Among Worlds - Release - September 2020

SEPTEMBER 2020

AW AMONG WORLDS

Vol. 20 | No. 4

Release Living Fully and Letting Go

Editor’s Letter Release: Living Fully and Letting Go

Contents Barley Tea Ae Hee Lee

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Let Go to Grow Michael V. Pollock

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Sudden Departure Amber Godfrey

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My Patron Saints Sheryl O’Bryan

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Photography Marc Curless

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Educating Global Citizens?

Danau Tanu

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Spotlight: Chris O’Shaughnessy

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A Love Letter to Beirut Dana Haddad

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The Wide TCK Umbrella Philip Keller

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Airplane Window Rebecca Katherine

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September 2020 • Vol. 20 • No. 4 Editor: Rachel Hicks Copy Editor: Pat Adams Graphic Designer: Kelly Pickering Digital Publishing: Bret Taylor

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On New Year’s Eve 2019 all I could think was “good riddance.” It had been my family’s most difficult year, as my daughter battled debilitating, excruciating pain for the majority of it due to two chronic pain conditions. It had been an unrelenting slog through countless visits to the emergency room, medical appointments, a lengthy hospital stay, hours of physical therapy, and a cocktail of medicines that didn’t seem to help much. We had a two-month reprieve after she experienced a sudden and miraculous healing, but the last few days of 2019 saw her pain rebound and her ability to function plummet. It was devastating. That New Year’s Eve my daughter lay next to me in bed flat on her back, wincing in pain as we watched a movie and tried to stay awake until midnight (we didn’t make it).

As high as our hopes were for 2020, we were already in a free-fall within the first few months as she lost the ability to walk, go to school, and take care of her own daily needs. By mid-March, when the pandemic took hold in the US and our region locked down, we barely registered the crisis outside the walls of our house. We didn’t have the energy. Our daughter’s readmission to the hospital was postponed, as it wasn’t considered “essential.”

Meanwhile, she was just trying to survive each day. We all were. We were finally able to catch our breath when she was admitted to the hospital in mid-May and began experiencing improvement in her symptoms and ability to function. It was time to begin processing all we’d been through and to assess our situation. First, we had to look back and name our losses and griefs. Then we had to come to terms with our new normal and adjust our hopes and expectations for the future.

Looking back, I realized I had to release a number of things: my dreams of a good start to high school for my daughter; my confusion over the temporary nature of her miracle; and my anger at some medical professionals who didn’t help her the way she needed.

Looking forward, I realized I also had to let go of some things: my hopes for my daughter to have a life without disability; activities we used to do as a family that now were out of reach; my desire to

not about releasing, is likewise a timely read in our world’s current moment of reckoning with race, ethnicity, and power. I’m excited to introduce you to the photography of Marc Curless in this issue, as well. His keen eye never fails to capture the dignity and beautiful humanity of each person he photographs around the world. Finally, you simply must meet author and speaker Chris O’Shaughnessy in our Spotlight feature! We’re tempting you to read his book by including a hilarious excerpt in which he learns the power of using a British accent in a Mexican restaurant in the US. Enjoy all this and more in this month’s issue, Release: Living Fully & Letting Go!

control things to create the best possible scenario for her; and my leadership position in two ministries.

I’m about to share with you what all this has taught me, but I want to make sure you hear this first: don’t jump too quickly to pocket the life lessons. It’s crucial to first reckon with the reality of the tough stuff: the loss, grief, and stress. Don’t rush that.

Okay, here is what I’ve learned (or am still learning): I am not in control (God is). I can discover new rhythms of life to replace the old. I have a pace of life right now that lets me rediscover those closest to me—my husband and kids. I can use the extra stillness of life at home to work on my writing and other creative pursuits. It’s okay to say no to things, even if only because I need time and space to recuperate.

In this issue, you’ll read of others’ lessons learned in releasing. I hope these will spark hope as you consider the impacts of 2020 on your life.

Several contributors share how letting go led to broader possibilities and new joys. Amber Godfrey tells about her family’s chaotic departure from Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso, which required her to realize how not in control she was. Philip Keller shares about releasing his perpetual wanderlust and learning to stay put. Dana Haddad offers a heartrending love letter to Beirut, a city she cannot fully claim or release. Danau Tanu’s piece, while

As I think about where we are right now in mid2020, the image I see in my mind is that of hands held open. We’re learning that we control far less than we thought. We are far more vulnerable and dependent upon one another than we realized.

Open hands mean we release what we can’t keep grasping, but also that we are ready to receive something new.

Stay hopeful, friends.

Stay brave.

Love,

Rachel AMONG WORLDS ©2020 (ISSN# 1538-75180) IS PUBLISHED QUARTERLY

BY INTERACTION INTERNATIONAL, 1516 PECK ST, MUSKEGON, MI 49442 USA. NO PART OF THIS PUBLICATION MAY BE REPRODUCED WITHOUT THE PRIOR PERMISSION FROM THE PUBLISHER. WE LOVE WORKING WITH INTERNATIONAL SCHOOLS AND NGOS AND WILL NEGOTIATE A RATE THAT WORKS WITHIN YOUR BUDGET. CONTACT US AT AMONGWORLDS@INTERACTIONINTL.ORG OR CALL +1-630-653-8780. THE VIEWS EXPRESSED IN AMONG WORLDS DO NOT NECESSARILY REFLECT THE VIEW OF AMONG WORLDS OR INTERACTION INTERNATIONAL.

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Barley Tea

By Ae Hee Lee You only need a couple of roasted grains of barley and some water.

When the slightly bitter waft of the boiling kettle tickles your skin, open the cap and watch the harvest of brown petals swirl into the figure of a woman stooping over the field.

She whistles a hushed song akin vapor and homes left behind, not sad, just painfully gentle, as she follows a trail of sheaves left for her to pick up.

She does not have to look up to know that she has found favor in the eyes of a new love.

And so she gleans grains roasted in the twilight until you know that your tea, in faith, has brewed enough.

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Ae Hee Lee was born in South Korea and raised in Peru. She received her MFA from the University of Notre Dame and is currently pursuing a PhD in Literature and Creative Writing at the University of WisconsinMilwaukee. Her poetry has been published or is forthcoming at the Southern Review, Poetry Magazine, Pleiades, Denver Quarterly, and the Adroit Journal among others.

You can follow her on Twitter @aeheelee

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By Michael V. Pollock, Executive Director of Interaction International

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eturning to Vermont, USA, from Rift Valley Academy, Kenya, at age twelve, I thought I was used to releasing my past. By age eight I had lived on Long Island (New York), in suburban New Jersey, and in rural Vermont before moving to East Africa.

But arriving back to a new town in Vermont, I discovered internal resistance. My Kenyan and international friends, the charcoal fires and flowering jacaranda trees, the red clay soil, the Kikuyu farms and churches had gotten deep under my skin. How could I give all that up?

Honestly, there was not much choice except to accept it or not. I bonded with a few other TCKs in our high school of 1,200, but three friends don’t make a robust social life and we didn’t even have the TCK moniker to slap on ourselves yet. In the 1980s it was

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challenging to stay in touch with my friends in Kenya, but I persevered, waiting a month or more between letters sent and received.

