The Apostle Paul was a Third Culture Kid!

I just realised that the Apostle Paul (then called Saul) was a third culture kid!

I have been doing Perspectives, and this week we were musing over how the Good News was eventually poured out to all people. After a couple of weeks of feeling I fit in with the rest of the class, I was changing my mind – people were talking about things I didn’t quite sync with, and I was feeling awfully presumptuous to even think I had anything to offer in this group. Yes, it was my old companion, social disconnectedness, and I was dreading its increase. Then – wham! I realised Paul was a TCK.

Borrowing heavily from the course’s Study Guide:

Paul had been exposed to at least three different cultures:

i. Greek: Tarsus, his home town, had a Greek university, he was fluent in the Greek language and familiar with Greek philosophy and poets.

ii. Roman: He was a Roman citizen and lived under Roman occupation.

iii. Hebrew: His parents were Jews and he was brought up to be a Pharisee (Acts 22:2)

He may well have known four languages: Hebrew, Aramaic, Greek and Latin.

Tarsus was then in Syria (now in Turkey). On a map it looks reasonably close to Jerusalem. However, in those days, they would have been worlds apart in terms of language, culture, and just plain world-view.

Wow!! How heart-warming to think that God chose a third culture kid to be part of his band of apostles.

God’s story’s amazing!

Edit: It has been brought to my attention that Paul may not have been a Third Culture Kid by the traditional definition of one. Were his parents permanent migrants to Tarsus? Did he experience high mobility during his childhood years? I need to do some digging around (when I have time) to find the answers to these questions. One thing is certain, he was a Cross-Cultural Kid.

Tags: Apostle Paul, Bible

Just stumbled upon a new blog by another third culture kid. It’s Just a Third Culture Kid. Liz’s latest article is titled “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players…”. It’s an excellent post about how TCKs interact with their peers.

Anyway, have a read of her article – she puts it a lot better than I can!

Third Culture Kids are resourceful, fully able to deal with anything that a cross-cultural experience can throw at them.

This was my delusion, until I encountered the horses of Taal Volcano.

It all began when we decided to visit a friend in the Philippines. The Philippines are not that far from Australia, so this was going to be our easily accessible cross-cultural fix.

My husband, bless him, enjoyed the visit completely. Chilling out playing basketball and helping in the fields where our friend was building a radio tower were all right up his alley.

But I, though having marginally more cross-cultural experience than he, was overwhelmed. The Philippines nation is beautiful, the people are lovely, warm-hearted and creative, and they cook delicious food. What I remember though is over-crowded, smog-filled, humid Manila. I must have painted myself a romantic picture of the city from BBC broadcasts about Ferdinand Marcos, his many-shoed First Lady and Corazon Aquino. Perhaps I was expecting it to be like the capital of my birth-country, a far less densely populated place. Expectations powerfully affect experiences. I discovered instead that humidity and built-up areas are not my thing, and ate way too much of the food to compensate.

When someone suggested a day trip to the famous Taal Volcano, I was delighted. We were finally going rural.

The drive to Lake Taal was beautiful. The deep green seemed to drip off the vegetation outside. And it was dripping with rain too, just enough to wash away the memory of city smog, faintly cooling the skin. Wide open spaces were few and far between – this was in the tropics, and lush, thick vegetation took over when humans didn’t. I worked out then that open spaces, where the eye can see the horizon, give me a sense of security. After all, I grew up in the rural African Savanna, and I live in South Australia. The Philippines were becoming a journey in self-discovery.

We got out of the car at Lake Taal, and there, in the middle of the huge spread of water, was the volcanic mountain. The place is spectacular. Taal Volcano and Lake Taal both sit in a massive crater, and at the top of the volcano is a smaller crater filled with a sulphurous lake. Like concentric circles. Check out http://asias-world.com/index.cfm?p=695 for a great photo.

We got on a boat. I had been pre-warned, but was a little nervous. I should explain that this was my first ever ride on anything water-borne, and I can’t swim, float, or doggy-paddle. Blame the African Savanna for that. Once on the lake though, I found my wide open spaces, stretching away in every direction. Breathtaking! We chugged across to the volcanic island and disembarked. I eased the remaining tension from my muscles. Now we just had to get up the mountain, and enjoy taking some great photos. From the bottom, though, it looked like a near-vertical climb to the top.

The people on the island were  little, brown, and simply dressed, with bright, wide smiles, and friendly gestures. There were some hens, goats, and tiny ponies. And then the bombshell was dropped.

‘Here are the horses to take us up,’ someone said.

I looked, eyes popping, at the ponies. Their hair was rough and slightly matted, and some flies hovered, yet they still managed to look cute. But was I going to ride up the mountain on one of them? I’d never ridden anything alive before. Besides, I really couldn’t see how the horse could stay upright on that steep gradient. I, and it, would fall down, all the way into Lake Taal below. Did I mention I couldn’t swim?

