Letters Never Sent

Ruth van Reken grew up as a TCK (Third Culture Kid) in Nigeria. Her experiences of being sent away to a boarding school for a number of years and also being left in America under the care of relatives while her parents returned to Africa for a term of service were very formative in her development and impacted her negatively for years to come. Some of what she wrote (in the form of letters in her journal) is heartbreaking and hard to read. There was a lot I learnt from about how TCKs react to going 'home' and her experiences on the field.

Van Reken:

Dear God,

Thanks for getting us safely to America. I was surprised when the lady met us in New York. She wore red lipstick and nail polish and even earrings! In Africa we could tell who was a Christian and who wasn’t by whether or not they did those things. Are Your rules different here?

*****

I really wish someone hadn’t given us that heavy pink underwear for winter. I know they think we’ll freeze here without it, because we’re used to Africa, but I wish we could wear the same kind of underpants that everyone else does. Why will we freeze if they don’t? I get so embarrassed when we have to take off our leggings in the coatroom. I try to keep the underpants hidden, but I can’t because they reach all the way to the top of my knees. All I want is to be like the other kids. Jesus, you were kind of poor, too. Did you ever feel like that? 

*****

Thanks for letting me go to the villages on Sundays with the language students. To see smallpox firsthand and to see the toddler who burned his head when he rolled into the fire, were things I never could have experienced away at school.........

Once in a while I even felt sorry about some things they did that we couldn’t, like having field days. But I never, not even for a minute, wanted to change.

*****

Today we’re leaving Africa. I’m glad we’ll be together for a year of furlough, but it’s unbearable to think that I may never again see my home or closest friends or the country that I love so much. It’s sort of like death – to lose your whole world in one moment..... I’ve lived here eleven of my thirteen years. Now, just like that, I’m expected to leave it forever and go ‘home.’ What is home? A house? A country? A feeling? Sometimes I wonder if my strong desire to be an M is really God’s call or just my way to cope with leaving. I only know that my small hope of returning is the only thing that dulls my pain today. 

*****

Was it hard for you to talk with your parents when you were thirteen? There are so many things I wish I could say to you, but even though the words race through my brain, they won’t come out of my mouth. Sometimes I wish you could guess what’s happening inside me. You know how anxious I’ve been for eighth grade to start. My memories of third grade in this school are happy, so I figured it would be the same this time around. It’s not. Instead of thinking it’s neat to be from Africa, the other kids seem to think it’s weird. I wore my very best outfit today, but it looked all wrong. In the seventh grade there’s another girl, Roxanne, who just came back from another African country. She really looks out of it; her hair is pulled straight back in a ponytail and her clothes are very plain and don’t fit well. I’m sure I’m not as bad as that (am I?). She wants so bad to be friendly but the kids act like she’s directly from outer space. It wasn’t a very good day – it felt like icy fingers squeezing around the pit of my stomach. I just don’t understand the rules of the game. Hope it gets better.

*****

The kids here think I’m incredibly dumb. Every day I do something that makes them laugh at me. I make mistakes like saying, “Who’s that?” when they mention a name, only to learn that he’s the latest rock and roll star. I said something about a cartoon I’d seen on TV, and everyone was horrified. I guess eighth graders don’t watch cartoons anymore. If I talk about what I know from Africa or Europe, they think I’m showing off. No one is interested in my world, and I don’t know anything about theirs. Why can’t I go back to Africa where I fit?

*****

I know I have way more than most of my African friends – but it’s way less than all the kids around me here have. In Africa we seemed rich. Here I feel hopelessly poor.

*****

I know you don’t understand what’s happened to your nice, sweet M kid. I sit with my ear to the radio, listening to the latest rock and roll hits. Every afternoon I’m glued to the TV, watching Chicago Bandstand. When you ask, I say I like the music. The truth is that I can’t stand to be so odd anymore. I have to find out what’s going on in this world, so I’ll know what the kids at school are talking about. Yesterday for the first time I joined in one of their usual conversations about their favorite singers and songs. I think they were surprised that I had anything to say! It felt good. I know you don’t like my music... but thanks for not making me hide it from you.