Who defines me?

Today I had to take a personality assessment for work.  It's something they do with everyone.  I knew it was coming.  I was dreading it.

I hate those things.  I never fit into a category.  I can't tell you how many times I've heard "hmm your results are quite interesting."
YEAH NO KIDDING.

"wow you don't fit in any category."
"I've never seen results like this."
"you are abnormal."

YES I KNOW, ALL 100 of your other people taking the test today aren't Third Culture kids, aren't Global Nomads, didn't spend their formative years in a different country from their passport country.

I think that many Americans have a weird obsession/ fascination with personality tests.  They want to answer some questions, then get told by calculations who they are, how they learn, what types of people they should marry, work with, be in study groups with.

But how do you categorize the people who don't fit the mold?

I apparently subconsciously slip into a funny accent with slower speech when I speak with non native English speakers, I never realized this until about 2 years ago when a co-worker pointed it out.

I am more comfortable in London Heathrow airport than any mall in America at Christmas time.

I am stubborn and persistent and methodical, and I am flexible and go with the flow.

My desk looks like a tornado rolled through, especially when compared to my office-mate's but don't touch anything, it's organized, I know where everything is... except maybe my keys and phone.

I love my extended family and am close with many of them, but I especially feel connected to my cousins' kids, who are growing up third culture kids too.

I think ultimately the thing that bothers me the most about those assessments is the idea that everyone should fit into a category, and if they don't something is strange, different, weird, wrong about them.  It's this hyper focus on identity coming from personality traits.  I refuse to agree, my identity lies full in who I am in Christ.

I cling hard to my identity in Christ.  I have for a long time.

I felt the need to send a private message to the professional consultant conducting the personality trait assessment today.  I explained that my upbringing and personality formation was a little different than the average American.  I sent her links to information about the unique personality traits of third culture kids.  It was my attempt to avoid the awkwardness and the comments about bizarre results, and a hyper focus on the results defining me.

I refuse to let a grouping of 24 questions define me.

There are a lot of struggles that come from being raised overseas and then re-entering the culture that your passport says you are from.    But it is those struggles that constantly remind me that I am not defined by my job, my friends, my circumstances.  What is true about me is what He says is true.

And what is that?  (all are ESV translation)

"I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.  Wonderful are your works; my soul knows it very well."  Psalm 139:14

"The Lord will fulfill his purpose for me; your steadfast love, O Lord, endures forever.  Do not forsake the work of your hands." Psalm 138:8

"For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans for welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope."  Jeremiah 29:11

"Now you are the body of Christ and individually members of it."  1 Corinthians 12:27

"There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus."  Romans 8:1

Where Do Missionaries Go to Die?

This is a question I had never really thought about until recently.
In my mind missionaries travel off into the wild blue yonder and are heard from occasionally in the form of support/prayer letters.  Sometimes they come "home" on furlough and give talks at church.

Then I spent Memorial Day weekend with some friends who serve at a missionary sending headquarters.  They have several retired missionaries who live there.

They are provided extremely cheep housing, and several meals a week.  Some of them, who are able, have garden plots.  It's a beautiful place, and it's also where missionaries who are about to be sent to the field stay for training.  I'm just geussing but I bet it provides the old missionaries an oppertunity to mentor the young ones.

And that's when it hit me.  How many missionary sending boards think about retirement for their missionaries, or have a place for them to go when they are rushed back to the US because of health issues, or because war has errupted where they were living?

I can identify with the evacuation thing.  The summer between my 3rd and 4th grade years war broke out just north of our home in the Middle East.  Saddam Hussein had invaded Kuwait.  Thankfully we were already in the States on vacation, but many of my friends can tell you stories of gas masks and evacuation plans.

Though we were already in safety, our plans to return home were abruptly cancelled and my parents were trying to quickly come up with a plan for a place for us to live in the mean time.  That plan ended up including several tough months crammed in my grandparents house, and then several months in the house my parents ended up purchasing in the same town.

Thankfully after a year it was relatively safe again and we returned to the Middle East.  Though it could have been a lot more hectic and scary than it actually was, it is still a year of vivid memories, and was filled with a lot of quesitons and fears.

When I was spending time with my friends we talked about a lot of things, like what the stuff donated in the missionary bin actually looks like, and whether it's actually used, and what it's like to dress your kids out of it.

I really started thinking, we talk so much about supporting missionaries in the church, when we do, we talk about things like praying, and giving money.  But what about the spiritual and emotional needs?  What about clothing that needs to be bought new (like underwear, that doesn't get donated)  What about maintaining relationships with these people and their kids so that when they do return to the States, whether for furlough or forever, they don't feel like they are floundering and completely alone.

One time I was hanging out with my missionary cousin.  They were in the States for a very quick visit due to a death in the family.  They took me to the bookstore and said "you read a lot, put some books in the cart."  I'm not joking, they trusted me completely, I felt a little weird, what if they don't like my selections and this is what their stuck with to read in the next 2 years?  The next time they were in the States for a longer period of time, I sent a box of books I had read that were sitting on my shelf.  I said "take what you want, donate the rest to Goodwill."  What if the next time I bought a book I really wanted to read, I bought two copies and sent the 2nd to a missionary friend, or even bought one copy and sent it on after finishing it?  What if the next time I buy new underwear, I by a gift card to the same store to send to a missionary sending board to be passed on to someone in their ministry who needs it?  What if the next time missionaries from my church are in town, I invited them over for dinner, or took them to my favorite restaurant, or took them hiking on my favorite trail?  What if I wrote their birthdays on my calendar and sent them birthday cards?

I am just beginning to process all this, and wonder what it means for me.  I have several friends who are missionaries overseas.  How can I be a better sister in Christ to them?  How can is support them beyond praying and donating to their fund?
I haven't gotten to far into this process, but I started reading here, just to understand the needs better.  Do you have ideas?  I'd love to hear them, maybe we can embark on this journey of supporting our missionary friends better together.  And I know some of my missionary friends are reading this, I love you, I'm praying for you, and I would love your honest feedback too.

And they shall call it... THE DECEMBER HOLIDAY

I posted this last year on Facebook, and as I was putting up my tree again this year, I thought about it again.

I think one of the greatest fears for my parents who raised their children overseas was that their kids would miss out on life back here in the states. They feared we would miss out on strong relationships by not living near grandparents, aunts and uncles, cousins. Around holidays like Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter that fear was heightened and so I think they may have overcompensated a bit. Not in the magnitude of gifts given, but in the traditions they created for our family, and the traditions we participated in within our community. My mom and her friend Danielle threw an immense Christmas tea. My parents gave us tree ornaments that in someway represented things we had done, or seen, or places we had traveled, or our life in the Middle East that year. We caroled with our youth group at peoples houses. We had dinner with other families before or after the Christmas eve service, depending on what time it was. My mom cooked an immense amount of cookies. We read Christmas books. We had the visitor from the north. I even wrote him a letter about how to break in through the sliding door since our houses didn't have chimneys. This morning at church my pastor was talking about the Lottie Moon fund which supports foreign missionaries, and for which the southern baptist convention collects funds during December. I couldn't help but think about the annual Dorcas bizarre and chili cook off put on by the women of the fellowship I grew up in. Because we lived in a country where Christmas decorations and such were pretty much not available, the women spent most of the year meeting weekly to craft their own. They used everything and anything imaginable, from beautiful fabrics and laces to paperclips and the metal tops of frozen juice concentrate cans.

