The wheels hit the tarmac, jostling me, my parents, and the hundreds of other passengers. Ten years later and I still remember the screeching tires– there was something terminal about the noise. It marked the end of one chapter and the beginning of another, and the moment I left behind the girl I had been. Eventually, my parents would leave again, but I would stay.
As we deboarded the plane, I lacked the excitement I usually did. Up until that point, the States had always been a vacation, a reprieve from the sweltering humidity of the tropics where we lived. But now it was supposed to be my home. Reese’s chocolate and thick cut maple bacon would no longer be novelties to savor for a few weeks before we returned to the field; they would be my new normal, available at every grocery store. The extended family I saw once every few years would now be my only family. Meanwhile, my parents would be halfway around the world in a different time zone.
When my parents returned to the field, they moved to a country I had never been to, Italy. When I went to visit them over my university’s Christmas break, there was no childhood bedroom to return to. I stayed in the guest bedroom.
“Guest.” It’s how I have felt for the past decade. A guest in America, never knowing what to say or how to follow the cultural norms. A guest in my parent’s home abroad, in a country with a language I couldn’t speak and a public transportation system that made my head spin.
But time changes all things, and I am a TCK after all. A third-culture kid, a cultural chameleon. I now blend into the American landscape so well I almost believe I belong here. And after a dozen trips to Italy, it became a second (or perhaps third) home, awakening parts of the girl I had been, the one who knew how to fall in love with a place not her own. Eventually, the doorman at my parents’ building would recognize me and I could confidently walk to the nearest bar and order an espresso in Italian. It’s impossible not to fall in love with the people, the food, the history, and the ‘dolce vita.’ When I got engaged two years ago, there was nowhere else I could imagine getting married.
We had a small ceremony with our closest friends and family at a villa-turned-venue outside of Rome. That day, I stepped into a Hallmark movie. Our ceremony’s backdrop was the rolling hills of the Italian countryside, dotted with quaint villages. A local violinist played gentle tunes as we enjoyed a four-course meal and danced late into the night. Life has never been sweeter.
Today, my “home” is in Knoxville, Tennessee, where my husband and I have built a life together. But Italy forever holds a special place in our hearts. So when my parents received an email about a job opportunity in Virginia, my heart sank.
I felt selfish. Shouldn’t I want my parents on the same continent as me? They were excited about this job where they could train young missionaries. Why couldn’t I share their excitement? Don’t get me wrong, I do look forward to having my parents living close enough for a weekend trip instead of a $2000 flight. But a sadness lingers.
As my parents packed their lives into boxes – Christmas decorations, an African chief’s stool gifted to my father, my childhood crafts, Italian language-learning books, and all the memories these items carry – I have reflected on my grief. My life overseas ended with a bumpy plane landing ten years ago, but my parents’ life in Italy sustained a connection to the adventures of my childhood. Now, I watch as the last embers turn to smoke.
I am afraid that the brave part of me, the part that traveled with my parents to where the road ends, who embraced the culture of another people as her own, will shrink until I lose her entirely to the rhythm of a 9-to-5 job, a social calendar, and the concerns of “my” country. If I met my younger self for coffee, what would we talk about? Would she laugh at the cowboy boots in my closet? Would I have to prove to her that I still hold onto the culture I left behind? (I would tell her that, yes, I will bring curry to the potluck, and no, I don’t care if people think South Asian food is too spicy.)
I never realized how my TCK identity clung to the lifeline of my parents still living overseas. As they come home for the last time, I’ll celebrate the opportunity to see them more, and I will mourn the girl I’m leaving behind. I’ll hold our memories close and let them shape the person I’m still becoming.
Mary-Claire Holden grew up as a missionary kid in South Asia and Southeast Asia, experiences that deeply shaped her perspective and storytelling. Now based in Knoxville, Tennessee, she works for the University of Tennessee and enjoys cheering for the Volunteers on the weekends with her husband.