Meanwhile, I tried to open my hands and heart to my new community. I found there is more to my Michael-ness than my missionary-kid experience: I played soccer and tennis and led those teams, enjoyed academics (except math and chemistry), and adventured into winter camping and long-distance biking. By letting go a bit of my “Kenya MK” identity, I was able to expand as a person.

By the time I left home for Houghton College (alma mater of pandemic expert Dr. Deborah Birx) in 1986, my father’s name was becoming well known in the third-culture community.

When he accepted a position at Houghton College directing Interaction International, I lost my Vermont “hometown,” and when my two brothers transferred to Houghton as well, I released my dream of anonymity and starting fresh.

“Without the “yes” to one story and the “no” to other possibilities—our experience would not have expanded and our life would have been more narrow.”

Once again, there wasn’t much choice but to accept the things I could not change, but I would be untruthful if I said the process wasn’t painful and grief-filled; however, it was also full of new potential. I gained much besides a degree in Education with International Studies; more life-long friends were made, including the woman who became my wife. Releasing my Vermont “home” brought expansion once again.

Ten years, two children, three school postings, and four addresses later, our small family—then in Baltimore, Maryland—had a choice in front of us. We felt a sense of calling to overseas work and began exploring opportunities in regions we knew somewhat (East and West Africa) and teaching positions in a region we knew next to nothing about: Asia. In Africa, we had many connections and the Pollock name was now even more broadly known. In Asia, we knew a small handful of people and would be more anonymous. Previous experience had shown us that in order to expand our experience, our

hearts, and our life, we needed to release some control, recognition, and comfort. The process took us two years—releasing is not easy.

Thus it was (simplified of course, for purposes of brevity) that four of us arrived in Tianjin, China, in July of 2003 as the SARS outbreak was winding down there. Welcome to TJ: a flood-plain city of 11 million, heat and smog and people everywhere, open-air markets, scores of new-to-us fruits and vegetables, spiced lamb on sticks roasting over open coal fires, jiaozi (dumplings), Korean restaurants, ancient architecture, rich culture, a new language, and welcoming Chinese and international friends!

Without the release—without the exchange of this for that, without the “yes” to one story and the “no” to other possibilities—our experience would not have expanded and our life would have been more narrow.

And just to ice the cake, in choosing the broadening path of life in China, we had no idea

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that the father of our new mentor family, Philip Workman, grew up attending Rift Valley Academy in Kenya, or that another school principal in our system had invited my father, David, to come and speak to our schools the following spring. Go ahead, feel that forehead slap.

Today, the world is at an intersection of vital conversations and decisions on integrity, justice, and the impact of race, gender, class, nationality, and ethnicity on power. A false dichotomy mindset tells us we should conserve what we have, clutching tightly to the comfortable, to what is working for me, right now. Alternatively, some propose we scrap it all, unmoor ourselves, and begin again.

Imagine what could be if we hold fast to what is good and press on towards what needs to be radically changed for the thriving of human beings, for every person, in every place. If we are humble enough to examine and release our prejudices, our geography and sociology of pre-set ideas, we might find vast landscapes of insight, understanding, and growth.

This is the dual lesson I’ve taken to heart: don’t be afraid to release, for in releasing we often find growth and enlargement. And nothing good is ever fully lost. In the intersections of old and new, unknown and known, there is great joy.

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“Imagine what could be if we hold fast to what is good and press on towards what needs to be radically changed for the thriving of human beings, for every person, in every place.�

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Sudden Departure

By Amber Godfrey

JJ rounds the corner at speed and almost runs straight into a large mahogany TV stand. He’s so tired. We’ve been traveling for 36 hours.

Ouagadougou to Addis Ababa to Dubai to JFK and then a two-hour drive to Wappingers Falls, New York. A stop at Walmart to buy everything, and now we are finally “home.” The three-bedroom bungalow belongs to my brotherin-law and has graciously been donated to us in order to serve as our self-isolation quarters. Not that anyone is mandating or monitoring our quarantine—the health questionnaire we were given on our final Emirates flight to New York remains in my travel purse. No one collected them, asked us where we had traveled from, or provided any COVID-19 related guidance. This was March 23rd—arguably the height of the region’s crisis.

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After walking/running in frigid wind and freezing rain from the Tesla Supercharging station to the Walmart a good half mile away and taking into account that I have not slept in two days, I am not feeling so well. But my primary focus is on our seventeen-month-old son. As we fumble with the bags, trying not to let what is now snow in through the door, JJ’s eyes catch something of interest on that pesky in-the-way piece of furniture.

“Cah,” he pronounces as he picks up the small red Hotwheels toy and begins to run it along the lip of the stand. My mind relaxes a crucial amount in that moment because I perceive that his next contented, accepting thought is “I live here now.” It is possible I am projecting, but it is also true: we do live here now— though for how long, none of us really knows.

One of the hardest things in a sea of impossible pandemic moments was making the choice not to say goodbye to our nanny and housekeeper. As they wheeled their motos out through the front gate in their colorful pagne dresses, Sean (my husband) carried JJ out for a wave. “A lundi!” they had declared as usual on that Friday. “Bon weekend!” was all I could reply, knowing (but also not knowing) that, come lundi, we would likely be on a plane somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean. Since Wednesday, when my world had been turned upside down by the news that several embassy friends were being evacuated back to their home countries for fear of the havoc a coronavirus oubtreak would wreak on Burkina Faso, we had booked and cancelled multiple itineraries in an attempt to secure passage out of the country before the airport closed indefinitely. In the hours before Sanata and Helene finished their workday we had scheduled a flight set to leave on Sunday, but I was nowhere near convinced we would actually leave as planned. I could not bear the thought of trying to explain to them, in my poor French, what was going on. My heart was already broken and I could not stand to watch theirs break as well.

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Later that evening as we attempted to find some semblance of relaxation before what was going to be a few days of trying to pack up and leave our home, I received a panicky text message from a friend stating that the airport would officially be closing in a matter of hours. Somehow I received this news without imploding; in fact, in a way it was almost easier having the decision be made for us. We had agonized for days over whether leaving was the right thing to do, and maybe this was the Universe’s way of telling us we were best to stay put—or that we had no choice in the matter anyway. I slept a little easier that night, grateful we would not be putting JJ through an international travel nightmare in the midst of a global pandemic.

But in the morning, we learned two things: 1) the airport would be closing the following day (Sunday), and 2) our airline had changed our flight so that we would be leaving on Saturday instead of Sunday. More specifically, this meant that we had about three hours to pack and leave for the airport if we wanted to get out at all.

So that’s what we did. We threw the warmest clothes we owned (living in West Africa, this was not much) and everything we thought would be essential to our son’s comfort and happiness into a couple of suitcases, attempted to separate and label items in the house for easy identification should the need arise, secured a ride to the airport, and were on our way right around JJ’s usual nap time.

Kate, a friend and colleague with three young children and thus a large vehicle, talked with us on the drive over. An American herself, she was making the choice to stay put in Ouaga, with no plans to leave. She is married to a Burkinabe and felt her extended family network was strong enough that, should the worst happen, they would all still be all right.

