SEPTEMBER 2022
AMONG WORLDS
Vol. 22 | No. 3
Open Theme
Contents
Editor’s Letter
He Felt Like Home Maria Lombart
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Lighthouse Pictures Timoteo Neves
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Satellite Maps Charissa Cheuk
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Retrograde Amnesia Charissa Cheuk
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Belonging…Mostly Chris Moyer
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Gas Station Identity Crisis Ben Voegele
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Off the Coast of Naples… Ceciley Pund
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Farewell to the Moon Gate Melynda Schauer
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Neverland Erica Jones
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Learning Empathy through Migration Mus Marian
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Morose & Melancholy Iyla Jewel Cheung
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No One Knew Iyla Jewel Cheung
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Leveraging Our Heritage Deborah Kartheiser
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Open Theme
When deciding upon an open theme for this issue, we wanted to hear from you, our TCK tribe, about anything and everything you wanted to share related to being a TCK. While we feel that having themed issues usually helps prompt memories, stories, and submissions, we were excited to see how an open theme would generate unique responses across a broad range of experiences. Not only did we end up with great variety, but it was interesting to discover how many of the submissions relate to the concept of openness itself. Maria Lombart narrates her slow process of opening to an unexpected love. Chris Moyer advises openness to the idea of “mostly belonging”—both for ourselves as adult TCKs and for the TCK children we raise. In the fiction of Timoteo Neves, we encounter what happens when the narrator trespasses into a closed military area. In her drawing “Neverland,” Erica Jones gives us a visual of looking through a window (openness) but being unable to attain the life on the other side (closed). And Melynda Schauer wrestles with the question of what happens to our memories when special places— in her case, a gate—are forever closed off to us, either by destruction or distance.
“ many of the submissions relate to the concept of openness itself.” As you enjoy the articles, stories, poems, and images, consider asking yourself these questions:
September 2022 • Vol. 22 • No. 3 Cover Photo by Jr Korpa (Unsplash) Editor: Rachel Hicks Copy Editor: Pat Adams Graphic Designer: Kelly Pickering Digital Publishing: Bret Taylor
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What new thing/person/idea/place could I be open to? What “old” thing/person/idea/place could I be open to? Is there a door I can open for someone else? Could I be open to a new perspective on my life? How do I know when to open and when to close the door to a season in my life?
Isn’t it true that we are often moving through the closure of one season and into the opening of another? Many times, we don’t feel quite ready for a big change. But sometimes, even when it takes us by surprise, we feel a surge of adrenaline and jump through the opened door with both feet.
Among Worlds is on Instagram! Follow us at amongworlds. The mission of Among Worlds is to encourage adult TCKs and other global nomads by addressing real needs through relevant issues, topics, and resources.
Instead, it curves over— a waterfall, a joyous dive. I imagine the possibilities: a deep blue pool, a splash, then a strenuous swim for new shores. Finally, a reminder that we consider all submissions for every issue, even if they don’t relate to that issue’s theme. Our December issue’s theme is “Risk.” We hope that you’ll take a risk and submit your work to us. Cheers to new shores!
Rachel
Personally, my family is stepping through some new doors. Some of us are looking into career/ life-direction changes and my youngest child is applying to university. While exhilarating, these changes also feel a little scary! In the spirit of being open to try something new, I’m going to do a new thing and end this letter with a poem. I hereby dedicate it to all of us on the verge of a new thing, to those of us who are building up courage to walk through a new open door.
Cusp
Among Worlds magazine would love to hear from you! Any comments, feedback, or reflections that you may have on this issue or previous issues are welcome and will be printed in the following issue. Write to us at: amongworlds@interactionintl.org
The word I’m rolling around in my mouth today, testing its diving lip, is cusp. Its smoothness startles, sweeps over an unseen edge— a natural progression. Cusp: both an ending and a starting point, but lacking a point’s sharpness.
AMONG WORLDS ©2022 (ISSN# 1538-75180) IS PUBLISHED QUARTERLY BY INTERACTION INTERNATIONAL, P. O. BOX 863 WHEATON, IL 60187 USA. NO PART OF THIS PUBLICATION MAY BE REPRODUCED WITHOUT THE PRIOR PERMISSION FROM THE PUBLISHER. WE LOVE WORKING WITH INTERNATIONAL SCHOOLS AND NGOS AND WILL NEGOTIATE A RATE THAT WORKS WITHIN YOUR BUDGET. CONTACT US AT AMONGWORLDS@ INTERACTIONINTL.ORG OR CALL +1-630-653-8780. THE VIEWS EXPRESSED IN AMONG WORLDS DO NOT NECESSARILY REFLECT THE VIEW OF AMONG WORLDS OR INTERACTION INTERNATIONAL.
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He
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Felt Like Home By Maria Lombart
I
want to marry you,” he said imploringly as his dark eyes searched mine. In his limited, basic English, he had managed to find the words to express his feelings and intentions. I returned his gaze, uncertain how strongly I felt towards this man who had entered my life just three short months ago. One thing I knew with certainty, though: he felt like home. I met Sirwan for the first time in the cafeteria. He didn’t know who I was, but I recognized immediately that he was “the cute new guy.” I didn’t think much of it, though, as I grabbed a manaeesh sandwich to go and hurried back to my room. I had a busy week ahead at the university where I worked in Lebanon. A few days later, he knocked hesitantly on my office door. He was being assigned as my student worker, to take photos of official events and upload them to our social media accounts. I quickly went over the expectations with him but soon realized he was not comprehending everything I was saying. I made a mental note to email him what I’d just said so he could pass it through Google Translate later. After a couple of weeks, we had a national holiday. Sirwan messaged me that afternoon saying, “I miss you.” Somewhat startled by his September 2022
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boldness, I attributed it to him still learning English and decided he didn’t mean anything of it. What I didn’t know was that he did. And he would start to show me over the next weeks and months.
“ I wasn’t quite sure what to make of this guy.” Messaging for work turned into messaging on a personal level. My WhatsApp® and Facebook Messenger® were constantly lighting up with messages as he complimented me on my outfit that day, sent selfies of him eating in the cafeteria or hanging out with friends, and sent countless rose emojis. I wasn’t quite sure what to make of this guy. Was he like my other guy friends, who took me out to eat and complimented me without meaning anything by it? Or was he different? He taught me the alphabet in Farsi and how to play tennis. At our first game, he ran around the court tirelessly picking up stray balls I hit anywhere but down the center, showing me how to hold the racket and hit the ball over the net instead of into it. I thought he was a professional tennis player; later I learned he had never played tennis before in his life.
