This is the teaser. Read the whole article and watch the broadcast interview here.
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
I shared Thom's blog with you guys a while back. Now that "Argo" won Best Picture honors at the Academy Awards the other night, Thom's story is getting some impressive press coverage. Talk about being "up close and personal" with history.
This is the teaser. Read the whole article and watch the broadcast interview here.
This is the teaser. Read the whole article and watch the broadcast interview here.
Sunday, February 24, 2013
Saturday, February 23, 2013
Divorce and the Third Culture Kid
This was a difficult post to write, and even more so to
share. As humans we tend to keep
our hurts to ourselves, licking our wounds in the privacy of our minds. Maybe it’s a pride thing: we want the
world to think we’ve got it all together and have no weaknesses. By doing this, we are under the
impression that we’re the only ones suffering, and the result is acute magnification
of the pain. If, serendipitously, we come across someone else going through the
same thing, the relief is palpable!
Sharing burdens makes them a little more tolerable. Obviously … how else do you explain the
phenomenon of group therapy?
fusiontoronto.webs.com |
So while it’s risky to let others (especially strangers!)
into your own private Idaho, it can also serve a purpose. I am 100% certain that this post will
resonate with many Third Culture Kids, and I don’t share it to air out my dirty
laundry, but to reach out to others that may be plodding through life,
needlessly carrying a burden that can be shared, and thereby lightened.
I wonder if there are any statistics about divorce and Third
Culture Kids? Do we get restless
in our marriages just like we get restless about our places in the world? The overwhelming majority of literature
that I have found about TCKs says that we are LESS likely to get a
divorce. I suppose we latch on to
the security of our marriages after a lifetime of moves and uprootings. After all, it is said that the trauma
of a move to a new place can have the same effect as a death or a divorce. Why would we want to experience such a
thing once we have found stability?
On the other hand, couldn’t it be said that when offered
marriage we jump into it with the hope that this will be the end of the nomadic
life? For the first time, we
attach ourselves to a seemingly solid foundation in hopes that the emotional
upheavals and insecurity will stop.
Isn’t it true that we have so little experience with commitment (whether
to a place or a person) that we may not realize that we may be marrying a
person simply to satisfy the visceral need to belong to someone or
someplace?
I had no hometown, no roots, and no stability in my
life. I went to nine schools
before I graduated from high school (two during my senior year alone). When I went off to college in Texas, my
parents were halfway around the globe in Singapore. I got to call home once a month, maybe. It was an exciting day when I found a
blue aerogram from mom and dad in my mailbox. When the dorm closed for breaks, I had to scramble to find
somewhere to go. One time it was a
trip to the beach with a girl from my dorm, but who I didn’t know that well. Another time I holed up in the spare
bedroom of a friend of my parents’.
Ostensibly I spent the whole time working on a paper; that gave me the
excuse not to come out that much. I
felt uncomfortable, an imposition.
After spending past home leaves staying in friends’ houses with my
parents, I came to understand what an invasion that was. Another time I spent a holiday with
cousins who were indeed family, but whom I only knew casually from our
once-a-year stateside visits. I
hate to keep bringing up that silly fish out of water, but you get the picture.
I latched on to the very first guy I met in college. I was desperate to be loved; to be
“established” and I’m sure that scared him away. (The fact that that same guy is now my husband is beside the
point.) After college, dating was
a kaleidoscope of men who came and went.
I would fall deeply in love after one date, only to wake up not long
afterwards hating him and pushing him out of my life. It was as if I was desperate for something solid, but not
trusting in its solidity. Each new
potential relationship was like moving to a new place, being the new kid at a
new school. I had to try and
figure out how to behave in order to fit in, and not always successfully. I probably left a trail of truly
bewildered fellows.
