Wednesday, January 29, 2014

Give Me A Sign

My husband always teases me about the fact that I use my hands when I talk.  A lot.  It’s almost as if I use a variety of American Sign Language to communicate.  I’ve always done it, and been teased about it.  I will say that my husband doesn’t tease me in a negative way; he thinks it’s adorable.  The other evening we were talking about penguins (due to an upcoming trip to Antarctica with his mother) and I told the story about the book “And Tango Makes Three”.  It's one of the most challenged books in libraries in the country due to the so-called "gay" theme.  (Don't get me started .. they're PENGUINS for crying out loud; furthermore, the story really happened.  But I digress ... )  Mitch challenged me to sit on my hands, which I did, but when it came around to the part where the daddy penguin sits on the egg, I did a little hip wiggle in a fashion that I suppose penguins do when they settle down over their egg.  My little sashay resulted in uproarious laughter.  "You see!  You just can't talk without gesturing!" he roared.  

This morning I told my mom I was off to take a shower, and made the universal “taking a shower” gesture, waggling my fingers over my head.  It hit me: what do we do when we travel to a foreign country where we don’t know the language?  Sign language.  Mom said, “Even if I wasn’t an English speaker, I would know that you were going to take a shower."

I spent the larger part of my early life living in countries where most people didn’t speak English.  Japan.  Belgium.  Singapore. When you’re overseas, facing a local shop attendant, and the words just aren’t coming, what do you do?  Make pictures with your hands.  

Bond ... James Bond.

Although sometimes it can be futile: on a school sponsored trip to Russia after I graduated from college (I guess it was still the USSR back then), one of the professors brought along her elderly father.  He was a true curmudgeon; I still wonder why he even bothered to go on the trip.  He was the epitome of annoyed. 

At breakfast the first morning we were there, I sat nearby as the old man got into a heated argument with the waiter.  “I want some tea!  TEA!!” he yelled in frustration, making the sign of the letter “t” with his fingers, shaking it angrily in the face of the poor guy.  Too bad the word for tea in Russian is “chai” … the waiter stood, looking blankly in his face and slowly shaking his head.  I could tell this was a dead end. 

My dad would always ask for the check in a restaurant by making a squiggly writing motion in the air.  No waiter ever misunderstood that.  You can point to your wrist in just about every spot on the globe and ask for the time.  I guess it could be difficult to ask where the toilet is.  (Which brings me to another issue: in this country, "toilet" seems to be a bad word ... we have to euphemistically call it the "rest room" or the "powder room," which in a foreign country will get you nowhere.  It is what it is ...  but I digress again).  Think about all the differences around the world for people to tell people where to get off.  There's the right hand in the bent elbow of the other arm, the thumb flicked off the front teeth.  Of course there's the elusive bird.  There's always a way to curse across the language spectrum.

Is it not out of the realm of possibility that this is where I got my “gesture-itis?”  Perhaps this is a remnant of my life overseas; a sign (pun intended) of my Third Culture Kid-ness.  My husband says it's because in spite of the fact that my (very large) head is so full of adjectives, I run out sometimes; my hands are my way of adding to my stash.  They are my adjunct adjectives.  I think it's because there must be some Italian in my DNA.  

Sunday, January 26, 2014

Dinner on the Ship

Well what do you know … a blog entry!  Working full time has unfortunately caused my little Third Culture blog to take a back seat.  Working at a public library has been everything I expected it to be; every day is a new day, variety is the name of the game.  I have met people from across the spectrum, from every corner of the globe (cliché, I know) and of many religions and creeds.  (What is a creed, anyway?)  I am just as happy to see the woman wearing a burqa as I am the young African immigrant studying for the GMAT.  I am thrilled to see the family that has adopted across racial lines.  

It's like working in a candy factory where you're not allowed to sample the wares.  Books pass through my hands, and just about all of them capture my interest.  I've even checked out a few, but returned them, unread, because, well, I'm just too darn tired.  

