For 17 years I blithely thought of myself as an American. My parents told me I was American. My friends said I had an American accent. One of my birth certificates proved it. It made sense. I wasn't European, Asian, Mauritian, Australian, or African like my school mates. I wasn't Malawian like almost everyone around me. I had to be American like my parents.
Boy was I in for a surprise! I spent years trying to identify with my parents’ American background even while growing up in Malawi. I ended up adjusting to neither culture. Instead, I came up with a distinct culture of my own – a third culture.
Of my parents’ culture I knew little growing up - only what my parents told me or my own experiences visiting the US one summer every three years. My impressions were of a land with neat rows of plastic-sided houses each with its own post box. I saw a country of fast food, smooth highways, fertile fields of wheat and corn, tree-filled city parks, shopping malls, and skyscrapers. It was a land filled with relatives and Americans just like me.
Then I moved to the US for University. From my first days in the dorm it was obvious I was not American. Peers asked, “Where are you from?” I couldn’t answer ‘Des Moines’ or ‘the Quad Cities’ like others. And no one knew where Malawi was. Most were ignorant of anything outside of their world and I was equally ignorant of their world. I couldn’t find common ground with them and our conversations stayed distressingly superficial. I was so depressed. These were Americans – I should fit in!
If I wasn’t American, I concluded I had to be Malawian. But when I returned to Malawi, I stood out as only a blond azungu in Africa can. I didn’t belong in a Malawian village anymore than a small, Iowan town. I didn’t seem to fit in either culture. What was I? Where was my home?
At a conference, I discovered I was a Third Culture Kid. There were other people like me! I shared characteristics with these people, even though they might be military brats or diplomat kids rather than missionary kids. We travel. We integrate parts of all our “homes” into our lives. Yet no place really feels like home. We tend to be like chameleons - adjusting to each situation but not necessarily changing our essence.
Finally! I knew what I was. It helped me relate better with others, even if it takes just as much work. Now I expect that each person I meet is from a different culture than me and every place I live is ‘foreign.’ Just as well I love to explore foreign parts and learn of cultures other than my own!
As to finding a home…I guess I just have to wait for heaven.
Interested in learning more about TCKs?
Great description of your TCK experience!!! You have a way with words to explain the whole TCK development. :)
ReplyDeleteI s'pose I'm not really a "Third Culture Kid," but this sounds like me anyway. I grew up in the States, spent three years in Russia, and now find that I don't quite fit in anywhere. But the other side of the coin is that I can always find myself at home, no matter where I am.
ReplyDeleteMany people who travel abroad, even as adults, feel the same way when they return to their "home" culture, Jessi. I guess we have to make everyone travel, and then we will all be in the same boat, culturally...
ReplyDelete"As to finding a home…I guess I just have to wait for heaven." "A pilgrim and a stranger, I wander here below" - "heaven is my home," to quote two hymns we used to sing. Fitting in is a common human desire, and turns out, we don't fit in. How brilliant am I this morning?!!
ReplyDelete