The MK's Struggle for Contentment

"[. . . ] for I have learned in whatever situation I am to be content." (Philippians 4:11b)

I start out with this verse because if I don't, I will have it quoted at me multiple times in comments and PMs following the publication of this post.

Anyway, in this Scripture, for full context, the apostle Paul, greatest missionary in the history of ever that every missionary since must emulate, talks about how he's known having a ton and having a little, but we always quote this half a verse to ourselves whenever we're upset about something not being exactly what we want, or we quote it to others when they're venting to us.

I mean, it's not a bad verse, and I've had to remind myself of it.  A lot.  Because sometimes contentment as an MK can be hard.

When I'm in America, I want Japanese stuff.

When I'm in Japan, I want American stuff.

Basically, I want a magical place where I can combine both of my worlds into one ginormous happy place full of Dr. Pepper and yakisoba and all my favorite types of Pizza Hut and McDonald's that has all my friends speaking a blend of English and Japanese.  It would be lovely.

I call it Jamerica.

My journey of MK discontentment began very early at age six.  People believe that at that young of an age, you bounce right into your new life and forget about everything American and start fresh anew with no worries.

However, this "Hakuna Matata" philosophy did not work with me, and within months, I was longing for my American friends.  As I have stated before, my class at my school in America and I were so close, we kept in contact at least once almost every year of my schooling, and so I never fully left them behind.  In addition this, I had occasional cravings for Olive Garden.

As I grew older, my desire to be in America grew ever greater, especially each time I was in America for furlough.  I had already decided that Japan was not the place for me after I was grown up.  My future rested in America.

Except for one problem:  America is not the promised land of everything.

Oh, things have gotten better over time.  Pocky and soy sauce are much easier to get my hands on nowadays.  However, Pizza Hut will never make me a good old-fashioned Japanese seafood pizza, and McDonald's over here can't make teriyaki burgers or shrimp burgers.  Rice doesn't stick together over here (unless you raid the specialty store), and yakisoba and ramen are out of the question if you want something besides the rehydrated goods.  Furthermore, people look at you as if you were crazy each time you lapse into Japanese.

Don't get me wrong, I'm glad to be an American, and I don't hate living here, but I have no one place where I can have everything I want all at once, and I cannot be the only MK who struggles with this.

MKs are a subgroup of third-culture kids (TCKs).  TCKs belong to no one particular culture, a subject which I discussed in my previous post.  This lack of a single culture brings a potential side effect of discontentment.  Sometimes this discontentment can't be solved.  Other times, the MK is able to substitute in order to stave off the cravings (For example, if I crack a raw egg into my instant ramen, I can survive just that much longer without real Asahikawa ramen).  Hey, sometimes, patience is rewarded and a product becomes available, and the MK nearly dances in the aisle of Walmart, hugging the treasured item like a dear friend (Note:  This did not actually happen, but it's what I felt like doing when I found Pocky there.).  Of course, this is the adult MK's solution.

The child MK is faced with a greater challenge, often having to wait for a package or furlough to satisfy what he wants from America.  An MK who tells you they want Fruit Roll Ups and a Milky Way for Christmas is not lying.  Hey, at age seventeen, I, the girl who spent barely any money, once bought a Snickers at the mall after supper one Tuesday fellowship night and then hid in a bathroom stall so my brothers wouldn't know I'd bought one.  If they saw me, then they might decide to buy one too, and then it wouldn't be as special anymore!  Candy bars can become worth their weight in gold and are a precious commodity among MKs.  Telling someone you had a Butterfinger when you know they haven't had one in a while can be a form of mild torture.  Then there's the splurge vs. save dichotomy:  Do I eat it all right now because I'm excited, or do I save it and make it last as long as possible?

And we will either be terrible or wonderful about sharing our booty.

So, I guess I'll conclude this with ways you can help MKs in their struggle for contentment:

1.  Send MKs still in the field the candy bars and other goodies they ask for.  Yes, maybe that Almond Joy will melt a bit in the mail, but once it gets there...NOM NOM NOM NOM NOM!  Happiest kid in the world.

Yes, I just compared myself to a tiny gerbil.  Clearly you haven't seen me with a bag of M&M's.

2.  Fakey "ethnic" restaurants don't often make good substitutes for when the MK is away from the country they are "from."  Actually, I think that TV dinner I had a couple weeks ago was possibly closer to being the "mushburgers" (family term) I grew up eating at restaurants in Japan than some "Japanese" meals I've eaten.

There is seriously little difference between this meal at Bikkuri Donkey in Japan...

...and this Banquet TV Dinner from Walmart in America.

3.  Next time I start whining, distract me.  Like, seriously, change the topic, because the more I talk, the stronger the cravings get.  As much as you want to hear about Japanese culture, if I'm talking about food, it's best to change the subject.