“It’s better than being in Houston right now,” she mused, which was true—Houston, Texas, was getting particularly hit with Covid-19 cases at that time. I had said goodbye to another

“We had agonized for days over whether leaving was the right thing to do, and maybe this was the Universe’s way of telling us we were best to stay put—or that we had no choice in the matter anyway.”

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friend earlier when she came to pick up my house keys in case I needed her to access anything for us while we were gone. This friend is also a mom to young boys, is married to a Burkinabe, and had also decided not to repatriate. It had been a tough decision but she felt at peace with it. We kept our physical distance and did not hug even as the words caught in my throat from emotion.

JJ peered at us through the glass door and might have wondered why mommy had water running down her face.

crucial hours of potential sleep and rest so it was straight to bed for us all. Hugo had stocked our unit with snacks and even beer but after fighting with JJ to go down, I crashed without taking advantage. Back to the airport first thing in the morning, but not before snapping a picture of the midpoint of our journey.

Upon arriving at the airport, we were further confronted with reality as we found ourselves one of few people not wearing masks (a sentence that sounds so odd now, from this July 2020 viewpoint). Check-in was a chaotic slog but JJ was relatively well behaved. I kept turning around, straining to see signs of Gretchen, a good friend who had booked the same flight as we did. She would be traveling solo with her one-year-old son and would also be on our second leg to Dubai, so we were grateful to finally spot her and have that touchstone.

After a relatively short and uneventful first flight, arriving into Addis Ababa brought a new host of challenges. Our ongoing tickets were with different airlines and had been booked separately, therefore we were not eligible for the hotel voucher and free entry visa that others were. Thankfully, I had arranged accommodation for our family plus our travel companions with a Canadian friend who works for the UN in Addis, but the visa-on-arrival process was a slow one, made slower by the fact that the visa officers behind the window were fast asleep! Finally, bags in hand, we walked out into the Ethiopian night where Hugo was waiting for us in the rain with two taxis set to drive us to his apartment complex that is also a hotel. He works in Migration and said he felt like he was receiving refugees as the five of us approached him, likely looking quite pathetic at that point!

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The author with husband Sean and son JJ in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, en route to the US.

The whirlwind continued: Addis to Dubai for a seven-hour layover and then straight to New York. It’s all a bit of a blur now, but we made it happen. In a moment of genius, I had sprung for business class tickets for our last two legs, which made a world of difference and might also have spoiled me for any future flights to come, whenever those might be.

This morning, my son is sleeping in, past 8:30 a.m., in the crib that has been his for the last four months. He still feels most comfortable with one or two cars in his hand but has grown out of the clothes we travelled in. We have been through sleep regressions and teething nightmares and tantrums and belly

laughs and milestones and road trips and boat rides and lots and lots of video chats with my family in Canada, whom we miss very much.

At the moment I am also working hard on organizing our next trip around the world. I am set to begin working as a school counselor at an international school in Thailand. I am feeling a lot of stress about trying to secure entry into an essentially closed country and prepare for a mandated two-week quarantine in a hotel room that will most certainly challenge the comfortable routines we have developed. The weight of the world sits on my shoulders when it comes to doing what has always come naturally and easily to me— traveling. But looking back, I remember how lucky we are to have come this far and how even the most seemingly insurmountable obstacles can be traversed with the love and consistency of family.

“ The weight of the world sits on my shoulders when it comes to doing what has always come naturally and easefully to me — traveling.”

Amber Godfrey holds a Masters of Science in Education from Hunter College. Upon graduating in 2017, she took a position as a school counselor at the International School of Ouagadougou and has recently moved on to a similar role at an international school in Thailand. Amber previously trained as an actor and received her undergraduate degree in Theatre Studies from Acadia University.

Her passion for storytelling and travel resulted in the creation of her solo performance DipKid, which highlights her experiences as a TCK growing up in India, Hong Kong, Canada, and Sri Lanka. She is thrilled to be continuing with tradition, living the highs and lows of global transience with her husband and two-year-old son.

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My Patron Saints

By Sheryl O’Bryan

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f I were to pick a patron saint for my too-many and not-enough decades, C. S. Lewis and Shakespeare’s Hamlet would vie for the dubious honor. I avoided both growing up, but ultimately embraced them as favorites. They both speak to my penchant to hold what I know in a death grip for fear of letting go and moving on.

Sometimes I call this grip “loyalty.” After initial resistance, my heart easily becomes entangled with those I invest in. Most of my students became my friends. Many of my colleagues inhabited that place of “framily”—the friends chosen to be family. Thirty years in various roles with one organization translated to hundreds of friends throughout the world.

Leaving the place that brought so many into my life did not seem possible, but it was.

Some called it a civil war; my local friends called it “La Crise”—the Crisis. My adopted country of Côte d’Ivoire erupted in military and civil strife overnight. After a week of lockdown and being the neutral space between the gunshots of both government and rebels, our school evacuated with an escort from the French military.

Three years before the conflagration, discontentment tried to devour me. Six weeks before the bullets whizzed by our windows, I made peace with where I was and who I was in that place. Three weeks before the first shot was fired, I committed to my students that I would not leave for at least two years.

Two weeks and a few days before everything changed, I turned down my dream job because of that commitment to my students.

Leaving was no longer part of my agenda. It was, also, no longer a choice. When I got to safety and a shower, the tears flowed faster than the water and the sobs sent me to the floor. Everyone in my community had left.

I knew there was little to hold onto and only a faint promise of return. If only I could have heard Hamlet’s whispers of “there’s more than you’ve dreamed of.”

Evacuation changed my life. It forced the release of my life as I knew it—my students, my home, my community. Grieving and healing took more time than I wanted, but they gave me more time with my family. A precious gift was wrapped in grievous pain.

I embody the ignorant child C. S. Lewis speaks of in The Weight of Glory who can’t imagine a holiday at the shore because of her fascination with making mud pies in the slums. Letting go of one place, one people, one anything for another is rarely a joyful experience for me.

Distorted loyalty outweighs misery. I imagine permanent goodbyes instead of temporary physical separation joined with steadfast relationships independent of geography.

Modifications to the dream job description led to an even better position. Letting go of my life in Cote d’Ivoire was not a choice, but it led to more joy, more relationships, and more influence than I imagined. Over fifteen years in that position allowed me to befriend hundreds of TCKs and invest deeply in a few dozen. For so long I inhabited a sweet place.

Time changes people, but it also changes organizations. Gradually my place within the organization shifted from feeling as comfortable as my favorite pair of Chacos to feeling like those oh-so-cute, blister-inducing heels. I did not want to give it up. I was invested. I convinced myself that putting my head down and slogging ahead would get the shoes broken in and my life back to a good place.

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of disloyalty and disrespect. I cared about so more people than ever before. It meant I was many, and they cared for me. When I finally left, free to explore new areas of expertise while I thought, “This is what divorce must feel like.” putting what I had learned into a new context.