Paper clip ice skates :)

The orange juice lid, one of my all time favorites.

This may look like an ugly cat with a jacket, but when I look at this ornament, I think of Arpy Tarakjian. Anyone who knows Ms Arpy, knows that every time I look at this ornament, I smile.

I was reminded of the hours of time my mother and her friends spent crafting as I decorated my tree this afternoon. As I placed ornaments on the tree, I thought of specific women who created various items, I thought about the time they had spent on those things, which ultimately raised funds for missions in places like India, thousands and thousands of dollars, and I thought about the time those women spent on me, teaching me things like a love for God's Word, His Work, and His people. I was reminded of the anticipation that built as the sale grew closer, and the men started to organize their contribution, the chili and cornbread dinner. I remembered helping my mom and her friends frantically finish pricing items as women lined up outside to come into the sale. It was our own small scale version of black friday. I thought about the Thanksgiving and Christmas mornings after Desert Storm, when we would stand in the "cold" waiting for the 3 or 4 service men we would have in our home for my mom's unbelievable roast and the fun it was to take those members of the US military to the beach. I remember showing some of them the ocean for the first time in their lives. I remember the first time I went to a mall at Christmas time here in the States. I was 15, it was an overwhelming experience. Yes we may have missed out on crazy shopping frenzy, and mall traffic. We may have missed out on snow. I never spent a holiday with my paternal grandfather, ever, before he died, maybe the 1 thing I wish could have been different. But I am grateful, for the experiences and memories we did have. And I am grateful that every year I can pull out my Christmas decorations, and put names, faces, and memories to so many people who helped shape me. Thanks

How far will you drive?

Yesterday I had lunch with a friend whom I grew up with.

She lives in Texas now, but was visiting Nashville, so after a bit of figuring out, we met for lunch halfway. It was just over an hour for me, 45 minutes of driving for her. In all honesty, it was a very short drive, a drop in the bucket. I have gone much further for just breakfast, and probably will again.

I remember when I was in boarding school, I would get so excited when we were playing at certain schools, St Andrews for example. I had several friends (Jodi, Emily, Lacy, Anne) who all went to school there. When I went to play soccer there, I would often see Jodi. When we swam there, I would swim against Emily, Lacy, and Anne. Even if we didn't have long to catch up, even if we were on opposing teams, it was comforting for me just simply to have seen them.

I find myself so frequently having to, or feeling the need to, explain myself. But with those girls, there is not need, they have all been there, on the bus to khobar to shop, to Rahima to grab shwarmas, on the random "field trips" to the beach with Mr. Drum.

I hear so often "wow you have had so many crazy experiences," or "wow, you have been so many places."

With them, I hear "hey remember the 9th grade trip to the Red Sea when ..." or "hey remember how we used to.... on the plane from London" and it feels completely normal. I don't feel like my life is an anomaly.

God has blessed my life with so many people, from so many places. I love so many people here in my small town, and I love so many people in New England, and so many former students and athletes and coworkers from Michigan.

But there is just something so special and comforting about the other Aramco Brats, even if we weren't super close friends growing up.

And it is for this reason that I will always drive, always take time off from work, always make it work, if there is an opportunity to see them, even if it's just for lunch.

I mean seriously, how many groups of people can have in depth conversations on the use of golf carts for off roading in sand dunes, or the difference in cleanliness of the bathrooms at the old Dhahran airport and the new Dhahran airport? Or the pros and cons of the Al-Shula mall as opposed to the Al-Rashid mall? (before the shula burned down after being on fire for several days of course)

Fictive Families

The other day I was on the phone with Arwen, when she made an incredible insight on my life.

She has been doing a lot of training for her job lately and she came across the term "fictive family" also known as "fictive kin"

Fictive family or kin is a grouping of people who are not related to each other biologically or through marriage, but act as though they are.

For example, when Arwen and her husband have children, they will know me as Auntie Cate, the same term my niece and nephew use for me. It will not be till Arwen's kids are a little older that they will understand that I am not actually their aunt, but am rather a close friend of their parents.

Everywhere I have ever lived, until I moved to Kentucky, I have been in places where fictive family is incredibly common.

In the Middle East where I grew up, no one had their actual biological grandparents or aunts and uncles around, so other people, friends of my parents, fit into that role. It wasn't a conscious decision, it just kind of happened. I didn't spend holidays like Christmas or Easter with biological aunts, uncles, and cousins. I did however spend them with close friends of my parents.

In New England it is also very common to form fictive families.

Though my Aunt and Uncle lived just an hour from school, it was not uncommon for me to have several different options for any given holiday or long weekend if I wasn't going to their house.

My freshman year, I went home to northern NH with my friend Ty for spring break.
During that trip it was as if I was melded into her family. Later on, after Ty transferred to chiropractic school, I would sometimes call her when she was at her parent's house, her dad would answer the phone and we would talk for a good 15 minutes or more before Ty would demand the phone from him.

Then there is my camp family, the people I worked with in the White Mountains for 2 summers, and worked church retreats on weekends frequently in the winter with. They are part of my family too, as protective of me as my own brothers, they are the sisters I never had.

When I go to New England in the summer to visit, I visit my family, and I visit my friends, and I also visit my friends' families, because the reality is that in some ways, they are just as much my family, as my real family.

This fictive family is what I have really been missing here. The Easter celebrations with a mesh of people who don't look like they belong together, but do. The protective fathers and brothers, who protect you, as they protect their own daughters and sisters. I miss the older brothers who take you snowmobiling and go slower than they normally would because they know you are on the back and don't want to freak you out. I miss the sisters and moms, who laugh as they introduce you to the art of milking cows, and explain that it's okay to drink it without pasteurization. I miss the cousins who help you break into a locked room through a window to save the wedding dress, in pajamas, all while laughing so hard you are crying.

And just as these people have been fictive family to me, my family has been fictive family to others, inviting bachelors over to be a part of family dinners, making sure the grandparents with no kids or grandchildren around joined us for holidays. My mom is a notorious source of advice. I can't tell you how many times people have said "Cate I'm buying a new sewing machine, can I have your mom's number to talk to her?" or "Cate can I talk to your mom about how she handled... when you guys were kids?"

Arwen often says "I'll come pick you up at Brenda's, I want to see her anyway." My Aunt will often inquire about Arwen. They have become fictive family.

In Kentucky the biological family is an incredibly strong force, and that is not a bad thing, but it is much less common for people to invite outsiders into that unit.

I am thankful for this insight, a name to something I have been trying to explain for some time.

Anne Lamott- Traveling Mercies

The other day I made a quick pit stop on my very rushed lunch break. I ran into the library to grab a book to read. I didn't have much time, so when Anne Lamott's Traveling Mercies caught my eye, I grabbed it. I left it in my car.

The next day, my plans for the day were completely rearranged when a student athlete needed immediate medical attention.

I spent most of the day sitting in the ER, and on our way in, I grabbed the book to take with me.

As I was reading, I came across the following section.

