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A Moment of Clarity

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His name was Bill, and he rode a bicycle. It was an old cruiser that looked carefully oiled and at the same time well worn. Bill didn’t look old enough to be scared of riding a bike, but he did look old enough to be seriously injured if he fell from it so I guessed he was around 65 years old. His creamy white hair was carefully combed to the side, and he wore dress pants and brown shoes.

While I stood swinging on and off my tiptoes, scanning the corner right before the hollow of trees over the railroad track, he leaned on his bicycle over the platform with a quiet, patient smile on his face. I remember glancing down at his strong, veined hands and thinking that those could be violinist’s hands: I could tell because they looked like they were capable of delicate, gentle motions in spite of being big and rough.

“Hello,” I said, meaning to be polite.

So far into my summer in the United States, if I had learned one thing it was that Americans, especially Southerners, had made an art out of being polite.

“Waiting for the train?” he said.

He almost stole those words right out of my mouth: I had intended to ask him the same thing; firstly because that particular week, was my Week with A Special Emphasis on not Appearing Stuck Up.

I loved people. At least I thought I did, until earlier that week when my cousin — whose house we had been guests at for most of the past month–did something very characteristic of herself: she told me the truth, plainly, almost wickedly.

“Why do you insist on acting like you’re better than anyone else?”

Her words didn’t make sense to me at first: so my mind quickly dismantled the sentence and two words kept ringing in my head: “better?” and “else?”

When I recovered myself enough to ask her what she was talking about, she was not able to give me a clear example of what exactly I had done to make her believe that about me.

“Well, I don’t know, something about you seems like you feel that way,” she shrugged and said.

It was true. It was all too true, all the things she hadn’t said to me I felt around my chest and I had to go to the bathroom to let them out in tears. Earlier that summer my family and I packed up our lives into fifty-odd boxes and moved across the Atlantic to look for a job and start life in another country.

No big deal, we had done it before, actually, several times. The lack of stability and insecurity that we were all experiencing wasn’t what I was struggling with that summer: I was used to that. I wasn’t even grieving the loss of my friends so much. My biggest problem that summer was that I had become what the well-traveled young person dreads most. I was prejudiced.

Most recently I had come from the island of Sri Lanka, the “Pearl of the Indian Ocean.” It is a small country full of palm trees and gorgeous beaches. All the friends I left behind there had luxurious dark hair and mesmerizing black eyes. The children who sold bananas to us on the street walked barefooted. When I needed to get to school, I would sometimes ride a Tuk-Tuk (three wheeler taxi) for one whole hour on a road crowded with buses trying to out scream each other, and loose cows reminding us that, in a society where Hindus and Buddhists coexist, bovines have the right of way.

This place felt so real to me, its beauty was so raw especially since its scents, sounds, and sights were unpolished and sometimes, I admit, unpleasant. People stared at me, but they always responded to my smiles. Sincerity and simplicity ruled, and I adored the little island country.

I didn’t feel this way when I came to the United States. When I walked outside I wondered, where are all the people? The houses were stunning, although I’d heard that any little tornado could take them out. There were tons of stores stocked full of things and many different versions of the same things. For some reason, I felt offended at those stores. Something about the quantity of things didn’t seem right to me. Why was there so much variety, when all you ever needed was not that much at all? In and outside the stores, people came in all sorts of skin colors; I couldn’t help noticing that. I’m afraid I might not have liked that I wasn’t standing out anymore.

The worst was the way people talked to you. I had never been treated so politely, “ma’am” for some reason I never felt they meant it. I felt people were always nice but not necessarily, sincerely kind to you. The phrase “how are you?” seemed to be a greeting, not a question. Unfortunately, this was a form of culture shock too.

I had told myself I wouldn’t have culture shock in America because I’d spent a lot of time here before. I was ready for air-conditioning and smooth highways, and I couldn’t complain about those. What I hadn’t realized was that I had secretly, unknowingly formed prejudices against people based on a first impression. This had made me quiet and melancholic.

I listened to music by foreign artists. I preferred not to participate in games with teens at my cousins’ church because I didn’t know how to talk to them. They spoke so fast, and laughed only rarely so I was at a disadvantage because I was just barely beginning to discover the multiple uses of sarcasm. I realized I had lost my peace because I was unconsciously trying to hold on to a way of life that didn’t quite fit in here. I became quiet, hence, I came across as proud.

That week, after my cousin’s painful words, I was actually trying to stop focusing on myself so much. I was trying to find something familiar, something raw and maybe even whimsical in such a manicured place where everything looked like it could be fixed with one trip to the hardware store. I had looked everywhere, but everything looked too seem beautiful to me. Frustrated I went for a run that evening because I knew the train would be rushing by. At least the train was dependable. Then, along comes Bill in his old bicycle, wearing dress pants on a running trail in the middle of July.

“Yes, I’m waiting for the train,” I replied to his question. “It should have been here 15 minutes ago… do you always come here to wait for the train?”

Bill chuckled and out flowed a lulling southern accent when he said, “Yes, miss, but it doesn’t always come on time.”

I laughed at his reply. It was true, why should it? I got curious and asked Bill a dozen questions about himself. I learned that he was a train spotter, which simply means that his hobby was watching trains and learning all he could about them. For that reason Bill waited for the train at this very spot on the running trail most evenings. He had never been on a train: not once! But Bill knew all about the railroad lines that crisscrossed the United States.

I told him about the overnight trip I took with my parents on a Soviet train from Moscow to St. Petersburg. Bill didn’t look impressed, and he asked me if I remembered what kind of engine it had. I was at a loss for words since that’s where my extent of train knowledge ended. He didn’t look disappointed, and he encouraged another story from me about the time I actually hung outside of a railroad car holding onto the helping handrails of a train running over Sri Lanka’s tea estates at midnight. I remember telling Bill how thrilled I was at the wind on my face especially since I could feel water drops from the small falls we were traveling near but couldn’t see.

I mentioned how much I would love to have a train room someday, and he invited me to his house to see his basement of which one whole room was dedicated to miniature trains. I was so tempted to get on that bike with him and go see the train room that very instant. We talked about all this until the train’s whistle sounded around the corner, right before we could see it and still feel the wind it was pushing forward. For the first time that summer, I felt dread when I heard the train approach. Bob would be leaving soon, and so would I because my mother was probably worried by now. I braced myself for a goodbye, and suddenly, when the train rushed by us and blew its whistle in our faces, I felt it.

I felt what I call a “moment of clarity.” My moments of clarity are characterized by feelings of an indestructible peace, and uncontainable joy. This moment felt that way. I turned and looked at Bill–the gentle, old train enthusiast who had never actually been on one– his eyes still shining and his hand lifted towards the cars rushing by us, as if he had just proved a point to me.

