parenting and family | Rachel Pieh Jones

Tips for Third Culture Kids Going on College Tours

So. You’re going to college. Maybe. Eventually. Somewhere. Where? To study what? Why? Who knows, maybe you do but maybe you don’t. In any case, you might tour some schools before making your final decision. Here are just a few suggestions for how to make the most of the tours. (tomorrow I’ll post tips for your parents, so they won’t totally humiliate you – if you’re lucky).

Be engaged. Be curious, look around.

Look the tour guide in the eye.

Smile at their cheesy jokes.

Ask questions. Of the tour guide, not of your parent. Unless you are asking for Swedish Fish (because of course your mom brought a bag full and is trying to eat them on the sly).

Don’t be afraid or embarrassed about what you don’t know. People like to be helpful and they like to feel like they know something.

Tell people where you are from in whatever form you choose to. You can be your passport country, your host country, your boarding school country, the country in which your parents pay taxes…be from where you want to be from but then own that, be proud of it. If you say you are from Kenya or Djibouti, you are intrinsically interesting and stand out, even if people don’t know what a Djibouti is.

Don’t expect your parent to talk for you. You do it.

Walk confidently. Don’t shuffle around with your head down. Pay attention, look up, notice. (Trust me, I saw a LOT of kids shuffling).

Imagine you are on an interview, don’t be a bump on a log. This is a huge decision, be involved in it. Make a good impression. The tour guide has no say over your acceptance but this is good practice.

Same idea regarding what to wear. Dress comfortably, like blue jeans and a t-shirt and tennis shoes, but don’t wear ultra-short sport shorts or pajamas. I’m being serious.

Know what you are looking for or what you are not looking for, at least as much as possible. Does the food or the sports or the music or the research facilities or the dorms or the cost matter most to you?

Enjoy it. Be curious. Enjoy exploring new cities and meeting new people and dreaming about what you can do in these places. Enjoy the chance to pick your parents’ brain on the drives and over meals. Enjoy their (probably dorky) company, they love you and are proud of you.

Chat with the other students on the tour. See what people are like who are interested in the same school as you.

Listen to your gut. How do you feel about a school? Your parents will want you to be objective but they also want to know that a place feels right. Trust your intuition.

Read Janneke Jellema’s essay in Finding Home for advice on transitioning to university as a TCK.

Read Marilyn Gardner’s book Passages Through Pakistan, especially the last chapter, for help in handling the emotional side of this major transition.

Read The Global Nomad’s Guide to University, by Tina L. Quick

What other tips have you found useful on college tours?

By Rachel Pieh Jones|June 11th, 2018|Categories: Djibouti Life, Expat Thoughts, parenting and family, Third Culture Kids|Tags: college tours, tck, third culture kids|0 Comments

When Twins are TWINS

First, they were TWINS. Then, they were twins. Now again, they are TWINS.

I have two seniors this year, you guys. Two. Twins. That means 2/3 of my children are launching. I get to play the roles of double the proud mama and double the sad almost empty nester.

There was a time, ages 0-4 or so, when I looked at the two and thought TWINS. Everything was crazy-fun-double. Double diapers, double flu, double stroller, double diaper bag, double breastfeeding (good thing we’re designed with two for that), double naptime, double bedtime kisses, double giggles.

Then, from ages 5-17, it mostly felt like I imagine any other family feels with two kids close in age. They were the same age, so we still had double birthday parties and double parent-teacher meetings where I couldn’t be in both classes at once, and other twin parenting foibles, but for the most part, I didn’t feel that same double whammy of TWINS. I felt the single, massive double whammy of being a mom of two.

But.

Graduation day looms. In significant ways, graduation day has already passed. The twins were recently home for the final break, their last time in Djibouti as ‘children’ living under our roof. But the official graduation day is later, in July.

And now, I’m feeling it again.

TWINS.

Of course, we will feel it when we look at the university bills, although again, that feeling and the financial amount is similar to having two kids close in age.

But when it comes to them moving out, moving on, taking the next big leap…I’m telling you, its TWINS.

At first it was a double hello and a double addition to my life. This time, it is a double goodbye and a double subtraction.

