Run of the World is an original song written by Hannah Mathews and performed by Hannah and Moriah Mathews. Hannah and Moriah are TCKs, and this song is about the mobility and transition of an international lifestyle, and how it impacts an understanding of “home”.
Lyrics:
Run of the World
Will you hold on to me When my soul is giving up? Will you stay by my side When my mind slides past midnight? And I know that I am asking For more than I can give But I’ve never had enough To settle down
Cuz I’m on the run from something But I don’t know what Like a hound from hell Baying on my heels And I never get away But it never catches up I keep letting go And it keeps me moving on
Will you whisper in my ear That the world is all the same? Will you hold my love for ransom If I choose to walk away? And I know that I’ve been traveling Far and farther away But it seems now that I’ve gone Nowhere at all
Cuz I’m on the run from something But I don’t know what Like a hound from hell Baying on my heels And I never get away But it never catches up I think it’s using satellites to trace me
Maybe you could try that Maybe it might work All I ask is if you find me That you help me find myself
Cuz I’m on the run from something But I don’t know what Like a hound from hell Baying on my heels And I never get away But it never catches up I race for greener grass But all the earth’s the same garden
I never get away But it never catches up Maybe I could call this home After all
“Growing Up Global”, a short documentary made at Mont’Kiara International School.
“This documentary has been made with passion and determination to give all those who struggle with their identities hope. Hope to find themselves. Hope to better understand who they are. No matter how lonely someone feels, it’s important to know that you are not alone and that there are other people feeling what you’re feeling somewhere in the world. It’s been a dream come true working on this project and we are very grateful for those who supported us.” – Ana Hummes Ota
Where do I belong? What is my culture? Where will I end up? Where is home? These are some of the questions that weigh on the minds of our modern day ‘Third Culture Kids’ (TCKs). Students attending international schools around the world have faced the challenge of assimilating into unfamiliar environments, making new friends, and learning local customs.
All of this sounds glamorous, but being a TCK has its challenges. This short documentary film highlights some of these challenges; it also sheds some light on the fact that if you are a TCK, you are not alone. The brainchild of a Mont’Kiara International School student, Ana Hummes Ota, Growing Up Global is a wonderfully balanced documentary that takes into account the lives a handful of students who recognize themselves as TCKs. Produced in collaboration with Mont’Kiara International School and a Portuguese journalist Madalena Augusto, it is a documentary that is bound to open the eyes of many viewers to the lives that these young global citizens lead.
Growing Up Global was premiered on Friday, August 30, 2019 at Mont’Kiara International School.
Music: “Where is Home” by Elliphant feat Twin Shadow.
Special thanks to Lisbon Works and Madalena Augusto
Jonty and Tia talk about codeswitching between Singapore and UK cultures in the pilot episode of their new podcast “D’Code Switch” all about Third Culture Kids!
“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.
It’s barely dusk as we land, fireworks bursting confetti beneath us, covering over the tidy patchwork farms. He asks if the celebration is for us – no, it is a holiday you really ought to know, the celebration of your country’s independence. But you know another date for that. The child behind us wails, and her mother shushes her, murmurs soft words to say we are almost out now.
We trudge like lines of ants from the village, clutching our dusty things in tired hands, following whoever is in front of us, hoping they know the way. The line splits. We hover, indecisive. They examine our blue books and send us left with smiles like we’ve gotten passing marks on the maths test; the screaming child and her mother have green and go right.
The gate-keeper stares bored, wants to know if we have been on any farms recently. We laugh. He sprays us disinfected, showers away the disease of our arrival, sends us onward into the July night with stars too different to recognise. I pull up my trousers, re-buckle the belt we bought a week ago in the dripping heat of market, with the brightly sweating mother yelling at her toddlers while we tried to barter. The doors open like voodoo in front of us, and the wall says welcome home with the same confetti colours.
Seven years seems like seventy Each crisp breeze was glowing Singing everything from birds in trees To lions guarding young cubs on plains in breezes
Beating to a rhythm of a tribal drum I danced underneath a crying sky As we chanted our glowing style in feet Dripping in moonlighting Under intimacy of tribes wearing Little other than swinging skirts Made up of plants beads As beady blowing glow lit lamps All went down as the sun goes low
We rattled our cups A malty red wine brewed as stewy smells of aromatic scents expelled Alongside an African rice hot spicy spread Along came the moon god As we all stamped out our other life woes
An African I’ll Always Be by Michelle Campbell
Africa breathes deeply inside my soul its diversity greater than the oceans thoughts of its soil stir up my emotions as my memories take over control.