"Pammy and I basked in Lee's love like lizards on sunny rocks. Lee lay beside me in bed when I couldn't sleep and whispered the Twenty-third Psalm to me: "'The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want' - I am not wanting for anything, Annie. Let's find a green pasture inside us to rest in. Let's find the still waters within." She'd lay beside me quietly for a while as we listened to the tide of the lagoon lap against the dock. Then she'd go on: "'Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,' Annie, not 'Yea, as I end up living forever in the valley…'" And she prayed for the Good Shepherd to gather my thoughts like sheep. I did not quite believe in the power of her Mother-Father God, because my frightened lamby thoughts seemed to be stampeding toward a wall, piling up on each other's backs, bleating plaintively while their wild eyes darted around frantically. But I believed in Lee, and I felt her arms around me… and Lee would whisper me to sleep"

While I don't necessarily completely agree with all of Lamott's theology, the book is the story of her journey towards Christianity, and this section is recalling an experience she had as a child spending the night at a friend's whose' family was Christian Science.

The words really resonated in my life. It is easy, while in a set of circumstances to forget that those circumstances are temporary, and that we are not alone.

The 23rd Psalm goes on to say, "even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil, for thou art with me."

It's a part of scripture I know well. I memorized it for $1 when I was in 4th grade, the year when our lives were in total upheaval. It was the year Saddam Hussein invaded Kuwait, the year we spent half living in my grandparents' house, half living in our own. It was the year that we went to public school in America and didn't come home for lunch. The year my dad was at home working, and my mom was with us in safety. It was the year we heard on the radio that a scud missile had landed on a warehouse, just behind our favorite pizza place and Baskin Robins, killing lots of troops.

And even then He was with us, and even now as I walk through this life, wondering where He is leading, He is with me.

The Jersey Shore isn't real

Recently Abercrombie told the members of the show Jersey Shore that they would pay them a significant sum of money to stop wearing Abercrombie apparel.

What the people at Abercrombie know is that Jersey Shore isn't really how people in America typically behave and that it was giving a bad image to their products.

When most Americans watch shows like the Jersey Shore, or The Office, or Seinfeld, or Sex in the City, or Friends, or Baywatch, they might enjoy the show, but they fully realize that for the most part it is fiction. There may some elements of truth in the show, but life for most Americans isn't how it is on the show.

Ironically though, we export those shows to countries around the world, where people don't realize that the show isn't an accurate portrayal of life in America. Television and movies are one of the biggest exports out of this country.

What this means is that there maybe people in say China, who have never ever interacted with an American, but they've seen countless episodes of Jersey Shore, and therefore think that it is an accurate portrayal of the average American.

Ooops.

This is the exact reason that I find the movie Borat, though generally inappropriate, completely HILARIOUS. I grew up listening to third world nationals imitating the phrases they heard on whatever pirated version of the latest blockbuster they had just watched.

Think of the confusion when they are all of a sudden interacting with an American tourist, and their vocabulary consists of the expert phrases they learned in school like "do you have any turnips?" and of course the cool phrases they learned from....

Which brings me to my experience over the last several days.

I interact with international students on a regular basis. It's something I really enjoy.

So over the past week I have been taking care of a student who is a freshman, fresh off the plane, who has pretty decent English. And he doesn't realize the F bomb and S bomb aren't really appropriate in places like, say the waiting area at a large clinic.

For all that I need to sit him down and gently say "hey in America, those words aren't really very appropriate in this setting" I don't want to embarrass him, which he would be, he is trying hard to be cool. (also a word he uses a lot) And quite frankly, I think it's not really his fault, it's our fault, as a society, for projecting that image and not giving an accurate portrayal of life in this country. But overtime, he will be embarrassed when he accidentally seriously offends someone, without intending to. So we will have the conversation, but I won't tell him that it's also not cool to say the double bye because it's hilarious, and one of my favorite things about new international students. It cracks me up, every time, when they end the conversation by saying "okay Cate, bye bye"

The 1988 Olympics

Do you remember the 1988 Olympics? In Seouls, Korea?

I sure do.

I remember Ben Johnson from Canada winning the 100 yard dash in blazing speed, beating Carl Lewis, only to be disqualified later when he tested positive for using performance enhancing drugs.


I remember Greg Louganis hitting his head on the diving board, and still wining gold.


I remember Byun Jong-Il losing his bout in boxing and then refusing to leave the ring as he sat for hours in protest. Sorry there were no youtube videos, most people probably don't remember it as a highlight.

I remember watching Janet Evans, with her unconventional straight armed stroke style winning 3 Olympic Golds, and setting some world records also.


I remember watching Matt Biondi winning 5 Gold medals in the pool, it would have been 6 had he not glided to the wall at the end of the 100 meter fly and was beaten by Anthony Nesty of Suriname, a guy from a country no one had ever heard of.


I remember watching Florence Griffith Joyner, and Jackie Joyner Kersee, and the horseback riding events.

I remember watching because in our family we watched it over and over and over again.

Growing up in the Middle East, we didn't really have television. We never watched Saturday morning cartoons. We had television pretty much only in the afternoon and evening, and it was interrupted for prayer time.

Needless to say we didn't watch television much, we really just watched tapes.

Sometime shortly after the summer of 1988, our family was given one of the best gifts we were ever given by my aunt and uncle. They had taped the entire television coverage of the 1988 Olympics. For our athletics loving, soccer playing, competitive swimming family, it was an awesome gift.

That was the first and only Olympics I had the opportunity to watch until I was a freshman in college and watched the 2000 Olympics in Sydney.

When it was too hot to play outside, or we were bored, we could always agree to watch the games in Seoul, Korea.

Sometimes we watched it in chronological order, sometimes we just picked out the best tapes and watched those.

When I was in high school and college and was home for the break, and was jet lagged and awake in the middle of the night, my brothers and I would pop in the tapes of the 1988 Olympics.

With the frequency that we watched those tapes (there were about 16-20 of them?) it's amazing that they lasted.

Ironically, we weren't the only family in our small town that had a set of tapes of the 1988 Olympics.

The summer after my parents moved back to the United States, my younger brother and I were sitting at our parents' new home in Michigan. I suggested that we pop in a tape of the 1988 Olympics. My brother liked the idea, and as he got up to choose a tape, my mom tried to hide her face.

"Mom where are they?" he asked.

At that point my parents were still unpacking boxes.

"We didn't bring them back." she admitted.

It was a logical decision by my parents who had packed up while my brothers and I were away at school.

But it was sad, and every time I visit my parents' home, I feel like something is missing.

How to use a vending machine

This past weekend I drove to Missouri to spend time with my cousin and her family. They live overseas and I was excited to spend some time with them while they are here. I was especially excited to get to know her kids a little, though I grew up in a different country than the one they are growing up in, there are a lot of shared experiences.

Recently I blogged about my experience trying to give blood, it was so surprising to me, I or my parents never expected I would never be able to give blood to be a consequence of our living in a foreign country. It's the little things, that normally catch you of guard when you are a third culture kid.

While I was staying with my cousin, we went to a famous restaurant called Lambert's, it's known for it's delicious and over-sized food, and the fact that they throw bread. It's also known for really long waits on Saturday's, or anytime really. I was excited to see the kids reactions to the flying food.

