When I lived in the USA I was asked continuously where I was from. There is no short answer.
I wrote this poem recently and I noticed the ending just dangles like the yarn from a knitting needle asking, "Is this enough for a nice long scarf?"
I think the end dangles because I'm still in the process of becoming - something I hope will continue till the end.
Third Culture Kids struggle with identity and belonging, which is only fair considering the wobbly childhood we have had. The straddling of cultures, languages and customs is part and parcel of the deal we make (or our parents make) when we choose this lifestyle. Would I change my nomadic childhood for roots and belonging? In a word. Never. It's too rich, too beautiful, too expansive - but mostly, it's made me who I am.
So, to any other Third Culture Kids out there - hello, my friend, hello, my tribe. May the yarn of life dangle till the end with infinite possibilities and adventures yet to be had.
MIGRATORY BIRD
There are fragments of my soul
Scattered bird seed
Across continents
Desert
Sea
Mountain
Each one claiming citizenship
And inalienable rights of –
Belonging
My soul’s hips twist
Undulate to each call
Ate!
Yallah!
Hate’!
My larynx reverberates
Hoarse from responding to each summoning
My ribs have become brittle
Constricting and expanding
They rattle within
A cage of defence for the vascular organ within
Pumping memories of
Wing
Feather
Beak
A hymn of sweet melancholy –
I belong nowhere wholly
Where I go,
An absent sliver of me
Remains
A seed
Grain
Particle
Of me-ness
Missing
I am the flamingo migrating
from the Salt Lake at Hala Sultan Teke in Larnaca
To the oasis nestled in the sands of Bahrain
Bahr-rein
Two seas
Iki deniz
Dio Thalasses
Sweet and salty
Like me
A falcon cresting a khanjar in Oman
Amidst sacks of frankincense, tobacco and oud
A pigeon defecating on the statue of
Admiral Nelson in Trafalgar Square
Loving -
Despising the coloniser
A little owl between the fallen columns at Delphi
Baalbek and the Temple of Hera in Samos
Silver wing
Against blood moon –
Guide on dark-soul nights
I weave between palm fronds
Scatter blossoms from the bergamot trees,
Pluck jasmine and plum grapes from vines
Rose petals and rice beneath my feet
Sipping sweet fragrant wine,
saffron tea
and
coffee infused with cardamom
My soul is scattered in a thousand pieces
And I –
Am a strange bird
Made up of
Peacock plumes,
bulbul
And dove
I have no Latin name to legitimise me
define my species and genus
but
I am not alone
There are many strange birds
Migrating
Collecting the seeds of their scattered souls across
Forest
Valley
Stream
And we recognise each other
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