I am playing with the idea of including a photo gallery with this blog. To see this, as yet in its infancy, go to http://www.third-culture-kid.com/photography

I’ve put this gallery together with Apple’s Aperture 3, and is very basic – both in content, and structure – I am still working out how to put a link back to this blog’s home page.

Edit: Since, I’ve moved the gallery to use Gallery 3 which is Open Source. URL is unchanged.

originally written 14th July 2010

I am a musician.

Did you know that?

I didn’t. Well, not always.

I thought I was a counterfeit one. A pretender. A person who could act and sound like a muso, but wasn’t really one.

Strange how the search for self has permeated something as trivial – or as important – as that.

Surely it’s simple.

Dan, meet Dave. Dave plays the guitar. He sings. He gets excited listening to other guitarists, and spends hours copying their riffs.

Dan, would you call Dave a musician?

I think Dan would be losing the plot if he said Dave wasn’t.

Of course, there are hierarchies of musicians – just as in any other field.

There are those who are just starting out. Or are always just starting out.

Then there are those who can only ever play from some kind of written music.

Then there are those who can play from chords, casually classed as ‘improvisers’. I fall into that category. Stick a chord sheet and a singer in front of me, and I’m set.

Then there are those who can wing it. They are the ones who play or sing ‘by ear’. When they play, we wonder why anyone bothered to invent music stands. This is the rarefied stratosphere to which I aspire. While I can sing by ear, I have only occasionally joined those ranks in my playing. Something holds me back – probably the fact that my ear is not reliable. Five times in ten, I will pick the wrong chord.

Then there are The Song Writers.

As you can see from my hierarchy, songwriters are considered it and a bit – by me.

And someone else would have a different pecking order. Perhaps that pop or rock musicians are just not any good. Perhaps not even jazzsters. Only the classical variety get anywhere near the top of the tree.

I digress. But not very far.

I was spun into another morass of self-doubt (yes, I love cliches!) recently by a comment from a highly accomplished muso, passed on second-hand to me, that people who need sheet music to play from aren’t real musicians.

So… back and forth I went. am I a musician?

I don’t think there is anything in my life that has been as much a part of it for the whole of it, as music has. To say the same thing clearly, music is so intertwined into my life, that to separate me and it would be impossible.

I find it interesting that I think of myself as a counterfeit musician – not the real deal. I also suspect most people who know me think of me as a real musician – I play with passion and sensitivity, and I know my music. Why the contradiction?

To be continued…

I have finally splashed out, and got ourselves (or should I say ‘myself’?) a Kindle.

It has taken us some years to get to this point. First, there was the financial side to consider, and then we had to process the whole pseudo-ethical arguments for and against traditional books.

Then there was the other important question: what would the Kindle actually serve? Jane Austen’s work was always going to be available – after all the Kindle isn’t going to thumb its nose at public-domain (i.e free), popular (read ‘extremely popular’) fiction. But finding that the works of Georgette Heyer are mostly all available too, tilted the scales – for me, anyway. Now the deed has been done.

Since placing the order, I’ve been eagerly tracking the progress of my our Kindle to us.

Only two days to get from the U.S.A to Australia. Wonder how long it’ll take from Australia to… Australia.

Stay tuned!

Beautifully put, here ’tis: http://www.wikihow.com/Understand-a-TCK

I think I’ll frame this article…

I wrote the pseudo-poem in blue below during a particularly dark mood. I think the darkness brought to surface questions that go on deep inside me about who I am. In that moment, I decided that I wouldn’t make my children TCKs (how long that decision will last, time only will tell )

This constant questioning about myself has great positive side effects – I get along with people particularly well, because I am able to put myself aside. I can get along with people that have been labelled ‘difficult’ by others.

But it has serious down-sides – at least, I think they are serious. Because I don’t know if I am being used, or being the ‘user’. At home, I don’t know if I’m doing my fair share of the dishes. Career-wise, I don’t know if I am earning less than others who have similar abilities to me – am I belittling my skills, or making too much of them? Also, in most conflict with other people, I find it very easy to blame myself.

I’ve titled it The Problem That Is Oneself, and wonder if it is a particularly TCK trait or not. Perhaps it isn’t even a TCK trait, but simply something that I am.

Perhaps the problem is that I don’t question myself enough… Perhaps I’m seriously blinkered, and don’t see how much my self intrudes.

There! See? That’s the questioning in action.

That’s it.

I can’t do this to my kids.

I refuse to pass on to them this particular TCK legacy.

Forever looking on from the outside. Judging, evaluating oneself.

The constant wondering if one is okay.

Continually questioning if one is taking too much air-time.

Never knowing if one should simply remove said self. Spare others the annoyance, the problem, or the downright pain of having to put up with whoever one is.