My cousin's husband and mother in law went ahead of us to reserve a table and wait, and we showed up with the three kids about 15 minutes before our name was called. While we were waiting, the 5 year-old pointed to a coke machine and said "what is that?"

Like I said, it's the little things that catch you off guard.

It made me laugh as I thought about all the times as a kid, when I or my brothers would ask about something random while visiting the states.

What followed was 5 minute description of the methods and reasons one would insert money into the machine, choose a beverage, and wait for it to come out of the hole at the bottom, chilled.

It was bizarre for me to watch as an adult, and to see the reactions of the strangers standing around. It was clear to me that they were both very interested in our conversation, and perplexed as to why this kid didn't know about vending machines.

And then for about the next 10 minutes the boys put coins in the machine and pushed the coin return button, over and over.

I'm glad I got to be a part of that conversation, and I am excited about being part of their lives as they navigate life straddling 2 cultures, and creating their own. I am looking forward to more conversations like that in the future. I realized this weekend that because of my childhood, God has gifted me in special ways to be able to encourage them and minister to them, and I am grateful.

The Journey

In March of 2002 my old Bible was falling apart. It was a hard cover Student Bible, the cover had fallen off and been duct taped back on a bunch. The cover had been covered in orange construction paper and had stickers on it, mainly for the purpose of taking it back and forth easier to places where taking a Bible isn't easy.
I decided it was time for a new copy of my favorite book.
I bought a blue leather NIV study Bible.
It was shiny and beautiful. It was hard to navigate compared to my old student Bible. There were no notes in the margins, no favorite underlined verses. It didn't flip to favorite sections easily.
Over time, as I journeyed through life with it, it broke itself in. It's sections got underlined in various colors of ink, pages got dog eared. It has traveled with me all over the country, it has been on a mission trip to South America. It made the emotional move from undergrad to grad school, and my parents moving back to the States for good. It made another move, from grad school in Michigan to my first real job in Kentucky, and from one church to another. It has been there for me when "friends" weren't really very friendly. It has been there when life was hard. It has been there when life has been really awesome. It has been thrown in backpacks, and shoved in suitcases. In fact there isn't any trip or any experience that the blue leather Bible hasn't literally traveled with me through.

Over the last year or so, it has really started to fall apart. The cover started to come off, and was glued back on, with rubber cement, and then again with super glue. It was glued back together and put in a vice.

Several weeks ago, a section came unattached from the binding. Then shortly after that, the binding split apart.

Then this past week the cover came off again.

As I was laying in bed this past week reading, I realized that Bible was ready for retirement, and it made me sad.

I thought about all the experiences that I, and there for the book, have been through. Missing friends, confusing relationships, big overwhelming decisions, great joys, great sorrows, all kinds of tears.

The thought of having to choose a new one, and start all over with stiff unmarked pages is actually a little intimidating. But like every journey, no matter how long it is, there is a time when it ends, and eventually you wind up back home.

Fine, I'll keep it then

I tried to give blood yesterday. I've always wanted to give blood, but in the past had never been able to because I had spent time in a area of the world that had malaria, I had never gone 3 years without being in a place considered high risk for it.

So yesterday, when I got an email stating that blood was desperately needed at the local hospital, and especially A+, I looked at the calendar and realized it had been 3 years since I got back from Colombia. I called and made an appointment.

I also called a friend to ask if she could drive me home, since I tend to get very dizzy and light headed when my blood is drawn, I've had really bad experiences in the past.

I was so excited, I couldn't wait to finally contribute in this way.

I got to the blood donation center, and they pricked my finger. They determined that I was most definitely NOT anemic.

Then they started on the long list of questions.

Have you taken antibiotics in the last week? NO
Have you had a vaccine in the last month? NO
Have you had sex with a prostitute or someone who takes money for sex? No
Have you had sex with a male who has had sex with males? No
Have you been to Africa? Yes
Did you have sex in Africa? Absolutely not
Have you ever been told that you are HIV positive? NO
Have you gotten a tattoo in the last year? I don't have tattoos
Have you taken drugs through a needle? No
Have you had sex with someone who takes drugs through a needle? again NO

It went on and on. It felt like one of those facebook questionnaires, only a really inappropriate and awkward one.

And then we got to the following question.

"Did spend 3 months or more cumulatively in England between the years 1980 and 1996?"
I had to think a bit, do a little math in my head, and then I said, "cumulatively? Yes, I spent approximately 4 days or more in England every year between 1982 and 2002."

Then she dropped it, the giant bomb, "then you can't give blood"
I'm sure the look of shock on my face was priceless.
"You mean ever in my life?"

"Yes you can never give blood, unless the FDA changes it's regulations."

"Is this because of mad cow disease?"

"yes"

"Wouldn't I have already gotten sick from it by now, had I been exposed to the virus that causes mad cow disease? I mean I know you don't make the rules, this is just astounding to me."

She said she was sorry, I told her it was okay, it wasn't really her fault.

Then I told my friend, who was waiting to drive me home that I didn't need her services because I can never give blood.

Then I called my mom as I drove home.

This is what blows my mind, I've traveled to China, back in the early 80's, back when it wasn't like it is now, I've been to Zimbabwe and South Africa, I've been to Colombia. Shoot at certain times of the year in the town I grew up in, this spray truck drives around with some chemical misting the air, to kill the mosquito larvae, which carry malaria and things of that nature. I've been on planes flying out of countries, where the regulation is that they have to spray the plane, while the passengers hold their breath, to kill any lurking bugs, before take off.

And none of that disqualifies me from giving blood.

Ironically, my dad is a regular blood donor, and they must have started asking this question after he could give blood in the states because his 3 year malaria window had passed, because he has recently given blood.

I called my brother, who told me that he gave blood a month ago, they asked him the same question, he answered it the same way, and then they asked if he had received medical care in the United Kingdom, he said no, and they said he could donate.

I checked the FDA website and apparently the nurse here is completely right, and they should stop accepting my brothers' and my dad's blood. My mom can never give blood either.

It's always amazing to me, the things that come up, that I never expected would ever be an issue because of my childhood growing up overseas and travelling the world.

I think it's pretty safe to say, that ever in my wildest dreams, I never expected that visiting London frequently, and Northern Ireland too, would disqualify me from ever donating blood. I wonder if they can take my organs when I die, or if they will be considered contaminated.

Bugs in the rice.

There are times in my life when it is undeniably obvious that my childhood, though an exciting adventure, was very much bizarre.

When I came back to the United States for boarding school, there were things that I knew were different about my upbringing, no one had to tell me that.

Though my friends and I had tried to stay current, we were definitely out of touch with current culture here in the US.

What caught me off guard at times, still catches me off guard sometimes, are the little things that I just assumed were normal. The things that pop up out of the blue and throw me off a little, and remind me that though I have been in the states for most of the time for the last 15 years, the desert and community that I grew up in is still a big part of who I am.

One day, late in my college career, my junior or senior year, I was down in the athletic training room fulfilling my clinical hours. I was treating a student athlete when she said, "You will never guess what I found in my rice, it was so disgusting."

Me: "were there bugs?"

Student athlete: "How did you know?"

