Third Culture Community

This week I've been at Mennonite Mission Network's Overseas Seminar, leading the third culture kid (TCK) youth. Being a TCK means that you grew up in a place where one culture was your passport country's, another was your host country's, an interesting blend of the two (or more) is your own. I haven't been at one of these since 2002, when I was a little African boy about to enter public high school and have my own less dramatic four-year version of a Mean Girls experience. Seriously.

Being part of the TCK group that week eight years ago was a wonderful thing. I hadn't been in a group before and haven't since that bonded so quickly and felt so comfortable. I was coming from 14 years of life, at least as many different cultural groups (sometimes 3 or more per place) where among the last 10 houses, 8 international moves, 5 school changes, 4 best friends, and 3 languages, the only consistent part of my growing up years had been my family members. The thing is, whenever a group of TCKs gets together, the fact that they grew up with similarly high amounts of transition brings them together pretty tightly.

In preparation for leading this group I've been learning about the advantages and disadvantages of being a TCK. So much of what I've read has helped me to understand the good and the bad of how I've dealt with being a TCK as well as the increasingly clear differences between me and my parents. Once again being in a group of TCKs helps me to see similarities in the values that we hold strongly, our reactions to events, our confidence and easy-going nature, our hesitance and our ignorance.

TCKs deal with rapid transitions by being cultural chameleons. We quickly learn the visible cues, styles, and current pop culture in whatever place we transplant to. We learn how to fit in to the point that we seem to be from the place that we currently reside. When I'm asked where I'm from, I quickly gauge the questioner's interest in me and my life. If I know or hope that I'm going to have a longer term relationship with this person, I'll probably tell them about growing up along the West African coast. They'll ask what countries, and I'll tell them Ghana, Benin, and Ivory Coast. They ask how long, I tell them 10 years. Thats generally as far as it goes. With acquaintances, I simply tell them that I've been around Elkhart since high school.

For many TCKs, we live in multiple worlds. We often go back and forth across lines that most people rarely if ever cross. The most obvious lines are the cultural ones. That is the line between North America and Europe, Africa, and East Asia. Beyond crossing those lines when new air rushes into your face at the plane door, there are the lines between the city and the village, the manicured lawns and the swept-dirt courtyards, the hot shower and the bucket bath. We cross another cultural line every time we leave the American Recreation Center and get on a motorcycle taxi to take us back home. We cross class lines every day between our houses, the international schools we attend with the richest kids in the country, and our churches in the shantytowns. We have potential to grow up to become habitual line-crossers.

The class line is one that we get particularly good practice crossing. Thats because when we come back to our passport countries, we find ourselves continuing to cross that line. Our friends' families from before we left and our new friends have spent more time in the rat race than our families have, making the transition from a missionary salary to dual US salary feel like a step down the economic ladder. Often due to our humble living situation we opt to go to our friends' houses rather than bring our friends to our own houses.

The shame that comes with showing rich friends your life without air conditioning, pools, and servants becomes something familiar. We've learned how it feels. We've learned that to fend off the shame, we must concentrate on what we love and what is beautiful about ourselves, our cultures (as confused as they may be), our families, and our situations.

Logical Policy; Emotional Pull

The bike shop has continued to be busy. My absence was noticed in both bike shops when I went to Virginia two weeks ago. It feels good to be missed because then I know that the work I do is appreciated. I gave out a lot of bikes in this last week and a half.

A friend of the house donated some very nice bikes to the Elkhart shop. I was inclined to sell the one, as its value when was around $300. A lot of people had been asking if they could work it off and I had been telling them that I was going to attempt to sell it. The bike shop could use more cash flow. After a week, one man (Mark) who had a striking resemblance to a character from the Lord of the Rings movies had helped out around the shop for a few hours without working towards anything. At the end of the day, Mark said he wanted to work it off. I knew that what the shop needed was for me to sell it, but I also knew that this man had probably never had a really nice bike. Who was I to deny Mark something nice that I knew, were I in his shoes, that I would appreciate?

I let Mark work the bike off, with the promise that he would trade to me his old bike. He came the next week and spent the whole afternoon working for it (unfortunately not being very productive). I gave him the bike, he gave me his old one, and he went on his way. The next day, someone else came into the shop and worked for a few hours for Mark's old bike. Happy transactions all around.