If I had a few minutes to spare, he would invite me down to his office where he was busily editing photos for the next day’s post. There he carefully showed me how to write cursive letters that changed shape depending on their location in the word. He cut up little bits of paper, put them in the palm of my hand, and told me, “Blow.” When I did, the papers floated away and drifted gracefully down to the table. “Now you know how to pronounce ( پp) in Farsi,” he told me. We both lived in the dormitory; he on the second floor with the other guys and me on the third floor with the girls and single female staff. He ate in the cafeteria, but I did not; I made my own meals in my room. One evening he sent me a WhatsApp message. “I have soup for you, where are you?” So started the soup delivery. Once a week, he would take a bowl of soup from the cafeteria, season it so it tasted more like home, and search for me. We never ate the soup together, but he always made sure I had a bowl of hot soup to enjoy. Even on a day when he wasn’t feeling well, when I had worked a twelve-hour day and had returned to my room exhausted, he messaged
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me. “I have soup for you, where are you?” I went At last, I would no longer be balancing between down to the second floor and took the warm the many worlds I’d lived in. I’d found my home bowl from him, then returned to my room where in him and this home would never leave. I sat on my bed and cried. Who was this nice guy who thought of me even when he was sick? I’d grown up dreaming of the guy I would one day marry. He was dark-haired, taller than me, and had a nice smile. Traveling the world as a third-culture kid, as the years passed, I grew tired of relationships that came and went, sometimes quicker than I could change countries. The dream I’d held on to for so long seemed to be slipping out of my grasp. Then a guy came along who could barely put together a sentence in my native language, and I looked into his eyes and fell in love. I didn’t say yes then, when he shared his feelings with me and asked me to marry him. I did say yes five months later as he knelt in front of me on the rocky shore of Batroun with the sunset framed in an opening of the ancient Phoenician wall behind us. I didn’t have to think about it, to wonder if I would be happy with someone who had never lived in my world, someone who could claim one citizenship as his own. I knew without a doubt that I wanted to marry him. He was the one I’d been dreaming of all my life.
Maria Lombart grew up between cultures and continents, moving from Benin to Burkina Faso to Egypt, the Netherlands, South Korea, and the US. She always envied those who’d lived in one home all their lives, until she realized that home was more than a place. Today she makes her temporary home in Lebanon while dreaming about the next adventure to come. https://myrandomramblinz.blogspot.com/
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Lighthouse Pictures By Timoteo Neves (Fiction)
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Among Worlds | Manara Lighthouse. Photo credit: Timoteo Neves
T
ell us the story,” one of the military men tells me.
“George, right?” the other one says. He is so bald I can see the fan rotating on the ceiling just by looking above his bushy eyebrows. “Yes, my name is George. I study at the American school around the corner…” I grip the bag of peanuts they gave me a bit harder. I’m not sure what they expect from me, but I try remembering everything since the beginning. I woke up and had a thyme roll with extra olives before my dad dropped me at school. My friend Jean Paul had to copy my essay before History because he’ll start taking the Lebanese system next year and wants nothing to do with the American Civil War. Halfway through the class a bird hit the glass windows and it triggered this girl Julia who started panicking because her house had been shattered in the Beirut Blast, but the teacher didn’t speak Arabic and didn’t know exactly what to tell her. So, Jean Paul and I had to reassure her. And then after that, we had Photography… yes, that’s it. I think it happened during Photography. “So,” I say, “we were taking pictures as a class, and we came here to take pictures of the sea and split into groups. I took some pictures, but then I think I blacked out… It’s very hot outside.” “Where’s your teacher?” the bald one says. I’m wondering how to tell him Jean Paul and I ended up going the wrong way, when he says in English: “te-cher,” and then in French, “professeur.” “Where are you from?” the other military man asks. We’re talking in English now. “Lebanon,” I say, annoyed by the language switch. “You’re not from Lebanon,” the bald man says
with confidence. “You speak Arabic with an accent.” It hits me like a sledgehammer. Yes, that’s right. I’m not Lebanese. But I’ve lived here for so long that I envision my baby-self crawling under a cedar up in the mountains under my parents’ gaze and saying, “Hi kifak, ça va?” “America,” I tell them. After all, English flows from my tongue tip like a bee makes honey and I know so much about the American Civil War that it could have happened to my grandparents. “Do you have passport with you?” the bald man says. His tone is more serious now. He leans his head forward with interest and folds his hands. “No,” I tell him. All I had with me was my camera. No bag. No wallet. No phone. Just the school camera. And they seem to read my thoughts, because the other military man stands up and places the Nikon Z7 on top of a foldable table. “Which grade are you?” he asks. “Eleven,” I say. His eyes, tiny and intense like shiny beetles, appear to doubt me. His gelled salt-and-pepper hair tells me he’s a no-nonsense kind of man. “You know it’s forbidden to take pictures of army posts, don’t you?” he says. I feel a punch in the stomach. I know where this is going. My mind starts fishing for evidence that I’m not as old as my height suggests and, more importantly, that I’m NOT an American spy. (Should I mention that I speak Spanish? Or would the linguistic skills add to their suspicions?) “Yes,” I say and take a large sip of the water they gave me and shove two peanuts in my mouth. “Your parents, what are their names?” the bald man asks.
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“Marcos and Christina.” “What do they do?” “They work at an NGO that helps refugee children.” “Just give him the camera and let him go,” the bald military man tells him, forgetting that I understand Arabic. “He’s just a confused kid, that’s all.” The man with salt-and-pepper hair stands up, turns his back, and paces the room. The sea breeze blows through a window, bringing the warm winds of August and making me crave leaving that tight room more than anything. “Let’s look at the pictures,” Salt-and-pepper says in Arabic, but I think he’s now aware that I’m understanding him. “The kid came running without a hat or anything to protect from the sun and fell like a sack of potatoes when we pointed at him. We gave him water, something moist for his head, and some nuts for energy, but we never looked at the pictures. How about we finally do that? Let’s just look at the pictures.”
“ That’s the place where I took the most pictures. Military base and all.”
