About: .
-
Name:IngridGiles
- Profile
- I was born in the Andes of Ecuador and raised mostly in Central Mexico. I am American and lived for several years in Minnesota as an adult, but I live and work in Mexico again now.
2007-11-14 21:38:04
http://
Posts by .:
Help with describing a TCK feeling to a non-TCK?
The other day in an email, I mentioned that “I feel like I own the world.” The person I was emailing asked me what I meant by that. I realized that it’s a fairly abstract statement that of course would make no sense to someone who is not a TCK and also who doesn’t share the feeling. It’s a sentence that gives words to my feelings, but it doesn’t actually communicate anything. I want to try to answer him. I’m sure many of you feel the same way, and some of you may have a better idea of how to articulate the feeling. Any suggestions?
I’m back!
Hi, y’all. Perhaps you never noticed that I was gone. Perhaps you don’t know who I am. In any case, I am making the grand announcement… I’m back! Yippee! For those who wondered where I was, I was just really incredibly busy with work and stuff. Had surgery and fell behind, worked hard to catch up, then worked hard to get ahead so I could go away for a month and TA in a linguistics course, went and did that and had an AWESOME time although hectic since it was a very intense course, came home and now I have reason to believe that things will be at a nice “normal” pace for a while! Whatever that means!It is really good to be back on tckid. I had forgotten how good it is to be part of a community where I am normal. Thanks again, Brice and Dan, for starting this, and all of you who keep it going! (I didn’t know whether to post this under general forum or blog — it isn’t really a blog but it is kind of all about me — so I checked both.) Ingrid
traveling without a budget
I just returned last night from a trip, and I have been thinking about the “privileges” of having less money than some people have. There is traveling on a budget, and then there is traveling without a budget. I have done both of those. You get more adventure without the budget.
español
Me parece que tenemos una conversación en francés, alemán e italiano, pero hace falta la conversación en español. Pues ¡aquí está! ¡Hola, mis compañeros hispanoparlates! ¿Qué tal?Aquí donde estoy yo hace frío por las noches y las mañanas, pero a mediodía está muy bien el tiempo.
dangerous stuff
Hi there. So, a little while ago I wrote a story and posted it. It was about a particular organization and some very dangerous things that are happening around here. About five minutes after posting it, I deleted it. I didn’t want the “bad guys” to read it and see my name — basically, I want to stay under their radar as much as possible. One of the reasons I had posted the story here in the first place was because most of the fun of being in danger is being able to talk about it, and who better to talk to than my fellow TCKs, who collectively have been everywhere and done everything? So I’ll try to start a conversation even without telling my story. Have you ever been just sitting innocently in some town where you happened to live, when all of a sudden you realized that very bad things were happening around you? Have you ever had reason to think that the town where you lived had become one of the most dangerous towns in the world? Have you ever realized that many things that are common knowledge but that are only told in whispers behind closed doors, are actually probably not known by the police or the military? In a small town, have things like “I think the body count yesterday must have been over twenty” ever been part of a normal conversation for you? If so, I’d be interested in reading your stories. I’ll post mine someday when I live somewhere else.
How do you feed a tarantula?
Last night I was visiting with a friend in my kitchen, when I casually asked her, “Do you want a tarantula?” I knew she was the sort of person who might want one. However, she told me that she has promised herself not to handle any more tarantulas, scorpions, etc., because her children imitate her. Then she said, “Ingrid, you can’t give away that tarantula! You are practically family. He has your blood.” That is true. For several months, the spider and I shared a room happily. He only bothered me by making rustling sounds at night, and I only bothered him by sometimes turning on the light to make him stop rustling. But then we fumigated… and killed off his food supply. And he started eating me instead. For a couple of weeks, he bit me every night. (I even have scars to show for it.) I didn’t like that so much. Even when it’s not deadly poisonous, a tarantula bite is not a pleasant thing. But it was a wild animal and stayed well hidden from me, only munching on me while I was asleep. Then I went on a trip, and while I was gone the tarantula came out to play (and frightened some houseguests so badly that they may never visit us again)! My brother put the spider in a jar and saved it to await my judgement when I came home. I found that I couldn’t bring myself to kill it. However, if I don’t do something with it soon, it will die of starvation. So… how does one keep a captured tarantula? I don’t think I can afford an aquarium, but obviously the jar that it is in right now is not satisfactory. I know they eat crickets and things, but how do I open the container to put a bug in without letting the spider jump out? I’d like to keep it, but I don’t want to set it free in my house again. I hope someone can tell me what to do with it!
