I Know Who I Am… Don’t I?

We have all had to face this question at one point or another in our lives: Who am I? Why is this happening to me? We search for a point of reference in a glossary of childhood heroes - such as Dan Aykroyd, Charles Bronson or BarryManilow - some antagonist on the opposite spectrum or a family member we admire to give birth to our personal identity. We are all working toward the same goal: to become the best of the best and this (or these) idols conform to our image of success – even though when we are young, “success” tends to rhyme with “cool”. This form of self-perception is key to our world and without it, we are not much more than a hamster on a wheel. Each of these power figures possess their own set of behavioural patterns based on their ethno-cultural origin, nationality, religion and challenges. These factors help in deciding why we admire and feel a connection with them. Not many Japanese identify with mariachis. We are one of the few living species on this green earth desperately yearning for explanations. I don’t think we ever truly find answers we are willing to accept. The closest ones you can get to your comfort zone are good enough for most of us.

Dan Aykroyd: A Living Legend

The importance of the teen years is not to be taken lightly in forging this personal identity. It’s like a foundation to an iconic building. The CN Tower would not be the same should its foundations be on a swamp. Some youth become “rebels without a cause” and in fact, there is a driving discontent explaining their behaviour. Something is not sitting right and they can’t quite put a finger on it. I believe that nobody acts out when everything is kosher. If you crave attention, you will not rest until you get enough of it. In the words of Ace of Base: “Nobody is going to drag you up to get into the light where you belong.” The best examples of individuals feeding on attention are celebrities and socialites. They prefer to be an integral ingredient to a bad headline than not talked about at all. Whether this is all a big deal or not is all in the eye of the beholder. Some of us prefer a low-key existence. I did not become a thug, vandal or bully – although I was huge on heavy metal fashion and music - during my high school days. I chose to be selective, making a closely-knit group of buddies yet you can easily notice the opposite scenario among kids seeking to befriend every living, breathing being. The problem in the latter approach is that these popularity seekers tend to end up with more acquaintances than true friends. Real friends stay by your side through thick and thin. Maybe I am wrong – this is a frightening consideration - but time has proven that few friends make good friends. You have heard me use enough times the expression “friends are the family we can hand pick.” Luckily enough, the family I was born with worked out mighty nice as well.

In my time overseas, my parents encouraged every opportunity to beef up our Canadian-ness. Eventually, the clock was going to run out and we had to go back to home base. We needed to know more than just what our flag looked like. This is much easier nowadays with the facilitated access to Internet and cheap long distance telephone plans. Now, you can actually live in a foreign country without adapting to it as you can find live streaming of your favourite television channels back home and waste your entire day on programs like Skype. This is quite counter-productive and can lead to depression. The sooner you face reality, you can actually enjoy this new experience gifted to you. Today is your present tense. It is torturous to surrender to those triggers that remind you of back home when you cannot live there at this current moment in time. You will end up neither be from here nor there. I know what I’m talking about. The world is at our fingertips but only we hold the power to use technology to our advantage. I am convinced that my parents’ balanced approach to mold both my brother and I into Canadians was not in vain. My Dad provided us with daily news clippings containing headlines from Jean Chretien’s “Shawiningan handshake” – a former Prime Minister who briefly strangled a reporter to force him get out of his way (classic old school Canadian politics) – to the performance of the Toronto Stock Exchange and NHL hockey scores. We were hardly left in the dark – just in a more shadowy place - regarding hot topics back in the Frozen North. We were also regularly aware of groundbreaking news developments where we currently lived regardless of the fact it was a temporary living arrangement.

