AIELOC is starting an online Book Club in January 2021 where they will read Growing Up in Transit.
Growing Up in Transit is based on my doctoral research about the systemic racism at work in international schools. It draws heavily on student voices, with a special focus on the Asian TCK (third culture kid) experience.
Don’t worry, I won’t be joining – that way you can critique the book all you want! 🙂
To join the Book Club, e-mail AIELOC at AIELOC2019@gmail.com or click here.
If you don’t already have a copy of Growing Up in Transit, click below to get 25% off on the paperback. The promo code is valid until the end of January 2021.
In this interview, I talk about how I felt like an immigrant kid while going to an international school because I was Western by day and Asian by night. I also talk about how I engaged with the term ‘third culture kids’, as well as the importance of paying attention to not just the ‘movers’ but the ‘stayers’ too in international schools and help TCKs connect with the local place where they live.
I am in incredibly good company no less! The December issue of Among Worlds focuses on TCK Vocations & Careers with articles by many established writers, coaches, and so on in the TCK world. Some articles are practical and others heartwarming.
Some offer tips for TCKs looking to build their careers. These might be especially useful for younger TCKs who are just starting out or those who feel ‘stuck’ in their careers. See the articles by:
The good news is, I think ‘belonging’ is something that we can initiate.
But it needs regular maintenance.
The bad news is, we spend a lot of our time trying to look for it ‘somewhere out there’ as though we’re looking for gold that’s already in the ground somewhere. We fall into the trap of believing we’ll miraculously stumble across it one day and find it. And then we get frustrated when we don’t find it.
So, how do we learn to belong?
I’ll be sharing more about this topic with some of the folks at TCKs of Asia in December.
Come join us for the conversation!
Online Saturday, 12 December 2020 9am New York – 3pm Lagos & Amsterdam – 10pm Singapore & Perth
Ever heard of ‘parachute kids’? Roughly defined, they are children who get dropped off in a foreign country—or parachuted in, so to speak—to further their education. The kids are usually middle school or high school aged but sometimes younger. Meanwhile, their parents fly back and stay in their home country.
So what does this have to do with Third Culture Kids?
To find out, join us at the special event hosted by the Families in Global Transition!
And we’ll be talking to two experts with fascinating backgrounds themselves:
Dr. Jang Eun Cho is a former parachute kid and one of the few specialists in cross-cultural child and adolescent psychiatry in the United States. She initially had studied to be a surgeon and had already completed half her residency when she made a u-turn and became a psychiatrist.
Jang now runs Cultivate Psychiatry and is the Director of the Consortium at the Harvard Medical School-affiliated MGH Center for Cross Cultural Student Emotional Wellness.
Dr. Timothy Stuart is an adult TCK who is also mixed race. His father is Native American and his mother is Anglo American but he grew up in France and Germany as well as the United States.
Tim did his doctoral research on resilience and trauma at a First Nation reservation school and is now the Head of School at the International Community School of Addis Ababa. He also wrote the book, Children At Promise (you can find it here).
Before the pandemic began, my nephew left for another country and I wrote a little tribute to him soon after. This is an edited version of two previous posts.
My nephew is aged two years and a bit. Sometimes he speaks little sentences, sometimes Frenchy jibberish.
When a plane flies overhead, he hears its far away howl no matter the commotion in the room. Ears perked up and eyes locked with yours—he gasps: ‘Awat? Kouki!’
They both mean ‘airplane’. In my nephew’s toddler language, ‘awat’ is short for pesawat and ‘kouki’ is short for hikouki. The first is in Indonesian, his parent’s language, and the second is in Japanese, his grandmother’s language
So, we pick him up and dash outside to the backyard chasing the sound.
Sometimes we see nothing, and we just wait until the howl drowns out. Sometimes we catch a glimpse of the flying steel as it goes across the sky from behind the roof to behind the clouds.
At times like this, his arm is raised high and his little finger points at the sky. Still sitting in your arms, again, he gasps: ‘Kouki!’
One day last month, he fell asleep and woke up at the airport just after daybreak in another country. He and his parents were on their way to move across the Pacific Ocean. He looked out the big windows—and oh, the delight! So many airplanes, so close to him.
Auntie wasn’t there, but I could hear him squeal from across the seas.
It’s now been a couple of weeks since my nephew left Indonesia. It broke my parents’ heart and mine. We were the ones who had been left behind, not him, but we didn’t think he’d understand.
The other day, we video called him. ‘Jiiji! Baaba! Auntie!’ squealed my nephew as he called out to his grandpa and grandma in Japanese. As for me, he calls me ‘auntie’ because the Japanese version—obachan—is one too many syllables for a two-year old.
In his broken, toddler Indonesian, he told his grandparents that he wanted to come over to their house the next day. My sister, who was sitting next to him, explained that it was too far. We agreed with her.
So, my nephew asked us to come over instead. His eyes sparkled at his own brilliant solution to the problem.
But still we told him that we couldn’t. ‘Why?’ he demanded. It was still too far, we said. We would need to take an ‘Awat’ or ‘Kouki’, we explained.
He told us to take that airplane. We explained again. My sister tried too. My brother-in-law also chimed in to help.
Then, my usually hyperactive nephew fell silent. He continued to sit there, squeezed between his mother and father, on the new sofa in the new apartment. But his eyes were on the floor. He didn’t look at the phone screen again or say another word for the rest of the call.
At two and a bit, he understood neither distance nor time. What he understood was that he was there but we were not.