Where We Come From: Homesick

The year was 2007, and it must have been either June or July. Holly, Keren and I had, on this random night, decided we were going to "roadtrip" to Ivanhoe's for ice-cream, as college students spontaneously do. I don't remember what else was on the playlist that night, except for two of Keren's favourites at the time. The windows were down, and we were singing at the top of our lungs, "Hey, hey, you, you, I don't like your girlfriend!" and "Oh, **** it, I'm gonna have a party!"

I don't know what it was like for the Holly and Keren. But six years have passed, and I look back at that "roadtrip" now and think of it as a coming of age marker for me. Only a couple months ago, I had walked across the platform in Kardatzke Wellness Center as a celebration of the culmination of three ridiculous years' work towards a bachelor's degree. Anderson University had by then become a place where I had struggled long and hard with my self-identity, and just like that, those three years were over. Keren and I had by then had several long discussions about our dreams about the future, and she was just beginning to find her place while I was still looking for mine.

You see, Keren was a Third-Culture kid. Born in El Salvador, she eventually moved to Romania when her parents took a missionary assignment with a church there. She, and my other TCK friends, talked often about how they could never simply check one box when it came down to filling out forms about where they came from. She was at a conference for international students once, and when it came time for breakout sessions, attendees were asked to split into groups based on the region she came from. Was she to go to the one for Latin America or the one for Europe? There was never one single box to check.

I remembered one of our conversations being about the things we were passionate about. She said she was slightly jealous of friends who had found their niche in their passion for social justice, or art, or something of the sort, because she hadn't found her own. I remembered thinking the same thing. I loved music, but having studied it at the college level with an over-emphasis on performance (which I hated) killed it.

Then one day, she had just gotten back from a weekend in Chicago where she had been a part of a conference called, "Displace Me". It was a movement about creating awareness of displaced people. After all the time spent trying to figure out which box to check, she finally found it. Her passion. Working with displaced people because she herself was displaced.

That had all just fallen into place weeks before that summer. Then before that summer was over, her life was taken.

It was years before I started really processing everything that happened that summer. You see, I had forgotten about the phonecall I received that night on the "roadtrip" to Ivanhoe's. In our laughter and singing, we missed the ramp for the motorway twice, and ended up halfway to Columbus, Ohio. We had gotten so frustrated that we eventually decided to simply head home, but ended up missing the off-ramp for the Anderson exit as well. Somewhere in the midst of all the chaos, Dad had rung up to chat and was asking about how things were progressing with my job search. By the time I hung up, I was even more frustrated from trying to explain to Dad the cultural differences in the job search process.

Holly and Keren calmly listened to my ranting for a while before Keren finally said, "You know, our parents haven't lived here themselves. They may have some ideals about what life is like here, but they are not the reality that we live in. And it isn't anybody's fault, we just have to learn to adapt to this new reality that we live in different worlds now."

It wasn't until years later when I began processing that I realised I had become displaced too. I had spent significant amount of time with my Missionary Kid/Third-Culture Kids friends while in college to know the traits of a TCK, and to begin to understand the way they think. But I had never saw myself as a TCK until then.

For a few years after that, I struggled to navigate the waters of this new revelation that a new chapter had begun in the pages of my self-identity. It was hardest around November because I would be celebrating American Thanksgiving with Danielle's family, thinking about the right time to call or e-mail Dad on his birthday. Then right after that, the countdown towards the time I left wintry Anderson for sunny Singapore would begin and I would get particularly homesick thinking of time with the cousins, the BFFs, the church family and all the yummy food. The night before I boarded the plane would usually be the worst. I always love going, but I hate leaving. It's in that in-between time that I feel most displaced.

Nine years later, this displacement hasn't gone away. I've moved yet again, and the understanding of homesickness has re-shaped itself as well. It doesn't help that even with all the diversity in Auckland, folks here still take one look at me, hear me speak and automatically ask the dreaded, "Where are you from?" Yes, I know I'm yellow on the outside, sound like white America, and have the black, red and gold of Germany hanging in the Snuggery where I live, but the truth is, I have too many other colours on the inside. I would happily don the black, red and green of my Kenyan sister, Emily, the vibrant flowers of my Island whanau, while wearing the intricately beaded headpieces of the Lakotas, a people near and dear to my heart.

