The Gobal Nomads is a spoken word poem written and performed by Larissa Nugroho. Larissa says “As someone who grew up in a multicultural setting and who is currently living abroad – I wanted to capture that feeling of belonging everywhere and nowhere at the same time.”
Text:
Where is home? Living in a suitcase Moving from place to place Restless Wondering Trying to find rest and belonging
We are the global nomads Fitting in everywhere and nowhere Simultaneously Changing SIM cards constantly Saying hi and goodbye cyclically
Though we never do it easily
We are the global wanderers Adapting like chameleons quickly Getting raised eyebrows when we don’t assimilate Asking where we’re from complicates Things
We are the global vagabonds Passport stamps in our hearts Luggage tags on the baggage we carry around Of the friendships and the losses we found Ungodly hour calls making up for the time zones Glad that someone is always awake On the other end of the phone
We are the eclectic tribe With constant identity crisis Trying to grow where we planted Staying rooted in heritage While stretching out our leaves The whole world is our stage
We are the global nomads The world is not just our oyster It is our playground To romp around And play For here Here is our home
“In Unity We Can” is a bilingual spoken word poem written and performed by Bertha on her platform, “Being A Third Culture Kid”. The platform seeks to illuminate the experiences and significance of the third culture experience through storytelling. It aims to empower them to take up space in the world and demonstrate to those around them how to discover the beauty that is in every country, culture, and people of the world. After all, global citizenship is the single currency of the world!
Takunda Muzondiwa is a cross-cultural kid born in Zimbabwe, who performs spoken word poetry as a way to express her confusion about her cultural identity. In this video she performs a poem as part of her speech at the Race Unity Speech Awards from 2019.
“Yesterday I was African; today I am lost.” ~ Takunda Muzondiwa
“What are you? I can’t even tell you how many times I had to answer that question in my life. And not once did ‘Vaughn Thompson Jr.’ seem like a good enough answer. Man, sometimes it didn’t even seem like ‘human’ would suffice. So now I just say, ‘I am third culture.'” ~ Vaughn Thompson Jr.
When I was in the village Somebody asked me, and I don’t remember Who they were They asked me If I had a car. And I said yes. Then they asked me if my sister Had a car. And I said yes.
And I saw on their face That it didn’t make sense And I started to explain In America, if you don’t have a car You can’t have a job And if you don’t have a job You can’t make money to live.
And they looked at me. And I looked at them. And they said Does your mom have a car. And I said yes. And they said Does your dad have a car. And I said yes. And they said Does every person in your house Have their own car. And I thought of all seven of us And I said yes.
And I wanted to give some explanation I wanted to say that This is just normal here And Everybody has their own car I wanted to say I worked hard for what I have And I wanted to say There are people Who live in this country Who don’t have a car People who are poorer Even than I am And you know I’m poor Because I qualify for five different types Of government assistance but There are people who have less Than I do Who do not have any cars
But I said none of that I just looked at him And he looked at me
And I wanted to say I’m sorry If I could give you my car I would If I could trade places with you I would If there was some way I could share All my privilege and benefits I would And if there was some way I could trade My birthright with you I would But I can’t
But I said none of that I just looked at him And he looked at me And we didn’t say anything But I know The same look I saw in his eyes That nothing made sense That he could not imagine What I was saying That same look in his eyes I know is the same look That people see in my eyes here Because it doesn’t It just doesn’t make sense
So I tried to imagine having a car My car In the village I tried to imagine Driving it to Makeni and going to market I tried to imagine coming out of market And putting my groceries in the car And driving back home I tried to imagine my sister Living in the same House as me And having her own car And it just made no sense
It made no sense
And I’m not Confused Exactly I just don’t get how These worlds can be so different And how I can be in both of them And yet not either
And I just don’t get What answer I was supposed To give him That would ever make sense Or any answer I could give him That he could understand Because I couldn’t even find an answer That I could understand
Yes I have my own car And yes Every person in my house Has their own car And no I don’t know why
Josh Gibson Media – “I think the hardest part is not the memories themselves, but it’s searching for the box of memories and realising how far under the bed it is hidden, and how far away that world has become. But Sometimes it’s important to remember, even if it hurts. It’s learning to let go, whilst not forgetting. Its learning that there was a time for that, and there is now a time for this. Holding on to the memories of a place once called home, and knowing things have changed since. And when no one else can understand, because no one else has seen. Its remembering that God understands, God has seen, he was there. He’s collected those memories, the good ones and the tough. And that…that’s more than ok, that is enough.”
Josh Gibson is a London-based content creator with an eye for detail and a passion to create. Check him out at his website –https://joshgibsonmedia.com/
“The first year I came to this country, I swallowed down everything I had ever known and it slid down my throat into the darkness of secrets, or maybe just things nobody wanted to know. Either way I was empty, ready for the sunshine and breeze of this new world to wrap me up in a whirlwind strong enough to block out the rest. I should’ve known better, but somehow I still thought it would be that easy, that I would just keep my old secrets and build a new framework of identity and slide myself into it without losing too much. The first year I came to this country, I forgot everything I had ever learned and discovered a darkness of secrets inside of me big enough to block out the rest, but I lost too much.
