Third Culture Curse

Sociologists have recently coined the term “Third Culture Kids” to describe the children of immigrant parents who live for a long period abroad. The first culture is the parent’s culture. The second is that of the child’s home country. And third, the culture of the place where the family then moves. I relate to this designation, having grown up floating somewhere in the cultural triangle of Turkey, California, and Taiwan. The first two points are obvious. Taiwan came into the picture when I was five years old and my mom and dad, having both worked at American schools in Iran and elsewhere abroad, decided we would up and move to Taipei. The money was much better than what my mom and dad got as educators in San Diego and there was also the sense of adventure that both of them missed from their hippy days. The experience turned out even better than they imagined. Originally planning on being there only two years, we ended up staying for six. My parents were satisfied with their jobs at the Taipei American School and my sister and I were enjoying the excitement of living so far from home. Summers we would come home to San Diego and for the other holidays we got to explore East Asia: Thailand, Indonesia, Malaysia, Singapore, and the Philippines.

I loved living in Taiwan and now as an adult I can see how precious an opportunity it was to grow up in such an international context. However, looking back I can also see how this experience birthed a dynamic of cultural confusion that has only increased as I’ve gotten older. When we first moved to Taiwan I was heartbroken to be leaving my life and everything I knew in California. The longer we stayed, however, the more I loved Taiwan. Even so, all year I would look forward to visiting San Diego, only to find upon arriving that I felt so alien. The reverse culture shock would hit full force and before I knew it I would be missing Taiwan again, counting the days until we returned.

So the years in Taiwan passed, with me bouncing like a pinball between two homes, loving both but always longing for the other. We moved back to San Diego when I was fourteen, just in time for me to start high school. Initially, I was terrified. American kids seemed so big, so loud and coarse. I couldn’t relate and eventually turned to sub-culture, where I found a more tolerant attitude to diversity in the punk scene. Eventually I adapted, but even in college the feeling of being somehow different from everybody else never fully disappeared. It was when I first visited Turkey that I began to understand why.

Even though being Turkish wasn’t a major part of my identity as a child, the values and attitudes that made me feel comfortable in Turkey were being unconsciously transmitted throughout my childhood. Coming to Istanbul for the first time felt like coming home, home to a place I had never been. Not only was I used to living overseas, with all the confusion and chaos that comes with that life, but also I found that I fit in quite well with the people I met there. I quickly began to feel comfortable and felt the tug of the roots that were there all along without my realizing it.  

When I returned to the States a dynamic familiar from my childhood ensued. Again, I was constantly longing for the home far away. This feeling only grew when I finally moved to Istanbul. I had finally given into the yearning to live in Turkey, only to find that I felt more American than ever. (For example, in Turkey I found myself listening to a lot of American music: Gillian Welsh, Sam Cooke, Best Coast, and other artists that felt particularly representative of the U.S. for me at the time. Since returning home, however, I've spent most of my time listening to Fikret Kızılok, Erkan Oğur, and Yaşar Kurt.) Caught somewhere between the two cultures that shaped me most, I find myself simultaneously at home in both and neither. There seems to be no escape from this impasse of cultural schizophrenia and permanent homesickness.

And there isn’t, truly. Feeling painfully stretched between two homes, wanting to honor one part of yourself while knowing that you’ll always be neglecting another, living in permanent nostalgia and longing: there is no escape from this. And that is not necessarily a bad thing. True, it hurts terribly sometimes, but even if you could you know wouldn’t give up what you have. The pain of having multiple homes never abides. Yet neither does the thrill. You may not be able to honor all aspects of your identity all at the same time, but you are able to toggle between senses of self as freely as you move between homes. To be at home in many places and yet to belong solely to none: this is a gift and a challenge. It tugs at your edges, stretches and expands you, teaches you how to inhabit a world that is both stranger and more familiar than we ever knew.