The room feels much smaller now that my head is a bit clearer. And I feel like the stupidest person alive. The teacher told us we’d take five pictures of the Mediterranean Sea and then we’d return. We wouldn’t even go to the red lighthouse. But I told Jean Paul I was so fast I made Speedy Gonzales jealous, and I could very well go all the way to Pigeon’s Rock, taking millions of pictures on the way if I wished. He told me I couldn’t even get to the Manara lighthouse. So, I ran. And, of course, that’s the place where I took the most pictures. Military base and all. “Jorge, we’re extranjeros,” my mother often told me. “We’re foreigners. Like it or not.” I always hated it. I can be Lebanese if I want. Or American. Or Colombian like she is. Or Brazilian like my dad. Or anything else I wish. Or nothing at all. Salt-and-pepper picks up the camera and it switches on with a familiar sound.
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When I was in grade ten, a school friend was deported for going out in the streets sharing Bibles in a non-Christian neighborhood in Lebanon. His parents were obviously very worried, but they might have felt some droplets of pride. I wonder how my parents will feel. For a moment, there is nothing but a sequence of annoying camera beeps and the intensifying heat in the room. The government electricity time is done, and the overhead fan is dead weight.
“I hear you’ll get a detention,” he says as we follow Mr. Maurice, who is nearly running as he walks. Jean Paul knows he’s throwing me under the bus. He should be getting a detention too, but I don’t mind. “A detention is fine,” I say. It’s like someone has taken away the backpack filled with balls of lead that I was carrying up until now. “As long as I have it here in Lebanon, a detention is fine.”
I’m also dead weight. I envision myself being prodded by soldiers, pulling my life’s contents in luggage that can barely hold it. The slick Lebanese man in front of me is going on a vacation to Luxembourg and he’s as happy as a lark, while I dread every step I take because I know my dad is cursing me on the inside and my mom can’t contain her tears. The image is so strong I can hear the official talking to me with his Swiss French accent: “Georrge?” And then I realize Lebanese officials don’t have Swiss French accents and that the voice is rather familiar.
Timóteo Pereira Neves was born in Brazil and in his early teens moved to South Africa and then to Lebanon where he lived for the past ten years. He currently teaches English at American Community School Beirut. An inspired learner and passionate writer, he has previously shared his voice in Interact magazine and in the book Student Writing Tutors in Their Own Words.
“You’re the te-cher?” Salt-and-pepper asks grumpily. “Yes,” Mr. Maurice says. And I’ve never been gladder to see my Photography teacher, wearing the un-Lebanese straw hat that always accompanies him. “Let’s go, Georrge. You’re already late for your other class and you got us worried enough.” Outside, Jean Paul is waiting for us, his face glistening with sweat and his camera still slung on his neck like a massive necklace.
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Charissa Cheuk is a missionary kid (MK) who grew up in a creative access country in Asia, intermittently moving back to Canada every few years. She is now studying neuroscience at the University of Toronto.
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Satellite Maps Charissa Cheuk
I see you there, beneath my palm: fully unaware – peaceful, and calm – of my looking upon your shy faces. Why, there must be a million places I could be, finding meaning so true; but friends, I wish to be with you. This satellite map sees nothing into your carved hearts and bright-red strings, but I hold it solely for assurance, for my comfort, solely, in this instance. Why should you be so far out of reach? How long, for you, must I beseech? From the paths of meadows and trees to the beckoning waves of the seas, we’ve flown and fallen, laughed, fought, and cried; when I left you, a piece of me died. You hide, you hide – you keep on hiding! – Memories, they’re not subsiding. As I watch these worms crawl about, I cannot conceive of them without feeling mortified at the drastic gap separating you from those hopeless chaps. As far as the heavens from the earth is their happiness from your mirth. However much I’m prejudiced, the arrow will not, by far, have missed. Perhaps you’d risen up from the bottom (though by what, I would not seek to fathom) the moment I stepped foot off your soil, when I had deemed them as your foils. Because they never could compare – their satellite maps won’t see you there! Their wildest dreams cannot hope to attain the space in my heart where you’ve left a stain. You are the tears that fall from my eye; you are the stars that shine in my sky.
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Retrograde Amnesia Charissa Cheuk
, unconvinced there’s
I wander in time’s … – haunts your graves, a keening crow on Hallows’ Eve, dementor’s kiss. I am your ghost, your
I’ve found So, I’ll be the ghost that a wintry and passionate shadow forgotten
heavens wept with Lethe’s –
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“ Not fully in France. Not in America, not by the Seine, not by the Susquehanna. My belonging is mixed-up, Sam, you see. I do not belong fully here or there. I do not fully belong anywhere!” 15 Among Worlds
Belonging…Mostly I
By Chris Moyer
f you are a third culture kid like me, you may read the word belonging and feel that it is an ephemeral or even impossible concept to grasp. Endless strings of transitions leave many TCKs wondering how they could ever find a stable sense of belonging. In many ways, the TCK life feels like my adapted stanza (left) from Dr. Seuss’s Green Eggs and Ham. I struggled most intensely with my sense of belonging when I was a teenager and young adult because I experienced an intense push and pull between countries and continents. Each year—from ninth grade through my first year of college—I faced a new phase of starting over. In ninth grade I had my last year in French schools. Then, in tenth grade, I shipped off (of my own volition) to Black Forest Academy (BFA) in Germany. Next, I had a one-year stop in America (not of my own volition) for eleventh grade. Then once again, I hopped the Atlantic to return to BFA for my senior year. Finally, finally, I moved back to the States for college. As I typed the above paragraph, I could feel my nerves amp up, my palms get sweaty, and butterflies begin to flutter in my stomach. Even
though the last of those transitions took place over twenty years ago, the overwhelming sense of dread that accompanies having to start over is a feeling I can never quite shake. Yes, I have processed—and even learned to embrace—what took place during those years. But I can still vividly recall my desperate longing for stability and a true sense of belonging that my heart ached to possess at that time in my life. While I was blessed to develop meaningful relationships with many special people during those years—people I never would have met had I stayed in a single, stable environment—I can still keenly feel the tension that constantly pushed and pulled at me. The tension of wanting to fully fit in with those around me, all the while knowing deep inside that I was inherently different from both my French and American peers. My desire to belong remained just outside of my grasp because I was stuck in the perpetual reality of being an outsider in both of my “worlds.” When living as a teenager in France, many of my classmates thought it was “cool” that I was American. But their understanding was based on the American shows they watched and the September 2022
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musicians they listened to, rather than inquiring what it was like for me personally to be a US citizen. Instead of questions, I frequently heard comments such as, “You are so lucky to be American!” and “I don’t understand why you would leave the US to live here!” And, just in case there was any doubt that I was not a local, my peers even nicknamed me “Made in USA.” In some ways I liked that I had something that other kids wanted, and yet I struggled with being different. In my heart I simply wanted what most young people desire: to be like my friends and not stand out. When in America I looked and sounded like my peers, which on the surface felt good. But on the inside, I felt like a zebra running among horses. Zebras sound like horses when they run, and besides their black and white stripes, they even look like horses. But zebras and horses are different species. Try as I might, I could not ignore or fully hide my stripes. I did what I could to blend in like a chameleon, but just as zebras cannot be tamed, so I could not suppress my multicultural identity.
