Being Third Culture- What Are You?

Hi. I’m Sarah, and I’m a Third-Culture Kid. And it feels weird to say that, because I’m not used to being able to call myself anything. Usually I find a box I can almost fit into, but nothing has ever been a perfect fit… until the other day, when I was having coffee with a friend.

‘You’re so lucky to be a TCK.’ She laughed, and my ears swivelled around without my permission.

‘A what?’

‘A third culture kid. You know, someone who grew up with more than one culture? I saw a post about it on Instagram.’

‘Oh. Sounds like me, then.’ I laughed, and conversation went on, but I wrote it on my hand when she went to the bathroom: GOOGLE: THIRD CULTURE KID.

So, What is a Third Culture Kid?

TCKs (what a cute nickname, right?) are people who grew up in cultures different to those of their parents. Think being born in America, then your dad gets a job in Argentina, and then five years later a better job in Latvia, and then three years later a different job in India. Think about moving around a lot as a kid, and what would do to a person- that’s what happened to TCKs.

How come I’m a TCK?

I was born in England, but only hung around here for a few weeks before I was taken to Florida by my loving parents, who I’m sure had no idea what they were doing (what parents do?). I attended a normal school, the only British kid surrounded by borderline Bible-Belt Americans, until I was seven years old. I was used to being an immigrant- that life felt normal to me- but I had no idea what was next.

It’s not every day your parents buy a boat behind your back, but there I was, stood at the bottom of a long ladder, while my parents talked through the finer details with ‘her’ current owners. The boat was suspended on metal poles, and the paint was chipping to hell. Inside, all the walls had been painted white, but were now faded yellow. It smelled like a decrepit hospital, too. Inside the cabins, the walls were made of puke-green carpet that, when you pulled it back, it turned out had once been navy blue.

Home sweet home, right?

My dad (a lifelong sailor) was in love, so it really was home sweet home. Not that anyone ever told me that, of course. I just woke up one morning and we were leaving our lovely hotel in Curacao (where we bought the boat) and moving onto my dad’s latest labour of love, which would smell of fresh paint, varnish, and anti-fouling (that’s barnacle poison to land-lubbers) for the next year.

Eventually, we set off. I was homeschooled by my mother, and my only playmates became my dolls and eventually a cat we rescued in Panama.

For the next seven years, we never stayed in one place for longer than six months. Life was a series of pit-stops; full of excitement, rainforests, late nights, fear of pirates off the coast of Columbia, learning about local culture, and so much more. At the age I was, your brain is like a sponge; what scientists call neuroplasticity? When you’re still developing you have neuroplasticity through the roof. So, as we travelled through Central and South America, how could some part of me not become mixed with Latin Culture? How could I be truly British, when I’d never lived there, and only visited a handful of times? Yet everyone told me I was British, and I hadn’t met enough British people to have any contrary evidence, so I felt British, without ever having heard of fish-and-chips or drunk a cup of tea.

Coming back to the UK was a bit of a culture-shock, to say the least. I’ll be covering that in a later post.

I don’t want to make it sound like it isn’t a privilege to be a TCK. It is. I’ve seen things most British people never get to see. I’ve also seen tragedies and poverty beyond what most British people can imagine. There are two sides to every story, and that’s what this blog is going to be about. (That, and some awesome recipes that’ve absorbed into my DNA from my travels… YUM!)

Thanks for reading. If you’re a TCK or not, I’d love to hear about it in the comments!