My companions looked as if they did this every day. Of course, silly me, riding ponies is a piece of cake! Unless you’ve never ever got within harrumphing distance of one. The only animals I have had close encounters with are cats, dogs, chickens, and a cow that once tried to butt me. Oh, and a baby cobra practicing its vicious dance. Once. But my dad killed it before it touched me. I was beginning to realize what a sheltered life I’d led.

‘Can I walk up?’ I was dressed in good, stout, walking gear.

I got long responses, but the bottom line was I could, but it was very, very steep, and a very long hike, and I would do a lot better to get on that horse that was being nudged toward me.

I had a meltdown, right there in public. My companions averted their eyes and shuffled off on their ponies while my husband and the owner of my pony, a little woman, tried to convince me to mount. I was eventually encouraged, by degrees, to sit on the animal. My husband happily mounted his own steed, and the keeper of mine mounted behind me, took a firm hold of my waist, and drove the horse, in fits and starts, up the mountain.

It was quite easy, and I didn’t fall. And the view at the end was spectacular. I wish I could have video-taped the experience, as sulphur bubbled up through the lake at the top. Surrounding us below and stretching out was Lake Taal. Everywhere was a lush green. At the end of a very pleasant visit to the top of Taal Volcano, we mounted our ponies for the easy journey down. Easy? It was actually more frightening than coming up. I felt I was being propelled forward, right into the lake. It’s amazing how those ponies keep their footing. Heart pounding, skin drenched with sweat, I eventually reached flat terra-firma.

The boat trip back was a cinch. Amazingly, it took me several weeks to realize I had experienced culture-shock – yet again!

Here is another tourist’s more recent visit to Lake Taal and Taal Volcano: http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/pascalp/se_asia_-_2005/1127493000/tpod.html. The ponies are still going strong!

Tags: culture shock, Travel

Memories, you say? Well, I have plenty. But they are mixed up and out of focus.

Besides, they aren’t all for public viewing. Like the one of the verandah bordered by leafy trees where the teachers used to gossip. This was the scene of a childhood misdemeanor, and one of the few times my father punished me in public. Nothing traumatic, you understand, but quite embarrassing. I, of course, still hold to the view that I didn’t deserve it!

Memories are necessary. I have learned from mine. There’s the memory of the man who found I was home alone when my school broke up earlier than my parents’. He came twice and I gave him a cool drink each time. I told my parents about him, and they told me not to let him in. So I crouched and flattened myself under a window when he next came knocking, and prayed my limbs wouldn’t show if he peeked in. He went away and never came again when I was by myself. Did he see me hiding, and realise the game was up?

Ah, memories…

Perhaps we could begin with paper boats. Now there’s a memory that won’t jerk a tear or cause a litigation. It all began with an expatriate teacher who knew the art of origami. She gave me an instruction book with a little pack of papers. I wish I still had it. It showed one how to make a purse, a boat, a box, and several other things that I now can’t recall – all wonderful. My mother suggested that I not waste the precious coloured papers supplied, but use ordinary writing paper from my desk. You must understand that my favourite past-times were already to draw, write… and imagine.

The origami boat was the open kind, like a rowing boat. It was fun to make, but I preferred the paper sailing-ship that my mother taught me to fold, a child’s trick, the kind that could also be modified into a hat. I used to make both types of boats. When the rains came, fitfully but finally in the dry sub-Saharan climate, it caused the sandy lane in front of our house to run with hundreds of tiny streams. When the rainbow appeared, signalling the end of a down-pour, I would run outside and sail my boats.

I had read Rabindranath Tagore’s ‘Paper Boats‘, and it fired my imagination. He was from India, which was close enough to home for me. The poem appeared in a book of literature from around the globe, suitable for children. It was meant to be used for an English syllabus somewhere – but for me, it was a book of stories to find pleasure in. In the poem, Tagore captures dreams, especially the kind that a wannabe writer has, in his evocative description of paper boats, filled with flowers, floating far away.

My boats never went far, which disappointed me. If they were sound enough to float, there was the inevitable sand-bank, or if they encountered no obstacle, they would themselves soak up the tiny medium that carried them, and sink. But perhaps Tagore had a real stream filled with currents to float his imaginations in.

I recently encountered paper boats again. Adelaide’s River Torrens is home to a visual arts display called ‘Talking Our Way Home’ by Shaun Kirby. Several glass forms have been erected along the river, representing paper boats made of letters written by South Australian migrants.

The sense of using paper – so fragile and yet versatile – to send a part of oneself floating along somewhere, anywhere, seeking something, perhaps never to land – well, something of that resonates with me. Memories and imagination, floating together somewhere forever.

Note: The ‘paper boat’ in this website’s header above is from ‘Talking Our Way Home’ above.

Tags: memories, paper boats

If you tried to visit here over the last twenty-four hours, please accept my sincere apologies for the state this site was in.

My former web hosting company disappeared off the air yesterday, and it’s been a busy twenty-four hours as the site was transitioned to a new provider. I am impressed though at the time it has taken. Many thanks to Cove web hosting, and the wide range of Wordpress user advice out there.