I hope I will have some time to write more about my experiences in biblio-land, but in the meantime I can only share this beautiful menu that my mother found recently.  (She is Susanna C. Dixon on the menu, and I, unfortunately, am listed as Margaret E. Dixon.  Margaret is my my first given name, never used .. I always went by Elizabeth).  It is from our last voyage from Yokohama to San Francisco on the SS President McKinley.  All of the passengers and crew autographed it.  (I'm impressed with the one from the Department of Philosophy at Niagara University!) I wonder what happened to them all.  It’s just a drop in the time-universe paradigm, a piece of ephemera from my history.  

I've written about my shipboard adventures in the past.  Mom says someone used to quiz me about capitals of the world, and I would run off to a huge map on the wall to search for the answers.  I think these trips taught me, in addition to nuggets of geography, that boredom is not an option.  (Imagine eight days without the electronica of today).  

Wednesday, November 6, 2013

A Weekend at Subic Bay

Sometimes it’s hard to do my job.  Every day I am faced with a large cart of books that need to be cataloged, and too often I end up thumbing through one that catches my eye.  I’m transported from my little cubicle in Technical Services to worlds that I can only dream about.  To historic events, to the lives of the rich and famous to the poor and the not-so-famous. I never know when a non-fiction book will take me back somewhere in my past.  The minutes tick away as I fall, engrossed, into the book and into my memories.  Suddenly I, guiltily, snap back to reality and carry on with my work.

The other day, it was Graham Nash’s autobiography, “Wild Tales: A Rock and Roll Life."  I have always put Crosby, Stills and Nash (and sometimes Young) at the number one spot of my favorite bands.  I’ve written before about how their music is thematic of my sister, Lisa’s life, and of my vision, as a spectator, of her extraordinary high school years.  Their rich sound and lyrics remind me of jam sessions in our living room in Brussels, made up of lanky, long-haired, blue-jean-wearing, motorcycle-riding guys and their girlfriends, singing impossible harmonies and strumming their 12-string guitars.  I peeked in from behind closed doors, taking it in, wishing I could be like them, young, talented and totally cool, their whole lives lying ahead. 

I put CSN on my iPod this morning (to start my day … but that’s another band) and a song came up that took me in an entirely different direction, to the Philippines, in a galaxy far, far away ... 

It was Thanksgiving, 1976.  My mom and her friend Eileen had booked a shopping trip to Hong Kong.  My dad was on his way to India for an extended business trip.  What to do with me?  Of all times, at Thanksgiving, the penultimate family holiday, my family was leaving me!  Luckily, I had two invitations: one to go to the mountain resort of Baguio with a family friend.  The other was a trip, just for fun, to Subic Bay, the home of the biggest US Naval Base in the Pacific at the time, about 50 miles north west of Manila.  What a choice.

The friend who invited me to Subic was uber cool: she was a cheerleader, and beautiful, and I was thrilled that she saw fit to be my friend.  We had met in our Asian Studies class; she was new to the school, and we just clicked.  I always felt comfortable with her, and we had a lot of fun together, sometimes skipping school to grab a burger at the local watering hole. We laughed a lot and got into some shenanigans here and there.  She lived a little on the edge, which enticed me, and gave me courage to do the same. 

She was dating a guy whose father was a physician at the Naval Air Station, Cubi Point, on the edge of Subic.  Another girlfriend was to join us, with the boyfriend, and the four of us were to stay with his family at Cubi.  We left the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, on a Victory Liner bus.  It was loud, hot, dusty and windy, and we sat, happy and free, as we bounced our way north to Olongapo City, outside the gates of the base.  We made our way to Cubi, and to the boyfriend’s house.  When we arrived, there were no parents in sight.  We had the house to ourselves, for the entire weekend.  I was sixteen years old.