And the in-between times... Gosh, the in-between times are the worst. Nina who has become one of my Auckland church mums came up to me at church yesterday, gave me a big hug and said, "You've been a bit homesick, haven't you?" The tears came really close, but I wasn't sure if it was because someone noticed, or if it was because I hadn't even noticed it myself until she pointed it out. There's so much here that I love and wouldn't be ready to leave, even if just for a month. But there's a part of me that's already in Portland having bubble tea with Arthur and a massive pow-wow with Cassie. Another part of me has already tasted the corn and cherry tomatoes from Heidi's garden, and solved all the problems of the world with the semiNerdian friends. And still another part of me has already snuggled with Hannah and thrown fries at Amanda.

And maybe that's why I love airports so much. Because I feel less alone in the in-between-ness, even if no one else in the waiting lounge is as crazy/displaced enough to be processing these thoughts.

I was scrolling through old photos on Facebook earlier and found this one, taken in front Brandenburger Tor in Berlin. It was one of the first days we were there and there were various exhibits that we could take photos with. Some were historical; others political; still others, simply funny. This little guy here though, reminded me too much of myself. By the time I got to Germany, I had come to the realisation that no matter what part of the world I move to or how many times I move, wherever I sleep that night would be home, but I would also still be homesick for at least one of the other homes.

That is the new normal now. And it will be ok.

Emily sent me this photo via Whatsapp today. I hadn't expected it because it wasn't a significant date. But it was the reminder I needed that I wasn't alone in this warped in-between place. A few months after Keren died, they planted a tree on campus in remembrance of her. When I still lived in Anderson, I would visit on her birth and death anniversary with the yellow flowers she wanted on her last birthday. It became a place of solitude in the summer months as well. Months before I moved, I told Emily that I wasn't sure what I would do anymore on her birth and death anniversary. She offered to simply bring flowers to visit whenever she was able. Emi, thank you.

This. This is where we come from.

Culture Shock: Paradigm Shift

I've now spent nearly a third of my life away from my country of birth, and every day I'm even more aware of the things I have yet to learn or re-learn.

Like most days, I fumble over grammar. Is this the right English word to use in this English-speaking country?
Or the cucumber story. I still don't know where to find them in the grocery store in Singapore. Every time I'm back, I have a mild panic attack before I head downstairs to the shops because I wouldn't know where to find the cucumbers.
Or the realisation that I've lived in Western countries for the past 8 years but I still don't know how to make a white sauce.

Today it was the realisation that my cultural biases toward racism surprised even myself. While I was at the store earlier, these two men were yelling rather loudly at each other. It took me a while to realise the store manager, a White man (using "White" here because I couldn't figure out if he had non-European blood as well), had been accused by an Indian man of being racist. These were the bits I caught:

"I'm a customer here. Don't think that just because you're the manager here, you can tell me to come back later."
"I was saying that to the other man."
"Don't think that you're the manager here so you can be racist."
"I don't think you understand what that word means."

It went on for quite a while, but out of fear that someone would end up getting hurt, I quickly got my yoghurt and walked down the next aisle.

That was when I realised that I was feeling sorry for the White man even though I hadn't had the full story. The bits I gathered seem to suggest that he wasn't the one at fault, but again I didn't have the full story.

But it made me realise too, in similar situations of ambiguity, I always end up feeling bad for the White folks. Then I had another mild panic attack. Have I become that kid that thinks of her roots as inferior to the Great White that I should always assume they're right? Or was it something else?

I had a moment of flashback to Freshman year. It was a very vivid scene where I was sitting up in the balcony with the other international kids (cos we're badass like that). Bear in mind these were in my good-girl days where I decided I was going to hang out with the "bad" kids so that I could influence them to be like me and Jesus AKA before the realisation we were all equally bad, just at different things. It was the usual chaos that I tried to tune out, but the Gospel Choir leading the Black History Month celebration was the bigger distraction this time.

