“TCKs talk about home and belonging”
Are you a TCK? A third culture kid (TCK) is “a person who has spent a significant part of his or her developmental years outside the parents’ culture” (Pollock, 1999). This video explores how TCKs feel about home and where they belong.
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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/
Lyrics: by Angela Soffe
Let us speak of daytime dreams
And those forbidden things
That you dare not tell one another
They will say it can’t be done
But you’ve already won
Put your shoulder to the wheel and start walking
If you can dream it up it’s yours to keep
These walls are made of sand
Wasted all my time being not enough
And I hardly know where I have been
Traveling on a second wind
Come and paint your name in frost
When the sun comes all is lost
As it slips and drips through your fingers
Callous minds now don’t be shy
You’re afraid and so am I
Of the fire that burns just beneath us
If you can dream it up it’s yours to keep
These walls are made of sand
Wasted all my time being not enough
And I hardly know where I have been
Traveling on a second wind
Woah, woah
Wasted all my time being not enough
And I hardly know where I have been
Woah, woah
Wasted all my time being not enough
And I hardly know where I have been
Traveling on a second wind
HOME LYRICS
Boxed up in cars
All memories of ours
are on the go
Like footprints in snow
Autumn leaves change
But I stay the same
Green highways signs
Just wave goodbye
I’m tired of living on the road
I’m tired of leaving what I know
When will I find somewhere to call home
Is it a place or someone I don’t know
Where will I get my last set of keys
Tell me to stay without
without always leaving
My hearts content lies
Left in cement
It was permanent
Or so you said
Same stars, same sky
Same moon at night
But its different
‘Cause you’re not in it.
I’m tired of leaving what I know
I’m tired but now I gotta go
When will I find somewhere to call home
Is it a place or someone I don’t know
Where will I get my last set of keys
Tell me to stay without
without always leaving
Wishing on shooting stars
To know, to stay, to be just where you are
Am I close or are you far
‘Cause miles are like galaxies apart
Right now I have no where to call home
It may be a place or someone I hope
These will not be my last set of keys
Wish I could stay but now
Now I’m leaving
HOMESICK LYRICS:
I was the new kid
I was scared of dogs and the weather
Never went on a field trip
Scared I’d lose my mother and father
I was the new kid
Didn’t understand what’s going on
But I tried my best to fit in
Started putting it in a song
No I don’t get homesick
But I’m sick when I’m without you
And I don’t feel lonely
I just wanna be alone with you
And I said I’d never write a love song
Because they always end
But you caught me off guard
And I found a home again
No I don’t get homesick
No I don’t feel lonely
I was the new kid
I like to wear the same shirts again
It reminded me where I’ve been
All the places I’ve left my brothers
I was the new kid
I never understood what’s going on
And I didn’t know how to talk
So I put it in a song
No I don’t get homesick
But I’m sick when I’m without you
And I don’t feel lonely
I just wanna be alone with you
And I said I’d never write a love song
Because they always end
But you caught me off guard
And I found a home again
I don’t feel alone
I don’t feel alone
I don’t feel alone
I don’t feel alone
I was the new kid
I was scared of dogs and the weather
Never went on a fieldtrip
Scared I’d lose my mother and father
I was the new kid
Didn’t understand what’s going on
But I tried my best to fit in
Started putting it in a song
No I don’t get homesick
But I’m sick when I’m without you
And I don’t feel lonely
I just wanna be alone with you
And I said I’d never write a love song
‘Cause they always end
But you caught me off guard
And I found a home again
No I don’t get homesick
No I don’t, no I don’t, no I don’t, no I don’t
And I don’t feel lonely
I just wanna be alone with you
I don’t feel alone
I don’t feel alone
I don’t feel alone
You had spent your entire life in one home:
your mom’s run-down condo in sleepy Antrim, New Hampshire where you
grew up eating inauthentic General Tso’s chicken at Ginger House and
picking up sesame bagels with cream cheese at Audrey’s
on Wednesdays,
knowing
everything
about your town,
your home, which step
in your staircase creaked,
the exact shape of the burn
mark on the left side of your fridge.
The mahogany closet in your basement where you used to curl up at age
4 to play hide-and-seek with your three sisters, the bookshelf you broke
then repaired at age 10, the army green quilt you received from your
grandma at age 13 that covers the twinbed in your room, in your home, in
your town.
By the time I met you I had lived in over 25 places in
Korea England
Tanzania
South Africa
Kenya
Lithuania
Chile U.S.A.