In the moments of pain, I could not remember the lessons learned from Cote d’Ivoire. Letting go could and would mean moving into a space where growth and abundance were normal. I’d once preached a sermon about how groaning often precedes growing. There’s pain, but it’s temporary. Sadly, in the midst of it, pain feels permanent. Hope no longer perches in the soul with its glorious feathers, but sits in the roasting pan waiting to become dinner.

Before the “shoe transformation” my mother died. Never had I felt such a grievous letting go. As I helped my dad go through my mom’s things and prepare to sell their home, he asked what I thought about the two of us buying a house together and living together.

Sadly, my first thoughts were not unselfish ones. I liked my solitude. I liked my lack of a schedule away from the office. I liked eating whatever I wanted when it suited me.

Ultimately, letting go of my selfishness gained me so much more. Dad and I always had a good relationship; it’s even better now. I could not imagine how small the price of my independence was compared to how great knowing my father on a new level would be.

Letting go meant a fuller life for both of us.

It also meant a fuller life for those around me.

My father “adopted” so many of my friends.

Our house became holiday central. In the summers he housed and fed so many of my TCK friends as they worked with me or visited on their way through town. Letting go meant so much more joy for so many.

Stephanie Tea Photography

It takes a while, but that bird can rise like a phoenix. Feathers reappear. Empty hands overflow with new possibilities. The heart expands to embrace new and newly defined relationships. And Hamlet reminds me there is more to heaven and earth than I’ve dreamt of. Letting go of both work situations meant making space to move into new spaces with 17

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That is the story of my life, impossible leavings for unchosen beginnings. I am the child too easily pleased with mud pies in the slums when sandcastles by the sea could be mine. Lewis and Hamlet both remind me, when I let them, that there’s so much more to life when my hands are open.

Sheryl O’Bryan started her TCK care journey in a classroom in Cote d’Ivoire. Today she serves as the director of TCK Services for Interaction International.

You can find her in Florida trying to listen to Lewis and Hamlet as they urge her to purge her belongings by imitating Marie Kondo and Elsa.

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Marc Curless Photography

Marc Curless Photography

I have been blessed to live, work, and travel to fascinating locations and am always looking for places that are off the beaten path. Most of my favorite photography focuses on the beauty of everyday smiles and activities. I have tried to bring my experiences back “home� to people who may not have the opportunity to travel.

Though Marc Curless spent most of his childhood in small-town Indiana, USA, he and his family lived as missionaries in Ramallah, Palestine, for four years during his elementary school years. It took him a long time to believe he was a real TCK but he manifested all the symptoms early on. He has lived and worked in Pakistan (where he met his wife, Melanie), Korea, Thailand, Cambodia, Egypt, China, Malaysia, and the United States. Although he has filled various positions in schools, he has made his home as a high school counselor for over fourteen years. He and Melanie currently live in Baltimore, Maryland.

Jodhpur, India 2012

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Amritsar, India 2018

Jodhpur, India

Kuala Lumpur, 2018

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Marc Curless Photography Jodhpur, India 2012

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Marc Curless Photography Baisha, China 2017

Siwa, Egypt

Xian, China, 2016 September 2020

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Introduction Twelve years ago, when I first began my doctoral research on structural racism within international schools, the landscape surrounding the conversations about third culture kids (TCKs) and the schools they often attend was vastly different from what it is now in a post-George Floyd world.

Back then, nobody talked about the impact of “race” on the TCK experience or how it played out in international schools. It was as though race didn’t exist and international schools were pristine havens of a futuristic world where teachers and TCKs were all colorblind. But I knew from experience that this wasn’t true.

As someone who comes from a non-white, nonEnglish-speaking background, I felt that a crucial layer of my TCK experience was missing from those conversations. I could relate to so much of what had been said about grief and the third culture, and yet my experience as an Asian kid going to an international school was different from that of, say, an AngloAmerican kid. Throughout my school life, I had to be Western by day and Asian by night. Even though I grew up in Asia, going to international schools made me feel like an immigrant kid in a white settler country.

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Often, when international schools claim to be “international,” what they mean is that they are “international but Western.” If students can’t or don’t want to assimilate into that culture, then they need to find strategies, such as forming groups based on other languages as they do in the story below, to avoid feeling marginalised on campus.

It feels a little strange to write this introduction because, prior to May 2020, words like “race,” “assimilate” and “marginalized” were treated as antithetical to the very notion of international schools.

But it seems that international school communities are now having our own reckoning with our role in perpetuating structural racism.

I am glad that we now have more freedom to hold the much-needed discussion on these tricky issues.

At the same time, I hope that we can maintain a third culture kid perspective of it whereby we also consider the nuances that may not always overlap with the way race relations work elsewhere. It was with this hope in mind that I wrote my book Growing Up in Transit: The Politics of Belonging at an International School.

Educating Global Citizens?

Belonging in International Schools

By Danau Tanu When “race” isn’t always about race for third culture kids. This article was first published in Inside Indonesia (Edition 102) and later incorporated into Growing Up in Transit: The Politics of Belonging at an International School, which will be released in paperback in December 2020. See www.danautanu.com for a 25% preorder discount code. Also available now in hardback and as an eBook.

T

his is my country. The bule (white people) shouldn’t mess with our country,” he said, perched precariously on the back of a bench at an international school in Jakarta, Indonesia. Dae Sik was talking about Indonesia.

He grew up in Indonesia, but he is technically South Korean. His passport says so, his name says so, and ethnically speaking he is. “But, aren’t you Korean?” I asked. “Of course,” he responded.

“It’s in my blood.” As far as he was concerned, nothing he had said was contradictory.

Dae Sik’s high school is a multicultural bubble for expatriate and Indonesian children. Inside the security gates lies a well-maintained, oasislike campus which belies the bustle and smog of Jakarta, the capital city of Indonesia. As students flood out of the classrooms at recess,

you can hear a Russian teenager speaking fluent, colloquial Indonesian to a classmate; Indian teenagers speaking English with an American accent, then switching to an Indian accent and back again within a matter of seconds, depending on who they are talking to; a Taiwanese teenager speaking English, Mandarin, and Indonesian in one sentence.

No-one bats an eyelid. It’s just another day at an international school.

When Suharto was president, Indonesian citizens were prevented from attending international schools, which catered mainly to the expatriate communities. But since this restriction was relaxed, international education has become increasingly popular among the financially privileged, who praise them for the high quality of education they offer. While international schools are sometimes criticised for their exclusiveness, they celebrate the number of nationalities represented in their student body and teaching staff as a mark of their diversity. But despite international schools’ ideology of “global citizenship,” students learn to internalise cultural hierarchies—meaning that student perceptions of popularity are sometimes coloured by race.

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The popularity stakes “So, who are the popular kids?” I asked a couple of seniors.

“Well, popularity isn’t such a big deal here, but I suppose the white kids that like to sit over there are considered popular,” Melinda answered as she pointed at the benches near the high school office.

“The white kids?” I repeated suspiciously, as I was sure they were not all “white.”

“Yeah, the white kids.”

I leaned over to do a double take on the group she was referring to. Many of them were Caucasian, but there were also two Black students, one South Asian, and at least three of mixed Caucasian and Asian descent. Melinda did not notice the irony in her choice of words.