“ On the inside, I felt like a zebra running among horses.”
At BFA, we were ALL zebras! Our base colors (passport cultures) may have been different, as were our stripes (our host cultures), but within this community I finally found my “herd.” This offered me the sense of belonging I had been looking and longing to find for so long! But, before I knew it, graduation came along and we all went our separate ways…many of us once again living as zebras among horses. TCKs do not have the power to change what makes them different from their peers in either their passport or their host countries. And now, as I parent three TCKs of my own, I want to help my children successfully navigate the treacherous path of belonging. While one side of the TCK “coin” represents challenges, the flip side to this is an intense richness that can only be found in this reality. Together we will celebrate the beauty and accept the losses that come along with the multicultural life they did not personally choose for themselves. It is my desire to lead my own TCK children to learn, as I did, that you do not need to fully belong to fully engage with those around you. No, you won’t ever “belong” to just one group or culture. And while that can be hard, it is OK. Understanding, acknowledging, grieving, and celebrating are all joined together to create the jumbled richness that is multi-cultural living. While I always felt different from my monocultural peers, coworkers, and family, I grew to accept these differences while learning to belong; at least mostly…. (I highly recommend watching this short video by TCK Michèle Phoenix on this subject of belonging; while she is speaking primarily to missionary kids—MKs—her insights apply generally to TCKs.) Below are three things that you can do to help your TCK(s) learn to mostly belong wherever they may be (this is not an exhaustive list).
“ You do not need to fully belong to fully engage with those around you.” 17
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1. Process with them their sense of belonging. For older TCKs, asking them reflective questions can draw out what is going on beneath the surface of their desire to belong:
year in America for two reasons: (1) I longed to be back with my friends at BFA; and (2) I knew I was going to be leaving and did not want to get close to people for fear of how hard the goodbyes might be.
• Where do you feel you most belong? • What makes you feel like you belong there or with those people? • What it is like for you when you feel like an outsider? • What do you do when you feel like an outsider? (Look for specific behavior that helps or inhibits their sense of belonging.) For younger TCKs, you can still try to ask reflective questions like the ones above, or you can read a book like Swirly, which will draw out feelings and desires through story.
2. Help them make decisions that grow a healthy sense of belonging (be sure to process #1 with your kids before moving to #2). As Michèle Phoenix says in her video, some TCKs will do whatever they can to blend in. They will forsake their heritage for the sake of belonging. While TCKs need to grieve what they have left behind, suppressing where they come from will create additional challenges of unresolved grief along the way. Because of the mobile nature of their parents’ employment, some TCKs will experience short transition periods such as the one I had in America for my eleventh grade year. I did not want to be in America that year, and my attitude and behavior clearly matched my disposition. It can be tempting for TCKs, when they know they will only be somewhere for a short period of time, to stay withdrawn and be unwilling to invest much into their momentary place of residence. This was my approach to my stop-gap
Whether TCKs are in a short transitional period or whether they are in a more permanent phase of life, it is important to help them make conscious decisions that lead them to connect with others. Understandably, it is hard to move toward others when you feel like a cultural outsider, when you are in the middle of grief, or when you’re just plain tired of putting yourself “out there” yet again. But, relationships with peers are a crucial first step to a growing sense of belonging. Below are some ideas (again, not exhaustive) of how to help your TCK kids connect with other kids: • Encourage them to invite a classmate to your home to play. If your TCK does not want to risk rejection, be the one to take initiative and invite their classmate’s family over for an afternoon snack or a meal. • When possible, have your TCK get involved in something they love to do. In our family we chose to forgo extra-curricular activities September 2022
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during our first year in France because we thought the language barrier would be more stressful than the activity would be beneficial. However, after our initial “waiting period,” we’ve witnessed our three kids blossoming more and more since beginning their hobbies here. • If your TCK(s) goes to local schools, check in with them regularly about how well (or not) they are connecting with their classmates. Some kids naturally jump into new settings with both feet! But others may be shy and insecure about finding their “place,” as we found was the case with one of our children, who needed regular encouragement to move toward others. With time and some gentle nudges, this kid has really grown in their ability to initiate with others, and as a result, their sense of belonging has been strengthened.
3. When possible, gather with other expat families. There is a good chance that your TCK(s) will feel their greatest sense of belonging when they find themselves with other TCKs. They will likely no longer feel like a zebra running among horses when they come together. There is a comfort, often an unspoken one, through a mutual understanding that comes with being alongside others from their “herd.” In light of this, make every effort to meet up with other expat families when possible. When it is not possible to meet in person, whether because of where you live or because of the current global pandemic, your TCK(s) may enjoy having online gatherings with TCK peers. Our youngest loves to connect with a TCK friend in Eastern Europe and do a “show and tell” with him. Our older kids simply enjoy sitting across the screen and chatting with their TCK friends. Lastly, let me encourage you to find conferences and/or retreats to attend with other expat families. There are some great events put on by educational service organizations, mission organizations, and others that will be like a breath of fresh air for you and your TCK(s). These types
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of events were some of the biggest highlights of my childhood, and I know my kids have loved the handful of retreats they have attended with their TCK peers. In the end, my hope is that we can see our kids mostly belong and that the adapted stanza from Green Eggs and Ham changes to:
Mostly in France. And in America. By the Seine and the Susquehanna. I belong mostly, Sam, you see. I belong mostly here and there. I belong mostly anywhere.
Chris Moyer grew up as a Third Culture Kid for ten years in France and a couple of years in Germany. In 2018, after spending nineteen years in the States he moved back to France with his family to start his work with the Global Member Care Team with the mission organization World Team. Chris loves to travel, running, and playing and coaching basketball. You can read his blog at: tckonnective.com
“ This wasn’t the first time I’ve been confused for a local somebody, only to be accused of being smug and making up an international story.”