The boyfriend was a student at George Dewey High School, and we made our way over there to meet some of his friends. "Afternoon Delight" was a big hit at the time, and it seemed to be playing from every jukebox we passed.  We went out that first night to a club on base where we danced to the latest music from the states, and later ate American hamburgers and chocolate ice cream at the nearby bowling alley.  There were American servicemen everywhere you looked, and you know what they say about a man in uniform.  It was mesmerizing.  They also paid more than a little attention to us as we passed.  The next night we went to a club called The Sampaguita Club, where a Marine MP took one look at my I.D. and threw us out because we were underage.  For some reason, we then went to the Officers’ Club (where age doesn’t matter?) and I was asked to dance by ten different sharply dressed officers.  Was I in heaven? 

Me, at sixteen.
The next day we took the ferry to Grande Island in the middle of the bay, an R and R spot for the military.  We hung out on the beach, drinking and just being.  Sunburned and a little tipsy (perhaps?) we came back to the boyfriend’s house and dressed for an evening out.  We hooked up with a nurse who worked at the naval hospital and her date. She was a WAVE, and worked with the boyfriend’s father at the hospital.  It was a strange time in the history of the base: the war in Vietnam was over, and for whatever reason there was a lot of dissatisfaction among those in the Navy.  We saw evidence of drugs everywhere; they were just another part of Navy life.  We listened, horrified, to stories about two servicemen who had rescued a drowning Filipina, only to be accused of rape by her family.  Thrown in the brig, the men endured daily beatings by Marine MPs.  There seemed to be a dome of dark discontent covering the entire base.  Graffiti was spray painted on many a wall: FTN! 

After lingering for a while in the nurse's apartment, we left to see the sights in Olongapo.  The base was separated from the city by a river, if you could call it that, more like an open sewer (its nickname was Shit River).  Walking across the bridge from the base into the city, I was a little amused, but at the same time shocked to see men in small boats on the river, calling out to the passing sailors, “You want a girl?  Hey Joe!  You want a young girl! My sister only 13!”  Small children would actually be swimming in the awful water, calling for people to throw coins to them.  If the coins landed in the water, the kids would dive down to the mucky bottom to retrieve them.  We were too young to appreciate the tragedy, only in retrospect do I understand the dark world we were passing through. 

On the main thoroughfare the air was pulsing with music from the clubs.  Beautiful Filipina women stood in the doorways, dressed provocatively, enticing passersby to enter.  There was a sensory cacophony of the loud music, cigarette smoke, stale beer, and cooking food. We were blinded by thousands of blinking neon lights.  The sidewalk teemed with humanity: sailors and Filipinos moving in all directions as jeepneys and motorcycle taxis rumbled by coughing out diesel fumes.  Towering above the crowd, tall MPs sauntered along, their starched while uniforms spotless and pressed, hands on their billy clubs, looking for misbehaving sailors.

The view from the base looking towards Olongapo.
We wandered into a club called New Florida, where we danced with each other and other guys. I suppose we were rare birds: young American girls.  My friend gave me some dance tips: "It's all in the shoulders, Liz!" I was determined to get drunk, (no drinking age off-base in the city!) so I slammed back three rums and coke, one after the other.  Someone ordered a pitcher of something called Mojo, a mixture of vodka, rum, gin, San Miguel beer, pineapple juice and who knows what else.  The place started seriously spinning and my friend took me out into the fresh air to walk it off.  As we walked along the sidewalk, elbowing our way through the crowd, I ran smack dab into an air conditioning unit, gashing my head in the process.  We ducked into a pizza place to clean up my head, which was bleeding pretty decently by then.  The bathroom was packed with Filipinas, all shapes and sizes, and we had to elbow our way to the sink.  It was hot and damp, with a strong, wet smell of disinfectant mixed with cheap perfume (and other things).  The floor seemed to be going up and down like a carnival fun house.  Groups of women preened in front of the mirror, chattering in rapid-fire Tagalog and reapplying their makeup.  As I leaned in, dabbing my head with a paper towel, a young girl threw up in the sink next to me.  It was surreal: I remember thinking that I was hallucinating, or at least wishing I was. 