My Table
This was published a year or two ago, but I retained the rights so I think I can post it here. It’s a poem, not a story, but I think it’s appropriate for the contest. I wrote it when I was going through my belongings prior to my latest change of country (as an adult). I started the job very pragmatically and said goodbye to everyone I knew without a qualm, but for some reason when it came time to get rid of my table, all the feelings of sadness and loss from all my moves came up. It’s like that was the last straw in a lifestyle of change. I think, on some level, the table represented me.
MY TABLEI bring my love to the table,
Set it with an eye for beauty
In anticipation
Of the company of friends
And of the joy of food.
.
I bring my love to the table,
To the friends who, hungry, wait
As I visit from the kitchen
And perfect my presentation
Of each plate of food.
.
I bring my love to the table,
A feast for all the senses
Of beauty and aroma
And good company and food.
.
But Logic doesn’t want my table,
“I don’t need it, can’t afford to keep it.”
Logic has no room for love.
“It’s just a place to eat my food.”
.
So I’m going to sell my table
Because logic always wins.
(Can I love in another’s kitchen? Will it still be me?)
Selling my table feels
Like denying my heart of its food.
Introduction
Hi, everybody. My name is Ingrid, and I’m new here. Who knows how often I’ll check in after the novelty wears off, but for now I am really enjoying having access to a community of TCKs. What a great idea this is!
Shall I tell a little about myself? (Like “where are you from?” lol) I’m a missionary kid, born in the Andean town of Cuenca, Ecuador, and raised mostly in Central Mexico. I consider Aguascalientes my hometown. After a few years in the States I now live and work with my parents in a small town a couple of hours away from the city where I grew up. So here I am.
Thank you to whoever started this forum.
Conspicuously blending in?
It was raining hard, and the bus splashed slowly forward. I remembered the words of one bus driver when I had asked him how long a trip would take: “If it doesn’t rain, and if there is no traffic, and if there are no landslides, and if we don’t get stopped by the military, and with the favor of God…” It was definitely raining now. One thing was for sure: we would not arrive in the scheduled time.
It was dark when we finally pulled into the station. I asked one of my fellow passengers for the time. It was a few minutes after nine o’clock. If the nine o’clock bus to my town had left on time, I had just missed it. Sometimes that is the last bus of the day on that route, and sometimes there is one more.
I stepped outside and collected my luggage. I put the carrying straps over my shoulder and took a moment to arrange it all on my back, leaving my right arm free. My luggage was too much – and too heavy – to walk quickly with it, so I resigned myself to getting soaked.
The guards at the door to the bus station saw me coming with too much luggage to fit through the single door. Chuckling, they opened the double door for me and returned my greeting as I thanked them and walked in.
It seemed like everyone inside turned to look at me. I realized that I would stare, too, if a tall white girl came walking in alone, dripping wet, and carrying enough luggage for a whole family.
I set down my bags to rest for a while and to look around. Having come in on a nicer bus, I was at the more expensive end of the station. People were well dressed and spoke quietly in modulated voices. Although I had obviously attracted their attention, they did not openly stare. Some were talking on cell phones. The ticket counters were for first class and executive class busses. I looked down the line of counters for the bus line that would hopefully take me home. There it was, way down at the other end.
I braced myself, and picked up one piece of luggage, then another, steadying the load after each one. Again, I had everyone’s attention. Mindful of the spectacle, I stood as tall and gracefully as I could under the heavy load and walked all the way down the length of the bus station.
At the ticket counter, I let my bags fall. This end of the station was dominated by rancheros – complete with wide-brimmed sombreros and burlap sacks as luggage – and a few young men of unsavory appearance. The people at this end did not bother to dissimulate their stares. I didn’t mind being the center of such obvious attention, especially since for all I knew I might be there for a couple of hours. I knew that if anyone assaulted me, he’d have to do it with the tacit consent of everyone there, and if I had to defend myself I’d have a score of witnesses. I also knew that if I wished to ask anyone for help, I wouldn’t have to try to get his attention first.
I asked the man at the counter what time my bus would leave (hoping there still was one).
“You’ve missed it,” he said, “It left at nine.”
“Won’t there be another one?”
“Yes, but not until ten.”
