My dear sweet mother never once in her entire life smoked a single cigarette or sipped a single drop of alcohol. To my knowledge she never even said a cuss word except the one time she read a Van Halen t-shirt out loud which doesn’t count because she was asking me what it meant. She married the only boy that she ever kissed and kept her vows until death did they part. She taught Sunday School and took meals to sick people and visited little, old ladies and wrote books for her grandchildren and crocheted (not joking here) Christmas cards every year for everyone she knew (and some she didn’t). She was the supreme epitome of absolute uncorrupted purity, selfless compassion and life-long humility. But she had a dark side. A dark side that could have landed her in prison had the feds caught up with her.
She was a bootlegger (not the moonshine kind). A knockoff artist. A copyright infringer of epic proportions. There was a time in my life when I wanted nothing more that a pair of Nike’s™. Those were the days when black and red Air Jordan’s™ broke the lid off of what retailers would dare ask for a pair of shoes. I didn’t dare ask for those. All I wanted was something, anything with a swoosh™. It was reputational suicide in the fifth grade to wear anything but Nike’s™ and I wore Traxx™ . . . from K-Mart™ . . . with suction cups on the bottom that popped when I walked down the hall at school (which I now call the Green Mile™). I begged and pleaded and I’m pretty sure I even prayed for a pair of Nike’s™ but my tender, compassionate mother’s only solution was, “Let’s just get the plain white Traxx™ and I’ll paint the Nike™ swooshie™ thing on them.” She had no grasp of how much that would NOT solve the problem.
Had it been an isolated incident I’m sure any judge would have been lenient considering her otherwise pristine record. But it wasn’t. When she discovered fabric paint at Joann Fabrics™ she jumped headfirst onto the slippery slope of brand replication. By the time I was in high school I had a Chicago Bulls™ sweatshirt, a Cubs™ cap, a crocheted Nerf™ basketball hoop and a hand painted t-shirt with my name and basketball Jersey number on the back which bore an uncanny resemblance to the shirts that the rest of the team (the cool kids™) wore . . . until you looked at it with the lights on. Her illegal endeavor to trip the retail system was relentless but her reasoning, I believe, was solid. Although she never quite articulated it quite this way her position was simple. The real travesty is a society so consumer driven that shoes cost more than a small car and fifth graders would sell their siblings to wear them. Not a bad point really.
My mother would have truly connected with China. Not so much for the constantly growing presence of Gucci™ and Prada™ and Louis Vuitton™ and the thousands of young Chinese consumers who can now afford them. On the contrary she would have instantly bonded with the producers of Guppi and Praba and Louise Vutton. She would have proudly associated with the multiple millions who either remain too poor to buy the real thing or quite frankly think it would be downright stupid as long as there are stores that sell perfectly good fabric paint. China takes the heat for their lax enforcement of copyright infringements, piracy and cheap knockoffs which is only fair if they want to play on the global stage. But mom would have loved Abibas™.
No animals were harmed in the posting of this blog.
I’m pretty proud of that.
My mother crocheted this basketball for me more than 35 years ago. For context, she was the most gracious, tender, sweet, kind-hearted, loving knockoff artist and brand thief that has ever lived.
This ball was her response to my ridiculous, preteen desire for a Nerf hoop. You know — the kind kids used to hang on the back of their bedroom doors before smartphones were invented. The kind that probably cost about $3 in 1982. The kind all the normal kids had.
She also crocheted a hoop to go with it because she had mad yarn skills and a hypersensitive frugality gland.
I did life with this ball. Perfected my jumper. Dunked like Jordan in slow motion. Played a million games of HORSE. I even used it as the key gauge of discernment for a solid portion of my teenage years.
“If this goes in she totally likes me . . . ok, two out of three.”
Other kids had magic 8 balls. Mom offered to crochet one of those too. I passed.
In many ways, it sparked my life long love for basketball which led me to TWO high school state championships (of small Christian, private schools in Illinois) AND nearly launched a career modeling short shorts.
I’ll pause for a moment and let you take that in.