Or just make me some green tea.  Hot, no sugar, no milk--just the tea.

4.  Understand that I am caught between two cultures and that I appreciate both America and Japan.  Don't think I'm McWhinyPants.  I'm just experiencing homesickness, and homesickness does pass in time.  We never fully leave behind where we've been, and until we absolutely adjust to our new world, support us and love us just the crazy-messed up way we are. :)

Where Are You From?

So, you're at college for the first time, just chilling on campus, getting to know people when someone asks THE QUESTION.  THE DREADED QUESTION.  The question that you can't thoroughly answer in the same two or three words everyone else in hearing distance can.  You want to change the subject, but you have a feeling that won't fly.  Oh, why did they have to ask it?

"Where are you from?"

"Where am I from"

Oh, four simple words that any normal American can answer succinctly.   Oh, maybe they'll have to take a few extra sentences to explain where it is in relation to other major cities, but you...there is no escape.  There is no good way to answer this one in short form.  To answer in short form is to tell a partial truth, so you make your decision.

"Union Grove, Wisconsin."

Your mouth for some reason gives this person the half-truth.  Yet it is completely true.  You are from Union Grove, Wisconsin, and right now, you don't have time to explain all about Japan.  You're not in the mood, so you just claim to be from America and explain you live about an hour from Milwaukee.  Case closed.

A few hours later, you're hanging out with other people, just getting to know them, when someone else turns to you.

"Where are you from?"

This time, though, you feel a bit more relaxed.  Maybe you don't care about this person oodling over you in awe as they discover the full truth.

"Japan."

It's still not the full truth, though, you think as you start answering the inevitable questions (including possibly the one about if you speak Chinese).  You are a proud Wisconsinite, supporter of the Green Bay Packers and the Milwaukee Brewers.  You don't mind being called a Cheesehead and believe dairy farms are normal, everyday sights.  You hate the Illinois and Minnesota teams with an instinctive passion, and Michigan stinks pretty bad too.

Finally, the whole story spills out.  "Well, really in America, I'm from Union Grove, Wisconsin.  It's about an hour away from Milwaukee...No, I live about six hundred miles north of Tokyo...Okinawa is not really Japan...Okay, cool, your uncle was in the navy...Well, actually I was born in Iron Mountain, Michigan.  Hey, who wants to play Foosball?"

Ugh...THE EXPLANATION.  I haven't met a single missionary kid who likes giving THE EXPLANATION over and over.  It is a truth universally acknowledged that a missionary kid meeting someone must be in want of a place to call "home."

"Home" is such a strange term.  The country our parents hail from is deemed our "home country," even if we have spent less than half our childhoods there.  We talk about "going home" for furlough, but when the time is over and we head back to the passport country, we also call this "going home."  Do not be surprised to hear an MK call a hotel room or the house where he is spending the night "home."  We are a group who has lost what that term means, other than a place we spend the night not strapped in by seat belts.  In short, everything but planes, cars, boats, buses, and trains is "home."

Examples of "not home"

A missionary kid is someone destined to feel like a foreigner no matter which country he is in.  Even if he lives in another English speaking country (the United Kingdom, for example), his family constantly speaks of family back in America.  Even if he exterminates all traces of his American accent and assimilates to the British culture, he will still find himself with some obligations to America.

WE ARE SORRY WE MADE THAT DOCTOR WHO REFERENCE!

American relatives will question why he has that accent, and if he can just turn it off while he's in America.  Would you ask your cousin from Texas to lose the accent while visiting you in Minnesota?  The MK will be told he is a 'MERICAN!  Yet he feels British, but because of American relatives, he can never fully be one.

MKs in countries where their native languages and/or skin colors don't match face even greater difficulties.  It is more than adapting an accent.  An MK in Germany will go to public school and speak German all day, but at home that night, she must lay aside her German language to speak English among her family.  She may look perfectly German on the outside, allowing her to physically blend in, but culturally she does not fit in here.  After returning to America for college, she discovers that this "homeland" is foreign to her.  She marries a missionary guy and they go and serve in Germany together, but they are still Americans, speaking English at home to their children.
Or perhaps, jump over to Peru, where an MK of Hispanic descent is home schooled and, for whatever reason speaks little Spanish (Okay, highly unlikely situation, but I'm trying to cover a lot of geographical regions here.).  Perhaps she can once again blend in physically, but as soon as she struggles to communicate, she is discovered to be an American.  Yet returning to America, she sometimes finds little in common with her "countrymen" and doesn't know where to go.  Yet she remains in America after graduation because this place just seems more "home" than Peru ever did, even though neither is ideal.

Now, let's take it to the Philippines.  Yes, let's do this about a red haired, green eyed MK in the Philippines.  He will never look like them, no matter how perfect his accent is, no matter how Filipino he acts--he will always stick out like a sore thumb.  Whether he chooses to settle in America or the Philippines or even a third country as an adult, he will always be a foreigner.