I know, I know, they aren’t disappearing, they will still call and visit (or else!) But still, they are moving out. As they should. As is appropriate and good and I’m so stinkin’ proud of them.

But two at once…

We didn’t ease into this parenting thing and we aren’t easing into the empty nesting thing. And I’m feeling it.

I know we still have one at home, okay? Just to be clear. But back in the days of pregnancy, people said going from two children to three is a shock to the system because the kids outnumber the parents. And the kids outnumber the number of hands of one parent.

No one told me going from three children at home to one would be equally a shock.

People talk a lot about twin pregnancies and twin toddlers and twin temper tantrums. No one told me anything about twin graduation ceremonies. Its almost as if, if you survive the early years in tact and with joy, you can almost forget you have the unique blessing of raising twins.

NOT TRUE.

People say, “Twins, lucky you, one pregnancy and one delivery and two babies.”

Not true.

I am lucky. I’m lucky I get to be the mom to these two kids (plus another!). That’s where I lucked out. I did not luck out on delivery day or during pregnancy.

I was sick enough for two pregnancies, got enough stretch marks for two, went on bedrest for two, and delivered through two distinctly different body orifices. Yes, one was born vaginally and one was born via c-section.

Like I said, we aren’t about doing things the simple way.

People say, “Twins, two for the price of one.”

Not true.

At least not when it comes to university tuition.

People say, “Twins, launching two at a time is a great transition for them.”

Not true.

Okay, maybe true. For them. Maybe, I don’t know. You’ll have to ask them. They aren’t going to the same school and they’ve had to wrangle for our attention while filling out applications at the same time and FAFSA passwords get mixed up and things are confusing.

And anyway, great, if it is great for them. That’s awesome. But its also sad for me, for us. At the same time, yes, it is double the joy. I’m so excited for what is next for our kids. They’re ready. All this mixed emotions. No one told me graduation would feel so much like a swirly for the heart.

Sometimes I’ve wondered if I’m being overly dramatic, if sending kids to university isn’t such a big deal. Then I listened to a podcast and a mom said that when her daughter didn’t respond to texts or phone calls after two days, she and her husband drove to her daughter’s campus and found her to make sure things were okay. This daughter was at a school twenty-five miles away.

I’m sending my kids to schools a 30-hour flight away, 7,670 miles away, give or take. On a continent they have essentially never lived on. Two kids. I don’t think I’m freaking out, this blog post is nothing. Maybe I’ll show you my freak out later, maybe that will remain private. We’ll see how brave I feel later, how vulnerable I want to be.

In any case, I think I’m allowed a period of transition and that period involves sadness and loss.

Times two.

By Rachel Pieh Jones|May 7th, 2018|Categories: parenting and family|Tags: college, empty nest, graduation, seniors, twins|0 Comments

A Christmas Story about a Surprising Baby Named God (not that one)

Quick link: A Muslim, a Christian, and a Baby Named God

This is a story close to my heart because it is about my first friend here, someone who was and remains exceedingly precious to me and my whole family. Someone who made me believe that this place, so different from Minnesota, could become home. Someone, without whom, I sincerely doubt we could have stayed so long.

When I needed someone to love my kids, she did. When I needed someone to make me laugh, she could. When I wanted to understand a cultural thing, she untangled it for me. When I need someone to hear my anger or my sorrow, she welcomed it.

This is a story of two women, coming from such different places, with such different faiths and such different ways of living, and finding each other, finding ourselves, together. It is about becoming mothers and about digging into our souls and finding beauty there.

When God and his mother were released from the maternity ward they came directly to my house to use the air conditioner. It was early May and the summer heat that melted lollipops and caused car tires to burst enveloped Djibouti like a wet blanket. Power outages could exceed ten hours a day. Temperatures hadn’t peaked yet, 120 degrees would come in August, but the spring humidity without functioning fans during power outages turned everyone into hapless puddles. I prepared a mattress for Amaal* and her newborn and prayed the electricity would stay on so she could use the air conditioner and rest, recover.

