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)
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
Do not pity me And moan over how far away I am. I already know. I’m already aware. And your sympathy sounds like nothing But words.
Do not claim to understand That you know what I’m going through Because you left your child At a camp five hundred miles away For a whole summer.
Do not tell me how you cried The day you left your child At college in another state. My parents left me And flew away A thousand Five thousand Ten thousand Miles.
I thank you for your prayers. I thank you for your concern. But understand: You cannot know; You do not know; Until you have truly lived This life.
I don’t cry tears. I don’t mourn all day. I came to terms With the reality of my life Many years ago; And I am not heartless Because of that.
Don’t ask me when I will see My parents again. If I asked you that question, Would you really be able to answer? Maybe I can answer, But even if I can’t, Do not respond, “Oh, that must be so hard.”
This is my life. This is all I know. So next time you see me And ask about my family: Do not think I am heartless. Do not claim to understand. Do not pity.
My name is Isam and I identify as a TCK. I have lived in multiple cities around but never in my parent’s respective home countries. I enjoy traveling, hiking, and photography.
As an avid photographer I especially like taking colourful shots as exhibited in my artwork.
We’ll unpack our suitcases Begin to embrace this Unfamiliar place so Different from what we’ve known
We’ll learn and go exploring We know our best stories Happen well outside of Our comfort zone
We can make anywhere home
Constant changing is our sameness Uprooting is our routine We’ll bloom in winter Our resilience is our stability
I am all the places that changed me I am all the cities that made me me I am all the people who named me Home is wherever I happen to be
Not a number on a street
I’ll send you a letter We’ll compare the weather I need to borrow languages to tell you how I feel You’ll listen like a true friend Like when we jumped in the deep end We’ve moved six times since then That’s how you know that it’s real
Constant changing is our sameness Uprooting is our routine We’ll bloom in winter Our resilience is our stability
I am all the places that changed me I am all the cities that made me me I am all the people who named me Home is wherever I happen to be
Not a number on a street
I’m moving again Soon you’ll hear it in my accent Uprooting again Daydreaming in past tense
I’ll unpack my suitcases I promise I’ll embrace this Unfamiliar place so Different from what I’ve known
I promise I’ll be open Won’t bury my emotions My heart’s caught between oceans But I can make anywhere home
We can make anywhere home
I am all the places that changed me I am all the cities that made me me I am all the people who named me Home is wherever I happen to be
We are all the places that changed us We are all the cities that shaped us We are all the people who named us Home is wherever we’re known and we’re loved
Not a number on a street
Thoughts from the author:
Just wanted to explain two lyrics. “We are all the people who named us” — When you are invited into a new culture, you are often given a new name. In Oniyan (Bassari)in Senegal, there are ordinal names meaning “first son” or “second daughter” that tell your place in the family. In Southeast Senegal I am “Ingama.” In Dakar, I am “Khady” which is short for Khadija, but works for me because it sounds like “Haddie.” In the US, various groups of friends have given me different nicknames, which is different than cultural names but still, in the act of naming there is affection, a sense of relationship, and belonging. And of course, my parents named me Hadassah, and my family is a part of me as well.
“I am all the people who named me” is another way of saying my identity has been shaped by all the people who are important to me. “Constant changing is our sameness” — sameness being the shared identity of all third culture kids.
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.
Milan, New York, Las Vegas, San Francisco, Dubai; Tommaso is truly an global citizen! At only eleven years old, Tommaso has had his fair share of good-byes. Listen as he explains what a Third Culture Kid is and how his TCK experience has affected him.
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.