My passport says I am an American, and I am glad to be one.  But I am not an American.  But neither am I Japanese.  Where am I from?  What is the right answer?  Why can't this be simple?  I just want to say where I'm from without feeling like I'm lying or giving the longest answer in the history of mankind.

Perhaps this is the reason why the book "You Know You're an MK When..." starts out with, "You can't answer the question, 'Where are you from?'" and ends at number five hundred with, "Heaven is the only place you can call home."

MKs are a homeless, but not house-less, lot.  And maybe, just maybe, that's why we deem every place and no place as "home."

Six Things I Do Not Understand About Americans

I am finally moved into my new house in Indiana now and should be getting my classroom ready for school starting next week, blah, blah, blah; but I am blogging instead about something completely unrelated to that.  In short, the time has come to discuss the things I will never understand about Americans (speaking generally here).

1.  The need to be #1 at EVERYTHING IN THE WORLD!!!!!!  No, seriously, go pick up any magazine or newspaper, and sooner or later, you'll find something claiming that because America isn't #1 at something, we are failing ourselves and all future generations.  Really, so no other country is ever allowed to have a shining moment?  America must be the leader in education, GDP, conservation, science, safety, industry, etc.?  And the worst part is that despite all these articles, we never seem to start doing whatever the #1 country is doing to make it work.

2.  They have every resource in the world to learn about everything but don't.  Seriously, you don't know where Iraq is on a map?  America has been fighting Iraq for, like, over ten years, right?  You have Google, portal to the entire Internet.  What is your excuse?  I don't blame you for not knowing where specific towns within the country are, but with all your resources, can't you just, maybe...look at a map?  Learning something won't kill you.  The primary reason America isn't #1 at everything isn't the government's fault.  It's the average American's for refusing to learn anything beyond what the Kardashians are doing next.

 

3.  The dichotomy of "You don't know that?" vs. "But you're a missionary kid!"  This one is very MK specific.  If I don't know some aspect of pop culture, I'm criticized for being ignorant.  If I do know some aspect of pop culture, I'm greeted by the shock and horror of, "But you're a missionary kid!"  I've gotten, "You don't know that?" over The Matrix trilogy, yet "But you're a missionary kid!" over Madagascar.  Please, people, some consistency would be very nice. 

Apparently, a true missionary kid would not know the words to, "I like to move it, move it!"

 

4.  Slaughtering pronunciations of borrowed foreign words.  Now, as a kid, you learn to read and you pronounce words wrong, but get corrected by an adult who informs you "It is pronounce e-GREE-jous," and you learn to pronounce it correctly because that's the right thing to do.  But Uncle Sam forbid that we learn to pronounce karate, futon, or kamikaze properly.  Nope, sorry, someone important slaughtered the word, and we just claim we have Americanized the word and plunge on, refusing to fix it when someone who actually speaks the language corrects us.  (Reassurance:  No one complained when I stopped pronouncing emu e-moo and started saying e-myoo.).  Are there multiple pronunciations to some words?  Yes; toe-may-toe vs. toe-mah-toe, zee-bra vs. zeh-bra.  But when you start borrowing the word, could you at least send over businessmen who actually bother trying to pronounce words properly? 

This emu is shocked at American pronunciation.

5.  The English system (pounds, inches, etc.) and soccer.  Just switch, please.  Okay, I know there's the matter of American football (Three days until the Packer preseason game!), so I guess I'll allow soccer to slide.  But, really, while the rest of the world uses grams and meters, why are you still literally stuck in the Dark Ages using measurements based upon the distance between the king's nose and wrist?

6.  Why, when traveling internationally, you apparently believe speaking louder and slower helps.  If the person doesn't speak English, no matter how loudly or slowly you say, "I.  WANT.  TO.  CHANGE.  MY.  FLIGHT," they still won't understand you.  Imagine if a Chinese person started speaking to you, and no matter how many times you said, "I don't speak Chinese," they kept repeating themselves louder and slower.  Would you understand them any better?  You would not.  Although a lot of people do understand English, when you find one who doesn't, maybe try someone else if at all possible.

Another hint:  Next time, try pointing at the items you want if you can.  It helps a lot.

So, there is my little rant of the day before I spend the rest of my evening "watching" Fantasia while cutting out letters for my bulletin board on Early American Explorers.  Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not upset about being American or living in America.  Y'all are just a bunch of weirdos sometimes.  I could also come up with more, but I won't because I'll probably offend you, and then I'll get sued.

'MERICA!!!!!!!!!!!!

The Long and Illustrious History of Donuts!

HAPPY NATIONAL DONUT DAY!