Yesterday, Mark walked up to the shop. Uneasiness turned my stomach turned. When I asked him where his bike was, he shrugged his shoulders. He said that it had been stolen while it was locked up. I gave him an incredulous look, to which he told me of the camera, the security guard, the unidentifiable hooded figure who had been taped stealing the camera. I didn't believe it, my theory was that he had sold it at a pawn shop. That's because Mark wasn't looking sad at all, not even a bit disappointed. He was more interested in looking at the other bikes to see what the next one was that he could fix up and take. But this one wasn't for him, this one was for his girlfriend. Why did she need another bike, hadn't I already given her one? Of course, her bike has been stolen as well. Doubtless.

I let him know that I wasn't going to let him work off another bike, for neither himself nor his girlfriend. At least not for a month. I explained that this was policy to prevent people from taking bikes and selling them at pawn shops. At this he got a bit flustered, said that he understood, and walked off. Several hours later, he came back, this time on a bike. He asked me if I recognized it. It was his old bike. He said that the guy who worked it off was actually his friend, who was going to let Mark work it off from him. Mark said the other guy didn't want it because it had been too long since he had ridden a bike and he was really sore.

Another story, a little boy (6 years old maybe?) has been trying to buy a bike from me. I said I would sell a decent BMX bike to him for $10, a stellar bargain. He brought me his money, $3. I explained that it wasn't enough, he had to bring me $10. So he came back soon, this time with $6.14. Apparently he hadn't learned how to count money as of yet. It was too nice of a bike, I couldn't let it go for less than $10, so I told him that he should come back the next day with $10. When he showed up the next day with the same $6.14, I told him that he could do some work then I would give it to him for the money that he had.

Have you ever given a 6 year old child work to do? What a weird feeling. I gave him some steel wool and a rim to scrape. And wow did he work. Most adults don't work that quickly or that well. He did an awesome job scraping for about 20 minutes until his older brother showed up and yelled at him for leaving the house when his other siblings weren't home. He left and I didn't get the chance to give him his bike. I guess it'll have to wait.

This one is difficult because I feel torn because of so many different things. I know that his family is poor and I want to give him the bike. I don't want to give it to him for free because then he won't treat it well (true for almost anyone) and he won't be as proud his accomplishment. He also might tell his friends that he got it for free and they would then demand the same thing from me. What really threatened to break my heart about this situation was that this boy was so committed to getting this bike that he was willing to one, give his live savings (three dollar bills, eight quarters, and a few dimes, nickels, and pennies), two, work for it, and three, be committed enough to remember and to actually come back several times over the course of two weeks. Stress the heart some more with the knowledge that since he's 6 years old and around 3.5 feet tall, hes probably going to get this fairly nice bike stolen from him by an older kid faster than you can say 'I think I'm going to cry.'

The combination of these stories provides a lens to view the difficulties of operating a community bike shop and dealing with real people who have real needs. The cash-only policy for nice bikes exists for a reason, as does the requirement that people do work or give money for bikes and parts. But often the emotional reasons behind bending policy can play the strings of your heart like a harp. I'm sure Mark needed whatever money he got from the two bikes that I assume he sold but I wish he and his girlfriend were enjoying the bikes as they carried them so smoothly around town and to work. Maybe all is well because both bikes will be eventually recycled back into the community, a few other bikes are in better condition because of the work he did, maybe he learned something, and hahahaha, hes still on the same trusty steel steed that originally brought him to my shop.

Tender Loving Care

The bike shop in the garage behind the Jubilee house has been so busy. The shop is full of beaten up, worn out bikes that people have brought in to fix or just to give to me. Its really been wonderful to have a busy workplace and to feel like I'm doing something productive with my time. It had to warm up to about 40 before people woke up from their winter slumber, but now that it's really warmed up nicely, people have started coming in droves.

Every day its the same story with the bikes. They have rusty chains, rusty cables, rusty, wobbly, and dented rims, dry bearings, and maybe a few bizarre creaks here and there. But they can be made to function, more or less. Some have more serious problems, like when the bearings have fallen out completely or axles have broken in half. With a lot of perseverance, a little creativity, and some sore, skinless knuckles, most of these things can be fixed.

