Denizen

It was the middle of the night on Pulau Babi Hujong. The air was humid and still, as you would expect from an island near the equator in the South China Sea.

As a teenager, it was one of the many weekends my dad and I would leave Singapore in favor of scuba diving on the islands off Mersing, Malaysia. We were sleeping on our cots on the beach. The moon was full, and we heard something moving between us

“What son, sleeping outside is bagus!” That means ‘good’ in Bahasa Melayu.

“Yeah, and sleeping while lizard besar (big) is going for a swim at the foot of our cots!”

“Wow son… take a look.”

“I am, and I think he is taking a look at us too.”

It was a 3-foot long monitor lizard that had come down from the jungle brush of the island in the middle of the night.

Adventures such as that were common with my dad. I was born in the United States, but was being raised in Asia as a TCK by a single parent. How did that happen?

My brother and I were living our lives in the American Midwest with mom and dad. Suddenly, my parents split and divorced. I was 7 and my brother was 5; we both have vague memories of them together. Dad had custody of me and mom had custody of my brother. Shortly thereafter my dad, who worked as a businessman and operations manager for a glass company, and I moved to Singapore, which became home.

I realize that being raised by dad in Asia is an “out of sync” and unique experience. From scuba diving in Malaysia to eating at the stalls in Singapore, our adventures together defined much of who each of us are, and we both are grateful for it. My dad was very purposeful, always encouraging my self-confidence and his time with me was a priority to him. He knew it was not the ideal situation for me growing up apart from my mom and brother, and it was certainly not the plan.

Now as a single dad myself, I can see life has a way of bringing sunrises and clear skies after typhoons. The best analogy I can draw in becoming a single dad was that it was an unexpected, blindsiding typhoon ocean wave; certainly was not foreseen. I was married for nearly seventeen years, and during the transition, I recalled and reflected on a something my Dad shared with me that was hanging on one of the living room walls in our Singapore home.

It was a scenic painting of large rock surrounded by a rugged coastline being battered by ocean waves. Think of the coastlines of Hawaii, the British Isles, or parts of California along the Pacific Coast Highway. I remember asking dad what it spoke of to him. He said that though the ocean waves keep pounding the rock and coastline, through it all, the rock just stays there and holds it ground. Through the chaos all around, it represented strength and resilience to carry on. That is what I had to do for myself and my kids.

Though I do not look it, Asia runs through my veins. My “Sweet Home Alabama” is “Majulah Singapura.” I go back to Asia in my mind often – it’s hard not to when cultural exposure as a child shapes who you are. Even now, fast food to me is satay, roti, laksa, curry, with a fresh lime. For dessert? Ice kacang.

From being raised by a single dad, to one now, I’ve learned the importance of spending time together. Dad would often say, “can’t have quality time without quantity time.” We both are scuba divers, and were dive buddies often in the South China Sea. During many of those dives we would swim ashore to an island, take off our gear, get out our dive knives out of the sheath and use them to get through coconut husks. That is one of the ways we spent time together, and certainly ate our share.

As I navigated the transition to becoming a single parent, I came to appreciate the traits developed as a TCK. Rather than running in search of who I was, I came to the point of embracing it. As my dad had modeled for me at a young age, I had to be resourceful and adapt to my new environment quickly.

This adaptability helped form a sense of adventure that I could not live without, always up for it anytime, anywhere. I have seen Mt. Everest with my own eyes, gone night diving in the South China Sea, wandered the jungle countryside of Malaysia and Indonesia, seen elephants as a matter of course in Sri Lanka, had a ‘move slow and stare’ contest with a Komodo dragon. Nowadays with my ‘tiga’ (three), it can be our Asian dinner nights, parasailing while looking for miles across the Atlantic Ocean, or going on zip lines over quarries.

Come to think of it, what qualifications did my dad have with me, or me with my three, in becoming parents in the first place? The skills I learned from my dad, and from being a TCK, translates well to being a single parent. My kids have learned that change happens in life and it is important to be adaptable, flexible, and confident with change as it provides a sharpened perspective. Value relationships yet be self-reliant. Understand that transitions can be tough, relate and empathize and know how to put closure to one phase and move on to a new one. Finally, have the tough mindedness and ability to not just survive change, but also thrive from it.

The fact is that there are no ordinary lives, we all have experiences, relationships, lessons, and adventures of their own. I embrace being a TCK and “at home” with who I am, and that certainly holds true now as a single parent. Though my upbringing may seem imperfect and “out of sync” with others, it sure fits perfectly.