Yes, my dear readers, in the long annals of days centered around random objects, today--the first Friday of June--is the one which we use to honor the King of All Pastries, Lord of the Deserts, Emperor of Breakfast, and Supreme Ruler of All Snack Foods--the donut!

No food substance has probably had as great an influence upon the history of mankind as the donut.  Because of its illustrious history, many questions have risen:  "Why is there a hole in the middle?"  "How do they get the cream inside the donut?"  "Is it spelled doughnut or donut?"  Fortunately, as both a History Minor and Former Activities Director for Judson Society The Society for the Preservation and Promotion of Donuts, I can answer all the above questions.  So, strap in and get ready as we take a trip through time, exploring the full history of this delicacy.

Sorry, it had to be done.

Sumerian chariot

To trace back the history of the donut thoroughly, we must also examine the history of the bagel, as these two originated from the same treat.  Recent archaeological excavations have proven the fact that this original pastry came as a result of the development of the wheel approximately four thousand years ago.  The ancient Sumerians were so overjoyed to learn that they could now hitch their donkeys and camels and horses up to a cart and haul their items around rather than carrying it on their backs, that they declared a national day of feasting.  Archaeologists suggest that this event fell slightly before the summer solstice and was originally observed on the sixth day of the week, which is the reason why millenia later Congress declared Donut Day to fall on the first Friday of June every year.  To celebrate the wheel, Sumerian bakers formed dough into the shape of wheels, and sold them to the rich who could afford it.  This treat was normally eaten plain, although it could be flavored with honey or various dried berries and fruit.  The poor, unlearned in the art of "wheel bread" making, desired to copy this trend among the rich and famous.  However, rather than shaping the dough into a wheel, they would cook the bread before punching a hole in it after the process was over.  The remains of the center were then fed to swine, dogs, and other unclean creatures.

The Colosseum

Through the conquests of the Babylonians and Persians, the recipes for wheel bread began to spread throughout Europe and Asia.  However, the trend largely died off in Asia because rice proved too difficult to mold into the proper shape.  In Europe, however, the trend managed to catch on.  In fact, some historians believe that the Latin panem et circum does not indeed mean that the Roman government held the masses attention by giving them bread and circuses.  Rather, this slogan refers to "bread in the shape of a circle."  This treat was distributed during Colosseum events as it was much easier to hold and munch on while watching the gladiators rather than attempting to wolf down an entire loaf.  A recently discovered document penned by Plutarch indicates that during one particular event, the Emperor had to remind the people to remove the wheel bread from their thumbs before indicating whether the victorious gladiator should slay his defeated foe as he could not see whether the thumbs were up or down.

However, with the Fall of Rome, the recipes for wheel bread were lost, and a sad time of history began known as the Dark Ages began.  People tried to reinvent the recipe, but to no avail.  Still the bakers persevered, knowing that somehow, the knowledge must return.

Kringle

The Danish were the first to make some headway in the matter, but their "kringle," although properly filled with all varieties of nuts and fruits, proved to be shaped more like an oval and less like a circle (hence the reason for the name "kringle," which kind of looks like the word for "circle," but not really).  Nonetheless, they were proud of accomplishing something before anyone else.  Sadly, by this time, the Normans had managed to take England back from the Danes, or else it is quite possible that the English would have taken this particular pastry with them when they settled the New World.  As it was, the kringle didn't arrive in America until the nineteenth century, and even then, has since remained nearly confined to only a few communities, the leader of which is Racine, Wisconsin.

Plain bagel

Despite Denmark's satisfaction with creating something somewhat circle shaped, the rest of Europe remained unsatisfied and continued toiling to reinvent the wheel bread.  A major breakthrough in Poland resulted in the wheel bread finally being reborn.  No one is entirely sure what "bagel" means in Polish, but most linguists are fairly certain that everyone mispronounces is spectacularly due to the fact the average person doesn't take time to actually bother with Polish pronunciation, which isn't as scary as you think once you get past all the random consonants being smooshed together and the letters that don't sound like they do in English.  Some say it means, "We finally reinvented something and can go down in history as significant!"  However, immediately after declaring this, they were overrun by an invading army...again.  Because the Europeans for many years were seriously obsessed with invading Poland.  This time, the invasion was to steal the recipe of the bagel so every country could make their own bagels.  However, even after obtaining the recipe, the conquering armies decided to stick around and rule for a while because, hey, who doesn't like ruling another country?

With the recipe of the bagel spreading throughout Europe, new fruits were added, and some people even began to discover the tasty benefits of spreading other items, such as cream cheese and salmon, on top of this treat.  Of course, with this information proliferating throughout Europe, eventually, the treat made its way to the American colonies.  It first arrived in New York City, where bagels became the latest fashionable food, and have remained so since.