The most common type of problem is just a maintenance related one. That happens when people haven't known or cared enough to take care of their bikes. Mostly, people coming into the shop clean bikes with these kinds of problems. It can be a really rewarding thing, especially when it seems so hopeless before any work is done, but then the smallest signs of progress encourage us to keep up the good work. A dull, rusty rim can be made shiny if someone tries hard enough.

The other day I showed Chris how to adjust a seat so that it was tight and at the right angle. I showed Lee how to clean up cables and replace them if need be. After a couple of hours of all of us working on their bikes, some other people showed up. Predictably, their bikes had the same problems as most of the other bikes. This time, I was really busy, so I couldn't take the time to teach them how to get things to work again. So I put Chris and Lee up to the task.

Sometimes I can stop for a second and look around. I look at everyone's beaten down, worn out bike and see that really, all that it needs is some tender loving care. Then I see the sweat beading on weathered, scrunched up faces, the torn shoes, the beaten up hands, the grease-blackened jeans grunting to turn rusted out nuts and bolts. These people have been under a lot of stress, having lost jobs, homes, or maybe even families. Smiles break loose across our faces, a laugh jumbles out from behind the truing stand. Self-respect, confidence, and shock radiate from people as they find themselves put into a teaching position, made a leader. Sometimes, all we need is some tender loving care.

Hallelujah

The last week has been wonderful at the Jubilee house. I enjoyed the weekly meeting (!?!?!?), we had an impromptu birthday dance party for a friend, we went to a bar together, and we ALL ate dinner together tonight. It has been amazing to choose to hang out together without having business to talk about. Sam and Maisha have been singing, playing piano and guitar, and sounding awesome too! Hallelujah, praise the Lord!

As is the precedent, the miracles aren't only in the house. It's been sunny out the last two whole days, chasing away our cases of Seasonal Affective Disorder. I also had a meeting with the director at Faith Mission, a nearby shelter, about the future of the bike shop. After I explained everything about how the bike shop works and how about 10 people from Faith Mission have come by since it's been cold, the director got excited about it. Its looking like the shop will find a new residence in a warehouse next to the thrift store that Faith Mission runs! That means many people will know about the shop and hopefully many clients at Faith Mission will be interested in working off their own bikes. Hallelujah, once again.

Recently Juan, a middle-aged Mexican man, has been visiting at Chain Reaction. Juan has only lived in Goshen for two years. Right now his wife has a job but he has been unemployed for a while now. He came in and worked off two nice bikes in about 12 hours. In Aguas Calientes (named for its hot springs), Mexico, he worked taking care of someone else's land and livestock. I did very little production-scale agricultural work in Honduras, but it was enough to learn that it is physically punishing. Once I had showed him a few things about fixing bikes, he started to dream about starting a bike shop in Mexico. With a few tools he could support himself into old age, not having to worry about getting up before dawn to pick hundreds of pounds of coffee off of the bushes until well into the night time. Meeting someone who aspires to learn your own not-so-prestigious trade is a good way to get slapped by your privilege. But its these occasional slaps that keep our opulence in perspective, that keep us humble.

Grumpy is another recent friend from the bike shop. He is one who just got out of the prison industrial complex. His factory job paid high in comparison to the rest of the incarcerated workforce. Working 56 hours, he was bringing a whole $31 back to his cell each week. Yeah, you do the math. He said many that he knew were saddled with jobs that paid only a tenth of what his did. I wondered if that had allowed him to save anything over his multi-year stint, but apparently the horrifying quality of the provided prison food was enough to drive anyone to the commissary for some preservative-injected plastic-wrapped industrial nourishment. Reading has taught me of the private (for profit) nature of many prisons and the slavery of millions of inmates in the USA. It must be awfully lucrative, with the state paying to house the prisoners who end up working for the companies for nothing. It made me happy to be able to give my friend Grumpy a $30 bike after a few hours.

One idea that the director at Faith Mission got excited about was the potential for a recycling program. Chain Reaction runs a recycling program that pays the bike-riding recycling collectors $15 and hour, something closer to a living wage. That can only provide employment for a couple of people for a couple of hours each week. But its enough to give people a fighting chance at some dignity. Hallelujah!