South Africa’s vast beauty feelings of forever on duty whether in the Drakensberg mountains hiking or enjoying fountains.
My heart overflows with wishful notions of a holiday to a game reserve peacefully the animals we observe ’til we see some exciting commotions.
Recalling the fish eagle’s distinct cry and giggling Malwaiian children waving goodbye burning our feet on the sand at the great Lake the mighty Boababs our dreams awake.
To hear a lion’s loud roar or an elephant’s rumble God’s creation makes you humble experiences one will forever store.
Dearest Africa runs through my veins on my lips she always remains, the place i run to behind closed eyes she is the world’s most neglected prize.
To Africa i’ll always be devoted little melanin, yet still her daughter daydreams of her, my soul water her essence adored and noted.
Dry season has come to Nkor at last, the smiles on our faces says it all. Early, before the sun wakes up and yawns, and wonder what day it is. We drag our dusty feet, deeply smeared by oil from last nights meal, through the wet waiting dew, into grandma Beri’s cornfield. everybody is present, everybody is singing, the birds are whispering, the children are dancing, Their cane baskets waiting to lift the days harvest. A sight of joy and singing. Our women wrap their fingers round the maize plants Snatching and Ripping, Our men fill their basket, lifting and carrying, running like warriors home and back. Before you know it its twilight, its time for feasting, the harvesters grind the goat meat between their Molars, Flushing it down with kegs of palm wine.
we carry our lives around in these memories by Shiloh Phoenix
Grey-blue air sweeps the porch clean with the force of a continent behind it; Africa’s breath, green and wild and wet and I am small standing here, cold in my soaked skin, embracing the weight of this whole world against my heart.
My days here are numbered, just a small handful left to drip out of my fists and then I will be gone; gone like the dust of the harmattan in July or the mangoes in January, and the rain will wash away every footprint I left as if it never was.
Clean bird-song rings out to welcome the sunshine, whistles of hopes that never died, and I huddle into my hoodie with every moment burned onto my skin so that I will never forget the taste of the wind, the power of the water, anything.
Three weeks later when I touch down to vivid grass and cold white air, the droplets on the window pane will resound lost echoes as loud as thunder, and I will trace my own handprint searching for the map of what I’ve lost.
Kuma calls across the rain-drop dust overlayed on tarmac predictions, and Pafode answers sharp lightning bolt facts; I speak this language quiet in my whole breath as loyal as a continent, but we all know that in the end no village could ever be mine.
In Maforay tonight it is raining pounding splatters on a tin roof and the dark is warm wet barrels full of hopeful promises that we will plant in the garden tomorrow
In Reading tonight it is quiet cracked sidewalks lining houses and the dark is yellow paned glass full of cautious doors that don’t ever open for strangers
My soul sleeps soaked in Maforay rainy season
My body breathes blasphemous in Reading summer heat
and i am nowhere much
{I’m disintegrated tonight, divided between places where I don’t belong.}
I’m still peeling from that sunburn by Shiloh Phoenix
The tree today is supple and heavy laden with the weight of too much rain but where you are the sun is an Egyptian god, relentless in his dominion
If I can carry this sunburn across the Sahara skies could I bring back my hands cupped full of water?
Life never works the way I want it to and neither do you oh Africa, with your back turned to me
Once I was yours now I am a lost memory swinging slowly in these trees that are not the same at all
{and its a constant reminder that my world is small – small in the millions of miles}
Lost Souls of Africa by Shiloh Phoenix
“it’s gonna take a lot to drag me away from you”
I once had a friend just black enough to be called n****r by strangers in Alabama but too white to be mistaken for Senegalese She left Cape Town years ago but she’s still tasting the warm salt of Africa’s ocean in her dreams and she told me even though winters in Minnesota are bitter cold they never numb her longing
My brother, black as the dirt his mother farmed her whole life, black as the silence about his missing father, wrote me a letter from the psychiatric hospital where they put him, telling me that he feels like he is losing his whole self in a war against himself and he doesn’t know who he is anymore I replied that California is where people go to get lost not to find themselves Go home, my brother you are a prince in your own land though the doctors here have named you psychotic
To the lost boys of Sudan I too have watched my workplace throw out food, and I too have done the math of how many people that could’ve fed, and I too have wept for the stories I cannot tell, the people who do not know how to care or even understand
Two years ago I watched a little white girl pack up all of her things and get on a plane to Sierra Leone but she was too young to know what she had gained and what she would lose or how mirrors never tell enough of the story
I have never met a land so alluring as Africa I have never known a people so full of yearning as the lost souls of Africa