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Gas Station Identity Crisis By Ben Voegele
N
o, this story isn’t about gas prices, road trips, or Big Gulps. This is a story about identity, or identity crisis, if you will. The other day, I was at the gas station, minding my own business, grabbing a quick snack, and filling up my car. It was a routine trip to get gas—until it wasn’t. Standing in line and waiting for my turn to pay, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around to see another patron grinning ear to ear. “Dave! It’s been forever, man! How are you doing, buddy?” Puzzled and confused, I didn’t know what to say. I had absolutely no idea who this character was, yet I was about to be on the receiving end of a solid and energetic bro hug. I thought about going along with the story and being “Dave” for a few minutes. Still, I quickly realized that wasn’t going to work, especially after he started reminiscing about the time in high school “we” headed out to Wendover, Nevada, for a weekend of drinking, gambling, and testing out our fake IDs. After hearing all about what “our” old crew was up to, I finally came clean and told him my real
name. He, of course, thought I was kidding; and when he pressed me more about old memories “we” shared, I had to remind him that I personally wasn’t there. When I humbly told him that I wasn’t from Utah originally and that I grew up overseas, specifically in Hong Kong and Taiwan, he stared at me, stunned and angry. He then told me that I was being “an ass” and that I was much cooler in high school (no argument there); then he walked off while flipping me the bird. While I should have been shocked, this wasn’t the first time I’ve been confused for a local somebody, only to be accused of being smug and making up an international story. I laugh off those moments now, but truth be told, for a long time those same moments triggered a yearning for a simpler upbringing and identity. Growing up overseas was fantastic and something I don’t regret at all, but that type of rearing can shake your true sense of identity and belonging. As a kid, I couldn’t wait to get stateside in the summers so I could be “American,” only to realize quickly that I didn’t quite know what that meant. September 2022
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That feeling continued into college, and as a collegiate athlete, the game was the same, but I had to learn how to acclimate to my teammates and the surroundings. Despite having great teammates and friends, I was an outsider looking in and was constantly trying to find balance and acceptance, which I still struggle with today. This may shock many who know me now, as I view myself as more outgoing and appreciate great friends and enjoyable chats. Still, when the subject turns to me, I do anything I can to change the topic or get out of the conversation altogether. Odd, I know, but the idea of even small talk about my background, whether to friends or even a gas station stranger, still makes me sweat.
It’s genuinely not a matter of arrogance, but more so that lingering childhood fear of not being understood, believed, or validated. I think, to a degree, we all simply want to be seen for our true selves, even when that self can be a bit complicated. Like many others that grew up like me (fellow TCKs), my story is just that—my own. It’s not better or worse than anyone else’s, but is an identity story, nonetheless.
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Born in Idaho but raised overseas, author Ben Voegele spent his formative years in Hong Kong and Taiwan. An advocate for Third Culture Kids (TCKs) and the ex-pat life in general, Ben also lived and worked in Shanghai, China, as the Director of Admissions at Shanghai Community International School. Currently living in Salt Lake City, Utah, with his wife Emilee and their two dogs, Ben is a teacher, coach, ex-pat facilitator, podcast host (BenThere), speaker, and blog writer (BenThere.org) and is a proud graduate of Boise State University.
A TCK is an individual who, having spent a significant part of the developmental years in a culture other than the parents’ cultures, does not have full ownership of any culture. Elements from each culture are incorporated into the life experience, but the sense of belonging is in relationship to others of similar experience. – David C. Pollock
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Off the Coast o
Two American Girls
Ceciley Pund grew up a missionary kid between the American Midwest and Naples, Italy. Not having spent long in either country until her adulthood, her writing and poetry often ponders transience, belonging, and what it means to be foreign. Instagram: @cecileyloveon
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of Naples:
s Swimming
By Ceciley Pund
Without the fish-glister beneath the laze our dangled feet, we may not know our unbelonging. Mid-squeal and splash our pronouncement that we can make this splay of fingers solid, meet the push of water against the persistent float of our air-bellied bodies she sees through horizontal blue, a silver, a tail-whip a lone wriggle, fanning its gills, moving closer to the space between our toes. I look to my sister to decide our creature our congruity but she has already grasped rock, pushing up reaching through air. We have learned to look for signs that we are anomalous: a feather, a gill, a tongue not like ours but I was told by the wing of my shoulder the gill of my lung, the tongue licking lemon ice that my body is one shape I am several.
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Farewell to the Moon Gate By Melynda Schauer
When the landscape of my TCK life is erased, what happens to the memories?
I
t’s the Morrison Moon Gate,” the text from my brother John says, and my heart drops a little when I see the photo.
Where there was once a white gate with an open circle and red wooden doors, only a shell remains. The photo, taken by a friend who works at the international boarding school in Taiwan where I attended high school, shows a pile of rubble and a construction vehicle in the background. A sight once so familiar to my teenage eyes is now being ripped apart, half a world away. In a group text to me and to our other brother, John says he heard they’re hoping to save our school’s iconic Moon Gate, but its final fate isn’t certain. The demolition is a part of a years-long plan to tear down old buildings that are no longer up to code yet hold decades of memories. In their place, a beautifully modern new campus is growing, one I saw with my own eyes on my last trip back seven years ago.
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We’re in our early thirties now, but my brothers and I still have vivid memories from the school we also called home in the years between 2003 and 2009. I graduated first, but returned for each of their graduations, once in 2008 and again in 2009. I returned, again, with my husband in 2015, joining my brother and his wife (who was also raised in Taiwan) for a two-week adventure up and down the island.
junior, hurrying to volleyball practice or returning home, bleary eyed from a late night in the yearbook room. Perhaps it’s because of its history, its seeming permanence as a Place, a landmark, that this loss hits harder. There are so few Places I can return to and show my children one day. As the landscape of my alma mater—as I remember it—is erased, will the memories be erased too?