I looked at the clock. It still lacked a good forty-five minutes until ten. If I left at ten, I wouldn’t get into town before eleven. There would be no taxis at that hour, and I hated to ask my friends to pick me up that late. I stepped back and looked at the schedules of the other companies in that area, to see if any of them mentioned my destination. I knew there was no point in looking back at the expensive end of the station – people pay a premium to avoid stopping in small towns like the one where I live.
Kicking my bags ahead of me, I went up to each counter that named my town. At each counter, the clerks watched me coming and grinned at each other. Other people stepped out of my way and watched me. I was pretty sure they knew what I would ask, since they had been openly listening to my previous queries. At each place, they waited for me to ask my question, and the answer was the same. There were no more busses to my town that night, except the one at ten o’clock.
I went back to the first counter and bought my ticket. Then I kicked my bags over to the payphone. Since I was obviously the only show in town, I tried to make it worth watching. I figured I might as well let everybody know that I was calling friends to pick me up at a specific time and place. I made an elaborate show of fishing through my bag for my phone card. I tried to use it and it didn’t work. I changed my public message; I decided to let everyone know that although I wasn’t worried, I did have a problem. I knitted my brows to express consternation, studied the back of the card, and tried again. I made a show of searching through my purse again, just for fun. I had the attention of the clerks at three counters, a group of low-lifers standing along a side wall, a pair of men sitting in the seats, and another group of five men also seated. None of them seemed particularly dangerous. Just to give them something to look at while I thought about what to do, I fished a couple of pesos out of my pocket, looked at the phone, looked at the pesos again, and put them back in my pocket. I stared at my card again, then picked up the receiver and dialed once more. I paused a moment to make sure everyone was watching, then I hung up, spread my hands in a gesture of frustration, and kicked my bags over to a chair in between the two groups of seated men.
The low-lifers along the wall looked at each other, and one of them slouched a couple of steps in my direction. One of the old men in the group of five leaned forward as though about to address me. But one of the pair of men behind me beat them both to it.
“Were you trying to make a telephone call?” he asked.
“Yes, but I can’t get it to work. I’m trying to call my friends. They expected me earlier, but I got in late because of the rain.”
“We were delayed because of the rain, too,” he said, “We got in a couple of hours later than expected, and we missed our bus. My relatives will come pick us up, but they won’t get here until three or so.”
“With this rain, and the water in the highways, I imagine a lot of people have the same problem.” I said.
“We do!” said the old man from the group of five rancheros. “We’ll have to spend the night. Our bus doesn’t leave until morning, and my son-in-law wouldn’t be able to come get us any sooner than that, anyway.”
“I have friends who will get me,” I said. “They were going to pick me up in my town, but I should have been there by now. I tried to call them and let them know I’d be late.”
“Why don’t you ask the guy who sold you your ticket?” asked the first man. “Maybe he could help you make your call. If you want, I can watch your things while you do that.”
I hesitated for only a moment. If he wanted to steal from me he would have to do it with the knowledge of many people, who would probably be on my side if I accused him. I didn’t have anything of value in my bags, anyway. On the other hand, his offer was really an offer of protection for me as well as my bags. If I accepted his offer, anyone who messed with me would also be messing with him. He didn’t seem to have an ulterior motive.
I smiled. “Thank you.”
Leaving my luggage where it was, I took only my purse and walked to the ticket counter. As I did, I felt a change in the way people stared at me. It may have been my imagination, but I felt that rather than watching me as a curiosity, people were now watching me the way they might idly look at some relative or acquaintance who happened to be in front of their eyes. I felt accepted.
The ticket seller told me that his telephone was only for receiving calls, not placing calls. However, he told me that the town I was calling has a different area code. I had not realized that. I went back to the payphones and dialed, using the correct area code. This time it rang, and my friend answered. I turned toward the wall so my voice wouldn’t carry to the others. I had the feeling they were no longer certain I was American, and I didn’t want to re-create a distance by letting them hear me speak English.
After talking to my friend, I hung up and sat down again.
“Success?” asked the man who’d taken charge of watching my luggage.
“Yes!” I replied. “He’s going to pick me up.”
I waited in silence for about half an hour, keeping an eye on the clock. I didn’t want to go out in that downpour any sooner than I had to. Just when I figured that it was about time to go outside, one of the clerks at another ticket counter got the attention of a passing man.
“Is that young lady taking the ten o’clock bus?” he asked.
At least half a dozen of my audience members turned their attention to him.
“I don’t know,” the man answered.
“Tell her that if she’s got a ticket on that bus, it’s leaving in a few minutes and there won’t be another one. She’d better go outside.”