Today it is a cool and grey afternoon in south-east Pennsylvania and I am gathered with a crowd of black boys, laughing at each other in Swahili, wearing skinny jeans and Nike sneakers while they pore intently over their English homework They are too new to know yet how much they’ve lost and I will not be the one to tell them
{Opening quote is from “Africa” by Toto}
Grey-Green Rain by Shiloh Phoenix
Why would you go back she asks Isn’t life better here
i smile Depends what kind of better
Financially she nods
i shrug I guess so but some stuff matters more
her eyes are intent above the rim of her mask but i can’t think of how to explain the warm freedom of Africa
grey-green rain i remember heavy mountain humidity mango juice sticky palm trees bent wind smoky night on red gravel dust and dust and dust
ashes on the breeze hunger boiling in pots whispered songs starch stiff in the schoolyard stars enough to bathe in
hot breath sweaty bus tilted in red mud roosters’ indignation choking silt water bare feet on firm dirt
baoba fuzzy sugar glass soda straws ice cream wet plastic wrinkled skin rough hope enough to taste
she is waiting my tongue is wet full of colour and memories but no words
[i couldn’t pick home from a lineup] by CavalierEternal
red dirt soles naked in afternoon sunshine
the asbestos dust hooked to my left lung like a birth mark
knee deep in this man made lake awkwardly wrestling a foreign first tongue
sunderland summer by CavalierEternal
sugarloaf mountain peaks outside our window, I will climb her tomorrow I promise go into town in a good shirt you wear the new dress your mom sent when she asked —
are you happy with her, yet?
I could have sworn you would leave then, curse me, call old friends, smoke two packs of cigarettes, take the car to the river edge where we met in the muddy bed once.
I never said you should come back, I folded your things in a suit case at the door with a note I wrote I am less than enough to satisfy wanderlust.
you said those are my father’s words, my mother’s curse, the sound a door makes as it closes is physics not proof everyone leaves you.
i am talented at leaving by CavalierEternal
I leave this city with her angry barricades to you
I do not want these humid summers her dull sunrise doused in grey you keep the drunken streetside arguments for your 2 a.m. lullaby
I leave the east coast with her tired history to you
I do not want these hurried movements her densely packed den of strangers you keep the frigid winter coastlines like a still life portrait pinned to your wall
Only in sleep I see their faces, Children I played with when I was a child, Louise comes back with her brown hair braided, Annie with ringlets warm and wild.
Only in sleep Time is forgotten — What may have come to them, who can know? Yet we played last night as long ago, And the doll-house stood at the turn of the stair.
The years had not sharpened their smooth round faces, I met their eyes and found them mild — Do they, too, dream of me, I wonder, And for them am I too a child?
The Stars Are Not The Same All Across The World by Shiloh Phoenix
My first memories include tile floors cool beneath my feet, fans blowing endlessly while the crickets sang in the dark and the world was quiet. The stars were always out, there, always brilliant and near and crowded in the sky, like there were too many and they couldn’t hardly fit.
I grew up there, in that place of chickens at dawn and sheep wandering grey in the dusk and fires blowing ashes and smoke all around the dust of the land, the dust of the people. We were a large group of family, brilliant and crowded into the village, like if one more mother gave birth to one more baby maybe we would be too many for the space. But somehow, we learned to condense ourselves into tangles of bodies and there was always room for one more. Just one more.
I lived years and years of the sun rising every morning and water sloshing new into the bucket, dredged up from the earth with the modern miracle-gift from the tall yellow-haired men so long ago. Our parents told us those stories, about how the white men gave us life from the dust, how their machines brought pure water right here, to our village, to our home. They did not tell us about the chains that came before that, about how it was only right the white men come back with life to give as payment of their debt, about how their restitution could never make up for the generations lost. No, our parents lived small stories in a small world and it was enough to teach us the ways of our grandfathers.
I heard, though, from older youth, about sleeping in the slave castles next to the ocean, tasting the salt of the air and the leftover tears, wearing the disintegrated chains of other grandfathers and remembering that if we forget that history we have lost something.
But then I grew up and followed the footsteps of those slaves to the land of their sorrow, I stepped onto that blood-soil and tried to make it a new home. Tried to redeem it. In this new place, the stars are faded in the sky, lost in the vastness of electricity and development and busy. Even if we had time to stop and look up, we would see only the reflection of our own lives staring back at us.
Third Culture Conversations is a talk show about third culture kids: people who are raised in a culture that is different than the one their parents grew up in. We will explore identity, rejecting and embracing parts of our culture, and the struggle to fit in when you don’t feel like you belong. Hosted by Esteban Gast, Leslie Ambriz, and Manolo Lopez, on the SoulPancake channel.