Why in the world is it necessary to celebrate Black History Month, asked the kid that grew up in multi-culti Singapore where the worse of racial riots happened in the 1960s, prior to our independence. Why can't everybody just decide they want to get along and do it? I mean, I acknowledge Singapore is small and the history of racial tensions is short compared to the rest of world history. Still, it's been so many years since Dr King's assassination. Aren't people tired of that tension?

It wasn't until much later when someone pointed out the far-reaching effects of slavery that I understood why it was difficult. Reconciliation IS hard work. But reconciliation can't happen while one side hangs their head in shame while the other continues wagging a finger at them. They'll always hear the, "Bad dog. Bad, bad, bad." We know it's not good for kids' self-esteem so we avoid it, but why do we do it elsewhere?

I remembered having the same struggle in Germany. How long are we going to wag fingers at them for the 2 World Wars? Or the Pakeha for not holding up their end of the Treaty of Waitangi?

Maybe it's easy for me to speak since I come from the part of the world that history books would paint as victims of violence rather than perpetrators. Maybe it's because neither of my grandmothers have any stories (or at least, not ones they've told) of being raped by the Japanese soldiers. Maybe it's because I live in such a safe bubble that I don't have any reason to hate the perpetrators of violence. Maybe it's because as I loaded groceries in the van, I caught a reflection of myself--that Asian-looking girl that sounds American but is dressed like a hippie (I know, I know, I'm far from looking anything like a real hippie since I'm still refusing the dreads. But try convincing my ANTM-watching sister of that...) and drives a family van that's only loaded with kids on the rare occasion--and realised anyone meeting me for the first time would have no idea what box to put me in so I feel less judged by either side. Or maybe it's just very simply because I haven't gotten the whole story, or the historical accuracy of the stories.

But really, how long?

And what are WE, as Christians, supposed to do about reconciliation?

I don't know how I would respond if the day should come where I, too, become a victim of violence. I hope someone would look and say, "She responded with the love of Christ," but I also know I'm human.

Kyrie eleison. Christe eleison.
Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy.

I Have the Best Friends in the World

First of all, let me address this just to get it out of the way. In no other century in history has it been possible for me to be ripping open a package and reading the taunts from Michael Smith from across the Pacific Ocean and the reactions of the other fine folks who added to my box of randomness.

Facebook, I salute you.


In spite of the intensity of all the craziness of the last couple of months, today, I consider myself blessed beyond measure to have some of the best friends in the world.

No really, I do mean the world.

I'm thankful for the tweets from Yu Lin and Juan, nagging at me to take care of myself while I'm sick. More than ten years have passed since the beginnings of our friendship. Sure the course of these friendships haven't always been smooth. But today, I'm thankful I still have both of you gals in my life. And thankful for the best friends I could possibly have in Singapore.

I'm thankful for Pia who continues the poke war on Facebook. And for Jonas, who, though twelve time-zones away, still finds the time to harass me on Facebook chat once in a while to give me more German lessons. And Rhonda, who helps me celebrate the little things of living cross-culturally. It's been nearly two years since my Deutschland chapter. But today, I'm thankful for the little things that remind me of all the lessons I learnt from that chapter. And thankful for the best friends I could possibly have in Deutschland.

I'm thankful for my box of randomness from Emily, Jenny, Michael, Yoc, Jason, Wolfgang, Nate, Leslie and Josh. The little things that remind me of the times we laughed so hard about Glinda, beating up a TV or eating roadkill for Passover, rugby lessons and a last mad dash to Sno-Castle, or the Skype conversations to catch up. Seven years of major growing up made Anderson a difficult family to leave. But today, I'm thankful that sentimentality aside, I had people alongside who challenged me to open my mind to embrace new possibilities. And thankful for the best friends I could possibly have in the US of A.