On another occasion, a couple of students from the group referred to as the “white kids” helped the Korean students set up a tent during a senior sleepover at school. All were male. One of their friends came over and said, “Hey, the white kids are helping the Korean kids!” There was a pause as we all tried to digest that statement. One of the “white kids” broke the silence: “Dude, I’m Pakistani.” The other “white kid” added, as he held on to the tent he was working on, “Yeah, and I’m Asian. My mom is Chinese…and you’re half Japanese.” It was only then that the student realised the inaccuracy of his statement.

What these kids understand is that whiteness is not always about skin colour. It can also be about looking and sounding as though you have been raised in a white-dominant society.

The student cliques perceived to be popular often have more Caucasian students than other groups. But they also have non-Caucasian members, who are usually highly westernised native speakers of English and who often also

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exude great confidence. The way they sit, walk, talk, move, dress, and wear makeup all betray the Western influences in their lives. As a result, they are perceived to be “white.”

The school administration affirms the elite position of students socialised in Anglophone culture in subtle—and not so subtle—ways. In terms of the sports on offer as extracurricular activities, for example, much more attention is paid to sports like rugby and softball than to sports popular among the Asian students, who make up a majority of the school population. A shared culture also makes it easier for students from Western countries to build rapport with the teachers and administrators, both inside and outside of class. Japanese students are generally silent in the regular classes taught by teachers from Anglophone countries, but become vocal and participative once they are in a class with a Japanese teacher. An Indonesian teacher also commented that her Indonesian students were more relaxed in her class.

Fighting back Just as native English speakers are perceived as white regardless of how they look, Indonesianspeaking students at the school—a group that includes Indonesian nationals of different ethnic backgrounds, including Chinese and Indians, and students of mixed heritage, as well as Koreans, Taiwanese, Filipinos, and a Palestinian, among others—are perceived as being homogeneously Indonesian.

One of Dae Sik's friends, Andrew, has an Indonesian mother. His father comes from the United Kingdom, but Andrew considers himself more Indonesian than British.

“Here in Indonesia, I can make conversation with anyone I see. From Bali to wherever I go, upper class to lower class, even pedicab drivers and beggars,” he said, gesturing with his hand as he spoke. “But then when I go to England, it's a different story. I don't really know what to talk about.” Speaking of the “white” students, he says, “When I hang out with them, I just don't feel that connection. It doesn't feel right.

It doesn't feel comfortable.”

For the most part, the “Indonesian” students like Andrew get along well with foreign students.

But they sometimes choose to describe their relationship with “white” students in nationalistic, anti-colonialist terms. When I asked Andrew what the school social hierarchy looked like, he answered “Indo, bule, and then Korean and Japanese.” He described the “white” students as “arrogant,” asserting that “They walk around like they own the place. So we put them in their place.”

resources to vie for the top place in the school social hierarchy. Indonesian students counter the advantages enjoyed by foreign students by making a show of their wealth, for example, clubbing together to hire a posh Jakarta club (and some bodyguards) for a party.

One student revealed that the actual cost of these kinds of functions is less than the other students think. But they leave other secondguessing the cost in order to play up their financial capacity.

“What these kids understand is that whiteness is not always about skin colour. It can also be about looking and sounding as though you have been raised in a whitedominant society.”

As Andrew's comments suggest, the dominant position occupied by the popular “white” group doesn't go unchallenged. Indonesian students are generally from privileged backgrounds and don't shy away from using their financial

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“But despite

international schools’ ideology of ‘global citizenship,’ students learn to internalise cultural hierarchies —meaning that student perceptions of popularity are sometimes coloured by race.”

Colourblind?

Teachers and administrators, as well as other students, like to point out that the “Indonesians” tend not to mix, something that has a bearing on their standing in the eyes of staff, for whom the ideal student is the “global citizen.”

Indonesians add to the school’s overall sense of diversity by their presence, but fall short on being “international.” By contrast, Englishspeaking groups are generally perceived by staff to be the most international because of the mix of nationalities and physical differences represented in those groups.

Both the “Indonesian” and “white” groups are equally heterogeneous. But the labels they attract, for example, as “white,” “Indonesian,” or “international,” depend on who is calling the shots. And although westernised, Englishspeaking students may be referred to as “white” by the students when speaking of status, the fact that they share a sense of familiarity with Western culture becomes invisible when internationalism is at stake.

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Danau Tanu Danau Tanu, PhD, is an anthropologist and the author of Growing Up in Transit: The Politics of Belonging at an International School, the first book on structural racism in international schools. She is an Honorary Research Fellow at the University of Western Australia. Danau is Co-Chair of the Families in Global Transition (FIGT) Research Network and Co-Founder of TCKs of Asia.

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CHRIS O’SHAUG

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Spotlight Interview

GHNESSY M

any of us TCKs pride ourselves on being able to tell funny, usually self-deprecating stories about our cross-cultural mishaps.

I can almost guarantee that none of us do it quite so brilliantly as Chris O’Shaughnessy. But as hilarious as Chris’s stories are, they also contain satisfying nuggets of earned wisdom that lead their listeners into greater empathy and deeper self-awareness.

Chris O’Shaughnessy is a passionate and versatile author and speaker who uses a unique blend of storytelling, humor, and provocative insight to engage a wide array of people on topics ranging from third culture kids and the effects of globalization to building community and increasing empathy. His book, Arrivals, Departures and the Adventures In-Between (Summertime Publishing, 2016), has received

high praise from students, teachers, and other experts in the TCK and international community as a resource that is both enjoyable to read at a student level and able to instill truths, insights, and skills essential to navigating life successfully as a TCK. Born in England as a military brat to American parents, Chris O’Shaughnessy has lived and worked across the globe and, to date, has ventured to more than 100 countries. Tales from these experiences form part of the fabric of Chris’s engaging presentation and have helped shape his passion for helping the world benefit from the experience of expats, global nomads, and cross-cultural communities. We are eager to introduce him to you this month in our Spotlight feature.

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Tell us a bit about your experience as a TCK.

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I was born in the UK while my father (who was born in Germany and grew up partly in France) was stationed there with the US military. My mother is American (though she’s spent so many years in the UK she sounds British at this point) and I have two younger sisters: one also born in the UK and one in the US. We moved every three to four years growing up and I continued the trend into adulthood. Transience can be a hard habit to break! I attended both local schools and US Department of Defense schools (I’m grateful for that mix) and then went to university in the UK. Collectively, I’ve lived the longest in the UK; contiguously, I’ve lived the longest in one stretch in Belgium; and after various stints in Turkey and Germany, I now rotate between the US, Belgium, Singapore, and the UAE as my main “headquarters.” I’ve managed to squeeze in about 105 other countries in the form of various moves or other travels, so I’m only about halfway done with the world!

Spotlight Interview When did you discover you were a TCK? When did you apply that label/identity to yourself?

I didn’t learn the term TCK until I was in university. I sat through a presentation where the speaker gave a definition for those who grow up amidst multiple cultures in transience.