Pioneers

However, the bagel was about to take on a new form.  After the American Revolution, as part of developing their own culture, Americans had a tendency to desire everything sweeter, everything more fried in grease, everything made unhealthier it had ever been, and the same fate was about to happen to the bagel.  And in one little Dutch kitchen in the early 19th century, a woman did just that to keep her husband happy and so "deep fried bagels" were born and soon became a staple at county fairs throughout the growing new country.  The original spelling of this treat was "doughnut" because the Europeans thought the Americans must be "nuts" to make such a thing out of "dough."  Americans embraced the term and soon began advertising their pastry as such.  The term "donut" either developed as the pioneers moved west where spelling was not taught until schools were set up or because pioneer wives frequently had to remind their children, "Do not [which sounded like 'donut' to young ears] touch the hot grease."

Adoniram and Ann Judson

Donuts became a favorite of many famous American people.  Abraham Lincoln liked to eat a donut as he strolled to the War Department to read the latest telegrams.  Pony Express riders liked donuts because they could eat them while they rode at breakneck pace across the prairie delivering the mail.  Christian historians even seem to find evidence that Adoniram and Ann Judson made donuts for when the Burmese natives visited their house.  Wherever they went, Americans brought the recipe of the donuts with them, espousing the convenience and deliciousness of the treat.

Japanese 5 yen coin.

After World War II, servicemen returning from the Pacific brought back with them coins from the countries they had visited.  Since many of them had been to countries influenced by Japan, they picked up a lot of Japanese yen coins.  Back at this time, donuts cost only a nickel, and once serviceman who had a habit of carrying his Japanese coins around with him, would on occasion accidentally offer his local donut store a Japanese five yen coin, which has a hole in the middle.  Usually, upon realizing his mistake, he would return the coin to his pocket, and hand the shopkeeper an American nickel.  However, one day, he had no other coins on him, so he just offered up the excuse that donuts have holes in them too, and left the store quickly.  This particular event inspired "The Donut Song," which has many variations, one of which is transcribed here:
Oh, I walked around the corner, and I walked around the block,
And I walked right into a donut shop.
Well, I picked up a donut, and I liked off the grease,
And I handed the lady a five cent piece.
Well, she looked at the nickel, and she looked at me,
And she said, "This nickel is no good to me.
There's a hole in the middle, and it goes right through."
I said, "There's a hole in your donut too!
Thanks for the donut!"
"You bet!"

As stated above, for centuries, mankind had for centuries been discarding the middle of the donut to swine and dogs and other poor creatures of the earth.  However, one enterprising young businessman decided he could make a profit by selling these donut holes to people.  Despite some initial hesitation on the part of the consumers, the trend eventually caught on, and soon donut holes were just as popular as the donuts they came from.

So, next time you sit down for a donut (which, by the way, are free at Dunkin Donuts today with the purchase of any drink and probably completely free at some other establishments), remember all that the donut has gone through in its development and history, and know you are not just eating a pastry.  You are partaking of a long and illustrious tradition of culinary work, which men struggled for centuries to reinvent and to present to you.  It's more than a snack.  It's a legend!

Editor's Note:  Katrina has a tendency to occasionally completely make up things when she has no idea what she's talking about.  Please do not actually trust her on most of what she says in this article.  The only thing you can be certain of is that there are indeed free and cheap donuts floating around America today, so now would be a good time to go and buy one.  Or, you know, sometime today.  Seriously, go and eat a donut.  That's what today is for!

MK Lexicon

Oh, look, I'm back to the subject of Japan.  Well, kind of sort of.  I mean, this blog is called "Ramblings of an MK," so I figure I should ramble on a bit about MKs for a while, specifically, the language we speak.

"Don't you speak a bunch of different languages?"

Yes, but at the core, we have these special keywords that draw up mutual understanding that outsiders do not immediately understand.  Here is my guide to such phrases, from the perspective of an American MK.  I can't promise it's complete, but at least it's a start:

Airport--a magical place full of stressful situations that will eventually get you where you need to go

Airport Security--people who believe a seventeen-year-old girl's gel pen collection is the latest threat to travel safety; they generally have no sense of humor

Border Crossing--more people with no sense of humor

America--a mystical land far away where apparently everything "good" on earth comes from and generally doesn't live up to expectations

Americans--an annoying group of people who feel they rule the world; that English should be spoken everywhere; and when English isn't understood, feel the appropriate response is to speak louder and slower; people who cause us to want to disown our home country; NEVER EVER be an "American"

Candy Bar--an American invention so amazing, it is treated like gold until the moment it's all consumed; everyone who can eat chocolate has a favorite, and that is usually the one they will request if given a chance

Choosing a candy bar is a very serious decision

Consulate--people who get your passport renewed

Craving--In America, we crave foreign food.  On the field, we crave American food.  Yet we always try to remain content.