Back to New Florida we went.  As I sat at the table, the others back on the dance floor, I sensed a presence; a sailor sat down next to me.  He kept asking me to dance, but I refused, saying I was just too wasted.  I told him to sit down and talk to me, so he did.  His name was Allan.  He was only 19, not much older than I was, and had already been in the Navy for a year.  After having met a lot of sailors that weekend, I don’t know why Allan stood out (especially in my impaired state).  He was on the USS Okinawa, and he landed helicopters.  We just couldn’t stop talking.  At one point a song came on: Stephen Stills’ "Love the One You’re With."  It was almost as if the music sobered me up, returned clarity to my head, and marked the time and place, like a pin on a map.  He touched the now very large bump and gash on my head, and kissed it.  He put his hand on my shoulder and pulled out a picture of himself, after writing something on the back. 

Exhausted from the dancing, and the alcohol starting to wear off, we all left to go back on base to get something to eat, and Allan tagged along.  Ears ringing in the sudden quiet, we sat at a table, and he seemed reflective, quiet.  I asked him if anything was wrong, and he said, “If you don’t understand my silence, you’ll never understand my words.”  He seemed to wake up after that, pulling out pictures of his family, his twin sister, telling me his life story.  Suddenly he looked at his watch and said, “Shit!  I was supposed to be back on the ship by midnight!  It’s 12:30!”  No problem … the boyfriend said it was cool to come back to his house until 4, when he could go back on board. 

Everyone else went to bed, and Allan and I stayed up on the patio talking through the night, taking in the sleepy lights of Subic as the tropical breeze pushed the bougainvillea bushes to and fro.  I was in a trance.  I listened to him talk about his girlfriend back home, how she dumped him when he went into the service.  How he missed his family, and how hard it was to be in the Navy.  I remember the glow of his cigarette in the dark, as he paused to take a drag, his short military haircut and his denim uniform.  I was floating on air.  There I was, having an adult conversation with a man who thought I was interesting.  Little old me!  I still marvel that I was there at all … there had been no phone call from my parents to check out where I would be.  Did they even care?

4:00 came entirely too quickly, and as a taxi pulled up to take Allan back to his ship, he leaned down and kissed me good-bye.  The sun was still a long time away from coming up, and I headed back in the house to sleep.  I lay in the bed, reliving everything that had just happened as I drifted off. 

Perhaps we were just two lost souls who happened to find each other across a noisy, smoky bar.  He so far away from home, longing for his family; me, near to my home as I knew it, but longing for my family as well.  There were too many stretches of time where I was alone, my dad on the never-ending business trips (sometimes several weeks away), my mom out with her friends, playing mahjongg or shopping in Hong Kong.  It was a rare day that I came home from school to find anyone there.  I was desperate for some semblance of stability, a port if you will.  Allan and I were both adrift, (him literally, me figuratively) out in the big bad world with no direction.  We happened to stumble across each other in the course of a crazy, wild weekend, each a buoy for the other in the middle of an ocean. 

Not me at Grande Island.
Several weeks later, I heard through the grapevine that the Okinawa was back at Subic.  I had this silly notion that Allan and I would be reunited and we would sail off into the sunset. 

I managed to get back to Subic with a different girlfriend, ostensibly to watch a soccer match between our school and Dewey High School.  Of course as soon as the bus got there, we ditched the game and went browsing around the base.  (I still remember how the goody two-shoes in me whined and kvetched about how we were going to get in trouble, until my friend finally told me to shut the heck up.  I wasn't a very good "bad girl.")  We took the boat across to Grande Island, walking along the beach.  I didn’t really expect to find Allan, what were the odds?  I mean, there were thousands of people at Subic.  Surely I would never find him!

I literally stumbled across a group of people, sailors and Filipinas partying on the beach, tripping over the corner of their beach blanket.  I hastily apologized, blushing, and turned to the guy whose legs I had just trampled.  It was Allan.