I haven’t been back since that summer, when I visited my former dorm parents in their new dorm high-rise. From tenth through twelfth grade, I was one of the “dormies,” a subset within the subset of Morrison students. How fitting that as I type, my iPhone tries to autocorrect “dormies” to “Formosa,” as if it intuits the place I’m referring to: Formosa is the Portuguese name for Taiwan. It means “Beautiful Isle,” and it lives up to that name. As I passed through the Moon Gate each morning of high school, I could see the mountains through the palm trees if the skies were clear, the peaks always most visible just after a typhoon. I have known for more than a decade that our old high school would eventually be torn down in segments. After one brother’s graduation, I watched an entire wing of the building where I had Bible class come down in the first phase of construction. It didn’t sting in the same way. The author Melynda Schauer stands in the Moon Even when my old dorm was no longer where the current dorm kids lived, I was still able to visit Gate on a return visit in 2015. the staff family who lived inside and look around Photo Credit: Melynda Schauer those familiar halls. It wasn’t the same, but it was I know it’s simply concrete walls and a redstill there. painted wooden door. I know it couldn’t really last forever. I know that wherever they move it, But it was the Moon Gate coming down this the earth where it stood will still be there. I know summer that brought a knot to my throat as I I could eventually find the exact spot, even when scrolled through Instagram, glimpsing the same new buildings cover it; but I also know it will photo my brother had already texted me. never be the same. I lived there more than half my lifetime ago; it’s been seventeen years since I was seventeen and strolling through the Moon Gate as a confident
My generation of third-culture kids from that school are entering our thirties. Most of our parents have returned to their home countries September 2022
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and well, curling around the globe, connecting now; and many of us are raising children in our passport countries, which brings up its own series families and friends in far-flung places. Often, I’ll hear about a diagnosis, death, prayer request, of questions and nuances. marriage, or birth announcement through the grapevine long before I see anyone post about it My life is full of blessings from God for which on social media. The bonds formed in childhood I am so, so grateful: my husband, our three between our friends and our families remain beautiful kids, our families, friends, and church. strong despite the years and distance. It’s a small My missionary kid upbringing is one of those world. And some things are still best shared in blessings. In spite of the unique challenges of person, or at least over FaceTime.® growing up overseas, I wouldn’t change a thing. If your heart is clenching as you read this, there’s probably a Place you’ve seen torn down, too. Probably a spot not worth very much to most people, but a treasured Place for you and your people. A physical reminder of where you grew up and a part of your history that you’ll never see again.
“ There’s probably a Place you’ve seen torn down, too.”
A Morrison alumnus captured this image of the construction around the Moon Gate on the Morrison Academy Taichung campus in July 2022. Photo Credit: Teri Sue Pittman
“ There’s still a word-of-mouth TCK grapevine that’s alive and well, curling around the globe.”
Perhaps it’s the sense of communal loss that unites us after all these years. I may never make it to a class reunion, but if I meet a fellow alumnus in person again, we can take a moment of silence for the Moon Gate. For all of those places we lived in, loved in, learned in, and left; for the homes that only live in our collective memories. I know we can’t keep things the same forever and we’re not meant to, but I do believe we are designed to remember, to honor, to say goodbye.
So, farewell to the Moon Gate. You were a beloved place on our campus for decades, as countless people passed through you over the years. Your portal was a place of beauty, and for But the questions remain in my heart, beating like many of us the meeting of two worlds: home a poem: How do we grieve when there’s nowhere and school. to go? How does the TCK diaspora learn to let go? How do we help one another say goodbye You meant more than we knew, and as with so and move on? How do we mourn what is gone? many things, we didn’t realize how much you While the digital world can connect us, there’s still a word-of-mouth TCK grapevine that’s alive
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mattered until you were gone.
Melynda Joy Schauer is an adult TCK who grew up in Macau, Taiwan, and Alabama, US. She now lives in Birmingham, Alabama, with her husband and three children. She keeps her international side alive by meeting international students in her city and finding the best bubble tea everywhere she goes! https://linktr.ee/melynda_joy The beginning of deconstruction of the Moon Gate. Photo Credit: Teri Sue Pittman
Demolition of the Moon Gate and old dorm area at Morrison Academy Taichung in 2022. Photo Credit: Terry McGill
September 2022
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Neverland By Erica Jones (Artwork)
All of my life, I’ve been fascinated by all things space related. As I’ve grown up, the astronaut has become a symbol to me of the between-worlds feelings I have from being a TCK. Now that I’m in college in America and so many things have changed, I am even more aware of the fact that there’s no going back to the way life was when I was a kid. In this painting, the astronaut symbolizes how I feel, sort of adrift between the places I have been, am currently, and will someday be. The window represents the past and how it can be treasured and longed for, but it can’t be reached anymore; the view through the window is a slightly abstracted photo of a Thai rice field, representing my home. (Fun fact: I painted this with rainwater from Thailand and America.)
Erica Jones was born in America, and her family moved to Thailand when she was four. Erica and her three siblings grew up in Surin, Thailand. In 2021, Erica moved to America to attend Bob Jones University, and she plans to graduate in 2024 with a major in Visual Studies and a minor in Criminal Justice.
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“ I didn’t have my social network and I had to relearn the simplest things all over again.”
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Learning Empathy through Migration By Mus Marian
M
igration is a fundamental piece in the third culture kid story, whether you grew up in one city before moving “back home” or if you have been and still are constantly on the move. The move, the settling, and the resettling are all part of the journey. And a lot can be learnt from this journey. You get to learn different languages, and you may learn how to be a more efficient traveler or nomad. But there are also softer skills, intangible ones that cannot always be measured. You unknowingly practice them your whole life, only becoming aware of them when the situation calls on these skills and you pass the test with flying colours.
You learn about being a migrant Obviously, moving around a lot teaches you about what it means to be a migrant. Even if the person you are talking to moved to a different region, or at a different time in their lives, your own experiences help shed light upon what this person is going through. I’d like to talk about what I consider an “exchange of power” when someone migrates from one place to another. This is something I noticed when I moved from my native Melbourne, Australia, to Istanbul, Türkiye. In Melbourne, my social circles made me feel safe, and I could do many things in life independently.
When I moved to Istanbul, I didn’t have my social network and I had to relearn the simplest things Empathy is one such skill—the ability to all over again. Where are the basic amenities? understand or share the feelings of others, even if How do I go about regular tasks, like shopping you have never experienced these things before. and catching public transport? TCKs come across a much wider array of people, situations, and ways of expression than those who do not migrate or those who do not share their varied cultural backgrounds. And while you think your specific experiences may not relate at all, the lessons you’ve learned are often applicable to other situations. Here are a few examples…
When we move, we (sometimes willingly) give up the power and the clout we had in our own country and become a “no-one” in a new city. But no-one implies there is a neutral value, neither positive nor negative. However, migration often confers a negative value. Not knowing anyone or anything and not being able to communicate in the language suddenly makes you feel small and insignificant.
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You suddenly lack the ability to express yourself; you may need a translator or local guide for assistance, even with basic things. Starting completely anew means that, socially, no one cares about you or even knows you exist. It is a humbling and eye-opening experience.