Hard Knock Life

Business has been picking up at the bike shop. Well, not business as you normally think of it, but people have been coming in to fix their bikes and a few have asked if I have bikes to sell. Its notable that the people coming by aren't just wide-eyed neighborhood kids trying to get their hands on whatever they can. These people have been adults who use or will use their bike as their primary mode of transportation.

Meet Brian, a tall, thin anglo man. He is soft-spoken and very humble. He rides a black Huffy mountain bike, the kind that you buy at Walmart for $90. Today, Brian has his long, wavy blond hair bunched upwards into a beanie. He is a Bible student at Bethel College in South Bend. Luckly, he only has one class per week on Monday nights, to which he rides his bike. He is so serious of a student, so passionate about what he does, he carries all of his books 15 miles or more each way in a hiking backpack. Recently his seat post had to be replaced because his body weight combined with the books had bent his first one down to his rear wheel (I find that hard to believe, but he wasn't joking). He came by on Tuesday as well to work on his bike a little and check to see if I could help him install a 49cc motor inside his bike's triangle. Today he is here to install it.

We open the boxes to check out the parts. Several are very heavy, others are complicated to the point of being intimidating. I spot the manual at the bottom of the box. Drawings cover a few pages of the manual, speckled with hundreds of scratchily handwritten, hardly visible numbers. On one page, there are a few paragraphs written in far-from-perfect English describing installation sequence along with a picture of the finished product. Looking at the sketches, into the box, and at the tired little Huffy, I have a feeling of uncertainty. Brian suggests that we pray about it and I chuckle. I always pray once I've messed a project up, rarely before I even start. I turn to look at him and see that he is serious. I drop my hands and close my eyes, admitting that he has a point, then Brian prays that God will give us what we both feel is lacking, the ability to complete the project.

We didn't finish the installation, but we came really close. It'll make for an inspiring motored bike. The experience of just meeting this man was already plenty of inspiration for me. He used to live with some people close to where I live now, but he moved out when some chemical dependencies showed up in his housemates. Now he lives in a storage unit where he says he plans to build himself a loft set-up, like a dorm. He says living in a storage unit is fine, except sometimes you just want some light, like in the mornings when you want to get dressed. His light is currently a few LEDs on a utility battery. It blows my mind that he can live in a storage unit and bike 30 miles once a week to take a class.

I stayed at the Catholic Worker house in South Bend. Their commitment to simple living goes beyond ours over at the Jubilee house. Thirty of them eat nearly all donated food together every night, they work real jobs and contribute all of their earnings to the house, and on the weekends they voluntarily run a busy soup kitchen. When I commented on how busy their lives must be, I was corrected, full, not busy. One of them was gone and I stayed in his room. The only decorations in his spacious room were a crucified Jesus on the wall and several big piles of books. Yet it almost felt like home. How are these people renewed, where do they find life, how are they filled?

I puzzle over that question. I think that either of those lives would exhaust me. I am filled by many things, singing, eating with people, working with people, praying, exercise, working with food in all of its stages, going to church, being with people, reading books, and other things. I guess I could still be filled by all of those things if I was in either situation, but I'm not sure about that. I am reminded of the Liberian A Capella, a singing men's group that has gone through civil war, the loss of friends and family, and surely are familiar with looking despair in the face then staring it down. These men sing songs of freedom, joy, and peace despite witnessing atrocities and intense heartbreak. Could I still sing if my family had been killed, my friends raped? The resonance in their voices stands as a testament to the power of faith. Also, it stands as a reason to be thankful for all of the people in our lives, for the good times and for the hard times. One struggle helps to give us a cheerful perspective during another, when we know the beauty and triumph that comes out of the pain.

Una Forma de Amar Diferente

Hello dear bloggership! These days, I'm doing quite well. The interpersonal stress in my household over gender/personality issues has calmed down a little, and while they mostly remain unresolved, things are at least friendly. I'm feeling more comfortable in this house and with work, things like community meal (when 20 people show up to eat dinner with the 10 of us) no longer stress me out.