When I returned to Canada after having spent 12 of my 18 years of my young life in South America, there was no doubt in my mind that I was still William from the block: no matter where I go I still know where I came from. However, I did not manage to make a deep connection with my compatriots who had the privilege of growing up their entire lives under the maple leaf. That stability becomes a source of envy to TCKs. Canadians do tend to travel outside of their country but it is much different to reside abroad than go on week-long vacations to all-inclusive beach resorts. When you are on vacation, everything seems magical because you have no real obligations. Brian and I diagnosed those vacationers as carriers of the “Club Med Mentality.” Some go to Rome for a day and come back the following day, tilting their entire head back, sticking their nose out and tighten their lips as if suffering prolonged constipation and declare they know everything there is to know about Europe. Coming back to the student population I encountered, I would not say that my fellow students were snobby, ignorant or heartless because we could not connect. On the contrary, it was unavoidable that following such a lengthy sabbatical from my homeland, my personal identity was more Latino-French-Canadian: I enjoyed loud salsa parties but in a punctual and organized fashion. Any chaos could exist as long as it was contained. I was the type of Canadian that instead of breaking out in more vulgar variations of the word “darn!”, I shared my exclamations through “¡rayos!” or “zut alors!” When Canadians were wild about the Stanley Cup playoffs, I prayed for divine intervention switching the satellite feed to the Copa Libertadores or the Champions League. I found little in common with my people. As they embarked on their booze-filled Frosh Week festivities celebrating their emancipation - no more mommy or daddy limiting their rights and freedoms or alcohol intake -, I was more inclined to build meaningful relationships. In Latin America, clubbing starts as soon as you can look over the counter to order a drink in a bar - and maybe have a little bit of facial hair – so this debut into the North American college scene was more invigorating for them.

Breakfast, lunch and dinner in one aisle

To those very patriotic parents living abroad with small children, you can try everything possible to transfer your nationalist passion onto your children. It is inevitable, however, that there will be some cross-contamination – one of the perks of TCKs. You can decide whether to embrace this or reject it although I consider this a privilege. It is also unavoidable your kids will go through an identity crisis at some point - probably more once you think you are finally home and all is well. Their concept of home is now completely different from your own. Once I was back in Canada, if I would hear “suavemente, besame… yo quiero sentir tus labios besandome otra vez” (the musical version by Elvis Crespo sounds much better than the written one), I felt some comfort and an unexplainable homesickness. Not much salsa in Canada except for the red paste you consume on tortilla chips. Those once annoyingly repetitive melodies form part of a familiar repertoire, morphing the obnoxious into something heartwarming. Here, we notice again the power of the familiar against the evil tides of the unknown. It can take years to overcome an identity crisis although some never do. A simple question to most like, “Where are you from?” becomes a minefield for TCKs. The answers can be anything you can relate to like: where you were born, what predominant culture surrounded you or even a place you have never been but feel a strong affinity towards. No answer is really wrong. What we are comfortable with is usual adequate so if you were born in Zimbabwe to Australian parents, grew up in India and feel Russian in your heart of hearts… power to you my dear Russian friend. Either way, we are now citizen of the world!

Reverse Cultural Shock

I am pretty much nearing the end of my teen years in my blog entries so I decided to change the structure of my future publications. Anyone can continue to send requests which I strongly encourage (and appreciate) as it assists me to identify topics you wish to read more of. I am most pleased to oblige. This is much more interactive than television, isn’t it? Quality programming at your finger tips. From time to time, I will write about trips worth mentioning, but my primary focus will be more on issues (pros and cons) typical to third culture/transcultural kids - some of us are no longer kids but the term still applies as we become adults. The record of experiences and challenges shape our person: who we are, what we are and what some of it means. I cannot claim to be an expert, but hopefully by sharing my stories, some light can be shed on similar situations others encounter. Who knows, maybe I have an answer for you or you may have one for me.

The beautiful city of Ottawa

Returning to Canada after four years in Peru was quite the challenge as an 18 year old. From the moment I first landed in Lima, I counted the days until the glorious occasion where I would get back on the plane, Canada-bound. The Littlest Hobo would not have been proud of me. I was extremely enthused to be in Canada now, as my family and I cleared customs, but so much of my person felt incomplete without my best pals. It was like the Mario Brothers playing only with Luigi: something doesn't feel quite the same without Mario. I did manage to get quite attached to each of my friends during the posting, as I had in previous instances. None of them were accompanying me on this new stage, as in previous instances as well. I am sure many of us returning home from the psychological and emotional battlefield of the expat life have similar expectations: we secretly wish for a victory parade like those in Hollywood blockbusters where brave triumphant soldiers parade down streets filled with people celebrating, confetti falling from the heavens and bands belting out joyful, celebratory tunes. Unfortunately, there is no real fanfare. On the contrary, many times there isn't even someone standing outside the terminal with balloons or a home-made sign displaying “you did it!” or “welcome home!” You certainly won’t get that welcome from the passport control officer. They are trained to not have much of a sense of humour the poor chaps.