I stood there, stunned and agape with disbelief.  He jumped up to his feet, and hugged me. He stood in front of me, and grabbed my hand.  We walked over to the breakwater, and sat down on the rocks, our feet dangling over the sea.  He told me there was “something about me”.  We decided to have a romance on paper.  The Okinawa was leaving the next day for Taiwan, and he promised to write to me every day.  He kissed me again, like he had that night at Cubi, and I watched him walk away.  My girlfriend and I got in lots of trouble with the school (see, I was right!) for ditching the soccer game (the bus had waited three hours for us, ack!)  I was humiliated by getting into trouble, but it was worth the few minutes I got to spend with Allan.

Over the next few weeks, I got several letters from him while the Okinawa was cruising around the Pacific.  He wrote me poems and told me about his life on board the aircraft carrier.  He sent goofy pictures of himself and the guys on the ship.  He told me he loved me, as if, impossibly, he could create a love affair by writing about it. For the love-starved, hyper-romantic teenager that I was, it was gold.

Then, just as soon as they had started, the letters stopped coming.  Over time my memories of him, such as they were, faded.  Life went on.  Our moment was over.

About a year later, I did get a short note from him, telling me he had been kicked out of the Navy, and he was back in California, but that was it.  I never heard from him again. 

When the internet came along, a hundred years later, on a whim I tried to find Allan, if nothing else, to tell him how I still remembered him, and how our brief time together had made me, an awkward and lonely teenager, feel special.  Somehow I found out that he had died in the late 1990s.  Strangely, I was crushed.  I still can’t explain the magic of that crazy weekend, amazed that my parents didn’t care where I was or what I was doing.  It was like a quick, heady trip home to the states; the American food, the music, the American guys.  Allan and I had probably spent a total of about 6 hours together.  Maybe that was how it was supposed to be: brief, but meaningful.  A message from the universe that we were not alone.

Every time I hear that song, “Love the One You’re With," I am transported back to that skanky bar in Olongapo and can taste the sickly sweet Mojo.  I can smell the cigarette smoke and hear the music crashing around my ears.  And I remember how a young sailor picked me out of a crowd and, just for a moment, made me feel special. 

If you're down and confused

And you don't remember who you're talking to

Concentration slips away

Because your baby is so far away
Well there's a rose in a fisted glove

And the eagle flies with the dove

And if you can't be with the one you love, honey

Love the one you're with

Don't be angry, don't be sad

Don't sit crying over good times you've had

Well there's a girl sitting right next to you

And she's just waiting for something to do
Well there's a rose in a fisted glove

And the eagle flies with the dove

And if you can't be with the one you love, honey

Love the one you're with

You gotta love the one you're with

Turn your heartache right into joy

She's a girl and you're a boy

Did you get it together and make it nice?

When you ain't gonna need anymore advice
Well there's a rose in a fisted glove

And the eagle flies with the dove

Sometimes you can't be with the one you love, honey

Love the one you're with

You can read more about the debauchery and insanity that servicemen at Subic got into at 

From my "fully-in-port-on-solid-ground" position today, it all seems ridiculous that my parents were on board (let's see how many boat and ocean puns I can cram into one blog entry!) with me spending several days at a military base filled with hundreds (thousands?) of young men who were on dry land after having been at sea for months.  It was a different parenting universe, to be sure.  I truly believe that a parent living with children overseas had similar issues of detachment from (reality?) the norms back stateside.  Perhaps my parents were struggling in their own fashion to find their way.  Is there such a thing as a Third Culture Parent?  I wonder.  

Saturday, October 19, 2013

There's No Place Like ...

Schmoozing with the captain.  (Not Capt. Steubing).

Lessons learned from a European cruise (that are totally incidental and not applicable to the American tourist as a whole, lest I be accused of generalizing too much):

Some Americans don’t like to be in foreign countries. 

They like to go home and tell people that they have been to foreign countries.