Bill will never know, but he taught me a valuable lesson in that moment. I had felt like a hypocrite by his side, but after I talked to him I saw that I was just the same in this continent as I had been in the last. I had not lost my ability to appreciate beauty; I was just beginning to accept that I could find beauty in unexpected and unfamiliar places.

Courtesy of Linh H. Nguyen on Flickr.

Preparing Expats for the Emotional Challenges of Living Abroad

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Dr. Cathy Tsang-Feign is a psychologist who specializes in expatriates – she helps them cope with their emotional, psychological, and mental issues while living abroad.

A few years ago, Cathy wrote columns for the South China Morning Post and American in Britain magazine, and she was amazed at the response she would get.

“I received many letters from readers expressing their gratitude and relief to learn that they were not alone in facing such issues, and telling me how the advice in the column helped them,” Cathy said. “It made me think that more people need to be educated in this area. I felt that the best way to put this knowledge and information out there is to write a book on this subject of living abroad.”

She recently published a book, “Keep Your Life, Family, and Career Intact While Living Abroad” which gives advice for expats facing the personal, family, and professional challenges of living abroad.

Cathy, who has Third Culture Kid children of her own, recently sat down to chat with us about her book and expatriate life.

Screen Shot 2013-12-09 at 9.06.12 PMWho did you write the book for?

The target audiences are international expatriates and families. They include business executives, diplomats, teachers, missionaries, and their dependents. The materials are also meant to educate corporate human resource personnel who are responsible for sending people to live and work abroad.

Over the years, I realized that issues faced by expatriates are common to all expats regardless of nationality. A few such issues are culture shock, identity inflation, transient family syndrome, reverse culture shock, etc. There were very few resources that touched upon these areas from a psychological point of view.

What do some of these issues look like?
An executive client of mine travels widely to manage his worldwide company operations. About eight months ago he relocated to Hong Kong, where he has been unhappy and struggling to motivate himself to go to work. He is a classic case of an individual dealing with culture shock without realizing it. Just because he travelled extensively doesn’t equal that he is immune from culture shock, let alone that he was prepared for it.

Like most people, after the first two weeks of elation during the first stage of culture shock, it suddenly dawned on him that he was living in Hong Kong. Yet he had no support network except his work. He spends more and more time at work, which doesn’t help him to build his social network. In addition, he has to prove his worth to his company after relocating him here. Eventually, the stress and loneliness ate at him. His moods spiraled downward. This is part of the second stage of culture shock, a time when many people give up and leave. This and other aspects of dealing with the four stages of culture shock are dealt with at length in my book.

What’s the one thing you want people to take away from your book?
Third Culture Kids face challenges and benefits that people from outside this population have no clue about. TCKs are the silent majority who do not get a choice to relocate to foreign lands when their parents decide to move abroad. In addition, when a family moves abroad or a company relocates an executive overseas, most of the attention is focused on logistics or how to get the executive to settle in. As far as people are concerned, children are resilient and they would simply adapt.

Many parents don’t seem to realize what their kids go through, and the impact on them of moving, especially serial relocations. In fact, much of my work involves enlightening parents to the issues of their children that they may not notice in spite of seeing it right in front of them every day.

I find it is crucial to educate and support parents to learn about their children when living or considering living abroad. I hope that the chapter in my book devoted to Third Culture Kids will enlighten parents to make them think more thoroughly about their children’s welfare.

What do TCK challenges look like?
A former client of mine was of Korean-origin, who grew up as a TCK, living in Europe, North America and Asia. Though his parents were educated and lived abroad for many years, they still wanted their child to identify himself as “Korean” and to marry a Korean. As much as my client looks Korean, he doesn’t think and behave like a typical Korean.

This often creates conflicts and turmoil between him and his parents. He questions why his parents provided him a life as an international person with an open view of the world, yet they expect him to act like one who never looked outside the borders of Korea. He feels his parents simply don’t accept who he is and fail to understand his experiences as a TCK. This is the most common problem I find among TCKs.

Learn more about “Keep Your Life, Family, and Career Intact While Living Abroad,” here.

Perpetually In-Between, “The Road Home” Articulates the Third Culture Kid Story

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“Indian! Indian!” They yell at the little boy.

Nobody ever yelled at me at school, but I could relate to Pico, a ten-year old British-Indian student left at a boarding school in the Himalayas. I could relate to him because he was running away from feeling homeless without ever arriving at a place he could call home.

Based partially on the director’s childhood experiences, The Road Home tells the story of Pico, who thinks of himself as British, but is taunted by bullies who perceive him as denying his Indian heritage. To escape the bullies, Pico decides that peace will only be found back home in England, so one morning he sneaks out of school for the New Delhi Airport.

I haven’t watched many – if any – films about Third Culture Kids. Lost in Translation and The Terminal capture that feeling of being between worlds – trapped in everywhere and nowhere – but Rahul Gandotra’s The Road Home was the first film I’d seen that I recognized my Third Culture Kid self in.

In watching the film, I was reminded that so much of what defines a Third Culture Kid is impossible to articulate – sometimes it feels like there just aren’t words to describe how it feels to be perpetually stuck in the in-between.

“The problem starts when others use only my physicality to determine or assume my identity,” Gandotra said. “This is where the frustration starts for me; when people ignore or disregard how you see yourself and then tell you how you should see yourself even though they don’t know much about you.”

The isolation that Pico feels is what I could relate to – the ability to interact with a range of nationalities without ever really feeling like a true ambassador of any of them. I could understand Pico’s desire to fully assimilate and to belong – and his inability to understand that he never would and that this was something worth celebrating, not mourning.

The twenty-minute film details what happens along Pico’s escape, as he meets a taxi driver, a French backpacker, and a pair of British tourists who all make mistakes in guessing his identity and therefore increase his frustration with the inevitable realization that those around him do not see him the way he sees himself. I could relate to this frustration as well as the frustration that prompts Pico to escape from school, although we never really find out if Pico is trying to run away from the bullies, from himself, or simply from his school.

The school that Pico escapes from is the same one that the filmmaker attended. Gandotra was born in Belfast, Northern Ireland, and grew up in eight countries across Europe, the Middle East, Asia, and America. He eventually attained his MA in film directing at the London Film School and traveled to the Himalayas to direct this film for his master’s thesis.

The Road Home has played in more than 60 international film festivals and won over 20 awards, was nominated for the British Independent Film Awards and shortlisted for the 2012 Oscars. Producers have approached Gandotra asking him to make a full-length feature based on the short film.

I was interested in how the idea for the film began. When I reached out to Gandotra via email, he confessed that he had been working on another idea for his thesis when someone said to him, “You’ve had such an interesting life. Why don’t you write about your life in Prague?”