In the mid-1980s, I met my first husband: he was attractive,
funny and spiritual. I was drawn
to his life, his cadre of friends from church. He belonged to something, and I wanted to jump on that
train, regardless of my feelings about that to which he belonged. It was irresistible. I tried at one point to back out,
because I was afraid that my feelings weren’t “what they were supposed to be,” falling
into that same defensive trap of dumping him before he could dump me. Where was the manual telling me how I
was supposed to feel? Apparently I
was absent when they handed it out.
I was desperate to be part of that something, but at the same time,
afraid to. We had a beautiful
wedding.
I forged ahead, trying to make myself into the perfect partner, still trying to fit in at the school, metaphorically
speaking. We were married for over
20 years. We had three incredible
kids. Then we adopted two amazing
little girls. I was proud of the
fact that I had been a faithful wife; a good mom (never good enough in my mind)
and that I had “roots”! But
restlessness never went away. I
never lost that “outsider” feeling.
No one in my new life got who I was, and I was sorely lacking in the tools to
express myself. I felt like I was
playing a part on a stage, without a script. I would mentally jump up and down, screaming “SOMEONE PLEASE
LISTEN TO ME!” but there was never an answer. I’m sure I developed a patina of arrogance. I wanted to invite everyone into my
head, to show them a movie about my life. There was little interest in where I had been and how I had lived,
it was all too foreign (pun intended).
Speaking of Asia and Europe made me feel like I was bragging. After a while I stopped talking about it
… too many glazed eyes and blank stares will do that to a person. The real me had begun to slowly
disappear, like an old photograph fading over time.
All my life I sought approval from the people I knew and
loved. Everything I did was to
please others, to get a pat on the back, a check mark, to fit in. I needed
everyone to LIKE me. My own self-worth was dead last in the hierarchy. I made excruciating decisions along the
way that seriously damaged myself, but
that made damn sure no one hated me!
I did enough of that on my own.
I did the same thing in my marriage.
I knew that there were to be no rewards for leaving, that
many people would be hurt, badly, deeply.
For a pleaser like me, this was anathema, the divine punishment. The few friendships I had cultivated
over the years were lost. I would
venture to say most of them ended. There is no loneliness like what I
experienced. I don’t say this to
invite pity or sympathy. It was
what it was, and for the first time in my life, I didn’t care; they couldn't have been true friends. The fact was, I didn’t have to pretend
any more.
This begs the question: are TCKs always running away from
something, or trying to run toward something? Personally, I feel as though I am finally, finally, where I fit in, where I am
real, accepted and understood. Early
in our relationship, my (now) husband ordered and read the book “Third Culture Kids” by David Pollock and Ruth Van Reken. Cover to cover.
The man is completely allergic to reading; the fact that he made this gargantuan
effort was a colossal and genuine act of love. He gets me.
I’ve stopped running.
I have consciously made the decision to stop playing a part, and I no
longer accept hiding behind some kind of mask.
www.mentalhealthy.co.uk |
If anyone thinks that the person who leaves a marriage does
not grieve, they are grievously wrong.
Don’t ever think that we go trippingly into the sunset, laughing all the
while at our newfound freedom. We
mourn the awfulness of the destruction we have wreaked … and at our inability
to be the person that we thought we had to be. It was a huge failure on my part, and I will regret the
effects that it had on the people I love until the day I die. I could blame my Third Culture Kid-ness
for this, but that seems like an easy out. Maybe I’m just a selfish, horrible person. Should I blame Third Culture Kid-ness
for that too?
Staying on the back burner for a very long time results in
ashes and dust.
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
Sons of the Great Satan
Most folks look back on their high school days with fond
memories: the hijinks that they sailed through unscathed (for the most part), and
the feeling of that first puppy love.
They remember that tough teacher who, at the time, was evil, but with
the rose-colored glasses of time and distance, they ended up loving the most
because, while she was stern, she was effective. They remember the championship season, when the team went
all the way. The parties, the sleepovers,
the deep conversations.
TCKs remember the same things, but our experiences have a
little of the exotic injected into them.