I realized something important last summer when I stumbled across my ball packed away in one of our sentimental boxes of “stuff we don’t want to throw away but also don’t want to ship all over the world a dozen times” (ask any expat if that’s confusing).
This ball is a ROCK for me. Not literally.
A ROCK is something I talk a lot about and it is CRITICAL for your kids, especially if they’re growing up under the constant cloud of neverending global transition (like mine are).
It’s a super simple concept really:
ROCKS don’t move when everything else does.
Say it backwards.
When everything else moves . . . Rocks don’t.
This is a massive game-changer for families who encounter incessant change. If that describes you then you’ve probably uttered these words in a time of chaos and self-pity:
“UGH!! EVERYTHING IS CHANGING . . . AGAIN!”
ZERO judgment here but that’s a horrible lie that we choose to believe. NOT EVERYTHING is changing but when it feels like that, it is time to get CRYSTAL CLEAR on what is STAYING THE SAME . . . what CAN stay the same.
ROCKS are the nouns and the verbs that can be true and present whether you live in a cornfield in Illinois, an apartment in China or a space station on Mars.
So I was thrilled to pass on a stable piece of my childhood to my son.
Then we got a dog — and you know what happens next.
But here’s the big, heart-wrenching REST OF THE STORY.
Ready for this?
My son (who just turned 10) broke the news to me with tact and empathy well beyond his years.
“Uhh. Dad. Do you know how to sew?”
“Yeah, a little. Why do you ask?”
With appropriate fear and sensitivity to what might happen next, he held up the shredded ball.
(next part censored)
After a few minutes (but well before the steam had stopped rolling out of my ears) he spoke with a shaky voice that I’ve only heard from others offering condolences at a funeral.
“Dad.”
Me, still fuming, flaring my nose, gritting my teeth and determined not to take it out on him.
“Yes.”
“I’m feeling two emotions right now.”
“Ok.”
“One. Sadness. Because this is the only thing I have from Grandma Paula and I never even got to meet her.”
“Ok.”
“And two. Forgiveness.”
And here are the morals of the story:
ROCKS matter. Whoever you are — however you are doing life — something needs to NOT change.
Even ROCKS don’t last forever. Stuffed ducks get lost. 8 balls break. Dogs happen.
The things that ROCKS represent, and teach and instill in the character of your kids are worth a billion times more.
It feels really good when you realize you are raising kids who are better than you.
And here is the happy ending.
I think we can save the ball. Won’t be perfect. But even the scar . . . will be a reminder of forgiveness.
And hey — if you don’t know what your rocks are . . . figure them out.
I’m a pretty decent guy but there are things in me that I don’t want to pass on to my kids. I’m not alone here right?
There is some foundational flint in the core of every mother and every father that sparks a longing to see “better things” for their children. It’s fueled, in part, by a selfless love that can only be truly grasped once you have been irritated, frustrated, exasperated, punched, poked, scratched, kicked, glared at, cried on, spit at, puked on, screamed at, pooped on and stared down by a human being one tenth your size and pardoned every bit of in exchange for a single big bear hug. There is no one else in the world that I would ever cut that deal with and therefore there is no one that I want more for than these horribly wonderful creatures.
It would be terribly misguided, however, to think of ourselves as purely unselfish. Our “better things” longing is not entirely absent of a certain prideful arrogance that likes to think we can do this better than our parents, even if our parents (like mine) were exceptional.
Regardless of our motivation . . . scratch that . . . of MY motivation I want the absolute best for my kids.
It’s not a simple undertaking.
I wish that it was. I wish that I could just insist that they learn math and eat broccoli and ensure that their futures would be bright and shiny and virtually pain free. I can’t.
I wish that I could tell them what to do, what to think, what to believe, who to follow, who not to, when to wait, when to jump, when to hold ’em, when to fold ’em, when to walk away and when to run. I can’t.
I still will . . . but only God knows if they’ll listen . . . or if I’m even right.
I’m learning that what I want most for my kids are contradictions. I want my kids to see in me something that doesn’t make a lick of sense . . . especially when they hold it up in contrast to the way the vast majority of the rest of the world thinks.