She then proceeded to point out all of the difficulties that come with a TCK upbringing. I remember feeling a strange mix of relief—there was a name for my experience (as I’d already realized I wasn’t easily categorized by a lot of common systems like having a hometown or even identifying solely with a nationality)— but I also felt some anxiety since the speaker was dishing out (far too accurately) all of the struggles I was experiencing. It felt pretty vulnerable to have challenges I hadn’t even been able to name listed out on a PowerPoint presentation amidst a crowd of people. I was genuinely scared that I would be called to the front of the auditorium as an exhibit for all to see: a chronic case of TCK-ness.

How do you see your TCK-ness impacting your life today, either positively or negatively?

bit harder to define. I decided I wanted to help empower my fellow TCKs with the language and framework to process intellectually what they were experiencing intuitively: the good and the bad, the strengths and the challenges, the embarrassing stories, the triumphs and mishaps, and the valuable experiences—and I wanted to do it in an entertaining way. I’ve always loved stories and valued the power of laughter, so why not mix it all together?

Do you keep up with other TCK friends or find other ways to stay connected to the tribe?

I’m fortunate that I get to travel quite a bit while speaking, so I make a point to stop in on friends in the area wherever I am. It is such an incredible gift to know people who are spread out all over the place and who keep moving themselves! I’ve visited some friends in five or six different “homes” as they continue to journey as well. Social media has done a lot to help stay connected, but I’m especially fond of apps like “Marco Polo” that make it easy to record quick video messages. That format makes it so much easier to communicate convenient bite-sized bits frequently and I find it really helps maintain relationships.

In hindsight, my initial introduction to being a TCK, with its focus on the challenges, actually did me a lot of good. I realized that most of my friends and the people I’d grown up with were TCKs, and while I recognized the struggles we faced, I felt there also had to be strengths as well (and obviously there are plenty). No matter how you grow up, there are strengths and challenges.

Being a TCK is no different, just sometimes a

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What do you most enjoy about connecting with other TCKs?

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Spotlight Interview I stumbled across a relatively newly created word, exulansis, which means “The tendency to give up trying to talk about an experience because people can’t relate to it.” What I love about connecting with other TCKs is that it’s often anti-exulansis! It can be pretty invigorating to have someone “get” you because they understand aspects of your life that are often lost on others. Amidst the pandemic, it’s hard for many people to understand why being unable to travel is such a big deal to me. I sound pretty pretentious bemoaning how it’s been months since I’ve been on a plane to people who fly maybe once a year. Fellow TCKs know that things like this can be a real struggle if you’ve grown up on the move!

Have you struggled with or embraced the idea of “settling down” in one location? What does that look like for you?

I think I’ve learned to settle down in my own way. It took me a while, but I realized my “normal” involved regular changes of scenery and people—and that is okay. Some people get a sense of security from routine and a home base. I get a sense of security from expecting some degree of change. I think I’ve learned to appreciate the balance that’s right for me. I still have about four home bases I use throughout the year: Belgium, the US, the UAE, and Singapore; but my home in the US has become the main one. I like being home long enough to want to travel, and traveling long enough to appreciate coming home. I think it’s a healthy balance, even if it isn’t a traditional version of “settling down.”

If you are married, did you marry another TCK? I married a lovely Canadian woman named Joy. She lives up to her name! Canada is a bit of a mix between the US and the UK in some ways.

Those happen to be two of my biggest cultural influences growing up, so we have a lot in common. Getting into a relationship, I was very upfront with the fact that I was a TCK and that my “normal” would probably look less stable than a non-TCK’s. Joy has been remarkable in being willing to adapt, and I’ve learned a lot from her as far as stability. She says that I bring a sense of adventure and I am grateful that she brings an appreciation for consistency.

A TCK is an individual who, having spent a significant part of the developmental years in a culture other than the parents’ cultures, does not have full ownership of any culture. Elements from each culture are incorporated into the life experience, but the sense of belonging is in relationship to others of similar experience. ~David C. Pollock

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What do you wish you had known growing up as a TCK? What supports do you wish you had had access to?

I didn’t learn the term TCK until I was in college.

While it was comforting to know there was language to describe my circumstances and experiences, it was framed in a pretty negative way—highlighting only the challenges. While it was helpful to know the struggles people like me faced (and, therefore, work to address them), I really would have loved to know the strengths as well! Over the years I’ve come to appreciate that every culture and every way of growing up has strengths and challenges and nobody gets to choose their own upbringing. I often have to remind parents who fear they’re ruining their children by raising them as TCKs that they themselves didn’t get a say in their upbringing—nobody does. Some TCKs would rather have grown up in a more traditional manner; some people who grew up in cities wish they had been raised on a farm; some people raised in small towns wish they’d grown up seeing the world. Nobody gets to choose—we all make the most of the experience we were born into. I feel like the earlier we understand that concept, the sooner we can hone in on making the most of our own experiences and using them to help others.

What do you see as changing concerns/issues for current and future TCKs? I strongly believe that as the world continues to globalize, the TCK experience is becoming more and more common. The strengths we have, everyone will soon need. The challenges we face, everyone will soon be facing. As a simple example, TCKs often struggle with conflict

Chris O’Shaughnessy 37

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resolution because if you grow up in transience, you don’t have as much pressure to fix things; you can just leave and find new relationships.

Now social media has made relationships easier to dispose of—if you get into an argument you can just unfriend, unfollow, or block someone— so mainstream culture is losing its conflict resolution abilities as well. My sincere hope is that as TCKs we’ll do the work to become bridge builders in a world that is aligning more and more with our experience. What a lost opportunity it would be not to make the most of the fact that in many ways we’re a preview of coming attractions! I also hope that as TCKs become less “unique,” we strive to forge identity in an inclusive way. What used to set us apart from more traditional upbringings is blurring into a more common experience.

There’s a danger that this registers as a loss of identity and people might overcompensate by building stronger boundaries between “us” and “them.” Really, identity is more complicated for everyone now. Rather than hunker down in an isolated TCK camp, I hope we share our experience and use it to bring people together.

The world is in desperate need of connection.

Spotlight Interview

What is the greatest impact the COVID-19 pandemic has had on your life?”

The pandemic has made me realize how much travel was linked to so many areas of my life.

For years now I have always had a flight coming up within a matter of weeks and this provided a natural set of deadlines. Without it, I’ve had to recalibrate my motivation. I’ve also had to get used to being around people for much longer stretches of time than I’m used to. Anyone can be charming for a few weeks, but longer than that means you have to work harder on conflict resolution skills, patience, and loads of other healthy but challenging things. The current situation has also highlighted how intertwined the world really is. Now more than ever, the actions of people geographically spread across the planet have knock-on effects everywhere.

I honestly think the role of TCKs as bridge builders is only going to grow as we emerge from this pandemic and have to forge new ways to cooperate.