Feeling like you don’t belong, but desperately wanting to belong. Feeling like you want to go home, but knowing it may very well not be a possibility. Feeling like you hate where you are now, but also realizing how much of the decision to move was based on your choices or actions.
“ You learn what it takes to be nomadic.”
As we move around and experience new ways to look at life, we become more comfortable with the innate contradictions people and places might portray.
You learn what it takes
You learn to understand, or to be OK with not understanding
Migration also requires and trains certain kinds of mentalities. The more you do it, or the longer you TCKs come across many differing worldviews and opinions as they travel and grow. You may have stay overseas, the more training your mind gets. already learnt how to manage the diverse cultural backgrounds present in your own household. You learn what it takes to be nomadic. You learn How much more when you travel overseas and how to build something for yourself and how to survive. How to be independent and also to be a encounter new people with their own ideas as well! productive member within a group. I have learnt a lot about what we understand and what we don’t; about how people interpret the You notice a lot of contradictions as you are information presented to them. Because despite brought crashing into new cultures, countries, what we say, and despite what we might consider and ways of thinking. to be facts, people will still interpret these things through a lens that makes sense to them. And You understand the conflict felt by those who move, within one’s own country or abroad, because this lens is influenced by all kinds of things: their upbringing, culture, education, tradition, and you may have experienced these things yourself. even trauma. All people, despite their opinions, are correct at least within their own context, their own thoughts, and their own narrative. It is when individuals come together into a family, a lunchroom, or an organization where having some prior exposure to different cultures and traditions comes in handy. Even if you do not agree with the person in front of you, nor can you see the logic in what they are saying, you might still be able to have a conversation with them. And once you begin a conversation, anything is possible.
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us from those who do not have the means to migrate voluntarily. Even when it is not about the migration itself, moving locations teaches you about power dynamics. You can better understand the person who does not have access to systems, because once you were a new migrant trying to register for social services and become a part of a larger system. You understand what it was like to be silenced because, all of a sudden, opportunities and conversations were closed off to you simply due to you not knowing enough of the local language.
What do we learn from these experiences? How does that make us more empathetic?
If nothing else, migration helps prepare us to better receive and learn from the challenges and unique stories brought to us by the new people in our lives.
People are moving around a lot today, often in search of the many iterations of what it means to have “a better life.” If we have our own experiences of migration, loneliness, and identity, we might better understand the struggles and difficulties others have with fitting into a new society. If our parent or guardian was the ambassador of a country, and we moved with them to their new posting, can we say we have the same experiences as someone who fled their country in a boat? Absolutely not. But the experience of moving might make us better listeners, and it could help us have a better conversation with the person in front of us. And open, non-judgmental, meaningful discussions can be the start of many beautiful things.
Mus Marian is an Australian with Malay heritage who moved with his wife to Istanbul, Türkiye. He now writes as the Nomadic Husband, documenting his experiences as he follows his wife through her international career. https://thenomadichusband.com/ https://www.instagram.com/thenomadichusband/
I do believe that if you have the means to migrate on your own terms, you should try it. It will help you open yourself up to a wider spectrum of experiences. Because, ironically, it can be these same means of leisurely travel that separate
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Iyla Cheung is a Chinese-Canadian missionary kid (MK) who grew up in Niamey, Niger.
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Morose & Melancholy By Ilya Jewel Cheung Morose – a bud in humble bloom With petals lit by nightly moon De la couleur sombre marron Qui m’enseigne comment je me sens. Melancholy – a sweet bird calling A song of hunger rising and falling Avec des plumes légères et douces Qui font pour moi des places en mousse. Spanning the future and past forgot Long they’ve been, much they’ve taught Ils se cachent dans nos rêves Et à la fin, ils nous lèvent.
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No One Knew By Ilya Jewel Cheung Every one of her things Had been used before Names were faded On the objects worn She had written hers over them But you could still tell She was the girl That no one knew well She’d paint her nails black But hide them in pockets After closing a door She would thoughtlessly lock it With stentorian eyes And an oversized hood She was the girl That none understood She walked like a general Talked like a spy She had all her shields up But no one knew why Overall she was “good” She did as instructed She was the girl Who self-destructed
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veraging Our Heritage By Deborah Kartheiser
We can keep using the unique gifts of our heritage for the rest of our lives.
T
hree weeks after I’d moved to the city where I live now, an old friend came to visit. I took her for a drive, showing her this quirky US Midwestern river town whose evolution can be traced through a strange assortment of five-point intersections, defunct railroad lines, and streets zigzagging with the waterway. She was astounded. “How do you know your way around already? Aren’t you scared you’ll get lost?” Her reaction puzzled me. I’d been sometimes annoyed, sometimes amused as I’d explored my latest “new hometown.” But scared? That hadn’t occurred to me. Sure, I got lost a lot—but with the help of a map and some homing instincts, I always found my way back. It was fun, not scary. That concept of fearless exploring is a natural process for me. With each move or vacation trip I rush out to learn the lay of the land, just as I’ve been doing all my life. It is a very useful part of my heritage as a third culture kid.
March 2022 2021 September
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We have a unique heritage Webster’s Ninth Collegiate Dictionary defines “heritage” in four ways: property that descends to an heir; something transferred by or acquired from a predecessor; tradition; or something possessed as a result of one’s natural situation or birth. The concept of “heritage” itself has changed over the decades. ‘Heritage’ is an old word, drawn from the vocabulary of those old societies in which primary values derived from ancestral relationships. In its original sense, heritage was the property which parents handed on to their children, although the word could be used to refer to an intellectual or spiritual legacy as well. In the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, as new nation-states fought for legitimacy, people began to speak of a ‘national heritage’ as a body of folkways and political ideas on which new regimes founded their sense of pride and legitimacy. In our time heritage has come to refer to things both more tangible, and more fragile, than the imperishable ideals of our ancestors. By the 1960s the two ideas—heritage as ideals and heritage as things—were becoming more closely intertwined. (Graeme Davison, A Heritage Handbook, 1991)
But what is our own TCK heritage? I think it differs in some crucial ways from more traditional concepts of heritage tied to a geographic home, place, or ancestry. As people who grew up mostly mobile, in different cultural settings, we’ve incorporated into ourselves some of each place and society in which we learned to function. When I think of home, for instance, there are certain places which resonate strongly for me, even though I haven’t been there for years and some of them don’t even exist anymore. We all have ancestral heritage, too. But many of us spent formative years away from our extended families, so we may not realize how some of our own personal nuances are affected by stuff that came from our grandparents and great-grandparents. I often wonder why my parents decided to venture out to internationally mobile lives after growing up in fairly traditional and conservative US communities. What was it about my forebears that produced such adventurous heirs? But for us, I think, heritage is more than the sum of our many cultural and ancestral parts.