I'm thankful for Josh, Chris and Steve, three crazy little brothers who not only make me laugh because of their ridiculousness but also let me know that they've got my (and each other's) back(s). Three guys who make a big mess in my kitchen but also clean up after themselves. I'm thankful for the Mama figures in PJ, Katherine and Helen who nag at me about going to the doctor and taking care of myself; for Auntie Enid who takes care of the Singaporean child in me; and for my big brothers and sisters, Kathrin and Stefan, and Chad and Diane. No buts. I'm thankful for the best friends I could possibly have in Aotearoa.

No really, when you have the best friends you could possibly have spread out across four different time zones in almost equal geographical distance between each, I think it's only fair to say I really do have the best friends in the world.

That's ok, you can be jealous.
As for me, I'm just thankful.

Focus, Focus, Hocus Pocus

"But I remember what Susan said
How love is found in the things we've given up
More than in the things that we have kept
And ain't it funny what people say
And ain't it funny what people write
And ain't it funny how it hits you so hard
In the middle of the night
And if your home is just another place where you're a stranger
And far away is just somewhere you've never been
I hope that you'll remember I was your friend"
- Rich Mullins (Thanks B-row)


I realise I've been writing a lot more than usual over the last week or so, but I've also been thinking a lot the last week or so hence the writing. And since the very point of this blog when I first started it before last summer in Deutschland was for accountability to processing the life of cross-cultural ministry, I figured you'd be ok with reading some of these thoughts.


Over lunch with a couple friends from high school earlier this week, the whole spiel about the way my life is going to unfold from this point on came about. One of them pointed out that I sound like I have given up on life because of the way I was talking about the stuff that lies ahead. Basically I told them that I already know I will be poor for the rest of this life, and that the field I'm in will not lead to much material happiness, not just because of the "poor" part of it, but also because of the number of times I will move around the world and stuff like that. 


Which made me reflect on whether or not I had really come to terms with what it means to continue down this path. On our last full day in Phnom Penh last week, my brother and I were riding on the back of the truck through town and out to the killing fields and genocide museum and all that fun stuff. What I saw on the streets didn't faze me much, mostly because with all the cross-cultural stuff I've been a part of since my undergrad days, I've learnt to stop having pre-conceived notions of what life is supposed to be like anywhere in the world. So everything is new, everything is surprising, but nothing is really unexpected anymore.


It wasn't until the point when my sister decided to join us on the back of the truck that it really hit me how global I've become. I grew up in one of the cleanest and safest island-cities in the world, and here I was in the dusty streets of Phnom Penh with the smells of pollution and manure all around as we rode on the truck and I was unfazed. I honestly can't say this is my own doing or my own choice, but rather, the sense of adventure that had to come from Somewhere Outside of Myself had helped with the adaptability. And you ask me how I know I'm called to cross-cultural work?


But then my sister asked me a question that, for the first time, I actually gave serious thought to. She asked if I could live there in Phnom Penh. And of course, without hesitation, I said yes. I was used to giving that answer. But that was the first time I really thought about it. Could I really live there in Phnom Penh? What would I do there? Clearly I will not have as much material wealth as our hosts for the week did, so I will not be throwing extravagant parties. Cambodia has been historically either Buddhist or Hindu, and I only remembered seeing at most two Seventh-Day Adventist churches there. And church-planting of that nature is not my thing. So that wouldn't fly either. I could try to start a business if I wanted to keep up with my parents' middle-class quality of life, but I wouldn't have the capital or the gifts of business-running to do that. Or would I be able to find work as a servant to one of the wealthy families there? Would it be culturally appropriate and acceptable for them to employ me? And how would I find a place for ministry in the middle of living life in Cambodia? It wasn't so much that I was giving serious thought to moving to Cambodia after seminary, as much as it was the serious thought of wondering if I really understood what I was saying when I keep telling people I can live anywhere in the world, but it's just a matter of where.


Then I remembered something else I learnt in Germany. Answering my call to ministry had never been limited to geographical settings, programs, systems or organizations of any kind. And my theology had always been that above everything else, God is love, and we exist both for and because of love. And yes, there are implications and complications to the word "agape," but agape was one that transcended social structure of any kind--be it the political division of land, or the hierarchy that had been set up by human beings to help navigate and draw boundaries in relationships. Jesus, supposedly the "new Moses," the one whose example we should probably follow if we're going to call ourselves Little Christs, showed that love transcended the traditional understanding of the Mosaic Laws that the Jews had guarded with their lives. Which I guess... that meant that it didn't matter where I physically land in terms of the political division of land, or where I line up in the social structure. Agape is going to transcend.


