Just a few ways in which I am so proud of these third culture kids:
Talking in broken English with my friend as we careen through the city streets on the bus.
Served a strange dish and no look or comment to reveal this is something new.
A change in plans… and no (or little) complaining.
A big sister talking to her younger counterparts.
Bravely walking out the door to a new experience in a foreign language.
Sitting with a group of foreigners and being a hostess, making them feel comfortable.
Loving the unlovely.
Begging me (a nurse) to go see a sick friend whose family has fatally accepted that he is dying.
One of the boys sharing his oranges that his daddy bought for him on his trip across the desert. No one else had thought to bring food or drink.
Stirring a pot over a fire in the cooking hut.
Sitting in a circle talking to friends of different color, different country, and different culture.
Wearing their host countries traditional clothing with pride.
Sitting in the young men’s house around a tray of rice and chicken, and throwing their chicken bones over their shoulders to the very little boys waiting to have a share.
Going back to their passport country with bravery. Another adjustment, another new world, another opportunity to be different, but making a difference.