Me: "It's not that unusual to have bugs in the rice. Just throw it in the freezer for a couple days, it will kill them. Then when you cook the rice the bugs will float to the top and you can just skim them off."

AWKWARD SILENCE

Student athlete: "are you joking? I'm not freezing it and skimming the bugs off, I'm taking it back to the store for an exchange."

Me: "Why would you do that? If there are bugs in your bag, there are probably bugs in the whole shipment, so the bag you exchange it with will have bugs too."

Then I looked up from what I was doing and noticed that about five people were staring at me.

"You are so weird" someone said.

"What? It's not normal for there to be bugs in the rice here?" I replied

"No Cate it is not normal"

"Oh, I didn't know" was all I could think to say.

And still pretty much anytime I throw rice into a pot I am still amazed that there are no bugs.

Sure, I can translate that

One time I was called over from my office to another one of our facilities, one of my graduate assistances couldn't understand a student athlete. The student athlete was trying hard to be understood, and the GA was trying hard to understand, but there was just nothing that was being conveyed on either end.

One time I was told "Cate for the first year I was here in the states, you were the only person who I ever really thought understood what I was saying."

One time I was handed the phone and told "translate"
Translate? Okay? I didn't know what to expect from the other end.
I found an English speaker, but not a native English speaker.

The other day I was spending time with a group of athletes I work with who speak Portuguese as their first language. One of them has been teaching me for several months. I can say exciting things like "hello how are you" and name parts of the body, and different articles of clothing. He even taught me "it's too hard." But fluent I am not.
So I was standing there with two of them, and watching as their teammate yelled at himself in Portuguese. And after every statement he made, I would give my translation.
"HIT THE BALL"
"HIS SERVE IS HORRIBLE"
"ARE YOU KIDDING ME"

The young man on the left was astonished. "Cate your Portuguese is so good! I can't believe it"

The one on the right was laughing so hard I think he was about to pee his pants "Dude she doesn't speak Portuguese, I swear." He is the one who has been teaching me, he knows the truth.

It became a joke, and so now every time I am out watching a match, they will say "Cate what did he just say?" and I will give my translation. Most of the time I am pretty accurate. On Sunday one of them said something to the other and I said "Let's go get some Quiznos." They started laughing, it's what they do.
"NO Cate, I said "let's go get our stuff""
I told him that I was close enough. Sandwiches from Quiznos, stuff, same difference.

The thing that has really struck me about it though, is that it's not that hard. For one, just look at the context. Look at the body language, body language is a large part of communication.

Sometimes when I am watching television, I find it very funny that they will put captions with a person who is not a native English speaker, I think to myself "Really? Is it that hard to understand him."

Sometimes when I am at a restaurant, and I hear someone trying to order in English, when they would much rather speak Urdu or Arabic or French, and the waitress is being impatient, I get frustrated. I want to get up and go over and say "seriously, it's not that hard, listen carefully and watch what she is saying. Quit being so lazy, and be a better communicator, they are trying really hard, they aren't the problem here."

I have even noticed lately that when I am around internationals, I change the way I speak. I slow way down, and I enunciate, and sometimes I add a bit of an accent. I don't really even realize I am doing it, it just happens.

I have had to recognize that from a young age, my ear has been trained to listen harder, to understand English with all sorts of different accents. Your average american has not had this experience, and I need to be patient with them.

So in the mean time, while they learn to listen better, I'd be happy to translate, your English into English.

Sunrise, Sunset

I love to watch the sunrise. I love it when I'm out for a run that is timed right, and the sun comes up as I'm running. I love to watch the sunset as I am driving over the lakes near my house.
I take lots of pictures of sunsets.

This is the sun setting over a farm in Missouri that belongs to family friends.

Sunrise on a hiking trip in the White Mountains of New Hampshire

Sunset over the pacific ocean in San Diego, CA

Sunset while driving over Kentucky Lake

Sunset over Hematite Lake in LBL on a winter hike.

Sunrise over Wallis Sands beach, Rye, New Hampshire



There is just something peaceful to me about watching the sun come up, or go down, it's even better over water. Some people have a spot or a place that they go when they need to find some solace or do some deep thinking. I don't necessarily have a specific spot, and I don't even have to be alone.

Sometimes I will randomly stop as I'm loading groceries into my car, and look up at the sky

Like this.

Once I took a whole series of photos of these clouds, and the sun reflecting off them at a baseball game



Maybe it's because I grew up watching this

And maybe it's why I am very very excited to have some potential time this coming week to wake-up early, and watch the sunrise, potentially over a large body of water, otherwise known as the ocean!!!

Sober Hope

There are always rumors that women will be allowed to drive in Saudi Arabia soon.

In 2002, there was an election for parliament in Bahrain. It was the first election in that country since 1975.

People ask me all the time about my childhood in the Middle East. They want to know, was it horrible? No it wasn't. They want to know, what am I eating? It looks gross they say.


Sometimes they want my opinion about Middle Eastern politics.
It's complicated I say.

Last weekend I was watching the protests in Egypt with some people. They asked a lot of questions.
Who is Hosni Mubarak?
What is the Islamic Brotherhood?
Why are they protesting when they already have a democracy, I mean they have a president?

Then a friend sent me a message. What is my opinion on the situation in Egypt? He wanted to know.

I sent him a very long and confusing reply.

Then I sent him another long and confusing reply.

Then I sent him an apology for the 2 long and confusing messages.

I compared my younger brother's personality and my personality to Arabs and Americans.

I told him that I didn't think the US getting involved would make anything better.

I told him that it was my hope that one day the people of the Middle East would enjoy similar freedoms to those we have here in the United States. I don't mean that the Middle East would be just like the United States, but that the people there would be able to choose their leaders, have freedom of speech, freedom of the press, freedom to worship as they please.

I told him that I am hopeful, but that the hope is sober, because in the Arab world, it's complicated. You just don't believe it till you see it.

I really hope that there is no change to the shwarma industry. I didn't tell him that, I don't think he knows what shwarma is.

I got hungry for Arab food, so I went to the store and bought the stuff to make tabbouleh, and humus.

Yesterday I started watching Al Jazeera's English broadcast live. I kept running back to my office to grab brief updates. I shouted them to my coworker. I think he was only interested because I was so excited.

When Hosni Mubarak came on national television in Egypt and told the people he was not stepping down I saw the people wave their shoes at him.

I knew that this is one of the most awful signs of disrespect an Arab can show.
I remembered about the time when the guy in Iraq threw a shoe at President Bush. I remembered how the American press took it as "this guy wanted to kill him but all he had was a shoe, it's a safety issue" and I laughed, not at the disrespect, but that they didn't realize it was disrespect. Not a safety issue folks, it's his version of the middle finger.

Someone asked me last night what I thought now that Hosni Mubarak had not stepped down.

I told them that I didn't think it was over yet. In the morning it was going to be Friday, the last day of the week. The holy day. There would be even more people in the street.

This morning I got up and swam.
Then I quickly checked Al Jazeerah and Facebook.
I saw millions of people it seemed in the streets chanting.
My friend had this quote posted from a youtube video.
‎"fi kolli share3 fi blady, sout el 7orriya binadi"- In every street in my homeland, the sound of freedom is calling.

