When I was finally 18 and at home from my first semester of college I told my parents I wanted to try alcohol. It wasn’t planned, it just came out – it was time. All my friends were fairly deep into their drinking careers having started much earlier, 14 to 16 being about the norm for most Third Culture Kids.
My career as a serial solitary flyer started in my last two years of secondary school, when I went to boarding school in the United Kingdom.
My sisters and I marched through one airport gate after another, soldiers of separation, casualties of a difficult divorce.
I’ve landed, but where am I? In German, to arrive, “ankommen,” is understood to be a longer process, one that could take days or weeks.
Asian Americans have a new face, a new role model, a new idol to call their own. I am not one of these Asian Americans.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t terrified going into the reunion: I was jobless, husbandless, childless, petless, and I hadn’t even found a cure for cancer!
I was stunned. I dropped my pens, stood up and burst out into uncontrollable sobbing. Dad was my role model, my best friend, my only true confidante. He was the reason I became a teacher.