“Huh?” he thought. “Where’s the interesting story in that?”

A few weeks went by and he woke up one morning asking himself, “Why don’t I make it about me in my boarding school? But again where’s the interesting story in that?”

The kernel of an idea transformed. “Why don’t I make it about a boy running away from a boarding school? That’s better,” he said. “But how would I make this about ‘the search for home’ if he’s running away from a school? Well, that wouldn’t work but perhaps it could be about the ‘search for identity’?”

Then he freaked out: “Are you out of your mind?” he asked himself. “How the hell are you going to shoot a film in the Himalayas with no contacts there and not enough money to do this as a master’s thesis film?” His fear stopped him from entertaining the thought of even writing the script.

Actually, he continued writing another script fully believing that he would make that one work, until he had lunch with an acquaintance where he shared both script ideas. The acquaintance absolutely lit up at the Himalaya idea. “Literally for 30 minutes he said, ‘I can see it as a feature and your short will be a preview for it. That’s the one you have to do.’”

“I hadn’t even thought of it as a feature before then,” says Gandotra. “Anyhow, seven months later I finally gathered the courage to write a first draft.”

Between multiple projects, it took him two years to make the film, prepping in London and New Delhi while shooting in Mussoorie, India.

“My aim and hope is to get as many people to watch the short in advance of my first feature film, which will be an expansion of the short film,” he said. “There, I will delve deeper into the TCK themes than I could in the short, though I’ll be following a different storyline.”

Watch the film at roadhomefilm.com.

United Noshes: Tasting One Meal From Each United Nations Member State

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In celebration of World Food Day 2013, today we present to you an incredible project: United Noshes.

When we first came across United Noshes, we immediately fell in love. The concept of United Noshes is the epitome of being a TCK. It’s where Jesse Friedman and Laura Hadden, an adventurous husband-and-wife team, host dinners from their home in Brooklyn, New York that explore cuisines from around the world. More specifically, the cuisines from the member states of the United Nations. Genius.

United Noshes’s mission is to cook one feast from every United Nations member and permanent observer in alphabetical order. To date, they’ve completed just under 70 meals. For each meal, they aim to create as authentic an experience as possible, carefully researching recipes, and investing ample time to ensure that they prepare these meals as traditionally as possible. Their hope is to expose the community to various cuisines they might not otherwise know about. The best part? This is all done while raising money for the World Food Program.

Thanks to word of mouth and some press, United Noshes has hosted a diverse group of diners from all corners of the world, including: someone from Ghana who brought and shared local ingredients to help with the meal; someone from Equatorial Guinea whose father was an ambassador; someone who was half Danish and half Finnish, and attended both the meals from Denmark and Finland; someone from Albania who works at the United Nations, and was able to share the recent history of the country.

Denizen had the opportunity to chat with one of their founders, Jesse Friedman, the Chef and Shopper of the operation.

How did this idea come about?
We often get stuck in the same habits, even here in New York. We don’t spend much time in people’s homes getting to know each other, and it can be really awkward to break out of a social circle and expand. United Noshes is about bringing the community together. We found an opportunity to invite both strangers and friends into our home to share a meal.

Once you settle on a member state’s cuisine, what is the process to bring this meal to life?
We find recipes online from various sources, whether it’s from a blog or a collection of recipes. I research the week before a meal, and really try to find recipes from the country itself or from someone with a strong connection to that country. I have a pretty good spidey sense on which recipes are real and which ones may have been adapted. Once the menu is finalized, we send out the invitations, and seat attendees based on the venue.

Where do you source the food from?
I try to get produce from the farmer’s market. I do all the shopping myself. In every major metropolitan area, you can at least find one ethnic market from every major part of the world. I have a bike and I’m not afraid to use it!

What has been your favorite part of this experiment?
On a personal level, this has been a wonderful hobby. It’s a great blend of structure and creativity: researching across different languages, and solving the fun cross-cultural challenges. That’s like getting a Masters in food history!

It’s also been incredible to see how the same ingredients are used in different way throughout the cuisines. For example, learning about the history of the chili pepper, potato, and black pepper and how those ingredients traveled through different countries.

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Meal 64: Georgia. Photo courtesy of Laura Hadden. 

Which cuisines have you enjoyed discovering?
Georgia. The food is incredible! They use a lot of fresh herbs, and there are many wonderful ways to cook chicken. There’s a delicious cheesy bread, which is like a more indulgent form of pizza. A friend has lived in Georgia so we were able to host the feast Georgian style. The entire experience was very special. It was a full immersion, tons of storytelling and even Stalin-themed wine.

Also, Comoros. The cuisine is fascinating. There are a lot of Arab, African, Indian and French influences. We made a lobster with vanilla sauce; one of the most memorable dishes we’ve made.

Which country would you like to visit to try the cuisines?
We’re actually going to Argentina soon, driven in large part by the amazing meal we had! Meat, wine, chimichurri sauce … there is just no way around it, you’re going to have a great meal when it’s Argentinian!

We probably wouldn’t have considered visiting Comoros before this, but if its culture is as fascinating as its food, then you know it will be a very interesting place to visit.

What was the most surprising thing you learned about this experience?
Raising money for the World Food Programme gives it a real sense of purpose. We’re grateful that Google has agreed to match donations. We’ve raised enough money for 60,000 meals.

When is your next one?
Guinea-Bissau. Most of our meals are done in our apartment in New York. We’ve also held gatherings in Tacoma, Portland, few in Bay Area, Boston and DC, with an approximate attendance of 10 people at each meal.

How can people help/contribute to this program if they are not able to attend?
If you know a lot about a given country anywhere from H to Z, please send us an email. Please also donate to the World Food Program to help with the world’s largest solvable problem.

Top image: Meal 41: Côte d’Ivoire. Photo courtesy of Laura Hadden.

The Real Challenge Was To Stay

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Last year my work contract ended and I had the opportunity to find another job and, once again, explore a new city. Berlin sounded enticing. Seoul was beckoning – after all I had only spent a year in Suwon, a neighbouring city of the metropolis. Buenos Aires, like a land of my dreams, was a possibility. But I couldn’t make a decision about what city to move to. When I asked my mom, she simply said, “Stop moving and stay where you are.”

My constant state of flux must have worried her. And to be honest, I was tired of moving apartments, street addresses, packing, unpacking, meeting new people, not meeting new people, finding the best doctor/hairdresser/church in my neighbourhood, cancelling contracts, and changing my letterhead. Three years ago, I moved to Germany, and after exploring a few cities, Hamburg was my current home.

My romance with Hamburg has been a slow love story. The city is forever cloaked in rain, but I like to stroll along the grimy industrial harbour with its container ships, seagulls and foghorns. At night the lights shimmer on the Elbe river, it smells like the ocean and the city shows its offbeat beauty to those who dare look for it.

