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.