But while they are on their luxury cruise ship, which looks pretty much like a four-star hotel-from-home-on-water, they peek out their portholes at beautiful European hamlets and historical waterfronts, and complain, complain, complain, that it’s not like home.  It’s too hot.  It’s too cold.  It’s too steep.  It’s too far to walk.  The people don’t speak English.  The food is too rich.  It’s taking too long for the harbor officials to clear the ship for disembarking.  “Well, that’s the French for you! There are rules, and there are ‘French’ rules.”   The tiny TCK voice in me is outraged, embarrassed, angry.  “Why did you come here, if all you do is complain that it’s not like home?”

Portugese Tiles.

And lest I sound like a cynical, ungrateful be-yotch who does nothing but gripe about an opulent, ridiculously luxurious cruise provided by the generosity of her mother-in-law, whom she appreciates more than she could ever say, allow me to say that I, myself, had a wonderful time seeing places that I have to date only dreamt about.  I finally got to set foot in Portugal, that exotic place that tempted me last May but which, thanks to the buffoonery of United Airlines, I was prevented from seeing.  I was enchanted by the intricate tile-fronted buildings in Porto and by the tiny alleyways of Sintra.  I got to watch men building a wooden boat from scratch, and taste tawny and red Ferreira port at the very place where it was made.  I got to wander through the white towns of Andalusia in Spain, surrounded by rolling green hills, dotted with hundreds of modern windmill turbines.  I chuckled to myself that Don Quixote would have had his hands full battling those!

Mt. St. Michel

I finally got to climb the seemingly endless craggy steps to the top of Mont St. Michel in France.  My sister Lisa, when we lived in Belgium, had been there on a high school field trip.  I was mesmerized by the thought of a mysterious abbey on a rock island, only accessible at low tide, and cut off from the world when the sea came back to the land.  It was a sort of pilgrimage for me, to stand where my sister had once stood. 


My husband and I sat in a bistro on the sidewalks of Bordeaux and I resurrected my French language skills to order scallops in mushroom sauce, and a goat cheese salad.  Oh Em Gee.  I don’t remember tasting anything so exquisite. 

On the Garonne River in Bordeaux

I stood, in the rain, on the deck of our ship as we came into port in Bilbao, Spain.  When I was a little girl and we crossed the Pacific on freighters, my dad would stand with me on the deck as we came into port in Yokohama.  He explained how a little tugboat would come out to meet the ship.  The pilot would hop on and guide the ship through the channels safely.  It gave me a little nostalgic thrill to see the Spanish pilot do exactly that. 

So you can only imagine, that in light of my enchantment and my sensory thrills, it was a little disheartening to hear my fellow countrymen griping and bemoaning the ways of the Europeans.  My TCK snobbery was running at full tilt … it was so very hard not to respond to the complainers.  I tried to think of a non-confrontational thing to say, but the moments passed.  Perhaps I could have said, “Yes, but vive la difference, right?!” or “Yes, but we need to respect their laws since we are in their country.  We would expect the same of them when they visited our country, right?” 

On the other hand, we befriended several of the crew, many of whom were from the Philippines.  When I told them I longed for some Filipino food, they cooked a spread for me, and delivered it to my cabin when I was under the weather.  That, my friends, is kindness and hospitality.  I even sang the Filipino national anthem with them, resulting in lots of smiles and laughter. 

 Sigh … being a TCK is sometimes a curse.

Many people travel overseas only to realize that there’s no place like home.  For me, wherever I go is home, so any insult of the place, is an insult to me.  There is so much in the world to be appreciated and absorbed.  We shouldn't waste time longing for home.   

Gloria and me in Andalusia
Post Script:  I hit the ground running when we got home.  Work is a pleasure, exhausting, but still a pleasure.  My posts here may be few and far between, but I'm still here, thinking and viewing the world through my TCK rose-colored glasses.  I hope you'll stay tuned.  

