a room, no matter how we have grown those traits, no matter how many of us do not see mirrors, we will all have the same textures and echos, and we will recognize them in each other. It is beautiful.