Some homes, some houses,
never
knowing
the houses
I lived
I was packing unpacking,
readjusting new places.
thrill of leaving Cockroach House,
bittersweet goodbye Mango Tree House,
Jacaranda House, the comings goings
formings memories, never feeling
rootedness.
And maybe that’s why we had to end our relationship:
I was a home to you, but you were just a house to me.
By Melanie Han, an avid traveler and a poet who was born in Korea, grew up in East Africa, and is currently pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing in Boston. She has won awards from Boston in 100 Words and Lyric, and her poetry has appeared in several magazines and online publications, such as Fathom, Ruminate, and Among Worlds. During her free time, she can be found eating different ethnic foods or visiting new countries.
Hustle and bustle of lunchtime at Myeongdong Market. Fried chicken feet splayed out and curled at the ends, rows of hanging chilis in different shades of summer sunset, dried whole squids piled flat on top of one another, every tentacle preserved and intact. My eyes come to rest on a little pyramid of kimbap.
The predictable pattern of roll, slice, stack. Roll, slice, stack. The kimbap lady is about my mom’s age, same short, dark hair turning silver, apron wrapped around her once-slim waist, and suddenly, I’m staring at my mom standing at the kitchen counter of the house that we lived in when I was eight and insecure.
4 AM she packs my lunch for a school picnic. I get up not too long after, unable to contain my excitement. Will they be impressed? Maybe even a little jealous of my mom’s Korean cooking? Probably both.
But when lunchtime finally rolled around and the kimbap container was opened, all I heard were the quiet “Eww”s as I felt the slight shift of people moving away from me. My shaking hands found themselves tossing the kimbap into the open and hungry mouth of the trash can.
Their perfectly triangled white sandwiches, perfect pale skin, perfect light eyes (they looked easy enough to gouge out). Sunshine rested in their golden hair while night and fury nested in mine. Did I want to die or be white?
At home, that afternoon, I shut myself in the bathroom scrubbing my skin raw and crying my eyes dry until exhaustion called my name. The front door clicked and I threw angry words at my mom. She never made kimbap again. And I avoided Korean food.
But, I find myself in a trance, walking over to the lady and handing her a 1,000 won bill, receiving a roll of kimbap in return. My tongue is momentarily stunned as it remembers long forgotten flavors. All I taste is salt as I pull out my phone and dial for my mom.
By Melanie Han, an avid traveler and a poet who was born in Korea, grew up in East Africa, and is currently pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing in Boston. She has won awards from Boston in 100 Words and Lyric, and her poetry has appeared in several magazines and online publications, such as Fathom, Ruminate, and Among Worlds. During her free time, she can be found eating different ethnic foods or visiting new countries.
Nose pressed up against the window, I wait
for pitter-patters to turn to pelting poundings
as hundreds of flying ants rise upward,
dizzying my eyes and swarming my head.
So predictable: Tanzanian rainy seasons.
“Dad! Come on!” and he brings them as always:
bright yellow boots and clashing pink raincoat
with words on them I can’t yet read, words that
Mom says I’ll learn in school next year.
Tupperware in hand, I rush out,
dancing to a chorus of wings: a flapping frenzy.
Within minutes, I have plenty of the squirming creatures,
my prized possessions, enough to make Mom proud.
Back at home, the three of us busy ourselves.
Dad hangs up my dripping raincoat while
I tug away at endless wings while
Mom heats up the stove and readies
a drizzle of oil, a handful of flying ants, a pinch of salt;
sizzling in the pan, they fry quickly.
Then, around the table, Mom, Dad, and I sit,
munching and crunching our seasonal snack.
So predictable: Tanzanian rainy seasons.
And even though I lived through many of them,
I can no longer recall whether the flying ants
tasted more like bacon bits or burnt popcorn.
So I wait, nose pressed up against the window.
By Melanie Han, an avid traveler and a poet who was born in Korea, grew up in East Africa, and is currently pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing in Boston. She has won awards from Boston in 100 Words and Lyric, and her poetry has appeared in several magazines and online publications, such as Fathom, Ruminate, and Among Worlds. During her free time, she can be found eating different ethnic foods or visiting new countries.
“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.”
Background audio is Turning Page by Sleeping At Last – listen here
A TCK documentary exploring the world of seven siblings in Ghana, as they adjust to a new culture and wrestle with the questions about home and belonging that all third culture kids can relate to.
Featuring the Gelatt family, missionaries through ABWE. Filmed in November of 2018. No profit is being made from this film.
Soundtrack created by Spencer Parkhurst – check him out on SoundCloud here.
Filmed and edited by Hannah Mathews – check her blog out here.
Watch more documentaries about TCKs here.