Then I went to do something I had to do for work.
Then I went to my office to work on paperwork.

I opened Al Jazeerah on my computer literally just as Omar Suleiman announced on national television in Egypt that Hosni Mubarak had stepped down.

I heard the reporters stop talking, stop translating. I heard the voice, of the people, of Egypt. It was loud and clear, even through the news broadcast on the internet. I saw them dancing. I saw a fire breather. I heard celebratory gunfire.

Then the commentary started up again.
I heard a woman say, in very clear English "I have been working for this all my adult life." She paused to compose herself. "I don't have words." Her voice cracked, "I never thought I would see this in my lifetime."

Another reporter, the same exact age as me said through tears, "I was born days after Mubarak took power. I have never known anything but the regime."

I posted on facebook, congratulating Egypt, for their peaceful demonstrations.

I heard an american commentator state that they were concerned, what if the elected government doesn't agree with the US policies in Israel and other places?
Um really? You would want to deny an entire country of people the same rights that you, as an American citizen enjoy, because you are fearful that the government they choose may not agree with some US foreign policy?
Isn't that the point? That the people of Egypt, should get to go to the polls and cast their vote? And choose their leaders, for their country?

I thought "this woman is completely missing the point, it's not about foreign policy, it's about human rights"

Someone commented on my facebook status, that it was an unbelievable story. But it's more than that, it's hope.
Hope that the people of Egypt can keep things together, and hold free and fair elections, and choose their government.
Hope that they can make the ideals that they have a reality.
Hope that they can be a model for other Arab nations.
Hope that they can enjoy freedoms like we have the privilege of enjoying.

The only difference is that because they have fought for those rights, they will probably actually show up to vote.

But that hope is sober, there is still a long way to go.

Trust me I'm American.

Recently a childhood friend has been posting on facebook about frustrations as she tries to get new documentation because her wallet was stolen.
My brother once was denied a drivers licence, because he doesn't have an actual birth certificate in English.
Both my brother and my friend look american, act american, sound american.
The problem is that they have a harder time proving that they are actually american, than the average american.
They were both born in Saudi Arabia. They have an Arabic birth certificate. They have a translation of the Arabic birth certificate. They also have a Consular Report of Birth of a Citizen of the United States of America, Form FS-240. In order to obtain the documentation of citizenship, my parents had to travel approximately an hour, go through a fairly intense security screening, and fill out the proper paperwork with the US Consular in Dhahran, oh and pay the fees. Currently the hours of operation at the Consulate in Dhahran, KSA are Saturday- Wednesday 1-3:30, and it is closed on the last business day of every month. In order to obtain the Report of Birth, the parents have to file for it within 30 days of birth, they have to present the parents passports, marriage certificate, and the newborn has to be present with the parents. Then after the Report of Birth is obtained, the parents can apply for the passport. Passports can only be applied 1-3:30 Saturday-Tuesday. Needless to say, several trips to the Consular were probably made. Having had to make trips to the Consulate as a kid growing up every couple years to get my passport renewed, I can attest, it's not the funnest experience. And you always have to go back more than once. You go to apply, and then you go back to pick up the passport, minimum 2 trips. And if you are caught behind a 99 car pile-up on the way there and you get there at 3:31, sorry about your luck, come back tomorrow. I'm not joking about the 99 car pile up either, we actually counted, we probably missed a few, it was probably more like 105 at least.

The average worker at the DMV or the local social security office is not familiar with such documentation. Shortly after 9/11, the State of New Hampshire decided it would start requiring birth certificates when people applied for driver's licences. My brother was a sophomore in college, he was trying to transfer his licence from Michigan to New Hampshire. The person at the desk said "I need a copy of your birth certificate."
My brother replied "This is my birth certificate."
She responded "it's not in English."
He said "I know here is the official translation."
She said "I can't accept this."
He said "This is my Consular Report of Birth of a Citizen of the United States of America."
She said "I can't accept this, it's not a birth certificate."
He was growing frustrated "This is issued by the US State Department"
She wouldn't budge "I can't accept this."
He was probably shouting at this point "I already have a driver's licence from another state, another state here in the United States!"
She responded again "I can't accept that."

He ended up at the Governor's office, in Concord, at the state capital, to explain that their new policy was a little flawed. He eventually was granted a New Hampshire driver's licence.

My friend joked that it might be easier to get a new social security card if she pretended to be an illegal immigrant. She is probably right.

When we left Saudi for good on Dec 30, 2002, we knew that it was unlikely that we would ever go back, even to visit. We also knew that there is a lot of who we are wrapped up in a small active beach community on the Arabian Gulf, you may know it as the Persian Gulf. We knew that we would miss the trips out the Rahima, the local town just outside our compound gates for shawarmas, and bread, and the vegetable stand. We knew there were a lot of things that we would miss. I don't think my brother was fully prepared for the frustrating circumstances he would occasionally find himself in, where he would struggle to prove his citizenship, which has never been in question.

My older brother and I were both born here in the United States, we have not had to deal with these same frustrations. We were about this age when my parents were working on getting my younger brother declared a US citizen from birth.

Here my brothers are later on, at the beach in our town. And our boat. Fun times.

Mixed emotions

My grandfather past away sometime during the day on Tuesday. The details of his passing have yet to be made clear though he has been extremely ill with a long list of ailments for about the last 3 1/2 years. It was something that my family has been expecting for a long time. I think today when I told some coworkers that I would be out of the office till Tuesday for my grandfather's funeral they were a bit perplexed. I had to tell them that I wasn't especially upset about it.
I know that every family has drama, and that compared to some people's drama, my family's drama is really minuscule. None the less, my relationship with my mother's parents has never been especially good. I was looking through pictures to find one to post here and I realized that I have relatively few. I have tons of my dad's mom and dad. I have several of my mom's Aunt Lois and her husband Uncle Paul. When I really truly think about it, Aunt Lois and Uncle Paul were much more active in our lives growing up and I have fond memories of visiting them at their house in New Bedford, MA. My brothers used to have crab apple fights in her yard, we used to eat meals together on her amazing screened in porch. Paul was the owner of a very well known art store in Cambridge. I always left their house with a bookmark, or a post card of some painting or another. Paul and Lois took an active role in getting to know who we were individually as people and we always always loved visiting them when we were back in the states. The following picture is from the last time I visited them before Paul died and Lois moved out of their house.

