Do Not Pity

I just wrote this poem expressing the way MKs are sometimes made to feel, especially over the holiday season.

Do Not Pity

by Katrina P. Zemke

Do not pity me

And moan over how far away I am.

I already know.

I’m already aware.

And your sympathy sounds like nothing

But words.

Do not claim to understand

That you know what I’m going through

Because you left your child

At a camp five hundred miles away

For a whole summer.

Do not tell me how you cried

The day you left your child

At college in another state.

My parents left me

And flew away

A thousand

Five thousand

Ten thousand

Miles.

I thank you for your prayers.

I thank you for your concern.

But understand:

You cannot know;

You do not know;

Until you have truly lived

This life.

I don’t cry tears.

I don’t mourn all day.

I came to terms

With the reality of my life

Many years ago;

And I am not heartless

Because of that.

Don’t ask me when I will see

My parents again.

If I asked you that question,

Would you really be able to answer?

Maybe I can answer,

But even if I can’t,

Do not respond,

“Oh, that must be so hard.”

This is my life.

This is all I know.

So next time you see me

And ask about my family:

Do not think I am heartless.

Do not claim to understand.

Do not pity.

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."