Confessions of a Third-Culture Kid
Alyssa Nshimirimana ~ Creative Nonfiction
Being a psychology major often consists of discovering the many ways humans are terrible at thinking. Cognition 101: “We are cognitive misers,” I neatly jot down. We’re fond of mental shortcuts. Assumptions make perfect sense until, shockingly, they morph into heartless jacks-in-the-box and spring mocking absurdity into your face. You’re left distraught and burning with embarrassment.
I remember forming one such false belief. I am standing four feet short, my big, avid eyes silently following the agitated adults of my childhood. I conclude these giants know everything worth understanding. They can point to Burundi on a map and turn raw rice soft and savory. Rumor says they can even hear God. I am every four-year-old. I want to fly already and see the world from their vantage point. My guts insist that, for some reason, these nurturing titans withhold the master key to the chain of never-ending “whys” that shackle my burgeoning wings.
Nothing ever was, is, or will be more self-evident. The adults of my childhood know who they are. They know where they fit, to whom they belong, and what purpose they serve. Exhibit 1: a banal scene playing on a Friday evening, that of my father extracting packaged goods out of reusable grocery bags. His moves, utterly efficient, and demonstrates sheer confidence. From this, the much younger version of me infers that her Papa has cracked the code to the meaning of life.
He provides for his family and does so with undeniable ease. He takes out a plastic bottle of Schweppes Tonic, a fizzy beverage I once mentioned enjoying, and hands me the drink. No one else in our household of six appreciates its bittersweet tang – though they’ll eventually acquire the taste. Watching me take a contented sip, Dad smirks bemusedly.
I can see the gears in his head. He is up to something. His mind runs through half of the dictionary, a habit he built as a child, during this special period in life when most humans are as free as they’ll ever be. Back then, the African institutions in charge of his education asked him to choose either words or numbers, paragraphs or mathematical demonstrations, literary classics or scientific textbooks. He was drawn to La Fontaine’s fables more than he ever was to Descartes’ findings. To this day, Dad can still perfectly recite the poems he memorized all those decades ago. In an alternate reality, one in which poets never go hungry, my orthopedic surgeon of a father spins fiction to feed his loved ones.
The gears end their rotation. This bilingual lyricist I call ‘Dad’, away from fame’s spotlight, crafts a nickname for me: “the Alien.” And, immediately, wherever my soul abides, a cosmic shift occurs. I startle and choke on my newest moniker. I have never resonated more intensely with anything as I do that day with the concept of alienation, the idea that you fit apart from the group and that your differences from your peers far outweigh your similarities. Without intending to, Dad forces my gaze upon murky emotions, vague feelings that constantly hover.
A crisis begins, but my parents fail to notice. How could the omniscient adults of my childhood stay oblivious? The truth mutates into one discomforting oxymoron. Maybe nothing will ever be self-evident again.Yet my rookie of a mind is charged with solving the mystery. I’m in violent need of light. In darkness, I fume.
Years later, the Alien sits a few feet taller and many pounds heavier, legalized in Texas. She is conscientiously taking notes in a foreign language when time rudely freezes. What usually courses from one second to the next indulges in stillness. The miracle lasts just long enough for me to process one crude oversimplification: that of the differences between collectivistic societies and individualistic ones. In the former, interdependence prevails. In the latter, independence reigns. I exist in-between, forever alien everywhere.
This revelation sets all fumes ablaze. Fire consumes nebulous conjectures. The universe bares proven truths.
I am fated to always question. Should I crucify egocentrism for the sake of my lineage’s redemption? Or should my hero’s journey define me alone? Should I parent siblings I never birthed, or foster friendships elevated by blood? Should I bear many children or tango with my freedom? Should I tailor the fabric of my faith or put on a local church’s uniform? Each inquiry bites sharply into my identity.
So, I take every deep breath I must. Belly breathing thickens the skin and makes you less likely to bruise when reality strikes. Experience taught me so. I have become a trained belly breather out of necessity – after too many assumptions crumbled and the ground opened from under my feet.
I was the girl writing down flashcards on catatonia and anhedonia. I would try to empathize, to get a mental feel for the shoes worn by those who don’t move or feel pleasure, also known as the stigmatized. I assumed I would never join their pitiful club. I couldn’t predict I’d need to learn to use checklists, mindfulness, and words of affirmation to subdue pain. I couldn’t foresee I’d have to practice forgiving and forgetting. I never fathomed how taxing absolving a lifetime’s worth of hurt would prove. I didn’t expect I would succeed.