In the end I found the pieces I needed, I dredged up my past and did not let it be forgotten. Instead I merged the old and the new together, weaving the different threads into a tangled mess of knots behind the scenes that nobody wanted to know about. I managed the chaos as carefully as walking on a black-night path except this time there was nobody to tell me how to do it with confidence and everybody was there to see when I tripped over the stump and landed in the thorns. Still, I wrapped my cloth around me like a bright mask or a new skin and when my new friends poked holes in it they discovered the whirling dances of a different country underneath, so they named me after my mix of colours and I blurred them all into something resembling stability. In the end I always knew that every story I told had holes and half-truths, but when I put them together they stacked into the pieces I needed to keep going so I held my chin high and taught myself confidence.
Sometimes, still, strangers ask questions. They see me and notice the blurred edges of my names, they catch glimpses of the holes in my skin and they wonder if I am really who they think I am. Mostly I reach into my jar of stories and I swirl the choices around and pick a truth to give them, something to cover up the things they don’t really want to know about. But sometimes I toss my head and laugh, unfurl the bright colours into a banner that declares – I am /never/ who you think I am – because I am not even who I think I am and I’m certainly not who I say I am and who am I anyway? Sometimes I spin in a dance they’ve never seen before and I tell them this too is me, sometimes I write them a poem full of foreign languages and can’t be bothered to interpret it. Sometimes, I am too much for them and I do not care because these are the pieces I need to make sure I don’t lose too much and the confusion of one stranger is a small price to pay for the gift of being complicated and confident.
You can’t catch me, I say, whirling away in a blur of secrets and stories colourful enough to block out the rest.
This year I met a stranger who tried. A stranger who chased after my trail of contradictions and picked up every half-truth I dropped along the way, came up to me with arms full of gathered pieces and told me – look I’ve found such a beautiful mess – as if the tangled knots of my underneath could ever be called beautiful. Messy, yes. I know my stories are messy, I know when my colours are spinning around me sometimes they stain the ground rainbow and I don’t know how to clean it up. But I held up the secrets I had hidden away in the darkness and discovered a mosaic of stained mess that even this country has chosen to name as art, and I wondered why it took a stranger to see that this too could be beautiful. Either way, I guess I was ready for the things nobody wanted to know to become the things I could choose to say, and I added them into my jar of stories imbued with every shred of confidence I have taught myself. After all, who else could show me how to wrap myself up in the sunshine and breeze of a new world without losing the pieces of my history that I needed, how to laugh at the edge of the night-dark and stand up to try again over and over until the blur of my stories swirled with confident colours? There was nobody there but me and the watching world.
So I built my secrets into a mosaic, turned the tapestry of my stories upside down and inside out to show the chaos, stacked my names into the holes of my half-truths and called it brave. Beautiful. A new kind of confident, a bold dance in the middle of the street with eyes flashing and feet stomping and hands clapping rhythms they learned somewhere far away and long ago, somewhere I cannot return but will not forget.
I’m not a line, I say these days. I’m a circle, looping back into myself like a repeating eight of infinity, an endless beautiful mess.”
Do you know how many times I have moved? Sometimes I count them on my fingers, fistful after fistful of tears swollen in my throat and I try to remember every single one but I can’t.
Too many. Too many times, it’s the only number that fits the emotion and I know this won’t make sense to you but my hands are full of this place now and I can’t hold any more.
When I open my palms the memories are dripping out and I’m afraid if I stay longer I will forget.
I don’t want to forget.
Do you know how many times I have moved? When I sleep I dream of muted whispers in languages you don’t speak and when I wake up I write songs about the dusty grass of places you’ve never been and sometimes when you hold my hand I imagine the worlds I have known imprinted on my palm, burning you in your ignorance. How could anyone expect you to love something as fragmented as me?
I tried, I really tried to unclench my fists of memories, to open up my hands and belong. But every time I look at my palm I see the lines of roads leading other places and I can’t stop tracing them, can’t stop aching to leave. I can’t be part of a whole world; everything is random moments and I am disconnected from the planned future.
I’m not here to stay. I’m never here to stay.
You asked me tonight to go out with you, tired grin through voice texting and I wanted to say no.
But instead I said yes and I drove on these winding roads that never lead to other places and I opened my hands to you. I stayed another day, I spilled a few more memories and let you matter a little bit more – I loved.
Do you know how many times I have moved?
Too many, it’s the only answer that fits and when I tell you I love you I want you to think of that. I don’t know how to be a part of just one world, how to hold your hand and love and be loved without being burned by the smallness of the story.
Staying here is like being trapped, and I value freedom. But even more than freedom, I value you.
This is a TCK’s love poem, telling you how badly I want to leave in hopes that you will understand how deeply you matter…
It’s okay if you don’t understand.
There is a vast difference between us, a Sahara Desert of sandy separation but I’m trying (please tell me you can see that I’m trying) not to keep my distance.
It’s my desert. And every day I stay the liquid memories leak out of my hands into the sand and I think, I think, new life is growing here. New life, small and green and fragile, hopeful and timid.
So I will grow a trail of oasis across this desert, copy for you the map of roads on my palms and let you destroy this distance I have always kept.
But I’m not making promises.
One day I will add another number to “too many” and I will shut my fists tight around these memories and I will leave.
But today is not one day, and for now I am busy growing life in a desert with you.
Just don’t keep your distance, and I won’t keep mine.