We all watched as the man walked over to me. As he drew near, my protector looked at him, and at the last moment he turned to him instead of me.
“If this young lady is taking the ten o’clock bus, her bus is leaving,” he told him.
My protector turned toward me. I found this elaborate message relaying amusing, especially since I was pretty sure that everyone knew I had heard the original message as well as they had. I spoke before he had a chance to say anything.
“I guess I’ll go outside now,” I said. “Thank you.”
“It was a pleasure,” he replied. “Have a good trip.”
We shook hands, and then I went through the performance of piling my luggage on my back. I took one last look around. They were all still watching me. A couple of men nodded at me and I nodded back. Then I went out to my bus.
Due to a miscommunication, my friend went there to pick me up instead of to the local bus station. He got there between half an hour and an hour after I left. He walked up and down looking for me and felt very conspicuous under all the stares. He described me to people and asked if they had seen me. Everyone flatly denied having seen anyone of my description. I don’t know why they said they hadn’t seen me, but for some reason it pleases me.
I think that in a very conspicuous and noticeable way, I did something akin to blending in. I’ve always thought that I could “disappear” in Mexico if I wanted to, and now I think that for all practical purposes I could do it even while standing out like a sore thumb.
My First Proposal
I sat reading in the lounge at a Community College. The semester would be over in only one more week.
“Hello.”
I looked up. I recognized him from my speech class; a tall thin black man. “Hi,” I replied, and went back to my book.
“You and I are in the same speech class.”
“Yes,” I said, and turned to my book again.
“How old are you?” he asked.
I realized that reading was not going to be possible at the moment. I closed my book and looked at him. “Twenty-two,” I replied.
“Oh.” He looked a little surprised. “I’m twenty-four… but that’s ok.”
I didn’t know quite what to say to that, so I just said, “Ok.”
“Let me tell you some things about myself,” he went on. “My name is _________. I am from Saudi Arabia. I am a good student, and very responsible. I come from a wealthy family. My dad sent me to study here because I am so responsible. I have one brother who is younger than I am. He probably will not be sent here, since he is not as responsible as I. What can you tell me about yourself?”
Caught off guard, I grasped for information. “Well…” I began, “I have one brother…” I stopped there. Why should I tell anything about myself to this person? “Why do you want to know?” I asked him.
He looked a little embarrassed, but he did not look away. “I wanted to ask you if you would marry me.”
I almost laughed, but the look on his face stopped me. He was serious! I didn’t know how to respond, although he stood silently waiting for me to say something. Finally I said faintly, “I don’t know you.”
“Yes, that is a problem. We’ll have to get to know each other afterwards.”
I stared at him speechlessly. I had thought that sort of thing happened in books, not in real life in an American suburb.
After a while, he said, “I think you are a Christian, right?”
“Yes, I am.”
“So am I. I am the only Christian in my family. If I go back to my country, I will have to marry a Muslim. The only way for me to marry a Christian is to do it while I am still in America. Will you be my wife?”
Dumbly, I repeated “But I don’t know you.”
“I’m sorry about that. Perhaps I should have approached you sooner so you could have had more time to think about it. It’s just that I had to think carefully to be sure I was making the right decision. I think you would do well because you have experience with other cultures, and it would not be as hard for you to adjust to your life in Saudi Arabia. I have to go back in two weeks and I would like to take you with me. Otherwise my father will make me marry a Muslim woman.”
Something in my dazed brain responded to his “two weeks.” “My parents are coming to visit me in one month.” I offered.
He considered. “I think I could probably get an extension on my visa, so that you could say goodbye to your parents.”
The finality of his words hit me. He was asking me to do something that would result in never seeing my parents again!
I stared at him, aghast.
After a few moments of awkward silence, he said, “Look, I don’t know your culture and you don’t know mine. We are in America now, and we know that Americans are direct and honest. Let’s use that culture so we can be sure we understand each other. If you don’t want to marry me, say ‘no’. Then I will walk away, and I will never talk to you again.”
I looked him in the eye, took a deep breath, and said, “No.”
He held my eye contact for about one second more. Then he nodded his head and walked away. I watched him until he was out of sight.
He never spoke to me again.
-
Top Commentators
- Ayako (781)
- Cynthia (554)
- miyon (505)
- Uncle Dan (500)
- mairabay (368)
- kristine (363)
- MsMerising (279)
- mmmmmm (249)
- marie (229)
- Isa (223)
Polls
Loading ...