We went to places like Hong Kong and Taipei to play sports, rather than the next
town down the road. Field trips involved
airplane trips into the deep interior of the tropic wilderness. We lived under Martial Law. Some of us lived in the midst of a revolution.
Tehran, Iran, during the late 1970s, is a time that we all
remember through the newspaper stories of the dethroning of the Shah and the
rise to power of the Ayatollah Khomeini.
I can still see the grainy pictures from the television coverage of
massive crowds of protesters, Uncle Sam burning in effigy, and the angry
anti-American slogans painted on walls and sheets. I still get a cold chill in my heart when I think of the
American hostages held captive (for 444 days!) at the Embassy in Tehran. I recently went to see Ben Affleck’s
movie “Argo” (and which I talked
about a little while ago) and it was too real, too raw, too close to home.
The summer before I went to college in Texas, I lived in
London with a British family, babysitting their children and taking a class at
a nearby college. My class only
had three students enrolled. One
of the students, according to our professor, was a prince from the royal family
of Bahrain. She told me, one day
when he was absent, that assassins sometimes will act when their target is in
school, blowing up the entire classroom.
Comforting. He used to blow
by me in his souped-up Camaro Iroc-Z, while I stood, in the rain, at the bus
stop. When I was in college in Texas,
I actually went on a date with a man who was a nephew of the Shah’s wife,
Empress Farah Diba Pahlavi. He was
tall, dark and handsome, and drove a really nice car. One time I landed in
Dubai on the way home from Asia.
Such is my total experience with the Middle East.
Joey and his friends skirt the law with their drug use; most
of us would be horrified to walk that thin line, especially in Iran, the land
of beheadings and stonings.
(Teenagers in the Philippines did the same thing; maybe, like us, they thought
they were immune from being caught.) Roberts gets inside the mind of an Iranian patriot, one who
despises the Shah and whose mission is to do his small part in overthrowing the
regime. A supporter of the shah,
an elderly Iranian professor, sees the country he loves falling into the hands
of the religious fanatics, and knows that he and his beloved wife have to
escape. Their perilous journey
through the snowy mountains reminds me a little of the book “Not Without My Daughter” by Betty Mahmoody.
This story could only have been told by someone who lived it. “Sons of the Great Satan” is a gripping narrative of the last days of Iran under the Shah, through the eyes of a Third Culture Kid. Roberts found himself yanked out of the high school that he loved, as the Shah’s regime fell around him. Most of us TCKs can relate, many of us having been yanked out of our schools, but rarely under circumstances quite as dire. There was no time to say good-bye to friends, and there was fear about his Iranian friend left behind. Anthony and his buddies were cast to into the wind, landing scattered about the world, like most of us TCKs at the end of high school. Roberts’ book is a testimony to all of our journeys and an example of our witness of global events of extraordinary significance.
This story could only have been told by someone who lived it. “Sons of the Great Satan” is a gripping narrative of the last days of Iran under the Shah, through the eyes of a Third Culture Kid. Roberts found himself yanked out of the high school that he loved, as the Shah’s regime fell around him. Most of us TCKs can relate, many of us having been yanked out of our schools, but rarely under circumstances quite as dire. There was no time to say good-bye to friends, and there was fear about his Iranian friend left behind. Anthony and his buddies were cast to into the wind, landing scattered about the world, like most of us TCKs at the end of high school. Roberts’ book is a testimony to all of our journeys and an example of our witness of global events of extraordinary significance.
Anthony Roberts |
Sunday, February 3, 2013
The Gun Debate Goes International
Around the World Gun Rules Vary Wildly (Click link to read article)
As the gun control debate rages on, new opinions pop up
every day. As a Third Culture Kid,
my mind wanders outside of my own borders, instead of looking at it from a
one-dimensional perspective. This
article by AP’s Eric Talmadge talks about gun regulation in Japan, Switzerland and Brazil. Of course there are huge variables in
play: different cultures, different histories, different constitutions. Perhaps by looking at the issue through
global glasses we might be able to find some answers. We aren’t the only ones dealing with this issue.
