A window into the life of a Third Culture Parent (TCP)

A window into the life of a Third Culture Parent (TCP)

14 addresses; 16 jobs, 40 years in the sands

Leaving Sri Lanka at 30 seemed like an adventure into the unknown. It took me back to Odysseus in Homer. Our little girl was only 5. The second princess was yet to be born. Slumped in the window seat of a PIA jet in 1979, from Colombo to Karachi, en route to Dhahran in Saudi Arabia, seemed like we were moving into a new home that would become turn out into our cloud for the next four decades.

Travel became a way of life. Countless hours of flying became the norm. Longing for home sweet home became the dream. Imagine feeling like a foreigner when touching down at BIA, and not fully belonging to the country of our residence? Having to check the time in the locality of our friends and family, before calling, so we don't wake them up, was mandatory. Not being able to integrate into a specific community, one hundred percent, and feeling like we belonged to all of them at the same time was the default. Developing the ability to talk in many different languages, accents, and even moods became endemic. Friends were wishing us happy birthday hours before the day had actually dawned. We were brushing our teeth in airport toilets, like we owned the place. Unhealthy periods of time seated in the departure lounge and then, suffering through the immense struggle of Jet-lag when we returned “home", flying east or west. Anxiety and panic was in the air when a form requires us to list our permanent address. And the worst of all, being asked the question "Where are you from?" Because in short, the answer is, we really don't know.

We have had fourteen different mailing addresses of which five were in Sri Lanka. The Middle East was another long and winding adventure. Now, when people think of Saudi Arabia, they think of all the negative images associated with the desert, or, they think of Alladin lamps, the big blue genie, date palms, sand dunes, and camels. Very few people know the reality of the place we lived in. The girls attended an American International School that was considered one of the best in the world. The residential and working environment we lived in was populated with almost every nationality on earth. A country with 10+ million expatriates, making up half the population, was like a Disneyland in the desert.

Traffic on the multi clustered highways, built by giant US consortiums, was always hectic. Work was cool as a cucumber. There was never any rush to beat the clock as the local culture mandated that everything can wait. Weekend parties were so filled with goodies from many different countries. People always kept a close eye on BBC or CNN, to be aware of what was going on outside the Gulf. Local media was filled with a load of absolute crap.

Being of South Asian heritage, growing up in a cardboard “American” city, and living in the heart of the desert exposed us to a multitude of people and perspectives. We would be subject to a barrage of so many dialects within a given day. The reason why we are now so open minded and free to accept people from any culture is because of this place we called home and will always be grateful for.

But wait, is it really home? Because this home, these houses that we lived in have a shelf life. They only last as long as my employment contract is not terminated. Nothing belongs to us except the clothes in our brown suitcases and a few knick knacks we have bought for ourselves. Everything is leased and paid for by the employer, including transport, utility, health insurance and medical bills. We have to cook our own food like the rest of humanity, of course.

The eventuality that we kept telling ourselves is that heartbreaking and devastating moment we would have to face when it was time to go “home”. It is an indescribable type of emotion because we know it would be virtually impossible to return to this “home” again. Maybe just one day, as a visitor, pilgrim, or even a business consultant, but never as a resident anymore. Not at this age and disposition.

We always knew and shared what it was to be a TCP, but we were only able to grasp its true essence when we were fully retired in 2018. Sixteen jobs came my way during this forty year sojourn. The longest kept me on for 20 years.

Our two girls had grown up, graduated, married, and two grandkids had joined the nest. They also belonged to another species called the Third Culture Kids (TCK). They faced even more difficult challenges than us. 

Most folks will never fully understand where we are from and will probably misjudge us through stereotyped thinking and a lack of awareness. And to be very honest, nobody will ever comprehend, with full depth and perception, where we are from, other than those who also shared a similar background and lifestyle with us. And that is something we have to come to peace with. We have learned through experience that people build more on differences than similarities because it stimulates the mind and challenges presupposed beliefs.

We also learned that everything in life is temporary, especially for our genus. The home is temporary. Transport is temporary. The environment is temporary. People around us are temporary. Work is temporary. The transitory state shocked us every time we thought about leaving the place. Capturing moments on camera and writing about life in a bubble became part of our existence. We just wanted to preserve the memories.

Life need not be dictated by tangible boundaries and fixed material. Let it be defined by fleeting experiences and adventurous journeys. People, are the most important commodity in human life. Meeting, knowing, and associating with them is an education one cannot reap, even at Harvard or Eton.