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Chris’s Video Bio:

Chris O’Shaughnessy 39

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Spotlight Interview Purchase Chris’s book: Arrivals, Departures and the Adventures In-Between, on Amazon: http://www.chris-o.com/book

Other Links: Website: http://www.chris-o.com Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/chrisosh Instagram: http://www.instagram.com/ lordchristophero Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/ chrisotalks YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/ lordchristophero

Book excerpt: Strangely, it was at a fast-food restaurant that I finally unlocked the key to survival. I needed to try Mexican food, and so found a burrito-selling bistro and decided to dive in. It was the lunchtime rush and the poor over-worked cashier behind the counter didn’t have the time or the patience to deal with my lack of knowledge regarding Mexican food terms. The menu before me was an exciting list of unknown and untested words; I wanted to choose wisely but had no idea how to do so. The crowd behind me was becoming anxious—violent even—and the fast-food worker in front of me was growing exasperated.

Something inside me tripped back to a very hard-wired reaction from the British side of my upbringing. I reverted to my English accent and stammered out a detailed and heartfelt apology. “I’m terribly sorry. I’m quite unfamiliar with this type of cuisine. If you’d be so kind as to

recommend what most people enjoy, I’ll gladly take it and move along. I really am awfully sorry, it is my fault entirely. I promise I shall never again stall the finely-tuned food purveyance system your respectable establishment clearly had in operation before I so foolishly turned the whole thing pear-shaped.”

No sooner had the words flopped apologetically out of my mouth than the whole atmosphere of the situation changed. I had unwittingly unleashed the power of the English accent in the U.S. People were no longer angry, they were charmed. Grimaces turned to smiles and exasperation gave way to sympathy. I was even given my meal for free with a surprisingly cheerful, “It’s on the house, welcome to America!”….This little trick would serve me well, but I couldn’t help but feel I was a fraud.

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Travel isn’t always pretty. It isn’t always comfortable. Sometimes it hurts, it even breaks your heart.

But that’s ok. The journey changes you – it should change you. It leaves marks on your memory, on your consciousness, on your heart, and on your body. You take something with you… Hopefully, you leave something good behind.

– Anthony Bourdain

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A Love Lette

By Dana Haddad

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er to Beirut Beirut –

I was twenty years old the first time I saw you.

When I anxiously peered through the airplane window, you greeted me with thousands of buildings blooming up from the earth like concrete flowers. The waves crashed against your urban jungle and suddenly I felt those waves in my chest. I couldn’t breathe. My eyes welled as I relived memories I’d never had. I suddenly saw my father playfully pushing my mother off the slippery rocks and into the sea.

I saw Teta teaching ballet in her home, Jiddo working diligently at the medical college. I recalled all the concerts and the late nights in the architecture building. The beaches and bombs, the curfews and fear. I felt all the pain and love ache through my body, rattling my bones. You were more than I had ever imagined.

Right away, you hypnotized me into your world of contradictions. You are a mosaic of old and new, rich and poor. Peeling paint and glossy metal. Peaceful walks and bustling traffic.

Short skirts and humble hijabs. Shawarma with crumpled napkins, strong coffee with crushed cigarettes. You blare the calling for prayer while adorning your windows with crosses.

But my goodness, you are a bloody mess. You are a colorful collage of trash and urine and pollution all tangled in an army of flies. Swarms of cats cradle your tires and dig through your leftovers. They climb your trees and sit high above the buildings. They hiss through your gates—your unapproving servants.

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You can’t help the messages spilled upon your walls. Or, maybe you can. I can never tell what you think, what you want: GO VEGAN! Free your mind, kill your TV! Vandalism is bad!

Don’t feed the fat cats!

Beirut Revolution NOW! Studio for rent girls only/Call 71/235992

front of speeding taxis and motorcycles, for I have an unwavering confidence you will insist upon their screeching halt. It’s all part of your bigger plan and they always abide.

Despite the bloody mess you’ve made, you compensate as you command the sun to bleed into the salty sea each evening. You paint the sky with brilliant oranges and placid pinks and you take my breath away, just like the moment I met you. The sea sparkles as it soaks in the slumbering Though your sidewalks know a thousand and one fire. And just like that, you are forgiven. secrets, they are littered with spilled coffee cups, tainted with the blood and tears of war. Many of You think it’s me, not you. That I betrayed you. your buildings have been demolished. Papa says But it’s not my fault. You were complicated back you are a shadow of yourself. He points out to then—you still are. My parents were scared and me where untouched gardens of cacti used to they left you, although they wanted to stay. And live. But as he gestures to the skeleton of what I didn’t know any better. By the time I met you, you once were, I still see his Beirut. my love, it was too late.

In spite of your past, you are resilient. You seamlessly choreograph the braids of cars through rule-less roads. You conduct the chorus of harmonious horns. I often step in

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My name in Arabic means the “perfect pearl.” But the sounds and syllables of your words drown in my throat because I know that the moment I try to seduce you in your tongue, you’ll notice my

poisoned accent. You won’t forgive me and I’ll no longer be perfect for you, nor will I be your pearl.

rusted patios decorated with drying rugs. Your shops are pregnant with goods that spill onto shelves in the streets. You are enchanting, you are alive. You may never be mine, but in your misunderstood, beautiful chaos, I am yours.

You think I’m not enough. But generations of you rush through my blood, beaded with za’atar.

My breath is stained with your toom and labneh.

Your language has been whispered upon my back in permanent ink. And although most hide the fact that they know you with bandaged noses, I keep all the parts of you. My dark curls are made ripe by the sea where my parents first met. I stare, unblinking, at the glorious trash and the hideous beauty with the brown eyes you gave me, the same eyes you gave all of my uncles and grandparents and great grandparents.

So will I.

I know you’ve been left, you’ve been hurt. Some are miserable in your arms, others relieved to have sailed away before they saw the downfall of your glory days. But my love for you, though unrequited, is not despite your tragic flaws, but because of them. You are breathing and evolving in the face of adversity. The people nestled in the center of your beating heart—along Jeanne D’Arc and Bliss—shine with your open spirit. Your cafes are draped with vines, your

Born to Palestinian and Lebanese parents, Dana Haddad enjoys studying and examining the complexities of being a third culture kid in the US. She studied English and French at the University of Georgia. Dana now serves with I-AMM (Interconnecting Arabs, Muslims, and Middle Easterners), an anti-racist organization that aims to build a more unified identity among the siloed communities. Aside from writing, she enjoys taking hikes, practicing yoga, and sipping coffee.

I am back in the States now. As I poured coffee from my rakweh this morning, I thought about your romance with the sun. Though you banish her each night, the sun returns to you each morning. She comes solemnly, loyally, bringing her golden light and expecting nothing in return.

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The Wide TCK Umbrella A TCK Teacher Connects with Refugee and Immigrant Students

By Philip Keller

S

ince college I have not remained in the same job for more than a couple of years. I could only handle the challenge of teaching at a regular public middle school for two years, and then at a charter school for that same amount of time. During these years I also completed what I hoped would be a ticket overseas: a master’s degree in teaching English as a second language. Like many of my friends who also spent their childhood overseas, I do not have deep roots anywhere and I spend too much time thinking about where I could be instead of where I am. However, since college the farthest I have lived is the opposite coast of the United States, moving with my wife from the East Coast to the Pacific Northwest, before returning to the East Coast within a year. A unique teaching opportunity drew me back.

Now, instead of living in a different culture surrounded by a different language, I teach classes with students from dozens of cultures and languages in a public school program for newly arrived refugees and immigrants.