Tonight I just finished a small batch of applesauce. Our biggest pot was full of apple slices, but they boiled down to 5 quarts. They're next to the computer and one of them happily popped a few seconds ago, signaling the successful sealing of the jar. Without decomposing bacterial invasion, that seal is capable of preserving the applesauce inside for many years to come. About a month ago, I picked up some jars from an old Fellowship of Hope (intentional community) house, some of which had food still in them. The lids said 95 and 97. Everything still looked good, so I broke that precious seal on a jar full of pears, then ate them all. They were delicious. But not nearly as delicious as my 5 quarts of applesauce will be when I open them up with some loved ones in the dead of winter.

There's something that I've wanted to write for a long time but I haven't gotten it out, its about bikes, specifically why I love them so much. Not only do they build amazing muscles in your legs that allow you to go all day and not get tired, help your body stay strong to ward off diseases, prevent future medical complications, and save you money on car insurance, maintenance, and gas, they also build community. Riding a bike, you go slowly, at 20 miles per hour or less. At this speed, and lacking the metal box enclosing most street travelers, you can make eye contact with and say hello to people sitting in their driveways, enjoying the afternoon.

I thought all of this was well and good, perfect even, until now that I've been doing it for a long time and I still haven't gotten to know my neighbors. I've made eye contact with, smiled at and said hello to many people who pass by my bike shop as I work and also many people on a few streets around Elkhart as I ride my bike around. But just that isn't enough for me to have a sense of community.

Earlier this week I stopped at Ox Bow Park on my way to Goshen to take pictures of the beautiful leaves and trees. Breaking my ride up like that really helped me to relax and feel great, also to appreciate nature. Riding my bike is great for me, but I still need to stop and take time to relax.

In Honduras I really felt comfortable in my town when I could walk around and greet people by name. Towards the end I started to hear 'A wiki-wiki WAMBA!!!' when local high schoolers would see me. They were just repeating the camp chant that I had taught them, but it helped me to know that I was a part of their lives and their community. It is a beautiful feeling, something I will cherish forever.

Staying Out of Trouble

Adjustment to life in the MVS house has been a little hectic. Weeks fly by like seconds. Thursday night happens before you take your first deep breath after the weekend. That is, if you get to take a breath on the weekend. Exciting projects have coupled with my desire for community involvement and the work realize personal dreams. The first month of this life happen without time to sit in the hammock and read, as I spent so much time doing in Honduras.

This last month has also been full of anti-racism and anti-sexism talk in the house and outside of it. Its all been well and good, except that the tight-packedness of it has left very little time for reflection and collection of thoughts. Anyway these thoughts have seeped into every interaction that I have. I feel like I suddenly have a window into (what I've been told) is the dark side of systemically oppressed people's thoughts. Its a little bit unnerving.

Working at the bike shop behind the house gives me a lot of opportunities to interact with local people. If I see a Caucasian kid taking charge and his significantly older sister or an African-American kid letting him take charge, I wonder how much of that is happening because of socialization. Much, apparently, despite the Caucasion kid's high mechanical aptitude. I must admit that the things I see do make sense under these new lenses.

Before the (Damascus Road) anti-racism training, I had spoken with an African-American male teenager outside of the bike shop. I asked what was up, to which he responded that he was just trying to stay out of trouble. Being taken back to the hundreds of times I had heard my dad say that in a joking way, I laughed and told him that that was what I was trying to do too. What struck me immediately was that for him, keeping out of trouble was a very real struggle. Every day I'm sure he struggles to keep out of trouble with gangs, drugs, and police. He, walking alone or with his friends, is immediately suspect. I don't know the statistics, but I do know that he, simply by being African-American, is much more likely to do time in prison or in the back of a cop car. And even though I disregard traffic law and have done stupider and more illegal things in the past, I was and am not as likely to get arrested for it.

But I see hope. A growing wave of racial and sexual discrimination awareness is bringing these things into more and more benefiting people's conscience thoughts. A smile and salutation still have the power to blast warmth and acceptance through people's reluctantly built walls of bitterness, anger and fear. And Maisha (housemate) and I were welcomed to the neighborhood last night by an Angel, a woman who lives down the street.