Travelling, moving, and anticipating new adventures has always given me a buzz. There is nothing more exhilarating for me than setting off on an adventure companionless, getting from A to B with little more than a diary, passport, and book. I have learned to rely on myself and listen to my intuition. I communicate with hands and feet, when vocabulary fails, decipher foreign subway maps and overcome any obstacles that come my way. At night, I dream about possible wonders that might await me tomorrow.

It is this imagined joy of future pleasures (in German, Vorfreude) of being catapulted into the unknown that feeds the hungry spirit of adventurers worldwide. A friend who was going off backpacking in California said to me that the greatest thing about leaving is the anticipation. For me, the build-up of nerves, dreams, and panic, before a big trip always result in adrenaline. Torn from your everyday routine, the weeks or days before your departure are spent daydreaming, living for another moment, another time. Naively, I imagined South Korea as endless rice fields with dilapidated houses, which was a great contrast to the densely populated, smog-filled, high-tech reality.

But after a decade of living across three continents, I long for a home. I want a place where neighbours greet me because I am a familiar face and not merely a visitor; where keeping a pet is a possibility; where a jungle of plants grows in my flowerbed, like my own roots slowly plummeting into the damp earth of this moody, windy city. I want to own furniture that I love instead of putting up with a musty foldout couch or lemon wallpaper in my furnished, temporary apartments.

Moving would have been so much easier for me. Setting off and leaving things behind was refreshing, like breaking out and setting my sights on new horizons. The real challenge was to stay. My mother is German, my dad is Namibian and I was raised in South Africa, but in truth, Germany is pretty foreign to me. I grew up with a combination of three countries’ traditions and staying gave me the chance to explore this heritage more closely.

Soon the adrenaline of living in a new city evaporated and I had to embrace its dents, smudges and cultural nuances. Staying meant taking of my rose-tinted glasses of a visitor in awe to go beyond the “Moin moin” every tourist learns from their guidebook. Staying meant keeping friends — the type who brings me chicken soup when I’m sick or organise a surprise birthday party.

My taste for adventure has not simply vanished. I still get “itchy feet” when I want to pack up and leave. When routine stifles me, I follow every whim. If I feel like visiting another city, I do. If I feel like wandering through the city of Hamburg, exploring nooks and crannies, I do. Spontaneity is my best friend. And my need for freedom is sated through exploration – my eyes or my camera, my only companion – as I wander along the harbour or past Altbau buildings as the sun sets and the wind whispers its secrets.

While my destination is set for now, the journey has not ended. Currently, I am still torn as to where my home is but there is more calm, more comfort. There are moments like today, when the air smells sweet and the sky shines true-blue, when my neighbour wishes me a nice day and I think – I never want to leave. Then sometimes when I hear the dull drone of an overhead airplane, I still long to pack my suitcase and head to a new destination, but when the quietness of rustling treetops returns, I am reminded of that calm.

Staying put, so to speak, has been both a decision and a gradual process. Recently, I bought myself a beautiful wrought iron bed. This purchase marked the beginning of my choice to stay in Hamburg. It marked the beginning of letting down my anchor in this here – my here.

Photo courtesy of Mareike Pietzsch.

Part 2: Turning Travel Dreams into a Reality

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Denizen writer Devika Ray recently spent a year traveling across the world. In this 3-part series, she documents her journey from New York City, to Argentina, to Thailand. See Part 1: “How It All Began: The Start of My Quarter-Life Crisis.”

In early 2012, I decided I wanted to take a year-long break from life – a gap year. I had finally gotten my parents on board, my friends had already given me their blessings. All that was left to do was make the actual move, and I no longer had anything holding me back.

I wish I could say that I had just packed my bags and kissed my old life goodbye with spunk and spontaneity. But alas, years of cautious decision-making had conditioned me to plan and thoroughly evaluate any course of action ahead of time. This was the most reckless thing I was about to do and I needed to bring some structure to it. I had no idea where to start, what to look for or how to map things out. How was I, who had never done anything out of the norm, supposed to take that leap of faith and just go?

I spent a good week or so just thinking about what I wanted to accomplish during this year off. Yes, I wanted to grow, learn and explore. But I needed some more specific goals, which led me to delve deeper and further question myself.

1. What were some things I’d always wanted to do but never had the time or ability to pursue before?

2. How could I use the year to explore areas I was curious and passionate about while still gaining tangible skills that could help me in the future and keep me marketable career-wise even after the year was over?

I wasn’t interested in traveling just for the sake of traveling. I had already had enough exposure to the backpacking scene during my college years to know that I wasn’t looking for a year of hostel-hopping and partying. I wanted something less superficial and more meaningful.

I allowed my mind to go wild with the brainstorming. From yoga certifications to WWOOF-ing, I considered everything under the sun. And after mulling over different ideas and possibilities, I finally narrowed it down to two main interest areas: Spanish and development work. Obsessed with Latin American music, dance and culture, I had always wanted to master the beautifully romantic language native to the region. And after 2 years of corporate work catering to the 1%, I was itching to do something more hands-on at the grassroots level in the developing world.

Once I was done with the introspection, it was time for some online research. I had my goals, but I still needed to figure out where to go. The whole world was my oyster and the possibilities endless. So choosing specific places depended on my personal interests.

1. What were some geographic areas that were unknown to me? Areas I had never lived in or traveled to?

2. What regions of the world would I enjoy exploring?

3. Where would I best be able to accomplish my objectives?

4. And where would my money last longest?

For Spanish, the answer was simple – I had never travelled to South America and this was the perfect excuse to set foot in an area I was dying to explore. The main question was which country to settle on? My Indian passport restricted me from traveling freely within the region, as I’d need separate (and often costly) visas for each country. So I had to be selective. Google revealed that the whole continent was teeming with Spanish language programs, all offering similar options. As a female traveling alone, safety was an important factor and became an additional filter in my search process. I gave preference to big cities over remote areas and read online travel forums on sites such as Trip Advisor, Rough Guides and Lonely Planet to learn more about specific places.

In the end, I settled on Buenos Aires. One of the most popular and fun Latin American cities, the capital of Argentina seemed to offer it all – a plethora of affordable Spanish schools, great food and nightlife, tango classes to fulfill my dance obsession and a tolerable degree of safety. Moreover, a 3-month tourist visa was free for Indian citizens and as a country, Argentina had enough natural wonders, from waterfalls to glaciers, to keep me occupied.

For volunteer work, the options were also countless. Whether education or agriculture, healthcare or animal welfare, every part of the developing world wanted volunteer assistance. I realized there was a whole “voluntourism” industry catering to people who wanted to travel while doing something more purposeful. But the concept of paying a third party to organize my volunteering trip didn’t appeal to me and I wanted a more economical solution.

