Proud to be an American!

I am a TCK, or in other words, a Third Culture Kid. What is a TCK?

He or she is a person born and reared in a nation that is not the nation of their citizenship. TCK’s come in all shapes and sizes and happen for all sorts of reasons. They are military kids, children of foreign students, children of business people whose work has taken them to another country, and yes, missionary kids like me. 

All TCK’s have some things in common, including a deep yearning for a place they knew as home but where they no longer live. I am no exception. Deep inside of me is a little girl who still wants to wake up to the sounds of lizards scurrying around on my screened window and open my eyes to see a gecko in the corner above me where my wall meets the ceiling.

I miss these things. I miss the African dirt between my toes, and the refreshing rain that cools a very hot world. I miss picking guavas off the tree in my back yard and eating them straight from the tree. 

But if I had the choice, I would not switch my citizenship. I have lived in America for many years now and have grown to love it, and even more, to appreciate it.

Americans have an incredible heritage of which we can always be proud. We have a history of brave men and women who gave everything to keep America free and to help other nations be free too. We are not a nation with a history of waging war in order to conquer. We fight to keep what we have and to help others keep from being conquered as well.  

So, on this July 4^th, I want to say, “Happy Birthday, America!” May God continue to bless you and guide you, as the song says, “through the night with a light from above.”

TCK or not, I am a proud American and so thankful I get to live in this land—the greatest nation on earth.

Life as I Knew It

Driving on the Left Side of the Road-Part 2

By: Jayne Garrison

All is going as planned when suddenly, Baby Noel awakens. She is either hot, hungry or wet, but our baby-sitting skills extend no farther than dipping her pacifier into a European alcohol based tonic that is suppose to take the colic away. Barbra leans over the back seat administering this aid several times, but it doesn’t work; Baby Noel keeps crying.

“You’re going to have to trade places and do this for a while,” she commands. I dutifully obey, switching places and taking over the pacifier routine. Carefully, I dip the pacifier into the bottle of liquid and poke it into the baby’s mouth. Baby Noel cries. Once again, I dip and poke, but still Baby Noel cries. By this time, her cries have aroused the attention of our audience.

“You should not let the baby cry,” they admonish in unison while pointing fingers toward Barbra, whom they have identified as the eldest and thus in charge.

“It is very bad,” one of them chides.

“Aw, be quiet,” Barbra shouts to the cloud of annoying advice that is steadily rising above the baby’s cries.

Chris, eager to help, leans out the window with a stick that he has somehow smuggled into the car with him and makes wide sweeping gestures toward the on-lookers. “Go, go,” he says. “Go away.”

The sound of his childish voice repeating this phrase in a perfect African accent suddenly awakens the senses of my big sister. “Oh, no, Chris,” she yells realizing things have gotten out of hand.

I know exactly what she is thinking. We are missionary children. We have been taught to always treat the people of our adopted homeland with courtesy and love, because we are here to help and love. We also know that Nigerians are notorious tattle-tellers and will not hesitate to report our poor behavior to our parents. With prizes on the horizons it would never do for Mother and Daddy to learn about this.  

“Stop it, Chris.  Stop it at once,” Barbara demands again.

But even as she reprimands, she is driving. Driving. Driving. Suddenly, she stops as if coming to a real halt.

“They're coming!” She shouts.

Sure enough, Mother and Daddy are making their way across the street, arms laden with packages and baskets of goods. Quickly, we all jump into our proper places in the back of the car, squeezing uncomfortably between Chris and the carry cot. Mother and Daddy look happy and relaxed, their hour away from us having been a brief respite from ordinary routine. Not surprisingly, Mother goes straight for her crying infant.

“Couldn’t you have picked her up?” She asks wiping the drool from Baby Noel’s red face. “I left a bottle for her right here. And my goodness, she’s all wet.”

Barbra and I look at each other sheepishly. Chris nonchalantly tosses his stick out the window. We are all quiet while awaiting the verdict. Has news of our driving drifted beyond the parking lot? Did someone report our rudeness? Could Mother have heard the baby crying from across the street? But it seems we are not to worry. Mother is actually glad that Baby Noel is so happy to see her and reaches for our prizes with a smile on her face. There is a Match Box car for Chris and the promised stack of British comics for Barbra and me. We reach for them excitedly, quickly recognizing our favorites and putting them on top. We are elated. Our world is perfect. We think a child could not ask for more than to drive and receive comics all in one day.

 

I don’t realize it at the time, but years later, I will look back on these shopping trips with wonder. Was the world really safer then, or did our ignorance of the common- sense rules that we live by today, actually shield us from the danger that was awaiting in the wings?  My children are grown now, but neither was ever left in the car while I shopped. As for playing behind the wheel? Perhaps one could describe my children’s early driving as “playing,” but even that was not started without a license. 

There is only one aspect of these childhood memories that is remotely recognizable today, and that is the pleasure of a good magazine or newspaper. For these things, I find I am still willing to give up an afternoon and work. Of course, driving to that job is no longer quite the thrill that it once was, and staying on the left side of the road, is out of the question.