The Philippines used to be an American
“protectorate” and there are many facets of the Philippine culture that bears
an American trademark. Like its
gun culture. The Philippines hasn’t
been immune from gun violence: In 2010 a disgruntled former policeman took a
busload of tourists hostage in a misguided attempt to get his job back. The outcome was tragic: eight of the
hostages killed, the gunman killed, many more injured.
I invited a classmate from IS Manila, Chris Frondoso, to give
me insight into the present debate in the Philippines about gun violence. It’s important that we broaden our
thought process. I still posit
that it is more than just guns in play here; it’s a complex issue, not black
and white like many try to make it.
Among many other things, like crime and drugs, there is a huge mental
health element that needs to be addressed:
Chris Frondoso |
Ever since the Connecticut incident the pro and anti gun
lobbyists have been arguing in America about whether there is a need for
firearms in civilian hands. There have been numerous warnings that the newly
re-elected Obama administration may be working on plans to ban certain firearms
and limit the capacity of magazines. This has received worldwide attention.
On the other side of the world across the Pacific, in the
former US administered territory which is now the Republic of the Philippines, a
similar debate is now raging. The question of private ownership and the
carrying of firearms, and the system that regulates such, is once again under
scrutiny.
There is no constitutional or statutory grant of the right
to have arms in the Philippines. It is considered a legal privilege, with each
firearm having to be licensed and registered with a process that requires an
applicant to present clearances from different government agencies such as the
police, the prosecutors and the courts. One must also be psychologically fit to
possess and use. To carry a
firearm in a manner similar to the CCW (Concealed Carry Weapon) practice, one
must have a permit to carry. Sports men and target shooters may also acquire
transport permits to carry their arms to hunt or target shoot. All these
permits must be renewed periodically.
Generally as long as you have legal employment and no criminal
record you are deemed fit to hold and possess firearms, provided you comply
with the legal process. The regulation
and enforcement of the firearms laws is handled by the Firearm and Explosive
Office of the Philippine National Police, which is the successor of the
US-established Paramilitary Constabulary. A percentage of police revenue comes from licensing and
registration fees.
On a comparative basis with regards to the implementation
and practice of firearm control, the Philippines is stricter than the State of Texas
but more liberal than New York City, Washington DC, and Chicago, Illinois.
The debate here in the Philippines recently began anew right after
the New Years Eve festivities when a little girl was shot and later died because of a stray
bullet. It is thought that the
bullet was fired by a New Years reveler who shot into the air. There were reports of many other victims
hit by random gunfire. The
authorities investigated the case by checking the ballistics of registered
firearm holders in the vicinity of the girl’s residence. The media reported
that there was no match and law enforcers have said that the gun was illegally
possessed.
The next incident was a shooting rampage in which a man who
was a former district official of a town known as Barangay Kagawaad shot his
friends and neighbors, killing ten people and wounding seven. The shooter and shooting was an incident
waiting to happen. The man, who
was killed by responding police, reportedly also fired his gun during the New Year’s
festivities. He was reported to
the local district but the police did not act on the reports. As per the media, further investigation
into the subject revealed that he only reappeared recently in the town. He had disappeared for a year, since he
was the defendant in a legal case for possessing drugs, had been investigated
for two unsolved killings. He was also
reported as a wife beater. As a
former government official, he was entitled to possess firearms, and in fact in
the police database had three listed in his name with expired licenses/registration. He chose to shoot the victims with an
unregistered 45, locally termed as a “loose firearm,” which could not be traced
to him or anybody else.
Many say there was a failure of the system to see a red
flag. Concerned legal firearm dealers and officials of Pro-gun (which is the
local lobby group for firearm holders) sent representatives to the wakes of
several victims to offer legal and financial assistance. The families of the victims stated that
there were forces at play trying to sweep this under the rug since it may call
attention to the drug trafficking in the area and the corruption that goes with
it.