In 2004 when my family arrived in Djibouti, I needed help minimizing the constant layer of dust; Amaal needed a job. I needed a friend and Amaal, with her quick laugh and cultural insights became my lifeline. My husband worked at the University of Djibouti and was gone most mornings and afternoons, plus some evenings. We had 4-year-old twins and without Amaal I might have packed our bags and returned to Minnesota out of loneliness and culture shock.

I hired Amaal before she had any children. She wasn’t married yet and her phone often rang while she worked, boys calling to see what she was doing on Thursday evening. To see if she wanted to go for a walk down the streets without street lights where young people could clandestinely hold hands or drink beer from glass Coca-Cola bottles. She rarely said yes until Abdi Fatah* started calling. He didn’t drink alcohol and didn’t pressure her into more physical contact than she was comfortable with in this Muslim country. She felt respected. She said yes.

Click here to read the rest of A Muslim, a Christian, and a Baby Named God

By Rachel Pieh Jones|December 23rd, 2017|Categories: christianity, Djibouti Life, Expat Thoughts, Faith, Islam, parenting and family, Writing|Tags: Christianity, culture, expatriate, God, islam, longreads, somali|0 Comments

To My Boarding School Birthday Girl

Dear Birthday Girl,

We did the whole cake, ice cream, candles, and gifts party before we left the United States. But it wasn’t really your birthday that day. On your real birthday, your sister will hand you a wrapped shoe box full of tiny gifts, each individually wrapped. Your dorm parents have a plan. The school has goofy birthday traditions. Dad and I will call you on the phone. We’ll sing the regular birthday song and our own song, the one that’s just for you.

I’m so thankful that you will be celebrated by people all over the world. I’ve seen how people at this school honor and celebrate kids when their parents are far away. I’ve seen moms Face-timing with moms on the other side of the continent during soccer games and banquets. I’ve delivered birthday packages and hugs on behalf of absent parents. You are loved by so many by being part of this particular community. It takes a tribe and you are in the best of tribes. Knowing this, reminding myself of it, is my gift to myself on your birthday.

Because, though thankful, I’m still sad. I’m learning to hold both grief and joy in the same hand, to feel both sadness and gratitude, to sit with loss and celebration.

On the real day, you will be far away from me and I won’t be able to hug you or measure your height against my own to see whether you’ve caught me yet. I won’t be able to tickle your side or run my fingers through your hair.

This is the first birthday any of you have been away from me. Your brother and sister’s birthday is in July and they are home that month. So we haven’t done this before, haven’t missed this day before, haven’t relied on other people to celebrate you.

I know you know how much I love you, how proud I am of you. You get tired of me saying it and demand specifics in ways that both flabbergast and thrill me. What, specifically, do I love about you? Why, specifically, in this moment, am I proud of you? The answers to those questions are for me and you, for another time. But I still need to say those words: love and proud, on this day.

You are our 9/11 baby, born a blessing on a day of mourning. We named you Light. We named you Gift. We named you Victory. We named you Ours. You continue to live out these names, filling them up and redefining them through the lens of your own character, talents, and personality.

You are the biggest risk I ever took, ever jumped into intentionally. I was afraid of so many things. Afraid of more than one baby again (though that was the other greatest adventure of my life). Afraid to be pregnant here. Afraid to give birth here. Afraid I wouldn’t be mom enough for all of you. Afraid of postpartum depression again. Afraid of sleepless nights and rage. Afraid of morning sickness and changes to my body. Afraid of how much love I already knew would hurricane through me as soon as we touched outside my body.

Now I think, what if we hadn’t taken that leap? What if I let fear dominate and closed myself off to all the possibilities that are you? I’m learning to acknowledge the fears and to walk through them. You’ve helped me do that.

I can’t let my fear of who I might be when I’m not with you restrict you.

All these years after that 9/11 when you were born, I’m celebrating who you are and I’m saying, go be you.

Be you, where you are. Be you, apart from me. Be you, without fear or anxiety or strings attached. Be you, with exuberance, abandon, power and delight.

Be you with your crazy laugh and your mismatched socks and your uncle’s college band t-shirt. Be you with your full body singing and no fear in sports. Be you with your love for sunrises and bird-watching and your dog-training skills. Be you with your love for creating and your loyalty and courage. Be you in all the ways I will treasure in my heart, just for me.