In the summer of 2014, I was able to share my TCK heritage with my kids on a journey back to Singapore and Malaysia. It was a journey we will always remember and reminds me that “a man sees in the world what he carries in his heart.”

This morning, what sounded like traditional German folk music wafted from our upstairs Afrikaans neighbour’s window. It was so faint, it put me in a daze. My memory transported me to southern Germany, where I was cruising along swaying green fields, floating over a winding two-lane road that stretched endlessly into a blue sky.

I’ve just come back to Cape Town, where I grew up, after living abroad for five years. Returning to where you once lived can be an isolating, strange and scary place. Having a foot on two different continents and trying to stay in touch with friends and family in both feels at times like an overly-confident beginner acrobat doing a painful split.

Returning to your home country after years away is like opening your apartment’s front door, and at first glance everything looks the same. But then you notice all the furniture, identical to when you last saw it, has been moved around: the bed is in the kitchen, the sofa is on the balcony, and all the dishcloths, which usually hang right there next to the sink, are pegged and sighing softly on the tree outside. Everything feels real and unreal at the same time.

And now a new phenomenon has reared its head: whenever things go badly here, back in my home town, my instinct urges me to pack up and leave. Head to the nearest airport. And go. Wave goodbye to the intricate problems of the life I have created in Cape Town. And by intricate problems, I am referring to life’s little hardships – the kind of things that make us all want to pull our hair out. Like a bad night out, a friendship that isn’t turning out as expected, a hefty electricity bill or a power-hungry boss. These mundane moments of life that threaten to mute us all: a bad hair day, grey weather, a flat tyre, standing in a queue at Home Affairs for hours, a bad date, or no date at all.

A number of these all at once, or, just one on a bad day, veers me off course. These little hardships didn’t bother me so much before. But now every problem is magnified as the woven rug of established friends and parents, there in person or on the other side of my phone, has been pulled away from underneath me. Friends have moved into a different sphere and are married, in a serious relationship or have kids. I stand on a cold, hard cement floor. It’s not like returning back home after a brief holiday. It feels like in those five years I was gone, saplings have turned into trees, and I am constantly trying to find my space under their shade.

I’ve only been back a few weeks and nothing feels familiar. It’s hard. Everything is new. And although I grew up here, things are different, people are different. Or maybe I’ve just changed. It’s both an exciting and exhausting experience, a mixture of adrenaline and pulling the covers over my eyes.

Because I can’t hop on the next plane to somewhere, anywhere, I catch my mind wandering to familiar spaces. Even when I’m sitting in a restaurant with a group of people I can be so, so far away in my head.

“Where have you been?” someone asks me, breaking into my thoughts.

“Away.” I answer.

On those days I am away. I imagine spending time with my friends overseas. I travel straight for the horizon, longing for moments of idealised photographs, and oh-so-fun times of that other country. I put on my rose-tinted glasses, not remembering that I left it for a reason. I left because I needed to be home. My compass steered me back to the place where I first learnt to drive, where I first fell in love, where I first breathed this heady mixture of charcoal and fynbos air.

But my forever state cannot be running away, or wishing away, or whiling my thoughts away from here. And the “away” is slowly turning into a “here.”

 Photo courtesy of Mareike Pietzsch.

Leaving my schools on my last days felt heavy. I knew as I put my indoor shoes in my bag for the last time that I wouldn’t ever come back as a teacher, met by smiling faces and cheerful greetings. Bidding goodbye to a now pristine and empty house, the warm tears stained more than my cheeks. But my imagined final parting with my friends was far from anything I could’ve envisioned.

One canceled flight only began the frustrating process of leaving my most recent home. I’d expected painless, even enjoyable, hours spent in my home airport. Instead, endless waiting in line replaced any hope of mindless chatter with hurried dining and nonstop time-checking. So much for my heartfelt goodbye. After even more frustration in the next airport’s immigration, I felt my only real goodbye to Japan was during takeoff.

Sitting in the window seat, I kept my eyes locked on the illuminated airport. On my left was a Japanese-American kid, no older than 10, with his mother on his left. I felt him staring out the window, although probably with a different mindset. For a very brief instant I tried not to cry as the pilot pulled the plane off the ground. But as Narita Airport dwindled quickly, I couldn’t care less. Goodbye Japan. Goodbye Hokkaido. On and on I bid goodbye to people, places, and events, no longer trying to restrain my tears. Let them be seen, sadness is no shame. Too quickly, my home vanished beneath the cloudy night sky and I closed the shade, locking in feelings and branding memories. I will never forget.

