The Foreign Service Journal, July-August 2009

56 F OR E I GN S E R V I C E J OU R N A L / J U L Y - A UGU S T 2 0 0 9 I ama gypsy. I ama nomad. I carrymy home in the suitcase of my heart. Moscow. Tunis. Rabat. Washington. Cairo. Paris. Listing these cities is a habit as natural as stating howold I amor what my name is. Like beads on a necklace, each experi- ence is separate. Strung together, unified, they compose who I am. “Welcome aboard Flight 607.” What I hadn’t realized until recently, however, is that once Imove away, Imust continue forward, without turning back. The places I leavedon’twait forme theway my parents do, staying up until 1, 2, 3o’ clock in themorning toholler, “Where have you been?!” The plane lurches intomotion. My stom- ach lurches with emotion. There is one place you can always go back to. Forme, that place isWashington, D.C., where the school librarian still remembers that my favorite book in the third grade was My Father’s Dragon , and that Iwas the only studentwhohadalready read two complete volumes of Shel Silverstein poems at the age of 9. “We hope to make this a pleasant and restful flight. Refreshments will be served shortly.” Going back can sometimes feel as if I’d never left — but it’s tricky; usually I can feel the space of time. Going back toCairo for spring break after spending a year in Paris felt like the closest thing I can asso- ciate with going back home. “Home” is a funny word for kids who grew up as I did. We tend to give long, complicated answers to the question, “Where are you from?” Yet upon arriving inCairo, I found no stale crumbs, nounopened letters, nodusty picture frames … only “Welcome Back” balloons. Salah, our former driver—and my stand-in father during Papa’s yearlong service in Baghdad—picks me up at the airport and asks about mymother. Most taxi drivers in Paris only talk about the weather. “We will be landing in approximately four hours and 20 minutes. Enjoy your flight.” There are some places I can always go back to. Other places must remain as frozen as amuseumdiorama: untouched, perfect and immutable. I am not speak- ing of cities, necessarily; but of a stone bench, or a sunny rooftop, or amoss-cov- ered fountain. I cannot return to these lit- tle places because someone else is busy not realizing they are there—seeing themonly as backdrops once a part of a bigger scene, unnoticed until they are all that is left on the stage. I have learned to avoid being a stranger in a past I amno longer a part of. I have learned not to endanger the mem- ory of what I can no longer touch. I smile and nod from a distance. They remem- ber, and so do I. Keep it that way. On my last night in Egypt before returning to Paris, I camped in theWhite Desert withmy (fifth) best friend. Picture blue-yellow-red-greenBedouin tents, bal- adi bread baking in a mud brick oven, a wrinkled brown hand thumping a camel- skin drum. Our legs are sore fromriding donkeys. Our cheeks hurt from laughing, and my hands ache from holding on so tightly to the sand I am lying on. Above is a sky I have seen before, but have never seen before. The distant-dark-dependable blue hangs sober still above the hot, blow- ing sand; and the stars are not stars but July 4 sparklers, glistening-glittering-glowing sparkles, dripping down and tickling my face, and I am laughing. I am laughing. I am thinking. I am thinking about howpeople grow and places change, and it’s beautiful, and the world is like a giant ant farm: nothing stands still, not even the earth. I am scur- rying through the ant race like a toddler scrambling to a freshly-baked cookie, and I do stop to smell the flowers. I do think back, but I only move forward. When the stewardess approaches and asksme the essential question, I replywith- out hesitation: “I’ll have the chicken, please.” Do youwant to knowmyGoldenRule for choosing airplane meals? Think of rock-paper-scissors. Always beef over fish, andalways chickenover beef … but if they ever offer lamb, take it. Just don’t hesitate to change your mind, because everything else changes, too. This inconsistency doesn’t make me weak; it helps me to grow. Nothing stays intact, and when enough belongings break or get lost in the moves, I remem- ber. I remember that I carry my homes in the suitcase of my heart, because when the wind blows and the sand shifts, only there, inmy suitcase, do they remain safe. The past is in the past, and that is where it must be. Bring on the new. ❏ A F S A N E W S 2009 AFSA MERIT AWARD “BEST ESSAY” What’s It Like to Go Back? Reflections of a Third-Culture Kid BY SYBIL BULLOCK Listing these cities is a habit as natural as stating how old I am or what my name is. Like beads on a necklace, each experience is separate. Strung together, unified, they compose who I am.