Summer vacations to the states always included trips to the cottage in Maine with my dad's mom and dad. We call them Nana and Poppi. Poppi passed away when I was a freshman in high school. Nana always wonders when I am coming up to visit again. We always spent at least a week at the lake with them, and my Auntie Brenda, and her dogs, first it was buffy, then it was Kato. I think my love of dogs comes from my aunt. We used to go sailing on my dad's sunfish, Poppi used to pull us in inner tubes behind his motorized canoe. I'm seriously not joking, he invented tubing. We sometimes would take the canoe to an island across the lake an picnic. We would build fires and pick blueberries. When they sold the cottage when I was 13 or so because my grandfather was having some health issues and couldn't take care of it anymore, we were very sad. After they sold the cottage we would spend the week at Auntie Brenda's. She had a pool in the backyard, and Kato, and we would float around on inner tubes. We avoided the diving board because I am pretty sure it had a bees nest in it. The following are pictures from those times with Nana and Poppi


.
The last picture is Nana with my brothers and I the morning of Auntie Brenda's wedding the summer of 1996, I think Nana had just told Ian to look normal for a picture for once in his life. She says that almost anytime she is in a picture with Ian, they tease each other a lot.
Every summer after we spent time in Maine with Nana and Poppi, we would fly or drive out to Michigan to see my mom's parents. Those times were always always stressful. My grandmother used to yell at us it seemed like just for breathing, in reality it was probably for kicking a soccer ball or throwing a football, outside. There was always arguments, from a very young age I remember being angry about the way my mom was treated by her mother. As I grew older I would get angry at the way my mother was treated by her mother, and angry at my grandfather for sitting idly by. When my aunts and uncles were part of the mix it was even worse. At some point we started staying somewhere else, because even though they lived in a fairly spacious house with ample guest rooms and bathrooms, we either weren't welcome to stay with them or my dad refused to stay with them, I'm not sure which. We always heard about how wonderful our cousins were, and left feeling like we were worthless failures. The irony of it all is that once we became adults and my cousins and I started communicating with each other apart from our parents, we realized that my grandmother did that to all of us. I now am thankful to have better relationships with my cousins, but I definitely grew up resenting them. My grandfather interspersed between my grandmothers interesting lectures told war stories from his time in India during World War 2, or stories about the farm in Illinois and his dog growing up. Another fun activity that we got to partake in at my mom's parents was the slide shows, mainly of interesting rock formations and sailing regattas that my mom and her sisters and brothers participated in growing up. Funny because a. who cares about interesting rock formations other than my dad the geologist, and b. they talked about sailing ALL THE TIME but never actually got out of their recliners to take us on a boat. My grandparents only ever came to visit us 1 time the entire 20 years that we lived in Saudi Arabia, even though they travelled all the time to places like South Africa, and that was only because I told my grandmother that I knew they would never come. Basically without knowing it, according to my mom, I accidently guilted them into coming. Then when they did come, they only stayed a week. Yeah who travels halfway around the world to see their grandkids and only stays 7 days? Seriously, by the time they got over their jetlag they were back in the States. It wasn't till I was finishing my Master's degree, so 24 years old, that I had any incling that my grandparents where in anyway even remotely interested or proud of my accomplishments. The word love has never ever been a thought. When they came to my high school graduation they told me that it was because they felt obligated to since they had gone to my cousins. It was so bad at times growing up that my brothers and I used to beg our parents to leave us in Maine while they went to Michigan.
That picture is the only day of my life when I have felt like my grandparents didn't consider me a loser.
I'm not sad about it, the fact of the matter is that I have a very strong relationship with my dad's side of the family, and my mom's aunt and uncle really were more like grandparents to me. I used harbor a lot of anger and bitterness about it all, but in the last 2 years, the Lord has really shown me that who I am in Him is so much more important than who I am in the eyes of my mom's parents. My mom has been worried for the last year or so that my grandfather would die before I made peace with him. I don't really think that she realizes that I am at peace with it all. He made the choices that he did, not to develop strong relationships with very many of his grandkids, if any, and that is his loss. If you didn't know I have some pretty exceptional cousins, and my younger brother is pretty funny as well. I don't feel like I was jipped, the way I used to. I realize that the Lord has blessed me immensly, and that there were other people who filled that role in my life. I realized that he was never going recognize how things were, and I let it go.
As I travel up to Minnesota this weekend (after my Westtown reunion) I am not going because I feel obligated to honor my grandfather. I am going because I know my mom needs my support, and because it will be the first time in a long time that I will be in the same room with both my brothers and my parents. And because my cousins will all be there from all over the world and this many of us haven't gotten together since my brothers wedding 6 years ago. So really in all honesty, I am excited about the trip, not so much the funeral part, but definitely I am excited to hopefully make new memories with mom's family.

10 years later

The following is a journal entry from about 2 weeks ago.

