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. :)

Grocery Shopping

So, I just got back from the grocery store.  And, by that, I don't mean I just got back from Walmart or Pick n' Save or Woodman's.  I just got back from Pacific Produce--the only Asian food supply I know of close to me.  As I write this blog post, I'm attempting to satisfy my craving for a Japanese drink called Milky Tea with something apparently from China called Pearl Milk Tea.  It's kind of like drinking Pibb when you're a Dr. Pepper fan or when someone else cooks something your mom usually makes.  Something's just not the same.  In this case, I think someone forgot about a spoonful of sugar.  Other than that, they nailed it.

Anyway, back to the subject of grocery shopping at Pacific Produce.  My intended purpose was to go in there and buy Milky Tea, curry, and Fuji apples.

"Excuse me, Katrina.  Curry is Indian.  You're from Japan."

Yes, and burritos are Mexican.  That doesn't mean Americans didn't modify them.

As I pulled into the parking lot, I could tell today was going to be a bit more interesting than usual.  Normally, it's me and one or two other people in the store, not counting the workers.  Today, though, it looked like every Asian in Milwaukee was descending upon the place.

In other words, I felt completely at home--except no one else was speaking Japanese.

Also, there were some non-Asians there too.  Every time I run into Caucasians at Pacific Produce, I wonder why they're here, defiling my illusion that I'm back in Japan.  Then I remember I'm also white and get over it.  Usually, they end up being with an Asian spouse or child and everything makes sense.

I'm the anomaly in the deal, but I'm kind of Japanese inside.  They just don't know it.  Actually, I'm a double anomaly, as I've never had a confirmed sighting of another Japanese person there, but I figure there must be some who come by, considering they have a semi-decent stock of everything Japanese except for rice (Thank you, Woodman's for stocking the proper rice or else I might starve to death!).

Anyway, I was successful at finding the right brand of curry.  Growing up, Mom always made mild, but they didn't have mild, so I bought medium hot.  I've yet to die from curry spiciness, so this shouldn't be an issue.

Me, happy with my curry

Also, I have no idea why in the world it's called "Vermont Curry."  If you're from Vermont and you can explain the connection, please do so because when I think of Vermont, I think of a little triangle shaped state up in New England.

Fuji apples were a complete success, and cheaper than the apples I found at Walmart earlier this month.  Score!

Okay, I'm officially not drinking my tea anymore.  I just found something jelly-ish at the bottom, and I have a policy against eating gelatin substances I don't recognize.

Whew...this post is taking a while to make.

Anyway, when I was at the store, I remembered I only had one nikuman (nee-koo-mahn) left in my freezer.  "What's a nikuman?" you may ask.  Well, it's not really found in Japan once you leave my island of Hokkaido.  Here's a picture:

One of the best foods on planet earth right there (pic copied from someone else's site)

Anyway, it's also found outside of Japan.  I couldn't find the microwaveable ones at Pacific Produce, meaning I'll have to make a trek over to Woodman's sometime and hope that they have the type that is both pork, non-barbecue pork, and microwaveable.  Anyway, so when I go shopping for it, it's not under the Japanese name.  According to the bag in my freezer at the moment, well...never mind...it just has "Pork Steamed Buns" written on it. Anyway, I usually end up having to buy it under the Chinese and Korean names, whatever they are.  I just look at the pictures on the bag and read the cooking instructions.

Also, on my way to check the freezer, I dumped out my can of Pearl Milk Tea.  Turns out it was clear gelatin, which is usually safe, but I was not in the mood for clear gelatin today.

"When are you in the mood for clear gelatin?"

Usually in the middle of canned fruit cocktail, actually.  That's the only time I can think of.

No seriously:  Peaches, pineapples, pears, mysterious red-orange fruit, and white cubes of gelatin; I love this stuff!  This isn't a joke at all.

Hm...so anyway, while I was on my unsuccessful hunt for nikuman, I happened to walk past the ice cream.  First of all, since this is an Asian food store, I ran into some flavors I've never seen before, including durian.  I've heard that durian tastes like dirty socks, but I've never tried it, so I'm not going to judge someone's decision to put it in an ice cream.  Incidentally, I didn't know until today how HUGE a durian fruit can be.

What a durian looks like

Anyway, durian and mango ice cream can only hold a semi-Japanese person's interest for so long.  I noticed sweet bean paste, green tea, and sesame seed ice cream, which made me feel immediately at home again--meaning, it's stuff I don't eat, but seeing it filled me with a sense of Japanese and American cultures slowly blending to form one super culture where every need of mine is filled except for the ability to be beamed from one place to another instantaneously.

I also went candy shopping but was unable to find the candy I was looking for, so I consoled my self with Pocky and Koala No Maachi.

Best chocolate substance on planet earth

And these are just fun

So, that's how shopping went today.  I am now also insanely craving real (non-dehydrated, non-instant, preferably Asahikawa) ramen, which I don't think I can find in Milwaukee, and I'm not driving all the way down to Illinois simply for a meal.

Until next time...Sayonara!

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.