These are the contradictions that I want to teach my kids
1. To be Discerning yet Generous
There is an age old tension between helping someone out and not being a sucker. Don’t give money to the beggar because they’ll probably just use it on drugs. Don’t buy too many cookies from the girl scout because they’ll come out of the wood works if they find out you like Thin Mints. Don’t tip more than 20%. Or was is it 15? I’ll go 12 but I need a calculator.
I am 100% in favor of wisdom. I’m a big supporter of discernment. I have always had a phobia of naivete.
Unfortunately, I am just now learning how much absolute joy there is in knowing all of the facts and giving anyway. My wife and I are not nearly rich enough to be philanthropists but we are more excited than we have ever been about random, unsolicited, unexpected and unreciprocated acts of generosity.
We rarely go through a drive thru without buying for the people behind us.
We don’t go out to eat unless we can afford to pay for some strangers sitting on the other side of the restaurant
We tipped our waitress $50 for an $8 meal.
My wife texted me yesterday and said, “I just bought an old lady’s groceries. You need to ask for a raise.”
This is terrible financial advice but to be quite honest we’re not the ones you want to come to for financial counseling. On the other hand you won’t find anyone who gets more giddy than we do because we paid twice what they were asking at a rummage sale.
Discernment is the fence between cynicism and generosity. I’ve been on both sides and I like it way better here.
I want my kids to know the joy of giving with their eyes open.
2. To be Brilliant yet Ignorant
That’s the most ridiculous sentence I have ever written and I am no stranger to writing ridiculous sentences. What kind of moronic father would ever wish ignorance upon his children.
Let me clarify. I would never wish ignorance on my children. In fact I would never have to. It’s guaranteed that they will be ignorant I just want them to be aware of it. Ignorance gets blamed for so many bad behaviors but it isn’t the culprit. It’s the universal character trait.
Ignorance is not knowing.
A bigot, for example, may arrive at a state of racism because they don’t know . . . but they stay there because they think they do. Ignorance isn’t the problem but not realizing how ignorant you are . . . that’s a problem.
Something horrible happens when you find an answer to anything. You stop looking for answers. I want my kids to be so phenomenally brilliant that they never for a moment feel that they have learned all they need to. I want them to bumble and trip and say embarrassingly awkward things about politics and religion and race and culture and how old people smell and each time they do I want them to become a little more brilliant and get one more glimpse into how far they have to go.
I want my kids to taste the freedom of admitting their own ignorance.
3. To Love Their Country and the Rest of the World Too
My kids have grown up in China. They literally have friends on every continent except Antarctica and my daughter is planning a trip to see what she can do about that. Now we’re back in America and I’m a little bit scared.
I’m a little scared that they’re a bit behind the curve on things like the 4th of July and the Pledge of Allegiance. Currently though I’m even more scared that the beautiful pieces of growing up cross-culturally won’t stick. I want them to be proud to be American but I want it to be the good kind of pride. We’ve got a pretty cool story and we’ve come through some really messy stuff. We’ve made a lot of mistakes and continue to do so but we’ve also faced a great number of our demons and been willing to say, “hey, that’s not right.”
I can’t help but think that 200 years ago my son, who is half black and half white would have been his mother’s shame and his father’s death. Even 50 years ago he would have been a scandal. I know we’ve got a long way to go but I’m pretty proud to be where we are considering where we’ve come from.
I want my kids to know that same pride without forgetting for a moment that there are other great nations and we don’t call the people who live there foreigners . . . we call them friends.
I want my kids to feel the pleasure of pride without arrogance.
4. To be Racially “Blind” yet Celebrate Culture
I hesitate to write this one because I don’t actually want my kids to be, as they say, “color blind.” Honestly I think the term (if I may be a bit nitpicky) is a bit of a sad reflection of all of the messy racial issues that we’ve struggled through. It’s like the best option we have is to say, “you’re black but I’m going to ignore that and just call you a person.” Or, “you may be white but I’ll let it slide.”
I want my son to know that he is African American and love it. I want my daughter to know that she is from China and embrace it. I want them both to learn to celebrate their heritage and each other’s and ours collectively. I also want them to be completely embarrassed to be seen with us but only because we are their parents . . . not because we are white.