I reminisce, and because the luckiest of patients in the 21st century do recover, I stare at the silver lining. To survive means uncovering your antifragility. Life challenges and stressors are not merely opportunities to develop resilience. They are the necessary evils to acquire tremendously helpful strengths. If a toddler is never exposed to peanuts by his coddling parents, he faces a greater risk of developing an allergy to the otherwise harmless nut. Just like your immune system must interact with potential threats during your earliest years to develop an appropriate response to what your organism cannot indefinitely avoid, you’re better off having suffered through challenges during your twenties. You understand after you’ve won. Eventually, unavoidable yet unpredictable hardships come your way, but they meet you prepared, equipped to fend them off, and looking forward to the sweet taste of victory.
Hence, my newfound fondness for the stench of decaying assumptions. I invite the universe to chew, gnaw, and chomp to its heart’s content. This Alien’s plane of existence, where worldviews meet and blend, hides a disarming declination of beauty. I alone bask in its glory.
The Middle
Rose Weisburg ~ Poetry
We met when we were in middle
school, back when words like “my best friend”
meant the entire world to me.
And so, that was what you were called,
when, in truth, you were my first love,
which I know now is not the same.
​
You see, if it had been the same,
I’d not get stuck in the middle
of you and all the boys you’d love.
Boys who meant much more than a friend,
the ones whom every week you’d call
a lot more than you would call me.
​
It’s not that you didn’t love me,
just that our love wasn’t the same.
‘Love’ just wasn’t what people called
this thing, something in the middle
of ‘idolized person’ and ‘friend.’
Nevertheless, it felt like love,
​
Especially when you said I love
you before you’d hang up on me,
swearing you’d always stay my friend.
Especially when we’d share the same
seat, squeezed tightly in the middle
of the car (“The Ford,” it was called).
​
But those feelings are now recalled
because you chose to fall in love
with boys, showing off your middle
in tops once bought to match with me.
because you chose to date the same
guy for two years, your first boyfriend.
​
Though he wasn’t a great boyfriend,
“Your first love” is what he was called.
Do we define that phrase the same?
And if so, were you not in love
with your best friend, with us, with me?
Or were we just in the middle
​
of transitioning into love
that was bigger than you and me?
If so, then I miss the middle.
I Am
David Duong ~ Poetry
As I walk,
I begin to observe the nature around me. How
the cold breeze gently pats my shoulder, the
sound of my feet interacting with the soil. I
notice my breathing.
Air fills up my lungs,
I am alive.
As alive as every flower and tree I walked past.
We are similar.
I am constantly changing,
physically and mentally transforming.
I am different yet the same,
constantly in motion.
Driftwood, lost in space and time,
flowing with the current.
Powerful and unforgiving,
whirlpool after whirlpool.
I am the ground that I walk,
the flowers and trees that I see,
the driftwood, but also the relentless sea.
I am dust.
A billion years of creation exist within me.
I am the unchanging past.
I am present,
and the uncertain future.
One day I will return,
but I have never left.
Just like a flower,
I, too, will wither away.
I explore the mindstream,
stepping from world to world,
just to be awaken
to find that I am.
Conscious Unconscious
Alyssa Nshimirimana ~ Short Story
“I see so plainly that there are no definitive signs by which to distinguish being awake from being asleep” – Descartes, Meditations on First Philosophy.
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The sound of waves crashing ashore brings Iris Morvan to consciousness.
Water unfolds and splays outwardly, like the checkered blankets of her childhood picnics, before shying away to reunite with the horizon’s shimmering translucence. The next wave arrives promptly, followed by another. The ocean seems set on engulfing the beach whole, one inch at a time.
The glinting of the water's surface prickles Iris’s eyes. Yet, gazing at the rolling of the seas soothes her. With every woosh, she sways, feeling like a giant baby.
When she was five, she used to watch her mother gently rock her youngest sister, trying to lull the crankiest of infants to sleep. Iris would press a plushy against each ear. A puppy on the left. A bunny on the right. She’d never switch their positions. And she would put all her childish might in her tiny arms, shutting her eyelids tightly as she does now, decades later, to get a better look at the memory. She’s briefly saddened that the images elude her, but the warmth on her face comforts her. She’s a marshmallow left unsupervised on a bright summer day.
This weather’s perfect for a nap.
Iris digs her naked toes deeper into the dry, cool sand. She takes in the many sounds of her immediate surroundings. The wind whispers in her ears. Youthful squeals of excitement and grown-ups shouting orders create joyful disharmony. She catches the flirtatious rant of someone nearby and feels a silent disdain towards the object of his praises. In the background, Newport Beach traffic whirls faintly.
Her favorite noise remains the drumming beat of the waves as they lap on shore.
There’s a word for that.
Iris knows for a fact that there’s a word for that specific sound---she would know. She’s every trivia night’s grandma champion. The term is on the tip of her tongue.
What was it again? Sur… suration? Surdation? Surudation?
A sudden pattering startles her. She finds herself wide-eyed, staring at the most magnificent goldendoodle. For a second, she’s mute. The goldendoodle thoughtfully stares back.
Now, aren’t you a darling!