During the search process, I came across several websites that were geared to helping career-breakers find opportunities in different countries. Some websites like Idealist and Escape the City posted international job and volunteer opportunities. Others, like Help X and Workaway, listed short-term volunteer work exchange programs whereby one could volunteer at a hostel/ranch/sailboat, etc., in exchange for free food and accommodation.

The opportunities blew my mind. How had I not known about all these unconventional and incredibly fun ways to travel? I came across blogs and sites of so many people who had left their corporate jobs in search of something else. I realized I was not alone. In fact, I was just one person in a sea of nonconformists.

I applied to various programs in Southeast Asia, targeting that region because of its reputation for safety and affordability. And finally, I heard back from an NGO in Thailand that specialized in English teaching. The program offered me accommodation and a stipend, and was located in the charming northern city of Chiang Mai. I was sold.

So I had my objectives. My timeline. I had my two destinations. But how was I going to pay for it all? It’s easy to make the decision to leave, but once I resigned, I’d be saying goodbye to a steady income stream just as I was about to embark on the most expensive vacation of my life. A cushy job had allowed me to savor financial independence since graduating college, and pride was not going to let me fall back on my parents again. This trip had to be self-funded and I wanted a safety net for emergencies and post-gap-year-life.

I looked into the cost of flights, visas and accommodation. Already quite fond of budget travel, I planned to travel like a backpacker. I enjoyed roughing it out, so extravagant expenditures would not be an issue. Moving out also meant that I could earn some money through the sale of furniture on Craigslist, books on Amazon and clothes to thrift shops like Buffalo Exchange. I put together a budget and made sure my savings would be enough to cover all upcoming expenses.

Finally, the plan was set. After leaving New York, I was going to spend the first two months with family, the longest I’d have spent with them in seven years. Then I’d move to Argentina for 3 months and then onward to Thailand for 3 more months. I decided to leave the remaining 4 months open. Maybe I’d be tired of traveling by then. Maybe I’d run out of money. Or maybe I’d move to Fiji with a new best friend. Who knew? I’d figure it out when the time came.

It took me a good three months to put the plan together. Somewhere in the middle, I gave my two weeks notice and changed my U.S. immigration status from worker to tourist. My coworkers were surprised but supportive. I was walking away from a salary, a green card and all the stability I had built over 6 years of hard work in America.

I’d be lying if I said that during the whole planning process, there weren’t times when I questioned if this year off really was the best idea. It was so easy to get overwhelmed and discouraged. There were too many things to research, too many conflicting sources of information on the Internet, too many ways in which things could go wrong, too many impending cash outflows and too many unknowns. At several points, it suddenly seemed appealing to just take the path of least resistance and stick with the status quo.

But, thanks to my supportive family, encouraging friends, a community of nonconformists, and my inherent TCK wanderlust, on July 25, 2012, I boarded a one-way flight out of New York. I had my plan, I finally felt ready. It was time for the journey to begin.

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Packing for the trip of a lifetime. Photo courtesy of Devika Ray.

Featured image courtesy of Jessica Zee.

TCK for teens: Connecting with TCKs and Non-TCKs Alike

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As I sat down to attempt to write about this complex subject of TCK relationships, I turned on my Disney Pandora station to set the mood. To many, that might seem odd – Disney, if anything, would typically evoke childhood memories of sitting in front of an old TV on Saturday mornings with siblings. However, when Shang belts out his determination to make a man out of Mulan, my mind travels to watching the Disney classic with TCK friends who grew up in Asia, listening to them talk about the cultural accuracy of the movie. And when Simba is presented to the circle of life, I think of last summer, snuggled between TCK friends on an African safari.

These movies – and their soundtracks – are now explicitly connected with TCKs for me. I have watched Disney movies with non-TCKs too, but my experiences with TCKs are markedly different. What is it about TCKs that bonds us together? And what does that teach us about bonding with non-TCKs?

Bonding with TCKs

First, we’re willing to jump into relationships quickly. TCKs are well accustomed to the fact that with every hello comes a goodbye and, often, they are not far apart. Because of this, we establish deep connections more quickly than many of our peers.

I’ve found that after living in Texas for two years, there are still so many people that I only kind of know. I’ve noticed that non-TCKs use activities to slowly form relationships while TCKs, used to a transient pace of life, dive right into the intimate conversations.

Jerry Benson, 18, a TCK who lived in Canada for three years, noticed that after living in a new country, making friends became a “simpler concept.”

“I had realized how pointless and time consuming it was to nervously wait for others to approach me,” he explained. “I almost feel like I had developed a sort of maturity, that allowed me to overpass the trivial roadblocks of friend making.”

Though we seem to connect with others well, it’s important to be aware of what one article referred to as “pseudo-intimacy.”

In a TCK Academy post, “Ask a TCK Counselor: ‘How do I settle in relationships?”, counselor Carmen Vaughan notes that, “In the short time [TCKs] have to develop the relationship, they may establish a pseudo-intimacy, based more on the looming reality that they will soon be separated than on actual intimate knowledge of each other.”

This does not always have to be the case, however. Our willingness to connect and relate with others is the foundation to a sturdy relationship. But if it stops there, false affinity can strip away any genuine joy. Instead, we must continue to build on this foundation. This explains the second reason why TCKs bond so well: we share common experiences.

I think this aspect of “TCKness” is both crazy and totally understandable. I was recently Skyping with my friend, Elizabeth Goddard, 18, who grew up in East Asia. We have both traveled to our respective continents, but not each other’s adopted countries. I asked her: Why do we get each other so well? And why did we become such good friends?

Her answer is what most TCKs find true: though we have not experienced the exact same cultures, we share the process of learning a new culture; though we have not experienced the exact same layovers, we share a lot of time spent in airports around the world; though we have not made all of the same moves, we share the challenges of transition. TCKs share common, not identical, experiences allowing us to understand each other so well. We are all accustomed to change.

Joel Winget, 25, grew up as a missionary kid in Hungary. He described that longing for change as still something he struggles with as an adult.

“I don’t like change, but I need it,” he explained. “I lived in the same house for 3 years here in Florida and that is the longest I had ever gone without moving. Even living in Hungary for 15 years, we would move houses or travel back to the U.S. for several weeks at a time… I just grew accustomed to the change. It is something I am battling now as an adult: Being content where I am.”

It is exactly these daily battles that bond us together. Though spread across the globe, we face the same challenges. This gives us the freedom to share our experiences with each other, which is the third connecting factor of TCK relationships.

Isabella Bryant, 20, who grew up in England, Japan, Singapore, and the US, said it’s easier to share her overseas experiences with other TCKs than with non-TCKs.