Sunday, August 18, 2013

The Real World Meets the TCK

Four weeks of working full time under the belt.  I love my job, even though it is filled with a mountain of tiny details that I have to internalize.  Every day I learn something new: it’s like learning all the rules for a foreign language, then learning all the exceptions and irregularities of those rules.  You know, it’s always this way.  Except when it’s not.  It’s frustrating only because I am the type of person who hates being “new” and who wants to know everything at once; to be an expert at everything on Day One. I hate being inept and still under construction, if you will.  Maybe that’s why I never was hip on the idea of building a house from scratch; I’m too impatient to imagine the possibilities; I just want to skip to the end to see the result. 


I’m going through a kind of tired, too, that I haven’t felt in a long time.  I go to bed and it seems like five minutes later the alarm is going off and it’s time to get up.  I come home at night and before I can blink it’s time to go to bed and do it all over again.  There just doesn’t seem to be any down time.  My husband and I are the proverbial ships passing in the night.  I know, whine, whine, whine.  Cry me a river.  Welcome to the Real Word.

The best part is the level of satisfaction I have in the fact that I am working in my field.  I went to school, studied hard, and earned a degree in library science.  Now I am actually working in a real live library, using some of the actual things I learned in school.  Cataloging is meticulous and subjective at the same time; it was one of the courses I enjoyed the most in school and here I am, getting paid to do just that.  In all of the jobs I held in the past, mostly in the legal field, I felt incompetent, untrained and ill-prepared.  I went to law school for a year, yes, but I never felt that I was good enough; I was completely insecure in my abilities.  In one case I really did make a huge mistake that was a result of my lack of supervision and true ignorance.  (Being asked to take on the project, I remember thinking, okay, I’ll do that, just hang on one second while I go to law school “right quick”.  I’ll be right back!)  The powers-that-were never made me feel bad about my screw-up, not to blame myself, etc., but I still felt guilty.  Attorneys always have the final responsibility for a paralegal in their employ, but it still hurt and was embarrassing. 

Of course, if you make a mistake in cataloging a book, no one is going to die, and it’s easy to correct.  The stakes are not as high (thank goodness!)  Now I feel confident, secure in my knowledge and education.  It’s the kind of job that I always wanted.  I’m being trained well, and that, in combination with what I learned in school, is the perfect culmination of a lot of dreams. 

All this happened at the same time my book came out.  It’s been a great couple of months, feeling like I have accomplished a lot.  All those years of feeling half-baked and not good enough are behind me (but not so far behind me that I get cocky!)  

The down side is that I have so little time for my little Third Culture Kid blog.  I hope that I am still in my adjustment period, so to speak, with my state of exhaustion, and that I will fall into a steady hum of existence soon.  Seeing hundreds of books every day (agonizing not to be able to read them all!) gives me a plethora of ideas about life to write about, I just need to sleep on the weekends!  In the meantime, check out my Facebook page, at Recovered Third Culture Kid, where I post snippets of TCK interest.  In the words of the immortal Terminator, “I’ll be back.”

Check out this review of my book on Amazon.  (Full disclosure: it was written by my friend Anthony Roberts whose books "Sons of the Great Satan" and "Dead'r Than Elvis: Tall Tales of Texas Bullsh*t" I talked about earlier).

Monday, July 29, 2013

A Third Culture Kid Writes

Growing up as a Third Culture Kid, I kept a diary.  It is tear-stained and filled with the usual teenage angst that most of us go through at that point of our lives, only mine had an international slant.  I have schlepped all twelve volumes, in spiral-bound notebooks, from pillar to post throughout my life.  Sometimes I flip through it and marvel at how mixed up I was, how I grieved, and how I yearned for love or stability.  I recently picked up a book called “Forbidden Diary,” an edited version of a journal kept by an American woman who was interned by the Japanese in the Philippines during World War II.  Reading the introduction really struck a chord:

“Confined persons are often prolific diarists.  This has been true for centuries, as shown by the abundance of memoirs and journals of prisoners, whether in the Tower of London, concentration camps, or hidden residences, as in the case of Anne Frank.  Such persons may be physically confined or restricted to a limited existence, physical or psychological, for protracted periods – because of illness, imprisonment, geographic isolation or emergency conditions.  They may be in a threatening, unfamiliar, or uncongenial environment where they have little if any control or freedom to pursue their customary activities.  Enforced routine or exceptional leisure may allow them an unusual amount of time for reflection.”