The puppy wags a playful tail once, then twice, as if taunting Iris to step forward and give chase. Its shiny black pupils never leave her, even when it raises a furry ear, before it unexpectedly sprints away. Iris watches it leap and bounce in circles around a young man whose lanky, unassured figure reminds her of Raymond---her greatest pride.
Others, to cope with midlife crises, buy extravagant cars or cheat on their partner. Some, like her Raymond, do both. But her son also adopted Brains, a retired K9, and devotes his time on pampering the proud German shepherd. For having given birth to such an amazing human being…
I must be God’s favorite person.
Iris smiles. She becomes happiness personified.
I should come to the beach more often.
And she would. If not for the seagulls. Their screeching always rattles her, so she rarely ever…
A shiver runs down Iris’s spine. She has yet to hear a single one of the piercing cries that haunt shores worldwide. Her right hand hastily rises to shield her eyes as she scans the sky. Patiently. Painstakingly.
Not a single feathered being.
Doubt’s cold fingers creep on her, snaking up her back, chilling her nape, winding around her throat… they’re aiming for her heart. Iris clasps her left hand against her chest. The cotton of her shirt rustles unpleasantly.
Is this…reality?
Iris Morvan has endured many awfully vivid dreams – ones where, ‘til the very end, she’s convinced real events occurred. It began after a visit from Daisy, her granddaughter. The girl, bless her heart, is somewhat of a naïve creature. She spends her days discussing fairies with other teenagers. Iris wouldn’t mind as much if these conversations happened outdoors rather than in Daisy’s messy bedroom, through the dirty screen of her mistreated laptop. Maybe then the girl would know a thing or two about the real world.
At least, her granddaughter is a kind soul. Twice a week, she Ubers to Iris’s tiny apartment for a chat, always bringing bits of sausage for Whiskers, her grumpy orange Persian cat.
Two months ago, Daisy told Iris about lucid dreaming. Iris herself didn’t pay much attention, given how entertained she was by the sight of her grandbaby gulping half a pie meant for twelve people. Iris planned on bringing everyone at her weekly book club meeting a meringue slice the next day, but she no longer cared. She just gained fascinating insight.
Daisy eats pie exactly like Raymond does. Although she physically looks nothing like her dad--- her parents needed a male donor to conceive her---she follows the exact same ritual.
First, using both hands, they hold the slice at eye level. They study the garnish for a second or two before knocking back their heads and downing the entire thing in one go.
On the day she made this discovery, Iris was so moved that she only caught glimpses of Daisy’s enthused spiel.
I’m almost there, Nana. I feel like after practicing once or twice more, I’ll be able to perfectly control my dreams.
Iris had grinned at the tall tales of flying above mountains and spying on an annoying classmate while tucking one of Daisy’s blond locks behind her ear.
Nana. What would you do if you could lucid dream?
Iris had happily humored her one and only grandchild.
I would bring your Pops back. Not his sick self but how he was when Raymond was born.
Yes, if she had any control over her dreams, Iris would conjure her beloved husband. She was tired of remembering his diminished form, tired of the pain glued to his face during his last months, and tired of his specter sneaking up on her daily. She pined for the boisterous man who had rushed to the maternity ward in his greasy blues and had cried harder than the newborn in his arms.
Is now my chance?
What are the odds that she is currently dreaming? Iris feels faint with hope. Her late husband is about to materialize before her very eyes. She would’ve put on makeup, had she not stopped buying lipstick after he left, so she must meet him bare faced. But now isn’t the time for regrets. A shadowy silhouette stretches before her.
Iris nervously follows the dark outline all the way to gray sneakers. She promptly raises her eyes and meets those of a young stranger. The goldendoodle from earlier sits still by his side.
“Are you all right, ma’am?” The stranger frowns down at her expectantly.
Hoping he won’t notice the tears welling up, Iris asks: “Who’s this good boy?”
The man glances at his side and Iris reads adoration in the way the crow feet crease the corner of his eyes.
“That’s Sahara,” he replies. “The best girl ever.”
Iris lets Sahara sniff her spotted and wrinkly fingers.
“Are you sure you’re alright? You looked quite pale a moment ago. And you were holding your chest, so…”
“Oh, that’s just old age,” Iris cuts with a wry laugh.
A fat seagull chooses this exact moment to land between them. The bird sets one eye on Iris and the other on the canine on the opposite side. The universe stills for a second. Then chaos ensues.
Sahara pounces on the bird, which shrieks bloody murder. The pet’s owner responds immediately, spewing a long series of orders intersected with a colorful curse every time a command goes ignored. Eventually, he settles on tackling Sahara. Sand rains on Iris’s skirt, who bursts out laughing at the impromptu wrestling show. The seagull is already high in the air.
“Sit! Sahara! Sit! ****! Sit down, Sahara! Sit down!”