Even though I’d been aching for at least four months to leave rural Japan and the immediate stardom it propelled me into, I hadn’t been ready for a sudden job offer, especially one from France! Needless to say, feelings and emotions tangled into one big, messy blob. But watching Tokyo’s light fade into the engulfing darkness while silently saying a final goodbye was too much.

If you know TCKs at all, you’ll agree we love getting on airplanes, country hopping and exploring any and all things – cities, local joints, touristy and non touristy spots. Our goodbyes are often temporary. But in those parting moments peppered with teary-eyed see you laters sometimes we can’t handle it any better than our non-TCK counterparts. I’m fine when parting with people. It’s only when I’m on the plane, seeing the country disappear beneath the clouds, that the tears come.

Returning to France felt like this: Welcome, foreigner.

Colleagues here praise my French, my mother tongue, like my colleagues praised my Japanese. I find myself comparing everything to Japan. It’s been a month and a half, and I still believe everyone’s driving on the wrong side of the road. I hate having to look where to step because I’m so used to clean streets and walking with my eyes glancing forward, not around. Strangely enough, I have the opposite problem with politeness levels here than in Japan: I’m a little too formal. Tipping in France might be an actual nightmare: apparently, sometimes it’s okay to tip, I just wished they told me when.

France is by far the most stressful when it comes to grocery shopping. Not only do cashiers not swipe the card for you, they generally don’t put the change in your hand, and you have to rush to pack your groceries yourself. Congestions guaranteed.

It’s only been a month and some, and already I miss speaking and hearing Japanese. Long grain rice tastes weird to my palate and the Asian aisle in the supermarket makes me want to laugh and cry at the same time. It’s been a long and hectic month of apartment hunting, luggage hauling and stressful, hurried lesson planning. I’m really feeling the loneliness of moving to a foreign country, and even though I probably started with only one friend in rural Japan, I surprise myself by already longing to return and half planning trips back.

How much harder can it be to make friends in a country I’m supposed to feel at home in, speaking a language I didn’t have to study?

Apparently, very.

I catch myself repeatedly drowning my loneliness online, especially when I realize I have no real interest in watching episode 12 of whatever TV show I started yesterday, but I watch it anyway because I need a distraction. I need something to make me forget, even for a moment, that I have to start over again.

I discovered a new term a few weeks ago: dissociation.

It describes a “wide array of experiences from mild detachment from immediate surroundings to more severe detachment from physical and emotional experience.” This rings a familiar bell. What I previously labeled as procrastination looks like a coping mechanism.

Last night, I dreamed I was packing so last minute there was nothing useful in my suitcase, and especially no clothes. Wet towels, yes. Random junk? Check. Passport? Nope!

I had to change from pajamas into actual clothes in this old Japanese lady’s tiny apartment. After I got on the plane, which was strangely not taking off, a little Japanese girl on her dad’s shoulders stuck her head in through a window and talked to people from my group. She smiled at me and said “Harro Merinda-sensei.”

A dream dictionary says that passports represent “your identity and your ability to traverse through various situations. You may be going through a period of self-discovery.” So, by not having my passport, does that mean I’ve lost my identity and am currently self-discovering my ability, or inability, to travel through “various situations?” It sure feels that way sometimes.

And if a plane taking off “suggests an idea or plan is about to ‘take off’ and be put into action,” does that mean my ideas or plans are taking root rather than taking off? I don’t see either happening yet.

I woke up disoriented with feelings sputtering around, and with more questions than the dream answered. I believe dreams show us bits of ourselves in relation to our current, or past, experiences. It’s a messy and confusing puzzle, but so is life. Maybe I’m just relating this nonsensical dream to my life, but there lies the magic of dreams.

We keep our vulnerable side partially hidden, as if concealing our moments of pain was as harmless as a spout of rain. But rain can carve mountains, and unacknowledged feelings have a way to bubble to the surface when we least expect it. Daydreams can hold us together when we’re browsing for cheap airline tickets or a random summer adventure, aching for past homes. But the dreams we experience at night remind us there’s more to our desires than we acknowledge, and show us no matter how much time goes by, we won’t forget the places we still call home.