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
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?
What keeps you here I ask my heart Stranger in a strange land, so white, so clean
These fields in June, she laughs Your red-stained fingers A taste of heaven beneath each leaf And this sky expansive and clear
I wonder why, my heart, you hold Steady on small delights after Months of sifting memories Under grey skies Testing each day as we Walk out into this not-all-bad But still foreign place
I am young, says she – A child who races, explores, Finds beauty even here And welcomes the new, trusting Inviting sweet existence even Within this space of not belonging
I hold out for Simple Wonders; Encounters with the Presence
Crouched amongst the rows I ponder this Sifting through the too-soon and the already-past I find it. The ripest, the reddest berry Welcomes me into the perfect balance Proves to me that Yes, child, even here, even you, Have abundant peace. The taste and texture of now.
By Bree Becker, a third culture kid from Rwanda and Kenya who now lives in Oregon, USA.
Look, look at the rain pounding into the dust outside, doesn’t it sound like home? Like tin roofs and shouting and laughter?
You would remember these things, if you were here, and so I say them to the empty space all around me, to the memory of your presence.
We were made of different stuff, you and I. I am stardust, never content with small and you are the oak trees strong and steady, so you know, I’ll visit you again someday but I won’t stay. Will you forgive me for that?
Life is supposed to be built of love but you and I have made it out of minutes in the middle of years, out of snapshot memories faded at the edges.
Look, look at this place and how empty it is without you. The world is big but our hearts are small and you’re invited, you know. To come.
I come from new names of old lands, Oceans, islands, continents, Snow and sand.
Between the blood spilled for selfish reasons, the crucifixion of sheep as camouflage for our fears; Home…
The place I come from …
Sometimes its people disappear with the wind, Its shape shifts from blinks to tears And whenever it does so it turns me into a foreign, again.
That’s how I get lost; how I get home; simply to leave again.
I come from seashells, different smells, Tastes, colors, Fetishes in the spotlight, the holy of brothels!
Where I come from… I sleep naked, covered by 3 blankets, waking up sweaty. I wear boots at the beach, Slippers at parties and I’m barefoot in the streets. Never ugly, nor pretty, the eccentric, the exotic Neither usual, nor repugnant, yet intriguing, deceiving.
The place I come from is a loop, a pattern in space, not very different from here, quite similar actually! It feels good to be back for the first time; Again.
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.
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.