Culottes--in the words of an MK guy from my mission board, "a skirt for each leg"; the worst fashion statement Cultural Fundamentalism developed; hopefully eventually going out of style

Culture Shock--the sudden realization that you're not in America anymore; sometimes there's a honeymoon period, sometimes there isn't

"Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore."  "No joke, Dorothy!"

Deputation--all the driving around, visiting churches our families do do before going to the field

Embassy--another important place filled with important people

Field--the place the missionary family serves in

Furlough--all the driving around, visiting churches missionaries do for several weeks to a year at a time while taking a "break" from ministering

Home--(1) the land our parents are from; (2) the land we serve in; (3) the house we reside in; (4) wherever we happen to be staying for the night

Home Church--the church you theoretically attend most of the time when you're in America/the church that sends you out

Home Country--the land our parents are from

Hoard vs. Gorge--the decision an MK on what to do with his Christmas candy--should you make it last until Easter or eat it all now because you've been craving it so badly?  (If you choose to gorge, you will regret it when your sibling has a Milky Way in three months and you don't.)

Immigration--a long line you stand in to get into a country; yet another group of people who apparently have no sense of humor

Immigration Office--an important place with important people doing important stuff that they believe is very important for you to do stay in the country--as long as they're allowed to do it as slowly as they want to

Instant Connection--the feeling you get when you meet another missionary kid who's been through similar stuff as you

International Date Line--an evil little line that I still don't understand further than it causes me to lose and gain days

"It might not be here next time!"--the best way to justify buying all the Teddy Grahams the grocery store has on the shelf

Yes, sir, I'm 100% certain we want 20 bags of Teddy Grahams.

Jet Lag--the grogginess you get for a few days to a couple weeks after sending your body on the other side of the world

Ladies Missionary Fellowships--ladies who get together and sign birthday cards and also pray for the missionaries

Missionary Cupboards--a closet full of stuff for the missionaries to take and use; some smart churches also have a great stash of gift cards, which is way better than yet another set of towels, because we can spend them on what we actually need, especially with the limited space we have


Missionary Pen Pal--a kid who needs some questions answered for a church/school project; technically, a "pen pal" should write back and forth, but typically all they want is the one letter to complete the project and they're done

Mission Board--the important people who do important stuff in the States for the missionaries--honestly, I don't really remember what they do, but it seems like it has a lot to do with money and...field stuff; it also kind of defines who you are as a missionary when you say what board you're from (honestly, though, about half my MK friends aren't even from my parents' board)

Missions Songs--"Send the Light," "Jesus Saves," "Rescue the Perishing," etc.; by week eight of furlough, every missionary is about ready to scream as they hear these songs for the eighth week in a row

MK--abbreviation for missionary kid

Moochionary--portmanteau of "mooch" and "missionary"; a missionary who thinks it's okay to just mooch off the kindness of others and expect everything to be given to them (We're not all this way!  Sorry if you had one stay at your house!)

On Base--foreign military base; center of all foreign things related to the country it belongs to; American ones are full of American products; if you have someone to let you on, your mom stocks up on all those American things you wouldn't have otherwise; typically also fill the surrounding area with American-ness

Package--wonderful magical goodness of America all contained within cardboard

Passport--a magical little book that allows you into a bunch of countries

Permanent Residency--magical paperwork that apparently makes you have to do less other magical paperwork

Prayer Cards--the pictures of missionary families that MKs hate seeing around and want replaced as soon as possible after each visit because they look so young and dorky by the time each furlough rolls around

Prayer Letter--the letters the parents send out telling all the stuff they actually want to tell about the field

Re-entry Permit--a magical piece of paperwork that lets you into the short line at immigration when you go back to the field

Reverse Culture Shock--forgetting how strange a place America is; usually hits within minutes of getting off the plane; with America...there is no honeymoon period

Let's face it; as soon as we get off the plane, every American is as about weird to an MK as Lady Gaga is to every American--if only we knew who Lady Gaga was, but we don't because we haven't been around and stereotypically have no understanding of pop culture

Stateside--what an MK is when he's in America


Suitcase--You don't think I can fit fifty pounds of clothing, books, and gifts in this?  Watch me!  I wish I could still get seventy-five pounds in this!

