goodbye

Language Miracle – a third culture kid poem

Language Miracle

I came home
from school one day
and you were gone.
Mom said it was because
you missed Grandpa and
you missed Korea and
you didn’t wait for me
because you were bad
at saying goodbyes,
but I knew better.
You left because
you were fed up
with me, fed up
with trying
to teach Korean
to a granddaughter
who kept refusing.
So you went
back to your homeland,
a land I didn’t feel
was my home,
with nothing but
6,381 miles, 12 hours
on the plane, and
hurt between us.

“My Dear Yeast,
You know I grow up in Korea while Japan abuse
forbid speak our language as child force learn
Japanese language of oppress and change
my name to other country. Yoshiko, they call me.
Many word gone when release from Japan.
Japan burn thousand and thousand book
force study Japan forbid our language
prison for people who wrote our words.
Release from Japan regain our language miracle.
I proud of my people my movement regain
history country culture. Yeast, grow up
in foregin country no use our language.
And what do you know about war for our country?
Last wish for Yeast. Learn language.
Love,
Halmoni”

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.

By CulTuremiKs, ago

I Don’t Recognise Myself Anymore

The purity of the air after rainfall –
The sacred smell of sandalwood
Wafting down from the hilltop shrines
Reminds me of something.
My deadweight soul, flapping with airline tags,
Lies gasping, dusted with the residue of long years
Lettered ‘Fragile’ and ‘This Way Up’
Entreating those that handle it to be careful:
To see it safely on its way to wherever it’s going.
Coat-hangers strewn on the unmade bed,
The unwashed floor, the weary bags,
The cluttered tabletops
Which will perhaps retain traces of my having been here
When I am gone:
A few fingerprints maybe,
Scattered fibres from my clothes
Or crumbs of what I’ve eaten.
Otherwise I’ll be on my way
Like the breath in my lungs
And the black blood rushing from my hidden heart
And the voice of Winter groaning in the pipes
And the hissing gas of the stove
And all the unsaid words and murdered thoughts
Bleeding in the sink of my mind
Incognito down the street, keys clinking in my pocket
With the tumbling leaves and the frantic ghost of the city
To a new address.
And maybe I’ll see you again,
But we both know it won’t be the same.
I’ll twiddle my new keys and feel my chains
As though I’m my own jailer.
Because I don’t recognise myself anymore.

Author Unknown (if you have any information regarding the author please contact us using the form)

By CulTuremiKs, ago

Airport Poems – Elizabeth Hemp

at the bottom of the escalator in terminal 3

I’m sorry
He says
And I hear
Don’t go.

I carefully study the dust
The shadows
The darkness
The hope in the future
Anything except
His eyes.

He takes my hands
Warms my fingers
Kisses me with the gift of release
Brushes my soul with a last
Moment of sunshine
And lets me go.

I’m sorry
I say
But I mean
Goodbye.

Traveler’s Deja Vu

My shoes have walked these carpets before,
On a different continent but
It was the same.
It is always the same.

Quiet sunset, orange glare reflecting
Off the windows but the
Chaos never ends and
It is an odd contrast, calm and frantic
Side by side here.

We are sprawled out, headphone cords
Held in cool palms, hands that know this routine.
The man next to us is tired, army green and brown.
The woman across the walkway is saying goodbye,
Teary eyes and too many hugs…
Maybe it is her first time – she is young.
I can’t remember my first time.

The little ants in neon vests outside are scurrying
And inside every type of shoe imaginable walks past
But it all feels familiar, deja vu from a thousand
Past experiences – my passport might not agree
But I am an International; airports will always
Feel like home.

Read more TCK poems – this one includes a response from Elizabeth Hemp

By CulTuremiKs, ago

But I Did Anyway – Mock Funeral

Mock Funeral

There was no funeral.
No flowers.
No ceremony.
No one had died.
No weeping or wailing.
Just in my heart.
I can’t…
But I did anyway,
and nobody knew I couldn’t.
I don’t want to…
But nobody else said they didn’t.

So I put down my panic
and picked up my luggage
and got on the plane.

There was no funeral.

By Alex Graham James

A Response

“I can’t. But I did anyway, and nobody knew I couldn’t.”
Isn’t that the summary of every goodbye I have lived through? How many times have I done the impossible, entered into the unimaginable simply because I must? The human spirit is resilient, determined to live, capable of withstanding much. All the same, every time I do something I can’t, I lose myself. Piece by piece I’m losing myself, trails of bloody footprints in my wake.

No words or imagery could ever be enough to capture it, and I’ve spent my whole life searching for how to explain something that is inexplicable. The sacrifice of innocence, the absolute helplessness of a child, the depth of the ache bound up inside my knowledge. Too much knowledge, too much logic, and I cut myself off from the relief of grief, thinking I hadn’t earned it. Wasn’t good enough for it. Isn’t everyone good enough for grief?

By Elizabeth Hemp

By CulTuremiKs, ago

Match – Memories From Before

Match – Memories From Before

I’ve been playing games with fire,
I’ve been watching flames grow higher,
In my burning home they rise up,
Working through the walls around us.

But do you know,
How tight I hold on to these memories from before?
The feeling’s cold,
But while these embers glow I hope to keep them close.

Every single word that’s spoken,
Every desperate breath is choking,
As the floors collapse I free fall,
In the snowing ash i’m peaceful.

But do you know,
How tight I hold on to these memories from before?
The feelings cold,
But while these embers glow I hope to keep them close.

