According to the reliable source that is Wikipedia, a "third culture kid" is “a child who was raised in a culture outside of their parents’ culture for a significant part of their development years.” Throughout various ice breakers and name games and "getting to know you" worksheets, I have felt the void that exists where my "home" should be. Sure, I have a hometown. The hospital I was born at in Houston, Texas now has a skywalk connecting to the mall across the street. My only memory of my early childhood in the South was rain—my cul-de-sac flooded often and I would stand at the window of our beautiful, suburban home and watch the water rush over the curb.
At my second preschool in Midland, Texas, my identity crisis was only just beginning. I was 4-years-old and outside of my very small comfort zone. I didn’t know how the bathroom system worked, as preschools don’t put locks on the bathroom doors. Instead of asking for help, I peed my pants and cried. My mom picked me up early, and bought me a new outfit—the beginning of many bribes and sad gifts.
Back in Houston for second grade, I readapted to the nutshell of Memorial, America, and got my first pair of Nike Shox. My peers knew I had left for a few years, but didn’t understand why. I didn’t know how to explain it to them—“my dad’s job.” That’s all I knew and that’s still all I know for the most part. We transferred to Venezuela in third grade. My international school had uniforms and I adjusted to my newfound tomboy phase, which is what all the young girls there were doing. I played sports because everyone else did and adjusted to a life without a worry for time, but a heightened sense of danger.
By sixth grade, back in Houston, I was all too aware of my differences within a highly homogenized society. While all my peers were wearing Juicy Couture and Sperry boat shoes, I was still in the habit of dressing rather modestly, so as to remain innocuous. Friend groups had changed in the three years I was gone. I started disagreeing with little things my teachers would say. Boys started paying attention to me because I acted somewhat adversely to the stereotypical suburban middle school girl. I did my best to not call attention to myself, because this was a life skill I had been forced to practice often. My perception skills had kicked in long before, but I realized I had an increased awareness as to what was going on around me—I could "feel the room" better than any of my friends. People asked me if I could speak Venezuelan, and immediately I was ready to move again.
In Alaska, I grew up. It was almost as if I could feel myself changing—my opinions, my choices, and my beliefs were essentially turned upside down. Just another identity crisis. I was always a little bit on the outside in Alaska, as I hadn’t attended middle school there. I had a lot of friends and made a happy life for myself, but I seemed to always be on a different page. This is a similar feeling to my college experience—I am present, but distant.
As a "third-culture kid," I have "missed" a lot of things in my life. I never learned how to tell time on an analog clock and am just now figuring out Roman numerals. I never learned a single thing about Greek mythology and count the U.S. presidents I can name on one hand. I haven’t developed any sort of political opinion, though I am two years past the legal voting age. My sister recently explained the Cuban Missile Crisis to me—somehow, my history education had neglected it.
Currently, all my peers are deciding on majors and housing for next year and studying abroad. I’m thinking about taking a nap; then maybe I’ll think about dinner. I’m not quite sure this article even reflects the actuality of being a third-culture kid—and I think that’s exactly the point. I’m not really quite sure of anything, ever. I live in a blur of changed plans and missed holidays and friend requests. I could pick up and leave again tomorrow, and I would feel nothing. I live in a constant limbo of greetings and goodbyes, but for now, I am here.