Happy birthday from far away. Live it wild.

***

Tips for parents celebrating birthdays from far away:

Celebrate when you’re together. Early or late, doesn’t matter.
Send a surprise package, either in the mail or with someone else to hand deliver.
Have a distance-friendly tradition, like a goofy song to sing over the phone, or a photo tradition.
Ask someone who lives nearby to bring a cake or gift or to deliver pizza to their entire dorm.
Tell the people around you and around the birthday person, so they can celebrate with you and with the birthday person.
Schedule a phone call ahead of time.
If you have a traditional meal, ask someone to make it for them on your behalf.
Be thankful for the global community who loves you and your birthday person.

***

Our 9/11 baby, other stories:

Back when I was a regular contributor at Babble, I wrote about my daughter’s birth on the anniversary of 9/11. I also wrote about it for the Modern Love column, read by Mireille Enos for the podcast last spring.

Podcast

Modern Love

Babble

Save

By Rachel Pieh Jones|September 11th, 2017|Categories: Djibouti Life, Expat Thoughts, parenting and family|Tags: 9/11, boarding school, boarding school birthday|2 Comments

The Unknown Traveler, Unknown Mother

When I travel with kids, even teenage kids, I am a mother. All mom. People see us and they think, “Mother and children.” We sit on the ground and play Spot It. We split burgers at airport restaurants. We take turns watching the stuff so the others can pee. We fill out each other’s immigration papers. We fight over window seats and try to snatch the single half of a strawberry from each other’s plane food plates. We reminisce about our worst flights ever and we pester each other by constantly asking what time is it and what time is the next flight.

We are a unit and we interact the way we always do – playing, sharing, serving, arguing, invading, bothering.

No matter what my purpose might be for traveling or what my day job is or what I’m wearing/eating/doing, when I am seen in public with my children, I am a member of that group and a mother in the eyes of everyone around me.

What about when I travel alone? No kids, no games, but at the very basest: no familiar interactions. Maybe business travelers are used to this, maybe people who travel without kids a lot are comfortable in this space. To me, it feels dangerous.

Maybe that is why so many affairs take place on the road. Why we shouldn’t make life-altering decisions while traveling.

We are unknown. We can be anyone. Do anything. No one will know. No one will report back home. No one has expectations. There is more time for reflection, to be internal. There is no tradition. There is no safety net.

Who am I now? Who am I when no one is telling me who to be based on who I am in terms of them?

Being a traveling expat means have many experiences of being unknown. Not alone, unknown. Alone is not a word that belongs to travelers in airports but unknown is one of their words. Being unknown here makes me feel nervous at first. I don’t know what I’ll do. Will I be the rude, pushy traveler? Will I eat an entire chocolate fudge sundae? Will I stare at people and judge them? Will I barge into other people’s conversations, desperate for some kind of interaction to remind me of who I was so I will know who to be?

Is this what mothers feel when children graduate and move out of the house? Now who am I? I think might be. We have spent our lives responding to others, meeting their needs before our own, bending our wants, schedules, pocketbooks around their goals. We cook the food they prefer, watch the movies they stream. What would we eat if we had our choice and only our choice? What would we watch if no one else provided input? Do we even know anymore? How can we know? How can we recognize our own tastes and rekindle our own desires?

I think it is a bumpy road and I’m starting to lurch my way down it. We remember ourselves before children and now, as we emerge, like the unknown traveler spewed from an airplane out into a new city, into a world that bares little resemblance to the one we exited decades ago. Now what? Now who?

I don’t think I’m the type who dances on tables or who runs naked 5k races (yes, those are a thing). I am pretty sure I’m the type who smiles at babies, secretly thankful I’m not traveling with one anymore. But beyond these, and other, obvious traits, what else? Am I curious? Am I brave? Am I compassionate and interested and adventurous? Do I hunker down or do I engage? What do I order at restaurants? What time do I go to bed? Am I frugal or do I splurge?

I don’t travel alone very often but my kids are growing up. The older two will graduate in 9 months. Who will I be?

I guess we will see.

Save