Series: Going Back | My Story: First Ten Years

Hello. My name is Emily!

Most of you know me who are reading this, however I wanted to take a moment for new readers or future new readers. These will be long posts, and I don’t expect everyone to read it all the way through. I really wanted to write it all out, so I can have it too. I do hope it helps my friends and family know me even better, and maybe helps other TCKs claim and embrace their stories. Here we go:

One of the parts of being a Third Culture Kid is that your story never comes without your parents story. When you begin your life story in a surprising location, the follow up question is “why did you live there?” or “what do your parents do!?” So let’s take it even further back to before I was ever in the picture.

On May 16, 1987 my parents got married in Memphis, Tennessee. My mom had his groom’s cake made with God Is Love written on it in multiple languages. Obviously their story starts way before that. They had known each other a long time, and dating came as both a surprise and not a surprise to many. Moving overseas was discussed quickly, as both of them were very serious about the call God had for their lives individually. After their wedding, they moved into married student housing at the Univ. of Memphis. My dad was an English (ESL) teacher and my mom was finishing her teaching degree. In 1989 they used all their savings to take an around the world trip to countries where friends, missionaries, or former students’ families lived, as well as countries to where they would consider moving. One of my favorite stories includes a letter from one of my dad’s refugee students, hand written, and delivered to their parents by my mom and dad on their doorstep in Poland, still under communist rule at the time.

After my parents returned from their 3.5 month adventure to the States, they continued to pray, seek counsel, and process the trip. They separately both felt Turkey was the place they should live. In 1991 they packed up all their clothes and boarded a one-way ticket to Turkey. My dad taught English at a University, and they both studied Turkish for the first years. There was a lot that happened in the first 7 years of their marriage, but that is THEIR story, not mine. As you can tell, it would be easy for me to tell my parents story, because I’ve told it many times, and I love their story, but I’m going to keep moving forward. In July of 1994 my big sister, Elizabeth Ann joined them.

On December 02, 1997 in Memphis, Tennessee, I joined the party too! My mom had chosen to have us both in America because she wanted to be close to family and understand the medical system. Emily means “industrious, hard-worker, to strive” and my middle name Jean means “God is gracious”.

After a short 6 weeks and a ridiculous newborn passport photo, my parents, Lizi, and I boarded a plane back to Turkey. As I type just now, I almost wrote “back home” however that’s the complicated part of my story, because we were both leaving “home” and going “home”.

I’m not the best at remembering, and I am hoping that going back to Turkey will joggle a lot of memories. My childhood was great! I grew up in a 3 bedroom apartment with 3 bathrooms (1 with a shower/bath tub) and a long balcony with white bars and ivy growing all round it. Later on we would extend the kitchen and build in some of the balcony. The floor to ceiling bars would become waist high. There would be a dip in the kitchen floor under the carpet that I still can feel on the arches of my feet if I think hard. All of the light switches were on the outside of the doorways. We had orange tiles on the kitchen, hallways, bathroom, and entryway floors, and cross designed hardwood floors in the guest room (later Lizi’s teenage room) and living/dining room. My parents’ and my rooms were carpeted. There was a small barrier at the thresholds of each bathroom doorways that newcomers often stubbed their toes on. I rarely did. You took your shoes off at the front door. There was a big cupboard full of terliks (slippers) for guests to use. This was customary for any Turkish home. I could go on and on about this apartment. It was my everything. My home, my playground, my school. It represented a time in my life that I cannot visit. I am intimidated by the intensity of emotions I feel around that apartment. I have no idea what to expect when I walk down that street and see it again after 9 years. I can’t decide if I want to see the insides and walk through the hallways to my room, hop over the barrier to the bathroom, and feel the dip in the kitchen floor. I don’t know yet. I know a part of me feels like it’s all going to look the same, but I know better.. I do. I know it’s changed and with different colors, and I know our couches aren’t there. I know our carpets don’t lay on the floors. I know the framed photos haven’t touched those walls in almost a decade. I know better. I do wish I could walk through it all over again, just the way it was.. just once.

As I’ve reflected I’ve noticed that I didn’t grow up very different then my American friends. I watched Winnie the Pooh and Clifford the Big Red Dog, waddled around in dress-up princess outfits, and scraped up my knees at the neighborhood park with my best friends. There were different parts of my childhood for sure. Like the normalcy of planes and airports, being accustomed to looking different then most people around me, and of course eating every sugar cub a teyze (auntie) or abla (big sister) offered me behind my mom’s back. This was my double life, and I loved it. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

As I learned to eat, walk, and listen, I was struggling to learn to talk. My parents weren’t too concerned because my sister had been the same. Many children growing up in bi-lingual settings take longer to start talking. They are organizing and processing in their brains. When they do start talking, it’s common to progress very quickly to full sentences and questions. I wasn’t doing great at organizing the languages in my head, so my parents prioritized English in my life. I started speaking slowly. It’s pretty cute in home videos, but I can only imagine the frustration when you can’t say what you think.

When I got older around 6 years old, my mom drove me to pre-school. It was a really unique place. My sister had spent many years there before me, and it was pretty close to our neighborhood. I don’t remember much about my first days. I know my mom made sure I felt safe. The first day we just walked around and left, the second we spent a half day there together, the third she dropped me off, and by the next week I started riding the “okul servisi” (school bus). Below was my first day to ride the bus.