Now my boiling blood it runs slow,
And the strongest flames feel ice cold,
Trying to find a way to end this,
As the fire soothes my senses.

Melting windows frame a warped view,
Have I passed the point of rescue?
Such a simple game to start this,
From the brightest light to darkness.

But do you know,
How tight I hold on to these memories from before?
The feelings cold,
But while these embers glow I hope to keep them close.

By Third Culture Kids

Listen to more music written about the TCK experience!

By CulTuremiKs, ago

Water Towers, Too – Adrian Patenaude

i knew i’d miss mangos
pale yellow, smooth, size
of two fists combined
peeled, sliced
and juicy sweet

i was right
but surprised
by warm peaches
firm and sun-yellow
picked fresh,
washed clean
in summer camp sinks
juicy sweet
and running down my chin

i knew i’d miss lilawadee
fragrant, perfect white
even when scattered
below branches
of waxy leaves

i was right
but i met magnolia
fragrant, perfect white
big blossoms
to get lost in
and breathe myself dizzy

i don’t remember, but mom does
a little girl crying
water tower!
water tower!
each time we passed one

that girl is a stranger, lost
in time to some parallel stream
the magic of water towers
is now lost on me
but West Texas sunsets
enchant, even that silhouette

i was right to miss Thailand –
rhinoceros beetles, rambutan,
raindrops clamoring on tin roofs –
and i still do
but i have been touched
by Texas, too

By Adrian Patenaude

Poet’s website

By CulTuremiKs, ago

Goodbye to Here

Another filled up, worn-out suitcase, another crossed off day—
Tomorrow I’ll again be going a million miles away.
I know someday I’ll return, but I know it won’t be the same
Because that’s just how it’s always worked in the traveler’s game:
Always moving; always settled; I don’t fit in; I belong—
Trying to blend in but always doing someone’s culture wrong.
I love the memories; I’m going to hold them close and dear. 
Farwell, the ticket says I’ve got to leave, so goodbye to here.

Goodbye to every face I’ve come to love.
Hello to familiar skies above.
Goodbye to what I’ve learned so I can blend.
Hello to strange customs that are my friend.
I face it all with no and every fear.
Hello to over there; goodbye to here.

I go through the familiar airport procedures and routines
Until it’s my turn to get into that big flying machine.
As I take off, I watch everything below grow so small,
And I can’t believe that again I’m leaving behind it all.
Trying not to cry even though I’ve got memories to keep.
Trying to keep myself entertained and then just fall asleep.
Trying not to laugh as I get excited about what’s ahead.
Trying to trust that we follow where God has faithfully led.

Goodbye to every face I’ve come to love.
Hello to familiar skies above.
Goodbye to what I’ve learned so I can blend.
Hello to strange customs that are my friend.
I face it all with no and every fear.
Hello to over there; goodbye to here.

I can’t imagine life for those who always live in one place,
Knowing what they’ll do each day and recognizing every face.
One mind, one tongue, one heart, one life, one home, one land where they live.
They say I sacrifice, but there’s more than what you see me give.
Maybe I can’t define home or use one speech to tell how I feel,
But I know I’ve come to love this world in a way much more real.
Someday maybe I’ll settle in a place most people call home,
But my heart still won’t understand why I can’t forever roam.

Goodbye to every face I’ve come to love.
Hello to familiar skies above.
Goodbye to what I’ve learned so I can blend.
Hello to strange customs that are my friend.
I face it all with no and every fear.
Hello to over there; goodbye to here.

by Katrina P. Puckett

By CulTuremiKs, ago

Green Culture

Under country, over country,
Never committed and always free,
But that’s freedom by plane, 
And not freedom of pain.

That pain hides in the greetings that are filled with goodbyes,
Our hello is rather uninviting, we realize.
But it’s a result of a normal routine 
Of always having to leave as the in-between.

Our looks deceive – 
We are not who you believe. 
We know both more thank you think,
And less than you think.

Yellow in the sea of Blue,
In the sea of Yellow, we are Blue.
Holding the knowledge of a Green
We are mistaken as pretentious, as causing a scene.

We return home
To absorb the culture of home, 
But Painters admire each color alone, 
For Black absorbs all, yet has no culture of its own.

Yet there’s beauty in Green! 
It’s not a fault to be in-between. 
But Painters are stubborn, 
Holding the old standard of one, they just don’t learn

That Green is both – it’s two – 
Not yellow, not blue.
Is that not so simple? 
Yet it remains incomprehensible.

You may know us as Global Citizens;
We carry the global burdens.
The dark eye bags remain as battle scars of jet-lag, 
Telling of the loss and grief from flag to flag.

Some of us live on the prayer cards on your fridge,
Between you and the 3rd world, we’re the bridge.
Existing as the good of the world in your sight, 
It is a fallacy we must rewrite.

If we didn’t bring our Sunday’s best
To visit your church to impress,
Perhaps you would be disillusioned, and the truth be known 
Of the dirt we bear, of the sin we own.

The truth is that we are scruffy
With the odor of our homes stuck to our shirts, a smell that is friendly,
Familiar because it is foreign,
Foreign to any other person.

If our real closet was opened, it would burst.
Culottes falling first, 
Hand-me-downs intertwined, 
Revealing our fashion – only 10 years behind!

The skin of a chameleon
Has granted us the chance of one in a million
To adapt, give, and share all before noon,
And before we’re gone, for our goodbyes come all too soon.

by Rachel Hudson

By CulTuremiKs, ago