And it's really not so much that I've given up on life because of the path I've chosen. And no, I'm not envious of my friends who have the material wealth either. That is the path they chose, and I'm happy for them. But no, I've chosen this path, and I'm happy and content even knowing that I will never have very much except for the global companionship that I know I can always depend on.


So maybe that's why it hurts as much as it does when sometimes the global companions don't show up like they promised they would. Because that's the only thing I have (aside from the Higher Being, of course). So maybe I've had too high of expectations from some aspects of my community, thinking that my commitment to community should be reciprocated at the same level. Maybe that's why they say that there are some things in life that we have to fight for, but they also say to hold loosely to the things in our hands.


Still a lot to process, especially with the reminder of Susan Hardman's life this week, and the inspiration she was to me. But some of the random fly-away thoughts from the last couple weeks are finally being plowed through, refined so that I don't just let these thoughts be fleeting moments of life that are wasted away.

Advent #2: December Came Too Soon

1:40 am, Sunday morning.
I should be asleep given all that has happened in the last 24 hours and all that will happen in the next 24 hours.

But 1:40 am came too soon.
Just as December came too soon.

"A whole 'nother year has passed," as the good folks of the Midwest will say.
And again, December came too soon.


I hadn't had time to process the disaster that the Spring of 2010 semester had been, and I found myself crash-landing in Germany.
And I fell in love there.

No, correction. I learnt what it really meant to love there.
No, no, I meant... I learnt the present-day translation of what agape meant.
The agape as it really was like in the Acts of the Apostles.
And what that agape translates to today.

The kind of agape that binds community as that Jewish Rabbi taught.

What was his name again?

Oh, right. Jesus of Nazareth.

Then I barely had time to figure out the mess I was in coming back from Germany.
And I was thrown into dealing with real life people.

People who weren't simply names out of those "holy" pages, like Priscilla and Aquila, or Cornelius or Stephen.
Real life people whom I was faced with the question of whether or not I wanted to intentionally choose agape with them and for them.

The same agape that that Jewish baby born in that manger intentionally chose.
Wait, what was his name again?
Oh, right. Jesus of Nazareth.


Then I barely have time to figure out the mess I'm in right now processing this agape.
And I'm about to be thrown back into that once-upon-a-time "only home I know" physical location.

Only to remember, after this December, it will no longer be anymore.
Bags will be packed with childhood memories, while the physical pieces probably tossed into a no-man's-land similar to that space that stood between the former East and West Berlin.

The same "no-man's-land" that that Jewish "Son of Man" dude referred to as "no place to lay his head."
Tell me again, what was his name?
Oh, right. Jesus of Nazareth.


Right.
That Jesus of Nazareth dude.
What business does he have with me anyway?
And why the heck should I give a rip about his life?
He's been dead and gone two thousand years.
What does he matter today?


Except he does.
Because he chose agape.
He chose agape for me.

He chose that manger not simply for a story to fill those "holy" pages.
He chose that "nowhere to lay his head" not simply so I can identify with that "no-man's land".
He chose that "Rabbi" not simply just to teach.

He chose that because he knew it would lead him to that cross on Golgotha.
He chose that because he chose agape.


2:09 am, Sunday morning.
I should be asleep given all that has happened in the last 24 hours and all that will happen in the next 24 hours.

But 2:09 am came too soon.

Just as December came too soon.

But that Jesus of Nazareth.

He came just on time.

Come, Thou long-expected Jesus

Airports = Home #3

Somewhere over the course of the last 6 years, airports have become like home to me. It’s one of my favourite places simply because I can people-watch. And it’s the one place that no matter what country I’m in, I know how to find my way around.

And so here I am at Flughafen Tegel, (Tegel airport) in Berlin, Germany. The last 2½ months have flown by way too quickly and now I’m heading back to Anderson, Indiana. And as I sit here and watch people again, I’m reminded of all the places I’ve been, the names and the faces that I will miss.