Could it be said that a Third Culture Kid is a “confined person”?  I certainly felt confined; I was thrust into foreign countries against my will (okay that sounds a little extreme, shall I say, without any input from me), and completely out of control of my own destiny.  I spent hours detailing my life in my tiny script, often copying poems and passages from other books that spoke to my adolescent spirit. 

In no way would I presume to compare being a TCK to being an actual prisoner, but aren’t prisons sometimes invisible?  We don’t have to be surrounded by walls and barbed wire to feel trapped, after all.

Perhaps that journal was the fulfillment of a dream: I have always wanted to be a writer.  In breaking up my mom’s house last year, I came across reams of papers with stories I had written, either in my own scrawl or on a typewriter (remember those?) we had around the house.  It is said that you should “write what you know” and I took that seriously.  I wrote what was inside my head, purging all the depression and the longings, but also celebrating the joys of a first kiss or “going home”.  There were calendars where I literally counted days, agonizingly willing time to speed up until something could happen. 

This very blog is a reflection of my need to write.  I feel compelled to reach out to others who have lived as I lived, to reassure them that they are not alone.  Many TCKs (dare I say most?) know what it is to be lonely; in the dictionary next to that word is a picture of me.  A picture of me in a room filled with stacked packing boxes.  There is the physical sensation of the first morning waking up in the new place; that sense of strangeness, but at the same time familiarity; the smell of damp cardboard and fresh paint.  I am in a new world, afraid but simultaneously intrigued with my surroundings.  I filled my loneliness with reading, writing and imagination.  There was no one with me to nudge with my elbow and say, “Hey, look at that!”  My writing was and is a poke in the ribs to an imaginary friend: “Check it out!”

When we adopted our first daughter in 2001, I wrote about the trip.  It was a harrowing experience, on so many levels, (ever see “The Out of Towners” with Jack Lemmon and Sandy Dennis?) and I felt that no one had been honest with me about the realities (no one wants to talk about the difficult parts, after all!)  I felt obligated to share my experience with other families, so that they wouldn’t be as gobsmacked as I was when I was in the middle of it. 

I banged the story out on an old IBM Thinkpad that we had, and produced a pretty hefty manuscript.  I even signed up with a publishing outfit, and sent it to be edited by a professional memoirist (is there such a word?)  Then the Thinkpad died.  Then life happened.  There was a second adoption, then, sadly, a divorce.  The paper copy of the manuscript came along with me in my several moves, but it just sat, neglected, in a manila envelope.  I kept running across it and feeling guilty.  I rationalized that since it was about my daughter that I needed to wait until she was of age, for her to approve my writing about her.  It also addresses some hard truths and I wanted her to be old enough to be able to process this without feeling that any of it was her fault.

This past January 1, I made it my New Years’ resolution to finish the book.  I blockaded myself into the study, rewriting, adding, editing, and just plain finishing the book.  My mom used to be an editor for the LSU Press, so I ran it by her for typos and bad grammar.  I sent it off to the publisher (okay, full disclosure, a self-publisher, but today so called “indie” publishing is becoming more and more mainstream.  That’s my story and I’m sticking to it).  When I got the first pictures of the cover, I can’t express the emotions that overcame me.  It was a childhood dream come true.  I wrote a book!

So now, my little book is available on the Authorhouse website.  You can also buy it on Amazon.  (What?  Little old me on Amazon??)  I don’t claim to be an F. Scott Fitzgerald or even Shakespeare, but it is me, and it is from my heart. 

I intend to contribute a percentage of my royalties to an organization called the Spoon Foundation (I wrote about it HERE), which has made it its mission to improve nutrition among children in orphanages around the world.  Many "special needs" children who are adopted from overseas have nutrition-related disabilities, easily fixable with vitamins and a balanced diet.  Check out their website here.

Et, voila!