“I feel like people can get the impression you’re stuck up for talking about places you’ve lived or traveled to but that’s not the case… someone who has lived overseas will understand that you’re just sharing your experiences, not bragging,” she explained.

Joel agreed, saying that when he shared about his life in Hungary many of his coworkers thought he was just “gloating about [his] ‘fancy’ life.”

As TCKs, we have a global outlook and can appreciate the stories of our fellow world travelers.

Jerry commented on this, noting, “[After returning to my passport country], I felt like I was in a whole different world than some of my classmates. I understood things on a very grand scale, and could adapt to different niches easily because of my experiences.”

Through our desire to relate, our shared experiences, and our freedom to express our unique stories, we share a special bond. Without explanation, TCKs understand the depth of experience behind a simple encouraging smile, cultural faux pas, or airline horror story.

But just like in physics, for every TCK relationship there is an equal and opposite non-TCK relationship. Relationships with non-TCKs are equally present and important, yet incredibly different from a TCK relationship.

So how are we to translate the positive qualities of TCK relationships into our non-TCK relationships?

Learning to Connect with Non-TCKs

First, we have to respect the stories of non-TCKs. When I was Skyping with Elizabeth, I also discussed this with her. We’ve both been living in the U.S. for the past two years after previously living overseas. I asked her what she thought about ever being able to truly connect and be understood by a non-TCK.

She paused. Then, slowly, she said this gem, “Never underestimate the impact an American peer can have on you.”

As I let that sink in, I realized how often we don’t respect people from our passport country. When I moved back to the United States for my junior year of high school, I did not expect to relate well with my peers. I didn’t believe they would understand me, or that we would ever be able to connect well. However, after living in the U.S. for two years now, I realized I was wrong. I can still enjoy and benefit from the company of old friends and new friends even without being fully understood.

It’s also not a one-way street – just as non-TCKs might never be able to fully understand our world, we will never be able to understand theirs. We somehow don’t believe their lives and stories truly matter and have value because they all take place in one location, but nothing could be further from the truth. Before we hope to share our experiences, we must learn to respect theirs.

Second, we have to let go of our pride. In the blog post “Exploring TCK Bigotry,” Marilyn Gardner perfectly sums up our struggle with this issue when she writes, “We are prone to prejudice and bigotry in our passport countries. This is ironic. That which makes its mark on us with indelible ink and shouts flexibility, adaptability, maturity and fun is suddenly hidden under disdain and inability to relate to those around us.”

As much as I’d like to disagree with Marilyn, I unfortunately have to admit that I do struggle with prejudice. From the world’s perspective, I am far more cultured, well-rounded, and traveled than my peers; I have been to multiple continents, countless countries, and numerous cultures. And yet I struggle with loneliness. I don’t know what it’s like to have a close group of friends and I can’t appreciate how special it is to walk through every stage of life with the same friends because I’ve never experienced that.

What I may have gained from scattering my life throughout cultures, I equally may have lost. And what someone may have lost from living in a sleepy, small town their entire life, they may have equally gained. We can learn from non-TCKs and they can learn from us – but not as long as we stubbornly cling to the belief that travel equals success, that living overseas trumps staying in one location, that being a TCK is better than being a non-TCK.

Third, we have to search for common ground. As different as we might feel from non-TCKs, we can always find something we have in common, whether it be a love for the same music, a shared appreciation for traveling, or a common religious faith.

In another article from TCK Academy, “Ask a TCK Counselor: ‘TCK and Non-TCK Relationships: Will They Work Out?‘” Judith Hansen wisely addresses this topic.

She writes, “My basic premise is that if we, as TCKs, approach the world looking at how much we have in common rather than how much we differ, would go a long way in resolving some of our relational difficulties. We would see that everyone longs to be heard, understood, be in relationship, have friendships and feel valued. With that in mind then, as we look for opportunities to establish common ground, we will find the world to be a richer place.”

As you move forward in your TCK journey, let me encourage you that you will find lasting and genuine relationships with both TCKs and non-TCKs. Don’t let your unique upbringing hinder you from relating to and enjoying the company of peers from your passport country – learn to appreciate the beautiful friendships that do result from shared overseas experiences. As Judith writes, continue to appreciate and respect others and you will find the world to be a richer place. And you might even find some new Disney-watching friends.

 

You Can’t Go Home Again

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We left Yonezawa before 6 a.m., in January. My too-big-for-Japan family clambered into a van with half our belongings crammed into suitcases around us. Even though it was pre-dawn in the dead of winter, at least twenty people came to see us off. Smiling, waving — we were not the only ones with eyes red, tears stinging even more in the bitter air.

In the few moments we’d had to say some last words, we’d even been hugged goodbye. I hadn’t hugged anyone our four years there, so the gesture had an uncomfortable weight.

We were moving back to the States, and my heart was breaking.

Denial—Not just Reverse Culture-Shock

My mom had always dreamed of living abroad, so when we moved to Yonezawa in 2000, I was well-studied in symptoms of culture-shock, especially for a 13 year old. My mother soon discovered Third Culture Kids by Pollock and Van Reken and had me read it, a little worried about what affect the experience might have on our future happiness. In reading it, I recognized myself.

When we moved back to the States, four years later, I was again well-studied in reverse culture-shock and anticipated it. It was kind of handy to blame it for moments of depression and desperate chameleon behavior, as I went into an undergraduate program of cultural studies. I was eager to discuss my own understanding of cross-cultural experiences, surrounded by other TCKs.

I didn’t, however, want to meet the Japanese students pointed out to me on campus. Finally one day, I was finally pressured into going to an international students dinner with lots of Japanese and Korean students.

It was still picnic weather, in Pasadena, even in the fall, and everyone was friendly, happy to be together. I just felt like the epitome of white outsider, the thing I’d hated most about being in Japan. We ate outside in a summery evening as the light sank, the picnic table spread with a mix of both comfort-food of Japan and Korea, and American party staples. I only talked with the one other obvious TCK, a half-Japanese student from Argentina, both of us using Japanese stilted with disuse. When the evening had really come, and they were going to start playing games, I excused myself, with a very real headache for an explanation.

“I’m not really a party person,” I reassured myself. But there was a lot more to this reaction than feeling shy, though, more than feeling that after six months my Japanese just wasn’t that good.

I was in denial.

To Depression, and Beyond

The stages of grief, per the Kubler-Ross model, are: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Not everyone experiences them in the same order, nor are they the final word on what’s involved in grieving. This was obvious in my experience: soon after returning to the United States, it bothered me when my mother got weepy, reminiscing about our time in Japan. I figured that I was doing just great and that I was not letting it trouble me.

Denial has its place.