Like coffee, Nutella and Brezelbrotchen for breakfast. And the $0.69 shower gel from Schlecker that smells amazing. The Turkish market. And Schwarze Olive. Brandenburger Tor, Potsdamer Platz, Ku-damm and Hackescher Markt. Curry wurst and pomme frites mit mayo. And Bitter Lemon and Apfel Schorle. Wandering around Ikea and the Swedish meatballs for lunch. Cakes and coffee from Mr. Minsch. The little ice-cream places everywhere, especially the one just a couple blocks from Yorckstrasse. Oh, and definitely coffee. The beautiful Black Forest. And figuring my way around the S-Bahn and U-Bahn.

And Patrick, Jamie and Marco Nachtigall who are on their way back to Yorckstrasse having just dropped me off here – for accountability, for probing and asking questions, for the curiosity and interest in my life and the next chapters that will unfold.

The teenagers from Teenfreizeit whom I’ve just spent the last week with – I can’t think of a better way to end my time here, knowing that there’s a circle of people who love me not because of any reason other than simply because we’re in the same place at the same time. Ellen, Charlotte, Jonas, Anna, Daniel, Frederik, Torno, Pia, Salina, Elena, Johanna, Lisa, Lea, Elena – love you all.

And Jana, whom I met at Gastegottesdienst on Sunday – you’re so much fun.

The crazy mitarbeiters, for laughing at and with me, for teaching me German, for being the circle for me. Sarah, Jeffrey, Alfred, Lisa, Klaudia, David, Heidi, Stefan, Tekle, Adrian, Tillman – you guys are fantastic.

Yasmin, thank you for “seeing” me.

Sabine and Raffi - you guys are nuts, but I keep you both close to my heart.

The people I met at Fritzlar, for restoring my faith in community by demonstrating what it really means to live amongst a community that really cares. Birte, Maria, Judith, Sarah, Nabil, Sabestian, Rainner and Monica, Irene, Salina, and everyone else – thank you.

Pforzheim friends, for showing me that healthy churches are possible. And for all the new friends who remind me it’s ok to be a TCK, to not know what the future holds, and to take time for coffee, ice-cream and football. Manuel, Luzi, Natascha, Julia, Sanna, Jonathan, Kristine, Edgar – thank you.

Friends from Hannover, thank you.  For letting me into some of the broken places in your live, for reminding me it’s still ok to hurt. Siggi, Sanna and Amy – thank you.

The fun neighbours and people who are a part of the life in the Kreuzberg community, Ruth, Paul, Danitza and Atamarie, Jie Qiong, Rocio, Andy and Mariko, Herr Minsch, Mustafa and Banu, Nancy, Sascha, Suzann, Patricia, Micro, Svitlana, Astrid – you’re some kind of wonderful.

Simone, Leon and Rene Havlik, love you all.

And the Berlin team. For letting me into your lives, your team and your rhythm, for trusting me with your little ones, thank you, thank you, thank you. Adrian, Mely and Emilia, Ralf, Cymin and Samira, I leave pieces of my heart with you.

Aaron, thank you for being the fun brother I got to travel a little bit with, go football-crazy with and people-watch with. Bless you and Nicole.

Christian, you’ve become like the little brother I never had. I’ll miss you and your “chicken-butt” rubbish.

And finally, Kelley and Rhonda. For letting me into your lives, to share your space and your rhythm, for asking the hard questions and for walking beside me. No words but thanks.

And now I head back to good old Anderson, having left huge pieces of my heart in Deutschland, not only because of the food or the places I’ll miss, but the people. If there’s one main thing I’ve learnt from the last 2.5 months, it’s that just because I leave doesn’t mean the relationships are over. No, I’m looking forward to walking even further with these new friends – even if I only get small glimpses of the rest of their journey from time to time now.

I carry your heart.

I carry your heart in my heart.

Love you all.

Editor's note: This entry was written earlier today but I was unable to get online to post it when I was sitting at Tegel Airport.