A strange peculiarity is that during the election period (which
covers the first half of 2013), the Commission on Elections (Comelec) dictates
who can carry firearms. High government officials and their security details
can carry firearms. The police,
military, other law enforcement and accredited government and private security
groups are also allowed to carry. The
average civilian is not allowed to carry even for reasons of self-defense. What
is ironic is that there are numerous reports of crimes and violence and Pro-gun
reports that there have been 300 plus violent incidents with 157 injured and
313 fatalities for January 2013. They say the criminals know many people have
no means of defense when traveling in the street. (Italics are mine … Liz.)
http://progun.ph/content/epic-failure-comelec-gun-ban-2013-shaping-be-bloodiest-philippine-history.
While many think banning the carrying of firearms or even
banning firearms outright is the answer, the Philippines is plagued by many
social ills that give rise to these violent incidents. Add to this the corruption, incompetence
and the limited resources of the police and legal system. What a frightening
scenario this is.
Outside the urban areas, where lawlessness is common, rural
areas are like the Wild West.
Political groups, criminals, ideological rebels … etc., are a strong
presence and will use force to get what they want. In the past civilians have been restricted from carrying
firearms, which had little or no effect on criminals since there was lack of
enforcement and considerable corruption in the legal system.
One problem is that many of those in power, the military and
the police and other security forces, have a long history of abuse. Human rights abuses ranging from
violation of civil rights all the way to killings have been ongoing.
It has been said that the gun is being used as a scapegoat.
In the Philippines what we need is to clean the social system and government.
Instead of ban the gun let us instead work on jailing the criminals.
Chris is a 1989 graduate of the International School in
Manila. He has worked in the media, public relations and legal fields.
Friday, February 1, 2013
The Help
I have to get dressed
to go pay the gardener.
My noblesse oblige is
not being properly acknowledged by the servants.
My gardener’s
suggestion that my cilantro peach salsa is not “authentic” has me wondering if
he really is from Mexico.
It’s naptime and my
housekeeper is not done cleaning.
How will I sleep?
Unrelated but still
funny: The increased legroom they
have in First Class means I have to stand up to get my inflight magazine from
the seat pocket in front of me.
Read this article twice: once as “just” a Westerner, then again as a Third Culture
Kid. The first time you will laugh
and roll your eyes. A non-TCK will immediately send it to “First World
Problems”. As a TCK you will nod
with understanding of what your mother went through all those years
overseas.
The article is oozing with that “je ne sais quois” that is
part of a TCK’s DNA.
In Manila, my parents had doorbells installed on the wall
behind their bed. (No, they didn’t
“have” them installed, they were already there. I know what you’re thinking!) All mom had to do in the morning was reach up over her head,
without even having to sit up, and push the button. Shortly after that our maid would come shuffling into the
room with Mom’s coffee on a tray.
I don’t think my dad ever rang his bell, but then again, he was hardly
ever home.
We went through a long procession of maids. The first ones came with our house. My dad was promoted to run the Manila
office after his predecessor died.
(That is a story in and of itself.
Death and dying in Manila is an adventure.) Our house was a mish-mash of ornate gaudiness, with an
entire wing made up of three maids’ bedrooms, a maids’ bath and their own
kitchen. (We wouldn’t want the maids
cooking in the same kitchen as ours now, would we?)
Our first maid started putting on weight pretty
quickly. It wasn’t long before we
realized it wasn’t because of her cooking, but that she was eating for
two. To our knowledge, she wasn’t married. Exit maid one. The second maid told us she needed to
visit her family in “the provinces” and could she borrow some money? She never came back, nor did the money. There was always drama
going on in some shape or form; our own Downton Abbey.
Mom “tried” to instill some sort of responsibility in
me. She asked the maids not to clean
up my room while I was in school.