“Denial and shock help us to cope and make survival possible,” David Kessler wrote on the Kubler-Ross Model. “Denial helps us to pace our feelings of grief. There is a grace in denial. It is nature’s way of letting in only as much as we can handle.”

Of course, it’s hardly simple and clear-cut. I was liable to be depressed anyway, and when I moved back in with my family after a year away at school, I focused mainly on missing my friends from Pasadena, seemingly a world away though I was just in Oklahoma.

When I was growing up we’d always moved again, so I just waited to be elsewhere.

Let’s Drive a Bargain with Loss

I’d been in Oklahoma for three years and I was still living out of boxes. I was in my mid-20s, and had realized that this was ridiculous. I needed to at least pretend I wanted to be there. I was working and saving enough money to get myself a nice desk to write at. I realized it was the first time I’d ever picked out furniture of my very own, using my own money. It was silly how excited I was to shop online and then pick up my pretty pieces of desk at Office Depot, and put it up in my room. It was white and stained maple laminate, with plenty of shelves for books, which I accumulated at a scary pace after leaving so many behind in our move from Japan.

I left one corner open, though, and decorated it with a kimono doll and a small framed fairy-tale collage that I’d carried with me through so many moves.

It was time to stop living between places. As much as that was possible for a TCK, anyway.

Our move from Japan was one of the things that now blindsided me as unfinished business, as I did some soul-searching. Sure, I’d been angry, and in the months leading up to our move, pleaded for a different future. I’d cried that day when we actually set out, cried for a long time after the door of the van closed and we started on a long drive to Narita Airport.

But after we hit American ground? Nothing except avoidance. My Oklahoma friends hardly knew anything about my experiences because I was unwilling to bring them up. I didn’t feel they knew me, but I was the one withholding information.

Getting Angry, to Get Over It

I set myself the goal of allowing myself to grieve. The one thing that had scared me about the articles on being a TCK had been about having a delayed adolescence, but I began mine in the silliest of ways: I started watching J-dramas. Anime. Binge-reading manga. I had always read a lot of young adult fiction, but these actually reflected my high school experience way more than any American media. I even (was this bargaining?) day-dreamed travel plans to visit Yonezawa, practicing asking how to use the train ticket machines, how to explain that I understood Japanese.

I also found there’s an unusual rush to starting sentences with “When I lived in Japan…” when talking with new acquaintances.

I didn’t think much of how my grief experience was unique, though, until it was challenged as a valid loss.

I was chatting with a friend, upset and grieving a falling out with another friend that had ended in total shut-out on both sides. In sympathy, I brought up my loss of Japan for some kind of parallel. The friend snapped back that it was not the same– “You can always go back!”

I dropped that line of conversation, not arguing. Text chat is a poor medium for discussing complexities. I was, however, furious.

My experience of grief wasn’t valid? It had to be. It had all the hallmarks of heartbreak. It was a gut-wrenching, physically painful loss.

And one I now knew that I needed to share.

You can’t go back home again—TCKs understand that better than anyone. Going and returning changes you. And is it right to grieve when that means a loss.

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Photos courtesy of Bethany Powell

 

TCK for teens: Visiting Your Passport Country

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Italians have a theory that experiencing hot and cold air in quick succession results in illness. I have a theory that going back and forth between two cultures in quick succession results in one crazy, confused TCK.

Well, it’s part of the job. Without our first culture, there would be no third culture.

As a teen, navigating the waters of visiting your passport country can be tricky. Life is already a roller-coaster of emotions and when you throw in moving across oceans, it takes a few extra loops. One of its loops is returning “home,” where people will be confused why you put quotation marks around the word home.

In the five years my family lived in Italy, we only went back to Texas once. Besides a quick trip to resolve visa troubles and to be present for my grandpa’s funeral, I did not go back to the United States for three years after moving to Italy. Though it was hard being so far removed from my first home, I’m glad our time overseas was not peppered with trips between cultures.

I loved getting to experience every season and holiday in Italy and not having to constantly mentally switch between worlds. Also, like the old expression “absence makes the heart grow fonder,” the longer the wait between returning to the U.S., the more excited I grew when the time came to reenter the land of free refills and air conditioning.

For the few trips that we did take, the first days of being back in the U.S. were always filled with excitement. From seeing family and friends to munching on my favorite treats, I loved reuniting with my home. Of all the different stages you will experience when you visit your passport culture, this one is definitely the best.

Michaela Frantz, 18, a TCK who grew up in Germany, put it this way: “I was literally a kid in a giant candy store, and I had so much fun experiencing my favorite parts of the culture and discovering new ones. I also appreciated how people went out of their way to spend time with us since we were only back for a short time.”

But just as too much candy gives you a stomach ache, the excitement of being back in your original culture can turn into sour disappointment.

The first time I visited Texas, it was the summer before my freshman year of high school. I quickly exited the happy phase of our summer trip. Though the month was sprinkled with fun moments with friends and family, I clearly remember feeling so different from everyone around me. I didn’t have the same clothes or purses or makeup, and I had never been to the restaurants they wanted to show me. Everything was overwhelming, and people were expecting me to know things I didn’t. I was experiencing culture shock.

I looked up the term culture shock in the dictionary. The definition is “a state of bewilderment and distress experienced by an individual who is suddenly exposed to a new, strange, or foreign social and cultural environment.” That is what I felt that summer. And you will probably feel this too. It’s such a strange feeling because you’re not technically experiencing a new culture, but an old culture, and yet, it is new.

“I hardly ever felt at home, even though I was born and raised on this soil,” Michaela explained. “The hardest part of [going back home] was the ever-present feeling of living a fragmented life where I didn’t truly belong anywhere.”

When your heart and head are both so confused, it can be a little sad and lonely. You begin to realize that life at “home” continued to happen even after you left, that the culture continued to shift, that friends continued to change, and you transformed as well. What’s a TCK to do?

First, accept what you feel. In a parenting article on helping TCKs re-enter the US, Babble blogger Rachel Pieh Jones writes, “Let [your children] feel what they are feeling. They could be thrilled about being in America or grieving about not being in their host country. They could feel both in the space of an hour and all your kids might feel something different.”

Allow yourself the same advice. It’s ok to feel confused, overjoyed, misunderstood, and more all at the same time. Give yourself the space to process what you’re feeling.

I struggled with this. I didn’t accept that what I was feeling was ok – instead, I let my negative emotions control me. I remember snapping at my grandma and mom in a store one day because I didn’t like the jacket they wanted to buy for me. I felt overwhelmed, like no one was listening to what I was saying or wanting. And all of this over a simple jacket.

Know that emotions will come and go, but don’t let them control who you are or your actions. Acknowledge that what you’re feeling is normal, but don’t give your feelings too much attention. They don’t always deserve it.