This school consists of refugees resettled through the United Nations, teenagers who have left their parents to live with relatives in the United States, and children who have moved with their family from countries around the world. Despite third culture kids (TCKs) being most often associated with expats, NGOs, or the children of missionaries, I have been able to see myself in these refugee and immigrant students with backgrounds and cultures totally foreign to mine.

I once talked with a student from Cameroon who stayed for a time with a cousin in Belgium and who hopes to move to France if he gets an opportunity. He is not sure yet how he feels about living in the United States. Similarly, I ruminate regularly on moving to Switzerland, where I was born and where my dad is from, to see if I would feel more at home there despite never having lived there and not being totally

proficient in German. I wonder if somehow that place would feel more like home.

Another one of my students understood class directions and conversations in English, but never spoke English out loud. I learned that he was born in the United States to Mexican parents, then grew up in Mexico, only to return to the States for high school and (hopefully) college. After several weeks of seeing him in class, I said, “I know you understand a lot of things you hear, but it’s hard to know how to say anything, right?” He still did not say anything, but his eyes lit up when I told him about my having the same experience around Swiss-German speakers in Switzerland.

When students get out laptops to work on assignments, I regularly catch them on Google Street View or Google Images, searching for their old house or neighborhood in their old country. I did the same thing when Google Street View started showing some African cities, to see how the streets in Accra compare to my memories from two decades ago, so I usually pretend at first not to notice when students do this. For some, this is their only time during the day on a computer. I then ask them to show me their house or refugee camp and pictures of their country. Before redirecting them to their assignments, I show them the house in which I grew up in Accra. After all, they can’t just leave their old life behind and suddenly care about the United States Constitution or the economics of supply and demand; they need that moment of empathy from me before giving their schoolwork another try.

In my short time at this school I have seen, thankfully, just a few teachers who do not have an interest in other cultures, who resent the students for not speaking English, or who feel that once a person’s feet touch the ground of a US airport he or she is transformed into a local all-American kid. I once heard a teacher September 2020

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talk about her student this way: “I told him if he wasn’t here to work hard, he should go back to his country.” This same teacher complained, “They serve foreign foods at staff meetings; I like American food,” when a local restaurant catered hummus and pita. Predictably, these few teachers do not stay at the school for long.

The vast majority of the staff deeply care for the kids and understand that these students face different challenges than their American bornand-raised peers.

However, to continue building empathy for the students, a colleague who is also a TCK asked me to help her create short presentations for staff meetings. We wanted to help other teachers understand that as students grapple with moving across cultures and languages, their struggles will manifest in predictable ways. Often, their disinterest, resistance, and academic challenges are due not only to language barriers or limited previous schooling, but could also be caused by the students processing the displacement from their culture and country. In the presentation we defined and characterized the term TCK and clarified why many of our students fit this description, even if they are not aware of it.

We demonstrated classroom activities that could encourage discussion about the emotions involved in transitioning among cultures, such as having students create and discuss lists of things they liked and disliked in their old country and in the US, or having students draw or place objects on the inside and on the outside of a paper bag to represent the visible and hidden elements of their identity.

For one session, I handed out papers with quotes from TCKs describing their experiences, emotions, and friendships with other TCKs, and had the teachers discuss what these kids had in common despite being from totally different parts of the world. Some interesting conversations ensued: teachers and language interpreters who had moved to the United States 49

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as adults shared their transition stories and said the concepts of TCKs resonated as they reflected on their own kids’ search for identity in the US. A teacher with a biracial family and another teacher with an adopted child from a different country talked about the similar struggles their children faced in finding their identity and feeling of home. The teacher with the adopted child explained that almost all her child’s friends had moved from overseas, were adopted, or had immigrant parents. She resonated with the realization that there is a “third culture” surrounding these kids.

I feel at home among these students, despite not speaking their languages or sharing their nationalities. Advocating for the next generation of TCKs has served to pacify my wanderlust to an extent (along with getting married, having a baby, and buying a house) and I am now starting my fourth consecutive year at this school. I saw a moment of success in our staff TCK presentations when a fellow teacher characterized the students, me, and other TCKs perfectly. She had always thought of our school as an adjustment period for the students, but now she realized for the first time that being TCKs “is not something these kids will grow out of. It’s part of who they are.”

“ Despite third culture kids (TCKs) being most often associated with expats, NGOs, or the children of missionaries, I have been able to see myself in these refugee and immigrant students with backgrounds and cultures totally foreign to mine.�

Philip Keller Philip Keller is a Swiss-American TCK and MK. He was born in Switzerland, spent his childhood in Ghana, and now lives in the American South with his wife and baby. When not teaching history and ESL in a public school, he works on transforming his lawn into a garden and orchard.

Airplane Windo

By Rebecca Kat

Rebecca Katharine was born into a Swiss/ Canadian/Indian/Italian/French family and immigrated to the United States during high school. She committed her life to Jesus during graduate school in Iowa. She is currently training to serve cross-cultural communities as a translator and bridge-builder between medicine and science. https://www.facebook.com/rebecca.autenried Instagram: @rebeccakatharinea

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ow

therine

I was carefully studying the outlines of the blurry white shapes moving around against a whiteout foggy backdrop.

A cramping feeling in my stomach, a tenseness in my back, legs, arms, and neck, At once my senses were overwhelmed by the multitude of rushed passengers: their perfumes oppressive, their comments redundant, their baggage crammed into every nook of space; racing away into nothingness, and I was alone.

I looked through the small round window that was to be my only connection to the outside world for the next eight hours.

A dry, cramped, hot flight was about to take hundreds of us across the Atlantic.

Away from everything that felt familiar.

At first I watched the movement outside of the window, people, planes, but then I studied the raindrops on the surface of the window itself.

Such a heavy feeling, indescribably large, dark, a part of me that was now empty, anxiety, fear, anger, anger lingered, then frustration.

That over-priced foamy neck-shaped pillow all of a sudden became the most inviting solace as I resolved to not think, but instead to sleep.

Half asleep within seconds, I watched as in a dream, wanting to connect with the outside world so I could disconnect from the world within.

A raindrop slowly gained momentum as it merged with another, Moving, hardly at all at first, but then with each added droplet it gained speed, until the droplets as a collective merged enough to race down the pane and leap off together to the distant and unknowing ground below.

When I awoke, it came to me.

That it was not just my loss, but the loss of a collective people.

Suddenly the loss became lighter but in other ways much harder to bear silently.

September 2020

52

Journey with us!

Among Worlds magazine is accepting submissions for upcoming issues. We are looking for original, high-quality writing, poetry, photography, and visual pieces. We invite writers, poets, and artists to submit their work for consideration.

December 2020

Vocation: TCKs and Careers Submission deadline: October 30, 2020

March 2021

Trouble I’ve Seen: Crises, Upheavals, and Disasters Submission deadline: January 30, 2021 If you or your organization would like to advertise in or sponsor Among Worlds, please contact amongworlds@interactionintl.org

“ In the end, these things matter most: How

well did you love? How fully did you live?

How deeply did you let go?”

- Jack Kornfield