I would leave it in a scattered shamble on my way out the door, socks
strewn, clothes wadded on the floor.
When I got home, everything was neatly folded and put away. This might explain my present lack of
housekeeping skills.
We had a series of gardeners who kept our yard manicured to
the nines. The landscaping was a
work of art: bougainvillea, palm trees, miniature bushes, grass cut into
basket-weave patterns. (Not to
mention the two courtyards between the living room and the bedrooms. One with a pond. With a statue of the Mannequin Pis
doing his thing into the pond.) One
gardener, Reuben, an elfin little man, wore an enormous straw hat (a salakot), and giant rubber boots.
It seemed to me, that he pruned the flora with a pair of nail clippers. He and our dog Sheba didn’t get along. One time she had him by the hem of his
pants; I have a vision of him trying to shake her off: “Mum, de dog please,
mum!”
I never stopped to wonder how our maids came and went. Was there some sort of “maid agency”
that my mom went through? Or was
it strictly word of mouth? Were
the expat women always on the hunt, stealing their friends’ maids behind their
backs? In our case, a dear friend
of mom’s moved away, and her maid, Pacita, came to be with us. She was a gem; always jolly, and very
good at what she did. I have a
memory of a stuffed fish, complete with head and fins, that was absolutely
delicious. Mom had a tiny brass
bell (in the shape of a Korean woman in a hoop skirt) on the dining room table,
to be rung when dinner was over.
Pacita would come running to whisk away the plates. Even when her own house was under
several feet of water after a typhoon, she came to work. My mom was shocked when she found that out,
and made her go home. Pacita was
so loved, mom looked into having her come with us to Singapore. To this day, we pretend to ring a bell
and call for Pacita to come clear the dishes.
The last maid was always the best; it’s almost like you hated to get attached because inevitably that is when you got transferred out of the country.
In Japan it was the same way. Our first maid, Masako-san, slept in what I thought
was a closet right off the kitchen.
Her little nook had a sliding door, and she popped out whenever I was
walking by, scaring the bejeepers out of me. I was afraid of her.
When we moved out of our apartment into a house, my nanny was Saiko-san, whom I loved dearly. I
had an ear infection once while my parents were out, and Saiko-san tended to me
like I was her own. Once while she
was giving me a bath, the six year old me got curious about belly buttons. I asked her to show me hers (kids say
the darndest things!) and she cleverly told me she didn’t have one. The devil had come in the middle of the
night when she was a child, and stolen it away. The things that stick with you from your childhood.
Our last maid, Yamamoto-san, was a cook and housekeeper extraordinaire. We had a naughty little dachshund named
Oscar, who came to us one Christmas.
When he misbehaved, my mom would make excuses for him, “He’s just a
puppy, Yamamoto-san!” Yamamoto replied,
“He been a puppy TOO LONG!”
Yamamoto-san was very patient with me. While she prepared dinner one night, I
shadowed her every step, chattering away in my little girl manner. To keep me out of her hair, she gave me a bowl and some utensils to play with. I mixed up a green slimy concoction of
everything I could find: milk, spices, hot sauce, you name it (remember I was
seven). She gamely took a sip, and
I’ll never forget the look on her face.
I still feel bad about that one.
Living in a foreign culture forces you to adapt. Everyone in Manila and Japan had
maids. It wasn’t that we were
privileged or, far from it, rich.
Our servants lived on a measly monthly pay and a 40-pound bag of
rice. And they had pretty nice
quarters to live in, compared to their actual homes. Some of them became dear friends; if they were valuable to
us, the rewards, for both, were limitless.
I have heard that the Philippine economy depends on service
jobs. I will never know if our
maids muttered under their breath about us, complaining about the rich folks,
or if they served us happily, grateful to have a job. I truly believe that having lived that privileged life gave
me an appreciation for those less fortunate than I. I never took these ladies and men for granted. I even feel
uncomfortable in the Vietnamese nail salon.
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