Second, focus on what you do know. In the same article, Rachel urges parents to remind their kids of what they do know, rather than concentrate on all the faux pas they are making. Whether that’s reminding yourself of the new language you now can speak with ease in your adopted country or remembering the close friends you’ve made during your time overseas, focus on your personal accomplishments rather than failures.

In the same vein, Trent Seely, 18, a TCK from Hungary, told me that visiting his passport culture just made him more aware of all the positive aspects of his adopted culture. Appreciate the culture you are in, but remind yourself of all the wonderful things waiting for you at the end of your trip.

I clearly remember the feeling of relief when our plane landed in Florence after a long summer in Texas and we hopped in a taxi. The driver was speaking in rapid Italian as we wove through the ancient city, and I understood him. I could speak back to him as if I hadn’t been gone at all. And I knew exactly where I was and what streets we were on. I finally felt at ease because I was no longer flailing to understand the culture surrounding me, which is ironic since Italy used to be such a foreign, confusing culture to me.

I wish I had kept that knowledge close to me as we traveled back to the U.S. It’s important to remind yourself that no matter how lost you feel, there are places that you understand. Don’t let your cultural faux pas and loneliness rob your accomplishments.

Third, learn from your experiences. Not only have you changed, but the people and places you’re visiting have also changed. Take the time to listen, observe, and learn. One piece of advice I was given before moving overseas was, when in doubt, always carefully observe the culture and follow suit. Even though you’re in your passport culture, the same can apply. View it with the same excitement you would traveling to a new country.

In a blog post on relating to non-TCKs, Jessica Bradshaw, 21, a missionary kid who grew up in Papua New Guinea, wrote, “[Non-TCKs] are doing their best to relate to you. Even though they can’t understand what it’s like to be a TCK, they want to be a friend. You can share some about your experiences, but remember to listen, too.”

As I’ve thought about my time back in my “home,” I’ve learned a lot about myself – my weaknesses, my strengths, my methods of handling situations. It’s important to reflect on how your time in your passport country affects who you are. Not only should you be observing the culture and rediscovering your friends and family, but studying yourself as well.

Returning to your roots will take some courage, but keep in mind that this first culture is what propelled you toward your ultimate third culture. English writer G.K. Chesterton once said, “An inconvenience is an adventure wrongly considered.” Whether you view your trips home as an inconvenience or a treat, choose to first see them as an adventure.

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Courtesy of Courtney Runn.

Featured image courtesy of jpmath on Flickr.

Clark Kent and Third Culture Superpowers

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Earlier this summer, my husband and I went to see “Man of Steel.” It was the first Superman movie I had ever seen.

For over seven years now, ever since we met in college, part of our relationship includes him introducing me to elements of American popular culture that we keep discovering I lack exposure to. Gene, being American, was raised knowing the Superman mythology. For me, being born and raised in Taiwan, it felt foreign.

The movie left me feeling confused and not quite sure what to think of the genre. It’s tough to make Superman relatable, given that he’s a nearly invincible alien, while we viewers are merely human. But after the film, I read The New York Times review, which framed Superman as the story of an immigrant.

“It’s a story that begins with the launching of the spaceship and continues through a child’s pained attempts to assimilate and a young man’s sense of not belonging,” the author wrote. “This most American hero is also an alien yearning to breathe free.”

Given my background, I find looking at Superman as a Third Culture Kid even more resonant. Even though he is from Krypton, being raised human means that no matter how alien he is by birth, Clark Kent feels an abiding connection to his host culture: Earth. Even so, feeling at home in this host culture is a struggle, but so is identifying with Krypton, his origin planet. These paired quandaries are the mark of being a Third Culture Kid.

Clark Kent is a hidden immigrant on Earth. On the surface, he looks like he belongs. This is all too familiar to Third Culture Kids when we’re in our origin cultures. When we go somewhere where it looks like we belong, but feel deep inside that we’re from elsewhere AND no one else can tell… that’s, oddly, like being Superman.

Sometimes, it’s easier to hide what’s special. To be from Kansas, not Krypton. I’ve occasionally told people I’m just from the Midwest to avoid yet another conversation about how interesting it is that I’m from Taiwan. Otherwise, I’m peppered with the same questions each time.

“So what was it like growing up there?”

“Say some Chinese.”

“So what’s it like being an alien?”

“Show me some alien powers.”

But even in Taiwan, I get similar reactions, except that I can’t conveniently blend and hide. I may feel happiest in Taiwan, identify deeply with Taiwan, have grown up in Taiwan, and love the country more than anywhere else in the world, but I will never been seen as Taiwanese. I don’t look the part. My Taiwanese and Mandarin, while good enough, are not nearly as fluent as as my English. I attended international schools, and then left Taiwan to study abroad in America for college and graduate school.

When I’m back in Taiwan, just about every time I open my mouth to say something in Mandarin or Taiwanese, I have to explain to locals how it is I’m able to speak their “foreign” language.

“What on earth is someone like you doing here?”

“Why do you look white, but sound Taiwanese?”

“Are you mixed race?”

This is the hardest part about it all, having to explain every day that yes, this is my home, even if I don’t look like I belong. But if given the chance to fully integrate, to be adopted, to blend and live as an average Taiwanese person, would I actually take it? Probably not.

Is it because growing up white in Taiwan made me feel like I had superpowers? I could read an English novel faster than any kid I knew! Benefit from preferential attention some places! Fly off to America for the summer to see my grandparents!

Yet Clark Kent knows that all that makes him Super on Earth disappears when exposed to the atmosphere of his native planet. Growing up without exposure to its strong gravitational field and atmosphere, his body can’t cope with the differences. When Kryptonians arrive at Earth looking for him, he learns that what counts for super-strength on Earth seems pathetically feeble to the residents of that world.

Sometimes, in America, I’ve felt pathetically feeble too. As a child, I was unable to figure out how a mailbox opens (they just have slots in Taiwan!). I’ve gotten lost trying to navigate the overwhelming aisles of a grocery store. I’m still unfamiliar with the traditions of American holidays like Thanksgiving and felt totally lost during the traditional activities at my cousin’s wedding shower.

Superman and I face the same conundrum on different scales: we’re Super within our host cultures, weak and confused our origin cultures. How easy would it be to equate our love of our host cultures with our love of being special, of being Super?

I sincerely hope that my ambivalence about integrating fully into Taiwan is because being from two worlds is what makes me who I am. Yes, I am an alien no matter where I go on this planet. But I wouldn’t be me if I was one or the other. I am perpetually both and neither. A hidden immigrant in America. A foreigner in Taiwan. It is heartbreaking, belonging nowhere. It is powerful, belonging elsewhere.

A version of this essay was originally published on Katherine’s blog, 天恩寶卷.

Image courtesy of Warner Brothers Pictures.