I am now slightly better educated in the mysteries of MySQL, and ready for some sleep.

Yay!

Occasionally, when talking to certain insightful others, a light-bulb goes on. Rare moments for me, but I had one yesterday.

I realised that the angst I have against the world (in general and in particular) is mostly from a belief that no-one is really interested in hearing MY story. Wherever I go, I feel that a significant part of me has to be laid aside, because of a deep-seated belief I hold that whoever I am with will only understand experiences we have in common.

Perhaps that’s why I started this blog. Not because of an altruistic drive to help others… but, purely selfishly, so I could tell my story.

So, how important is it to tell one’s story? Andwhat do YOU do to let your story be told?

Tags: community

Welcome to the new look for third-culture-kid.com!

I really liked the site’s original Mandigo which had the right mix of functionality and ease of use (for me). But it needed a colour-change, which I was not proficient enough to do myself.

I am experimenting with several themes (among them Atahualpa and Blue Grace). So far Blue Grace is the winner, but I need to work out sundry items like three columns and header spacings.

And yes, paper boats are still in. One day I’ll tell you all about them.

A friend recently observed that there are two people in her. ‘Normally, I am a rational, self-controlled, mature woman. But there are times when the little girl that I was comes out, with all her insecurities, and controls what I do.’

She speaks of emotionally trying times. Sometimes these are when matters of the heart are preeminent in her thoughts. Sometimes they are when she encounters hurt.

My friend is insightful. The little girl in me, who has her own share of insecurities, leaps unaccountably to the fore when I least want her to. ‘Darling,’ my mother says. ‘We’re running out of milk’. The rational me would answer, ‘Yep! It’s on the list’. Instead, I snap back: ‘Oh for heaven’s sake, I know that already!’ My mother’s innocent comment triggers an old, old reflex within the little girl who felt deeply inadequate among the much-older, much more life-experienced people around her.

It becomes more complicated in my marriage. There isn’t just a little girl who comes to the fore. You guessed it: there’s a little boy who marches out too, demanding his share of attention. Ever seen pre-schoolers in a play-ground? It isn’t pretty among adults.

I think my friend’s analysis is spot-on. It’s another tool with which to interpret my extraordinarily unpredictable relational behaviour.

Her solution? She says, ‘I have to talk to that little girl and calm her fears.’

I’m off to do the same.

Tags: insecurity, self-identity

Warning: this post contains strong religious sentiments that could offend some and overt sentiment which could offend others!

I have a secret to tell you: I like hymns. There – it’s out! But don’t judge me too harshly. It’s all because of a childhood isolated from pop culture. The hymns of my parents have stood through my faith’s formation.

One hymn in particular runs through the thousand changes in my life. I can remember the first time we met.

It was about twenty-five years ago, in a church in the north of England. The minister was enthusiastic as he introduced a new hymn from their new hymnal. It spoke of God making peace with us, giving our lives hope – now and in the future.

My mother loved it. When we returned to our African home she looked it up in a Baptist Hymnal that a friend had supplied. I learned to play it. The hymn spoke of God and His unfailing goodness.

The hymn book returned to our birth country with us. The hymn spoke of God providing for every need we would have – even when we couldn’t see it happening.

When I arrived in Australia I found that our family favourite was listed as one of the most-loved hymns of all time. It speaks of how God alone is constant, totally dependable in any situation. My family still sing it at significant birthdays and anniversaries.

It was sung in churches after the tsunami came and killed thousands. My birth country was one of the hardest hit. It was surreal because our first child, half-Sri-Lankan, was born the morning after. The hymn was sung again last month after Black Saturday’s bush-fires.

My father died two weeks before those fires. We sang the hymn at his funeral. It is testament to that single Thread that ran through his life: many-coloured but importantly, scarlet. It ran from birth to manhood, old age and death: a life stretched across three very different continents.

The hymn is?

If you live in the U.S. or Canada, visit Hope Publishing to view the lyrics.

If you don’t, they have been reproduced by permission at Lee Marshall Music.

Note that copyright of this hymn is held by Hope Publishing, and it cannot be reproduced in any form without prior written consent from the copyright holder.

If you’re after a bit of background on the hymn, try www.hymnary.org.

Tags: bush-fires, grief, Music

My apologies for the long silence. So far 2009 has turned out to be the Year of Change!

First, as a family, it was time to farewell a significant part of it. We have been celebrating the life of, and saying goodbye to one of our closest loved ones.

Then Black Saturday 2009 came. Australia suffered devastating bush-fires. We have felt the pain and been powerless to assist as tens of thousands of hectares were burnt, killing hundreds and making thousands homeless. Please, if you are able to but have not yet donated to recovery efforts, may I direct you to Red Cross Australia’s site? Thank you.

Finally, as a family unit, we are facing a life-change as an indirect result of the global economic crisis. This has left us pondering next steps and new directions.

Enough writing material here for the next few months!

Thank you for reading. Stay tuned as life continues…

Tags: Black Saturday 2009, bush-fires, global economic crisis, grief