After the umpteenth declination of the order, Sahara obliges, wagging an unapologetic tail. She looks prouder than ever, while the disheveled young man crouching next to her hides his flushed face behind large hands.
Iris can’t stop laughing. She couldn’t be dreaming. She would never come up with this kind of scenario.
How can lucid dreaming be any fun if there are no surprises? How would you get a good laugh?
“Have you ever heard of lucid dreams?” she asks, her voice still vibrating with delight.
The man lowers his hands to reveal a quizzical look.
“My granddaughter told me about it,” Iris pursues. “How do you know you’re not dreaming?”
She observes his thoughtful expression.
“That’s a very good question,” he concedes.
How seriously he considers her inquiry tickles Iris. She takes in his high cheekbones, full lips, almond eyes, and buzzcut. If not for her granddaughter’s relentless nagging, she’d ask him where he really comes from.
“Maybe it has to do with expectations?” he wonders out loud. “Take unicorns for example. If they were real, people would have capitalized on it already. Fancy restaurants would serve rare unicorn steak, for sure. But because unicorns aren’t real, what we would expect to see if they were real also doesn’t happen. Does that make sense? I think that’s why fiction should remain fiction. It gives us the thrill we don’t actually want to deal with, you know? Like, dragons, for example, they sure sound like they’re a sight to behold, but then the world would also be so terrifying.”
He glances at Sahara, who began chasing her tail a minute ago, and smirks.
“I mean, I love my girl, but she’d be gobbled up real quick.”
Iris chuckles alongside her latest acquaintance. He seemed shy at first but as expected, young people these days love these sorts of conversations. She tries to remember whether that was true of her generation, but she gives in right away. Iris has fully relaxed by now. She never was creative enough to imagine such an interesting character.
Who names their puppy after a desert, anyway?
Just as sense comes back to the world, the ground disappears from under her feet. The last sound Iris hears is that of the young man calling for her.
Silent Suffering
Sam Everett ~ Poetry
when the tale’s over and the words are said,
we feel a gnawing, clawing dread
at the silence heavy in the air
always watching, always there,
that we fill with stories in its stead.
words we’ve written, words we’ve read:
words are what the silence bled
when its presence we could no longer bear.
and it is never heard.
that emptiness we all tread
surrounds our lives and greets the dead,
but greet it willing, we’d never dare.
we quell the quiet with words of prayer.
let me breathe! it’s always pled.
and it is never heard.
Cosmic Shards
Alyssa Nshimirimana ~ Poetry
Sporadically, I collect
twenty-minute short
fragments from a world
that lies nestled
in between two doors:
A world that holds
all of the sky
and all of the earth.
A prosaic mosaic
of blues and browns
and spring’s bold,
endearing emerald.
A world that breathes out
the muted sound of traffic–
a world where feet thump
a secret heartbeat.
It reaches the tiny
trembling bones in your ears,
and it makes you grin and grin
at fleeting feathery spirits;
it makes you eye and smile
at rodents’ twirling tails;
it sucks out all the murk
and bubbling bitterness.
A world populated by
plump, pedant clouds,
where every old thing
stays new under the sun.
From every exploration,
I return wilder:
a creature of the wind,
the stealthiest of thieves–
pockets filled to the brim
with two thousand pieces
of brilliant mundanities.
Artificial Light
Jess Parker ~ Poetry
The divide is clear when you enter the room
from the right side. The flashes of white
and the too-sweet smell designed to entice,
to conceal and to constrict.
Your hand is swatted when you reach
toward the side cast in shadow. I see the way
your gaze lingers on the them from afar, flashes of
fingers intertwined and bodies leaning together
for support, but you can’t look for long;
the glare of the lights and the figures overhead
say: forbidden, suffocated, trampled down,
or even more deadly: ignored.
The ones that surround you
watch the others closely
though they pretend they do not.
Judging your footfalls,
comparing them to their own;
some look inviting but most
are waiting for you to stumble
and for them to correct.
Community bought and sold
by the dollar each Sunday,
yet they tell you to fear
the community bred in darkness instead.
It takes a while;
You take quiet steps towards the edge
and watch as the sinners, the rebels, the fallen
give each other more life in a look
than every hug and sermon attempts
to give you from the light.
And maybe there is something more
but you’re sure the something would rather
this whole place be flooded with warmth
than the fear icing your veins here.
You’re chosen. You belong.
You don’t have a choice.
When you step out of the light, let them say
you’re too far gone, then turn
and ask their kids to learn from you.
Let the warmth come not from the artificial lights
but the warmth you create through every step –
Once created to be,
you are creating by being.
Remembrance of where you came from
begins trading shame for firelight,
artificial fluorescents for a real smile.
Watching from the room,
it’s you who reminds me
it’s brave not to uproot
just to be placed in a smaller box.