I loved school. Art class and field trips were my favorite. In the beginning it was hard because I got blamed for a lot. I couldn’t defend myself to our teachers because I didn’t speak Turkish, so a lot of my peers pointed at me when someone got pushed off a swing or sand thrown in their eyes. After a couple months, I was learning Turkish and making some great friends. Survival Turkish in the beginning included: “Benim sütüm soğuk olabilir mi” (Can I have my milk cold?) “Pardon, toiletw gidebilir miyim?” (Excuse me, can I go to the bathroom?) Below is a photo of my teacher and I on my birthday.

I grew up in a neighborhood full of kids my age. My sister and I would run downstairs to our bahçe (garden) and roller-bladed up and down the pathway in front of the apartment doors. Our friends would hear us, and come with scooters, roller blades, or on foot with soccer balls and jump ropes. We played freeze tag, hopscotch, and sardines. It was normal to spend all afternoon outside. My mom would lower a basket with snacks and water in it from the balcony one story up. Snacks almost always meant a cucumber and a carrot wrapped in a paper towel. My dad’s office was a 10 minutes walk away. Lizi and I could hear his keys as soon as he turned into the gate downstairs. We would yell, “Dad’s home!”and run out of the kitchen to greet him at the door. We would bombard him with stories, coloring pages, a new scientific fact, and a song we were learning all at once. Dinner was always together. Sometimes with guests, sometimes just the four of us. My mom wanted us to grow up with all sorts of foods. We ate American food, Turkish food, Arab food, Italian food, Greek food, Indian food, and combinations of it all. The Frazier rule was that you HAD to at least try it. We often spent evenings at the “sahil” (waterfront) which was the park that wrapped around the bay. It was a 5 minute drive from our apartment, and the sunsets were magnificent. I think seeing one of those sunsets is going to be the closest I’ll get to home in this world. I had no idea how special they were.

We had friends come and go over the years. One of the hardest goodbyes was to the Ludwigs. We were all best friends for years. We learned double dutch rope tricks, played house, and make believe. Their family and ours had huddled together outside our apartments during the more memorable earthquakes. We spent thanksgivings and Easters together. I am so thankful for my time I got to spend with them when they lived in Turkey. We all traveled to Istanbul together to send them off. It was so cold, but we had SO much fun:

My mom started homeschooling us. As with most parts of my childhood, I had no idea what a task and sacrifice it was. She worked so hard to make learning fun and memorable. We had joint biology class with another family. One year we carved a viking boat out of ice cream and the ocean was blue icing. The year we studied Egypt we made a pyramid out of sugar cubes, built a small nile river on the balcony, and mummified a chicken over the course of 3 months. King Cluck had a proper burial ceremony and tomb with his story written out in hieroglyphics. History was my favorite class, and I remember most of it because of my mom’s dedication to visual and hands on learning. I struggled with math and reading/writing. It was pretty clear early on that I was a slow learner. I was diagnosed with learning disabilities one summer while back in America. I don’t remember much except being tested -- it felt like school, but I didn’t know much of what was happening or what it meant. My parents, however, knew the significance, and my mom decided to go through an accelerated certificate from NILD (National Institute of Learning Disabilities) where she became a certified LD therapist. This is a huge part of my story because it was the catalyst for some very hard years. Schooling is still one of the accomplishments I am most proud of. I can never repay my mom for the years of dedicated education and therapy that truly built my path. I didn’t like my therapist… and I didn’t really like my teacher most days, and my mom was both, and I am so thankful for the sacrificial love it took to give up the simplicity of just being my mom.

We spent summers in America every other year, and sometimes Christmas in Jordan with our cousins. I LOVED Jordan because it meant time with Sarah. We would color, roller blade, jump on the trampoline, play make-believe ALL day long. Christmas meant Uncle Jon cutting off the top of a pine tree and leaning it into the corner of the living room -- we usually called it the “Christmas bush” because that seemed more accurate to the shape. Mary Ann would cry over her American canned green beans, Sarah and I would squeal at our new markers and paint kits. A few days afterwards, my dad and Uncle Jon would drag the Christmas bush to the front yard, and we would have a bonfire and roast marshmallows. It was our Arab-American experience.

The first ten years of my life were important. I cannot tell my story without thanking my parents for giving me this childhood and knowing how important these years would be. My mom and I were going through some book shelves about a year or so ago, and my mom handed me a book. She said that they had read it and prioritized this quote in how they raised us: “Rhe best thing you can do for your children’s future is giving them a happy childhood under their belt.” There were hardships, heartbreaks, and sadness. We learned what grace and forgiveness was. We learned about Jesus and who He was to mom and dad. We said hello and goodbye to dozens of people. We weathered storms, the four of us. I never doubted the four of us. I felt safe and loved and known. They gave me a happy childhood. I’m so thankful I grew up in Turkey. I am so thankful for that apartment. I am so thankful for the adversity that comes with growing up in a host country. I am so thankful my parents were present day in, day out. I am so thankful they gave me so many happy memories. I can’t paint a picture vivid enough to showcase the complexity of those 10 years. I was struggling through some parts of my parents story a couple years ago. I asked tons of questions one night about why they moved, how it worked, what happened, why this person said that, what happened to this family, why this happened, and why I don’t remember so much of the heartache that seasoned every year of my happy childhood. I think I’ll carry their answer with me forever. “Life is three dimensional -- it has multi sides to it. We were never fake or deceptive, kid. In the hard times, going to the park with you two was the light of our lives. We loved Disney movie nights with Dominos pizza and watching you guys roller blade. All of that coexisted with hard friendships, family situations, and adult life. We weren’t just putting on a good face for you.”

That, my friends, is life -- three-dimensional.

This was the first ten years of my life.