Why should my children have to spend the rest of their lives wondering if they are a problem?

Some things get me thinking. Thinking enough to write a blog post.

Things like criticism.

I’ve heard a lot of advice about criticism.

Like: ‘If you don’t have anything good to say, then don’t say anything at all.’

I’m sure you’ve had your share of similar-sounding advice.

And you know what? I don’t think most people realize when they are being damagingly, soul-crushingly critical.

For instance, I have this friend, Mythical, who seems to love to criticize. It seems that he is never so happy as when he’s relating a hard-done-by story. One where he’s hard done by, of course. Every time I see him, he has a list of complaints as long as my arm. About his wife, his children, his work-place, his doctor, even his shoemaker – and the latter may very well be non-existent. Well, if you ever meet Mythical, you’ll know what I mean. On the rare occasion that he hasn’t got a complaint, he says ‘Well, we all know that this can’t last!‘

Now, I’ve known Mythical for a long time. And I know that there’s one thing that really gets his goat. He gets really upset when people CRITICIZE.

He explodes: ‘I just wish people would stop criticizing! Why can’t we all put a little positive spin on life? What of a little affirmation? The world will be a much better place!’

Huh?!!

And it suddenly hit me.

I don’t think Mythical even realizes when he’s being damagingly critical. He is merely fighting the injustices in an unjust world. The lack of love in a loveless era. The insincerity in an insincere community. No, he’s not being critical!

Yes, my friend sees himself as a lone soldier, backed against a wall, fighting the world.

© iStockphoto.com/biffspandex

*Sigh*

I have two pieces of advice for Mythical. Assuming I got him to read this post completely, up to this point, I could say:

1. Mythical, next time you accuse someone else of being critical, please – um – stop, won’t you? Perhaps you could consider what’s happening in that person’s life that is causing them to be so critical? You may even find that the two of you have a lot in common. You are really two lone soldiers, backs to your respective walls, fighting against an unjust world, a loveless era, an insincere community. You seem to be on opposite sides of the fight merely because you’re backed up against different walls.

And if he’s calmly listened to me to this point – which is doubtful, I could continue:

2. Also, next time you have a hard-done-by story to tell, perhaps you could take a long, hard look at yourself first? There could be things – holes, unresolved issues, you  know -  in your life that are somehow making you feel like you’re fighting the world. And maybe – just maybe – that’s causing you to attack more than defend. And you are – unknowingly of course – causing pain. But, Mythical, rather than getting all guilted up, perhaps you should be kind to yourself, and gently address whatever it is that’s got you somehow backed up against that wall, fighting.

Yes, I hear what you’re saying. Why am I even hanging round Mythical, letting this stream of negativity pour unstemmed into my life?

Well… it’s a little hard to dump Mythical. You see, Mythical IS ME.

Yep! I’m talkin’ about myself.

And I really hope I hear this advice. And, kind of actually do something about it.

Well, perhaps Mythical is also you. And you over there. And that person sitting on the sidewalk. And the other one over there. And that grumpy man across the road. And…

Because we’re all really in the same hard place. Backed up against those walls, fighting off the rest of the world.

There must be a heck of a lot of walls around.

This blog has now been made smart-phone friendly, thanks to the plugin WPtouch iPhone Theme.

This WordPress plugin formats your site with a mobile theme for the Apple iPhone, iPod touch, Google Android, Palm Pre and other touch-based smartphones.

So go on, open up http://third-culture-kid.com in your favourite 3G- or WiFi-capable touch-based gadget. And let me know how you go – I’ve tested this on my iPhone, and am curious to know how it works on other phones.

Enjoy!

See Heidi’s blog for details on how to purchase.

I’ve just ordered a copy through amazon.co.uk, and am really looking forward to its arrival!

Introducing Heidi Sand-Hart and her soon-to-be-released book ‘Home Keeps Moving‘!

The book will be available from July 23rd on amazon.co.uk and amazon.com.

You can order a signed copy directly through Heidi (at amazon.co.uk) or at homekeepsmoving@gmail.com (if you have paypal).

I’m going to buy this one the moment it hits the stores!

‘Home Keeps Moving‘ is published by McDougal, and follows Heidi and her missionary family on their many moves through the eyes of a Third Culture Kid (TCK) and the unique phenomena of having four very different home countries to relate to. It tells the true story of being catapulted from continent to continent constantly: leaving friends and starting all over again, her unquenchable search for a home and sense of belonging in this world, her desire for a life-partner with the odds all but against her due to constantly relocating (even into adulthood). You will laugh and cry along with Heidi as she recounts hilarious and heart-breaking tales from her childhood as West blends with East. That is the true beauty of Heidi’s upbringing, it crossed borders and defied logic but she lacked for nothing.