Instead of the hero’s welcome, there is a much finer parallel with a returning Vietnam veteran. Not many understand why you were away from your country or really care to connect the dots. It is a pointless war with no real winner. "It doesn't apply to me," people say. Most grown-ups who contribute to the tax base from their own income consider families like mine as leaches sucking the blood out of the federal piggy bank. Well-dressed thieves. The perception, as I previously mentioned in earlier entries, is that Foreign Service officers and their families are vegging on beaches, sipping piña coladas with the locals and perfecting the ultimate tan. It is a shame I was not posted to one of those places. Sounds like fun, wouldn't you agree? It is impossible for others to imagine the level of hardship these people undergo - it is usually difficult to understand others not having been in their shoes - and do so with their heads held high, proud of representing their country. Most people my own age seemed to consider all my accounts of having visited Aztec pyramids, Incan ruins, getting lost in Curaçao - the smallest island in the Caribbean - the rainforest in Venezuela, as cries for attention. Either that, or just that I was some kind of snob gallivanting around the globe with my bottomless pockets full of cash. The pedantic world traveler. This does contribute to a feeling of alienation and leads you to consider that everything you have done in your young life was wrong. Don't worry, you didn't do anything wrong. We all have our own lives and do what we can.

Before heading off on posting, the diplomat is generally coached about what to expect overseas in an attempt to mitigate ‘culture shock.’ There is no perfect transition except trying to keep an open mind. It is hard to prepare for military coups, terrorism, dictatorship, and all these unplanned events just to name a few I have enjoy. Certainly not a picnic but a great learning experience. The least you expect, the better things can be, that is my motto. Anyway, the Foreign Service Officer is then recommended to pass on the new intel to his or her dependants since now he or she is 'fully prepared' for culture shock. However, upon the conclusion of the foreign assignment, there is no coaching whatsoever for anyone in the family to transition back home. No support. The mentality from headquarters is that you are heading home now and you know what it’s like. This is rarely the case of course, especially after long postings. As I said earlier, a lot can happen over a period of four years, including the younger members in your tribe of nomads. Perhaps the closest parallel to the weird feeling of being somewhere somewhat familiar again – the so-called return to home - but not being able to fill in the gaps made during your prolonged absence is waking up from a coma. Even your closest people think it is bizarre that you cannot remember things that happened while you were gone. This was much tougher since we had no internet back then - man, I feel like an old man saying that. You walk around YOUR city until someone stops you to ask for directions and you draw a blank. You realize you have no idea where this person is trying to go. But you are from here, right? Happens to us all.

Amen to that

The common reaction when returning home is to seek the familiar. This was a primary reason why I chose to attend the University of Ottawa to pursue my undergraduate studies. I had lived in Ottawa before. Surely it had changed much or at least some things could have remained the same. I also tracked down some of my friends from back in the Claudel days and once again, I realized my four years away from this city were just a whisper in the history books. Some long lost, dead and buried chapter. Nobody cared I was gone or that I came back. One of my friends from back then had battled cancer and barely scraped by. I was glad to see him again. Another friend had suggested that it was better not to be friends. The good old days were just that.  According to him, too much time had passed since we played in the schoolyard and we now had absolutely nothing in common. It was not even worth the effort to try to find out if in fact that was actually true. I realized I would have to switch my chip to convince myself that Ottawa was going to be just another posting. I was going to have to rebuild a life from scratch on my own with my parents posted to Mexico, my brother in London and no one else to help ease the pain or understand my troubles. ¡Aurrerá!