Suitcase of Stuff for Other People--everyone's got a wish list of things for the missionary going on furlough to bring back, containing items from hair dryers to deodorant to Lego; in our family, at least, all this was set in the suitcase we'd used to bring gifts back to the close friends and relatives in the States

Supporting Churches--churches that send missionaries money so you can live in a foreign country


Time Difference--the reason missionaries have gotten calls at 3 in the morning is not always because something important has happened; it's sometimes because Grandma forgot how to properly calculate the time difference (But my Grandma is awesome and doesn't do that stuff)

Third Culture Kids--children who have spent most of their formative years in a culture different from the ones their parents grew up in while usually being expected to maintain some level of connection to the parent's culture

Visa--important paperwork to let you stay in the country for a long period of time, not a credit card

"Where are you from?"--the world's most annoying question because one does not simply answer it in a few words; it usually takes about a paragraph for us to feel we've adequately answered it

That's right, Boromir meme

"You Know You're An MK When..."--MK brand humor that unites all of us; I will have to post some someday; Andy and Deborah Kerr published a book on it

So...that's all I can think of for now.  If you're an MK, Military Brat, or other Third Culture Kid, suggest some more and I'll make a Part 2!

ETA:  My mom corrected my consulate definition; in my defense, we usually visit the immigration office and the consulate at the same time, so that's why I got them confused.  I've added "immigration office" separately, and redefined consulate.  Either way, it's a bunch of bureaucrats who I wish would just learn the meaning of haste.

"Normal People"

Let's face it.  When you're a missionary kid, you have no chance of being normal.  Most people treat you as part of the display table--a human country-specific Google.  "What's the population of Japan?"  "Oh, that's a lot of snow you get there, eh?"  "What's it like in Japan?"  "Where do you live?"  (Even worse, most of these questions were answered in the presentation.)  However, there are a few people--a wonderful few--who go the extra mile.  During our second furlough, we kids dubbed them "normal people."  The thing is, they weren't normal.  They were different.  What made them special, though, was the fact that they treated us like normal people.

See, here's the problem.  I'm going to post this right here:  I hate wearing skirts outside of a church/work environment and pretending I don't know a thing about American pop culture.  Granted, I knew precious little growing up, but some people hate Disney.

The most magical place on earth...or the most evil?  You decide.

In other words, I grew up every furlough, pretending I didn't know anything.  Movies and music, of any sort, aside from maybe anything from Majesty Music, were off the table until we were sure.

I think the term "normal" was to distinguish from the term "boring."  Boring people seemed to forget you existed until you did one of the Three Taboos:  Sigh, Fidget, or Interrupt.  All of a sudden, the couple hosting would notice you.  "Oh, if they're bored, they can play with our grandchildren's toys!"  I loved that...when I was five or ten.  By the time I was fifteen though (actually, even when I was ten), I would've preferred if they let me read from their private library or read my own book that I'd brought (which was usually hidden in my bag so as not to offend anybody).  Eventually, we figured out that you could ask if they had any games when they offered toys, and they usually would end up having one with no essential pieces missing.

Don't get me wrong, though.  Some older people are normal.  One couple even had their  grandkids over the same evening my family arrived, and the three of us had a BLAST with the three of them.  That was also the only time I've ever played Pit.  The next time I had a chance to play, I somehow slept through it--which is odd, because it's a pretty loud game.  Honestly, though, if you're an older person who's reading my blog and you happen to have grandkids in the area, let your grandkids come play with the missionary kids!  Oh yes, once when I was ten, this resulted in us getting sick, but my youngest brother still had fun (Their  granddaughter was around his age.).

Another time I met a bunch of normal people was at our board's Missions Conference thingy-ma-jig, I don't remember what it's called.  I was fifteen, and on the second day, we missionary kids all started talking and stuff and got along awesomely.  Some of us even emailed each other for a while after that, and I think I'm still Facebook friends with nearly all the girls from that momentous occasion.

Trust me, none of these people were normal in the slightest.  That's what made them awesome.

"Of course other MKs seem normal to you.  You're an MK!"

Trust me, some MKs are VERY un-normal and boring.  Some kids who've lived their whole lives in America are too.

However, sometimes, some blessed, wonderful times, we would come across a family that made our weekend:

• The family who took us out for Chinese when I was ten, and we kids colored all over the place mats--which weren't kids placemats.
• The family with whom I spent the entire evening with their daughters, discussing "Barbie Outfits That Will Never Exist," learning about how to properly check an electric fence, jumping on the trampoline, swinging in the hammock, looking at one girl's artwork, and in general having a blast.  We had elk for Sunday dinner the next day.
• The family whose mom made the first taco salad I ever actually liked, who taught us how to play Apples to Apples, and whose home we nearly had to be dragged away from because we were staying at someone else's house, and we didn't want to leave this place! (aka, the Ensmingers)  (This was the incident that coined the term "normal.")
• The missionary family we ran into, like, three times on our 2000-2001 furlough who had three boys that we got along splendidly with.  I was sad when we no longer kept running into each other.
• The pastor's son who told hilarious jokes the entire meal
• The family whose daughter I spent the afternoon with talking Veggie Tales, American Girl, and a variety of other stuff (I was ten at the time)
• The few Sunday school classes that either didn't know I was an MK so treated me like a normal visitor or who knew but still treated me like a regular visitor (instead of letting a bunch of kids ask me questions)
• The family who had us over and fed us sandwiches for supper (such a relief sometimes!) before the boys went to the basement to play video games and we girls went down there to talk (Also the first time my Herbst appliance correcting my overbite broke)
• The one kid named Seth (none of the ones from Northland) whose house we stayed at on deputation and then we met up again with on first furlough, who was just a bunch of fun (I was sad I didn't get to meet him again on second furlough.)
• Every single person who ever let us watch their movies/recorded TV shows while the parents talked
• The teens of Community Baptist in Silver Lake who invited us to play Ping Pong because in the words of the guy who invited us, "I hate when I go to other churches and don't know anyone and no one talks to me."
• The teens of one church where one guy said, "I like how you're normal and use like and stuff."