‘Home Keeps Moving’ tackles subjects such as Confused Loyalties, Swimming in Two cultural oceans, Home, Grief, Education, Social Pressures, Religion, Expectation, Re-Entry, Delayed Adolescent Rebellion, and Relationships.

To read Heidi’s blog, visit http://homekeepsmoving.blogspot.com.

Note: All the information above is taken either from Heidi’s blog, or her publisher’s website.

I am on a journey – to integrate myself.

It includes a journey of grieving.

Now I am grieving for my memories.

Where do you get your memories from? Mine are from what’s left in my head, and photographs. My Nigerian diaries, such as they were, fell victim to luggage limitations. As did many other tactile things we could have brought away. What survived were clothes, documents, music, and some books. I guess it was quite a lot, really. And my mum did manage to fit some expensive kitchen equipment in. You know, the sort of things one buys on never-to-be-repeated journeys to Europe, and will not be able to source ‘back home’.

Today I have with me but a handful of things that are from my African childhood. Whatever was I brought away from Nigeria has, by necessity, been whittled away in successive moves.

It’s the life of an expat – or a refugee. The constant juggling of luggage priorities. Money over weight. Weight over money. Money generally wins.

A life of repetitive moving requires that one empty oneself of memories to make room for the huge learning curve around the corner.

Fortunately my father was a keen photographer. My memories would be in worse shape if it wasn’t for the hundreds of photographs that have followed our wanderings.

But I still regret the loss of those diaries.

Oh, and Whiskers. The cat with the gammy leg. Called Lucky at first because I didn’t know of any other name that a cat could be called. Lucky-Whiskers.

I think I started censoring what I wrote in my diaries when I caught my mother sneaking a peek. Poor mum, she was doing it with the best intentions. I was being bullied at school, and wasn’t forthcoming with the details – but my diary had them all. My mum made the bullying stop somehow.

I was quite insensitive to Lucky-Whiskers. He was canny and knew when meat came home from the butcher. My mum would start sharpening her knife, and Whiskers would go ballistic at the thought of meat trimmings for him. I would tease him horribly, running with those trimmings from one door of the house to the other, calling him. And from outside Whiskers would also run from one door to the other, miaowing loudly, demanding that treat. I’d stop when the guilts hit. And give him the meat.

Poor Whiskers. I don’t think I knew how to love pets. He was an outside cat. I can’t recall if we ever, in spite of my family’s fear of germs, got to the point of cuddling. I do remember him curling around my legs purring, so perhaps we did.

That memory impinges on my sense of who I am.

The only writing of mine that has survived the Nigerian years is a highly-plagiarized, full-length children’s book I wrote about five kids, a dog, and their adventures. As were many kids of my age, I was an Enid Blyton fan. I wrote the book as a birthday present for my sister. She has it now, still preserved, bless her! It’s all hand-written, with strips of sticky-tape covering the jacket in an attempt to mimic those shiny laminates that real books were covered with.

Lucky-Whiskers could never have come with us. It was a wonder that we ever had him in the first place. My parents’ maxim was that we couldn’t have pets when we were in Nigeria because, when we left, our pets would have to stay behind. But eventually, kindhearted souls, they succumbed. I can’t recall how Lucky-Whiskers came to be with us. Perhaps a kitten from a neighbour’s cat. He was white with grey patches.

Regarding those diaries. There was stuff in them that would probably make a decent conservative Sri Lankan mother’s hair curl. I convinced myself that some memories in them, like the bullying, were best forgotten. I was after a fresh start.

It’s only now I realize what’s lost.

I did ask if we could take Lucky-Whiskers home. But transporting him would have been well-nigh impossible, requiring huge resources that a poor expat family didn’t possess. Lucky-Whiskers was taken over by a neighbour.

I can’t recall saying goodbye. But I know I did.

This had to happen. I was going home to begin the life that had been interrupted by our Nigerian sojourn. I can’t recall if I cried or not. Perhaps I hadn’t learned to care. Or perhaps, even then, I’d learned some of the uselessness of caring.

I’m glad Lucky-Whiskers was a cat. They look at you with those remote eyes, and you know they’re going to be okay.

There is a single sun-kissed memory I have of the Nigerian goodbye. It happened after we left the school compound where we’d lived for eight-ish years, and drove beside it on the highway. I said to myself, ‘I’ll never see this place again’. I looked long across the sports fields at the school buildings where my classmates were hidden away, preparing for exams.

And told myself I was being melodramatic.

I feel sorry for my parents. We, and the other expats with us, had minimum knowledge of the intricacies of the TCK dance, and very little support in it. I think we acted authentically and to the best that we could out of that limited knowledge.

If only I’d understood then that the Nigerian time was not a mere interruption in life.

If only…

If only I’d kept my diaries.