I have been thinking a lot about this trip back to Westtown for a long time. Should I go? Will it be emotional for me? Will I be able to put all the anger and bitterness behind me? Will it stir up more stuff I will have to deal with?
In the fall of 1996 I was a 15 year old, and for 14 of those 15 years I had lived in a small tight knit community in Saudi Arabia. I remember a few weeks before coming to Westtown my mom sat me down. Being a psychologist and already having had 1 child struggle with the transitions I was about to make, she had some very real concerns. She wanted me to know that even though I had been raised all my life knowing that I was American, this fact always evident to me because of my passport, my accent, that I was about to find out that I really wasn’t. She told me I was going to be different from the other American kids. She kept using this term, she kept calling me a third culture kid. I kept telling her, in my infinite wisdom as a 15 year old that she was wrong. Oh how I wished I had listened.
I arrived at school early for preseason soccer. I had played soccer all my life and I was excited to get to school early and meet some of the other students. On the second or third day some sirens went off. I would later learn that they were the call sirens for the volunteer fire department or something like that. The problem for me was that they were the same cadence and tone as the air raid sirens in my home town. Those sirens meant 1 thing to me a disaster has happened, or there is a missile attack coming. They were tested every Saturday at lunch time, other than that, those sirens going off was not good. All my life those sirens had meant that. So here I am on the soccer field, everybody is still practicing, and inside I am in panic mode. That was the beginning of my struggle with my identity as a third culture kid.
While most teenagers are struggling with questions like who am I, and what will I do when I grow up? I was struggling with all those normal questions. I was also struggling with questions like where is home? Is it in the United States or Saudi Arabia or neither? Who is my family, is it my biological extended family that I barely know, or is it my family of fake aunts and uncles back in Saudi?
I would like to say that Westtown made it easier, gave me a safe place to wrestle with those questions, gave me freedom to be myself. That is so far from the truth that it is astounding.
I will never forget the week, sometime during my first trimester at Westtown, when an entire class of peace and justice students kept stopping me in the hall, on dorm, everywhere. They had been told by their teacher to interview me about the deplorable conditions that women in Saudi Arabia faced, still face today. The questions were all sandwiched in “is it true that” and “that is horrible.”
This is my country. I grew up watching the sunrise over the Arabian Gulf, you would call it the Persian gulf. I grew up always eating in the family section, because that is the only part of restaurants that females can eat in and yes haagen das does not have a family section, so they don’t serve women. Yes it is true that women cannot drive, yet. And yes I would give anything to eat a shawarma, or some hummus, not the nasty Americanized kind, or shop in the gold souks, or visit the camel markets again.
And here where hordes of people telling me that all I’d ever known was horrible.
It was during that week that I learned that absolutely I could not ever be truthful about who I was, and what I believed and thought. I signed petitions because everyone else was, I never talked about my deep evangelical Christian faith, born out of the underground churches I was raised in.
I would occasionally snap. Like the time that Bush Sr was about to invade Iraq. A television was set up in the South room and while I was in the kitchen washing dishes, some kid was running around joyously screaming “We are going to war, we are going to war.” I remember having a melt down. The largest installation of US troops at that time in the Middle East was 45 minutes from my house. My dad was the maker of all the maps of the Saudi coastline. Our town is in the middle of the largest oil refinery operation in the world. There is a reason I grew up with air raid sirens and gas masks.
My mom says it was at Westtown that I learned what racism is. She tells a story about a Sunday trip to church. Too many people had signed up for the van space available and the other teachers on duty didn’t want to have to go and drive, it was a mess. I told my mom about it later on the phone and the story puzzled her. I had left out 1 important detail. A few weeks later she received a perplexing letter in the mail apologizing for the event. The next time she talked to me on the phone she asked “Cate, what kind of church was it?” I told her “it was a fun one with a very loud and rowdy congregation.” I told her that I didn’t know what denomination it was, that whole denomination thing still confuses me. She said “Yes Cate, but what did the people look like?” I said “Mom what are you trying to ask?” She said “Cate, where they white, black, Asian, Arab?” I had to think about it for a second and then I told her “they were mostly black.” It had never occurred to me that it even mattered.
My friend Arnab is an Indian, like from the country of India. He is a comedian in London now and I was watching one of his shows on youtube the other day. He was telling a joke based in reality. He was talking about the school plays we used to do growing up, he said, “we looked more like a UNICEF appeal than a family.”
But it was at Westtown that I was accused by a white teacher of being racist simply because I was not friends with a black student.
For 3 years I lived a lie in this place because when we talked about tolerance, we only meant it if you were just like everyone else, thought like everyone else. I was not used to that, I grew up as part of the network of largest expatriate communities in the world. By that I mean that the community I grew up in had people from all over the world, being different was the only thing that was normal. The only time I ever came even remotely close to being honest with this community was in the spring of my senior year, when I wrote my final paper for Eric Mayer’s religion class. When I left this place on the day of graduation I swore I would never come back.
It was only after leaving Westtown that I found communities that gave me the freedom to wrestle with it all. I had friends in college who didn’t understand me but loved me enough to let me be me. My friend Ian (not my brother) was also there, I have known him my whole life, he grew up across the street from me, so when I needed someone who did truly understand, I could stop by or meet him for lunch. Though I didn't hang out all the time, just knowing he was there and occassionally running into him on campus was extremly comforting to me. We also had several mutual friends, which made where we grew up not weird to them.
On December 30, 2002 my parents moved back to the United States and so in the summer of 2003 I moved in with them as I started graduate school. Though it was an extremely hard decision, it was the best decision I have ever made and the place where healing from the wounds and struggles from my time in high school could finally begin. My mom forced me to tell her the truth about my struggles. We did research together about third culture kids. My mom, my dad, and I cried a lot. My parents had had no idea there were things I wasn’t telling them, like I felt completely alone, like that I was afraid to let people see who I really was, because based on their initial responses, that wouldn’t be good. Like that I really struggled making friends because my class was incredibly rebellious and I grew up in a system of corporal punishment and was raised by a community. Normal American peer pressure was overwhelming to me, at home having an alcoholic drink would cause either deportation, jail time, or the loss of a limb. And not only that, I grew up in a community where if Susie’s mom saw me doing things I wasn’t suppose to, she was calling my mom. This whole idea that you wouldn’t get caught was completely foreign to me.
Now I live 14 hours from my parents, it’s a far cry from the 8 time zones it used to be. With modern communication like facebook, I am in constant contact with all the friends I grew up with even though they are scattered all over the globe. I haven’t had a $600 phone bill in a really long time, though at times it has been the norm in my family. I have a community of friends and coworkers who know me, who I really am. Who aren’t surprised when I say things like, “I don’t know what you are talking about, I never watched that show as a kid.” Or “I hate pork products, they are too salty and growing up they were illegal.” I have learned that telling the truth is important to me, even though sometimes it’s painful. Secrets are part of my past, they won’t be part of my future.
I am working on finding peace with my time at Westtown, it’s why I decided to come back for alumni day this year. I don’t say these things because I feel like a victim. I wasn’t a victim in 1990 when Saddam invaded Kuwait and my town was evacuated and my mom, brothers, and I couldn’t go home for a year. I wasn’t a victim in September of 1999 when my dear friend Kim was shot while attending her church in Dallas, Texas. I don’t want people to feel sorry for me. All that I really want is for what happened to me here to not happen to others. And I’m praying that the next time a third culture kid steps onto this campus, the will have freedom. Freedom to struggle, freedom to be real. And not only that, I pray that they will have the courage that I didn’t back then to do that.

The FINAL COUNTDOWN begins

There are 11.5 days left till I leave for Colombia! And there are a ton of things I have to get done. Here is a list:
1. I really need to mow my lawn
2. I need to pack, then unpack, then repack half of what I packed the first time
3. I need to call the newpaper and tell them to hold it for me
4. I need to tell the post office to hold the mail (I did pick up the form)
5. I need to either find a ride to the airport or see if I can park my car at a friend's in Nashville
6. I need to make sure I bring my passport and plane ticket
7. I need to clean out my fridge
8. I need to clean my house and especially make sure the trash is out when I actually leave
9. I need to make sure all my bills are paid, specifically my mortage, electric, and utilities
10. I need to workout the details of Brady's extended play date with my friend's dog and give them the bag of dog food
11. I need to finish the hotel reservations and turn in the contracts for the upcoming basketball season
12. I need to find someone to work the last men's basketball camp
13. I need to ask someone to watch my house and give them a key
When I was growing up we would leave for vacation and be gone for a month and a half. I don't know how my mom did it. Not only did she have all the details about our house, dog, bills, etc... to take care of, she also had 3 kids the pack for. It's always so so busy before going on a long trip. There are always a million things running through my head that I need to get done. I always end up getting on the plane and remember about 17 things that I didn't do, and then it hits me, it doesn't matter now cause I am on a plane and if it's not done now, it won't get done. It's kind of like life. We spend so much time running around worrying about things like whether or not we will get everything done at work, or whether or not we will be able to rewire the house in the next 6 months, will I have enough money saved to retire when I'm 55 or 60 or whatever? But in the end one day we will be on our way home to be with our Heavenly Lord and non of that stuff will matter. What does Jesus say in Matthews? Oh right, today's troubles are enough for today. Don't worry, I will clean both toilets before I leave so that my house isn't sitting with dirty toilets for 3 weeks mom, I promise I will remember. PS the picture at the top? My older brother and I on vacation in the mid 80s at my grandparents cottage in Maine, mom remembered our play clothes but the probably forgot to throw away the milk in the fridge, good thing she remembered to have someone thoroughly clean the house including the carpets who probably found the rotting milk and threw it away.

grocery store dilemas

So I have been using this dish soap that my old roommate purchased a while back. It was the cheepest one at the store. The thing is that it's terrible. I knew it was terrible. Then the other day there was almost none left and so when I went grocery shopping I put it on the list. So as I was standing there infront of the 37 million different types of dish soap you can get at Walmart. I decided to go for a more expensive brand. So I tried it out yesterday and all I have to say is the extra money was well worth it. You can use way less and get much cleaner dishes.
When my mom and dad moved back to the states my mom especially was constantly overwhelmed by the number of choices at the grocery store. She was constantly going grocery shopping and buying nothing cause she didn't know what brand to get. My brother and I would say "look mom, it's spaghetti noodles, just by the cheepest." Well apparently when it comes to dish soap, buy the most expensive