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It is a process, a state of changeable being. The process of adapting, chameleon-like, to different settings or demands; of reinventing ourselves throughout life rather than expecting that we’d remain as constants and others would adapt to us; of seeing our existence as an alwayslearning journey rather than “arriving” anywhere permanently—this is our heritage.
Some of us don’t even realize we’re using our “heritage skills” on the job.
When I was a business reporter at a daily newspaper, I used to drive my fellow employees nuts because I was always playing “the devil’s advocate” (i.e., “a person who expresses a contentious opinion in order to provoke debate or test the strength of the opposing arguments”, according to the Merriam-Webster online We are not locked into any particular cultural, dictionary). For me there were not even two sides geographic, or ancestral heritage. We’re free to to the story—there were a lot more. Some of my weave our own unique heritage from the rich variety that has formed us—free to make what we editors found this frustrating, and it was hard sometimes to decide on a focus. But I think my want of it. “outside-the-box” viewpoint helped me to cover issues fairly. Sometimes I still regret that I missed out on so much of the shared history of my own extended family and nationality. But in another way, because I also developed a reputation: Anytime a fellow reporter couldn’t understand a source due to of my TCK heritage, I can appreciate these pieces heavily accented English, I was called in. I was of myself even more deeply. I can see how they the only person who didn’t have trouble hearing have helped shape me, but I am not locked into through an accent; I’d been doing it since I was a conforming with them or rebelling against them. They have no great power over me. They are just a kid. Lots of times I didn’t even notice. part of the complex person that I am. Such career choices may start with a high toward education, surmised “Anytime a fellow reporter couldn’t commitment sociologists and anthropologists Dr. Ann Baker understand a source due to heavily Cottrell and Dr. Ruth Hill Useem from in-depth accented English, I was called in.” research in the early 1990s on 400 adult third culture kids (ATCKs). Their findings were first published in NewsLinks, the newspaper of International Schools Services, in 1993. Leveraging our heritage We can use this heritage in many different levels of our lives. Many of my fellow third culture kids have leveraged their heritage when choosing careers. Some have returned to the countries where they grew up to work in missions, military, government, or business careers. Others have chosen to “stay put,” but work in positions where they’re in constant contact with people of diverse cultures, or helping to foster communication and understanding between people of differing backgrounds.
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One of the most notable characteristics of ATCKs is their high achievement…. Only 21 percent of the American population…have graduated from a fouryear college. In sharp contrast, 81 percent of adult TCKs have earned at least a bachelor’s degree. Majors chosen by a quarter of this sample were obviously international (e.g., foreign language, anthropology, international relations). Many others were influenced by overseas experiences. For example: biologists captivated early by exposure to African wildlife; historians and artists influenced by exposure to European art and historical sites; premed, nursing and economics majors who decided early to help peoples they knew in a less-developed nation. Still others sought mainly to “get abroad again” and so majored in teaching, international relations, international business. Career choices reflected those high levels of education…. More than 80 percent of the sample were professionals, semi-professionals, executives, or managers/officials. Occupational choices reflect a continued love of learning, interest in helping, and desire for independence and flexibility. Fully one-quarter work in educational institutions as teachers, professors, or administrators. The next largest number (17 percent) are in professional settings, such as medical or legal fields. An equal proportion are selfemployed, one-third of these as presidents of their own companies. The self-employed, in particular, reflect the creative and risk-taking streak found in so many TCKs. (http://www.tckworld.com/useem/art5. html) Beyond careers, many TCKs have found ways to use their heritage to make the world a better place; more than 75 percent of those interviewed by the researchers actively participated as volunteers, and about half of those reported an international dimension to their volunteer efforts. These are some obvious ways in which we can tap into our heritage to steer the course of our lives. But there are many less visible parts of our heritage, like communication skills and even an
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ability to see things differently because of our past, that we may not even realize we’re using. For example, many of us are risk takers. We don’t feel particularly threatened by trying things we’ve never done before, or going places where we don’t know anyone (yet), or reaching out to people who are very different from us. In fact, many of us enjoy this sort of “pushing the envelope.” We’ve been doing that sort of thing all our lives. Unfamiliarity is an adventure, not a threat. Our experience with multiple moves helps us reach out and relate to other people who may be going through a tough time of transition or feeling like outsiders and provide practical help based on real first-hand understanding. Our worldview—shaped by our deep identification with our homes around the world—can give us the tools to help other people who are struggling with cultural conflict, and perhaps be a force for bridge-building and reconciliation. For example, my brother and his family were among the first in their diverse Chicago neighborhood to reach out in support and reassurance to Muslim neighbors just after the events of September 11, 2001.
“Unfamiliarity is an adventure, not a threat.” Many of us have a way of gravitating toward people or situations that require communicating across cultures; in fact, we enjoy such encounters rather than avoiding them. Rather than sticking with the “tried-and-true,” we may welcome the chance to sample unusual foods, music, or rituals and revel in friendships with people who are very different culturally and ethnically from ourselves. And consciously or not, we can impart this legacy of adventurousness and exploration to our own children. Whether we choose a life of international travel or settle down as pillars of a small community, we can keep using the unique gifts of our heritage for the rest of our lives.
Deb Kartheiser is an American ATCK who grew up in Japan and the United States. *This is an archived article from the June 2003 issue of Among Worlds magazine, originally titled “Leveraging Our Culture.” To read free archived issues of AW from 2016 and earlier click here.
Journey with us! Among Worlds magazine is accepting submissions for upcoming issues. We are looking for original, high-quality writing, poetry, photography, and visual pieces related to TCK life. We invite you to share your stories and talents with us! Click here for submission details.
December 2022 Risk Submission Deadline: October 30, 2022
March 2023
CCKs & TCKs Submission Deadline: January 30, 2023 If you or your organization would like to purchase bulk subscriptions or advertise your services in Among Worlds, please contact amongworlds@interactionintl.org.
“ There is a wide world out there, my friend, full of pain, but filled with joy as well. The former keeps you on the path of growth, and the latter makes the journey tolerable.”
- R.A. Salvatore