I consider the last one to be one of the greatest compliments I ever received because I felt I had accomplished a mission:  to prove to at least one person that a missionary kid is just a regular kid who was been placed in a foreign country.  At the core, I'm no different than you.  I still long to be loved and accepted and to have friends.  If I'd had my way, I wouldn't have gone to any of these churches.  I was shy growing up.  I didn't WANT to go meet new people.  However, when someone around my age chose to reach out and be my friend for just one day, I was so happy.  They'd pull me straight from my comfort zone of not leaving the display table after services or my parents' side at houses except to use the bathroom.  They treated me like a HUMAN BEING!  Honestly, what more does a five-year-old or a ten-year-old or a fifteen-year-old want than to just be seen for what they are.  I didn't want to have to hide who I was.  I hated it.  Once I could tell you were normal, I would strip away that exterior of what a missionary kid should be like, and you were my friend for a day or two.  You went from ordinary and forgettable to extraordinary and special.

Stability

          “But I don’t want you to move.”  I can still remember the context in which I thought these words.  I was in computer class in tenth grade—one of my years in America.  In Japan, I was home schooled and had a grand total of about five friends my age, two of them Australian, two of them American, and one of them Japanese.  Here in America, though, I was in a Christian school.  There were forty-nine kids in the high school, and I considered myself friends with about forty of them.  I was the one who drifted in and out of their lives, four years in Japan, one year in America.  This was my family’s second furlough.

            My class in America was one of the most important parts of my life.  They were the first people I wanted to see again.  Within months of arriving in Japan, I wanted to see my class again—to bring them to Japan.  I had daydreams of my grandpa coming to visit and bringing my class with him.  My grandpa did visit once, but it was just him.

            The reason my class was so important was they were the one constant thing I could hold onto in America.  Yes, individuals came and left, but my class was always there, sending me letters and/or videos about once a year.  I didn’t know a single year where a person in my class didn’t write or email me.  I knew only two years where the class didn’t send me a stack of letters or a video from them.

            The girl who I didn’t want to move had been my friend since preschool.  Her family was indeed thinking of moving, but she had said something about moving to Colorado or Montana or something far away—not Wisconsin  (Her family only ended up moving to a new house in the area.).  I couldn’t imagine that happening.  She was one of the people who’d always been part of my class.

            I was the one always moving.  Things were always changing.  What did it matter to me if this one girl moved?  This was my last year of school in America.  Simply put:  something would change.  A part of me would be ripped from the comfortable halls of Union Grove Christian School and sent off to Colorado or Montana or somewhere.  I hated when that happened.  Even if you switched to public school, a part of me got torn off.  You were part of my class.  My class was my identity in America.  Oh, I would learn to adjust once I got back and met the new people, but until I got used to it, you were conspicuously missing from my life.  When I’d said “good-bye,” I’d thought it would mean “good-bye for now,” not “good-bye forever.”  I hate “good-bye forever.”

            Those paragraphs expand all the emotion I felt in a moment’s time in computer class.  It was only the time it took to send a shock through my body, and enough time for me to say something intelligent along the lines of, “No!” or “Why?”

            A sense of stability—that’s what my class was to me.  I could always go back to America and see those faces who I already knew and have a feeling, “Nothing has changed.”  My class was so good to me that even people who I’d never met before would come to me and say, “I’ve heard so much about you!”  I can tell you for a fact that my class did talk about previous members on occasion, and I sometimes wonder what stories they told about me when I was gone.  “Katrina Zemke.  Her parents are missionaries.  She lives in Japan.  She brings things called Pocky and dried squid to school.”  Who knows what else they said?  I always knew, though, that I would return to a place where I was loved.

            Nowadays, when I walk through the halls of UGCS, I rarely see the people I attended school with.  Still, though, the building echoes with haunts of happy memories—the memories that kept me going when I was six thousand miles from my friends.  Maybe I wouldn’t live in the same house as I had the last time, but I would always be going back to the same class.  A class where I always had a friend; a class where I was known; a class where I belonged.