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
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.
If I could change I would, if I could take back all the pain I would I’m tired of being a TCK.
Does that make me a traitor?
I’m tired of tracing my names into walls to prove I was there, tired of learning faces and names that won’t remember me in a year, tired of swallowing down foreign languages and cultures and always setting myself aside. (Who even is myself? )
I’m tired of the goodbyes I never say, tired of walking lost in the crowd, tired of being noticed and being different and sleeping in a different bed every month. I’m tired of being the outsider and tired of pretending I’m not. I’m tired of watching the road splay out behind me and knowing it’s all that’s ahead, too.
I’m tired of being a TCK and I just wanna go home. For a litle while? Can I relax and breathe and be loved as myself, be a permanent something?
But the only homes I’ve ever known are scattered across the globe, impossible and my identity is carved into my soul, undeniable
home is a lie and belonging is a lie and everything I’ve ever dreamed of is a lie and so I sing myself to sleep with lies and pretend I believe them or maybe I pretend I don’t – I can’t tell anymore and all I know is everyone I have ever met is a liar and I’ve been told too many lies to ever believe anything again and – God! God, I’m tired of lying.
I went to church today and sat in a red plastic chair while at the whiteboard in the corner the TCKs clustered, markers bleeding onto their hands while they all wrote their names and I wanted to tell them it doesn’t matter and it’s a lie you were never here
I’m tired of being a TCK, Tired of tracing my name into walls to prove I existed but mostly, I’m tired of lying