I love that my kids are off to a good start because our beautifully blended family has forced them into a position of loving and being loved deeply by people who don’t look like them. It’s in their core already. I think they’ve got an edge on the mono-cultural families. I’m not saying they’re better than all of the other kids . . . but they are.
I want my kids to celebrate their heritage and never miss a friendship for the sake of skin.
5. To Disagree and Love People
I don’t have this one figured out. It’s really not easy to love people who are obviously wrong. This is a major challenge for me because I am so often right. In fact I’m fairly certain I am right about everything. If I didn’t think I was right about something I would change my mind. Then I would be right about everything.
It’s a bit easier on the surface when people just disagree with me about the piddly stuff . . . like politics.
It gets real though, when people start spouting venomous drivel like, “I Love Lucy was the best show ever made.”
EXCUSE ME. Have you never seen The Andy Griffith Show?!! Dirty Joker.
See what I mean? Not easy.
I want my kids to know where they stand. I want them to be firm in their convictions and their beliefs. I don’t want them to be swayed by every fast talker who crosses their path and I don’t want them to apologize for their core values. I also don’t want them huddle up with people who never challenge them and I don’t want them to simply tout their rightness among a crowd of agreeable people.
This just in . . . A courageous band of mothers who have adopted from China have taken down Osama Bin Laden.I still consider myself a rookie when it comes to this blogging thing but I’m having a boatload of fun with it. I think the truest quote I have heard so far is “Blogging — Never before have so many people with so little to say said so much to so few.” Still . . . I’m getting a kick out of writing, playing with the newest gadgets and watching the stats. However it has been just a little bit disconcerting that since May 4th when I posted “Turn Off the Light Stupid: What China Thinks of Bin Laden” that I have had a picture of said Bin Laden right over there on the right side of my blog (where my kids and the Angry Bird are now). Not entirely my fault, I just plugged in the gadget that automatically lists your top three posts and Osama got more attention than anything else (I blame my readers mostly). So there they have been . . . pictures of my perfectly precious daughter, my Obamish, beefcake of a son and the iconic face of global terrorism. Try as I might I just couldn’t come up with anything that would attract enough hits to knock him off of his perch (sounds familiar).
Then it happened. In one day a repost on China Adopt Talk.com drove more than a thousand hits (small potatoes for good bloggers but a big day for me) to my site and pfft he was gone. Nicely done ladies (gentlemen too . . . but mostly ladies). We salute you.
If you want to read about some very cool adventures of families that were brought together through the beauty and chaos of adoption in China then click here . . . and here . . . or here . . . and here too . . . or go to China Adopt Talk.com and poke around. And if you want some brilliant insight into what it is like to really live, really love and foster a beautiful baby in China then you should definitely try walking to China . . . the blog . . . not the actual hike . . . that would be silly.
One more thing — I’m realizing the irony of a post celebrating the removal of a picture of Osama Bin Laden which also includes the exact same picture of Osama Bin Laden but I read somewhere that irony tricks more people into reading your blog. I’m also realizing that if I trick too many people into reading this post then Osama’s picture will once again be in the top three and right over there with the angry bird which would be even more ironic . . . and trick even more people into reading my blog. I told you . . . this is fun.
AAND . . . the true irony? My son (who replaced Osama as #3 on the top three list) . . . his birthday?
Expats are big decision makers. It’s what we do. It’s how we roll.
This whole cross cultural experience started with a decision that impacted every aspect of our lives.
“Hey honey, how would you feel about about moving.”
“Ooo — yes. There’s a really cute place over by my mother’s.”
“Yeah . . . I was thinking Zimbabwe.”
And that was the match that lit the fire. There are roughly 36,000 steps between that moment and your first day as a foreigner. I’ve considered writing a book about it but who wants to read that?
“The 36,ooo Steps To Becoming a Highly Effective Expat”
Not me.
Even though BECOMING an expat is a big decision those who do it very quickly discover that BEING an expat is the great decision inflator. Every decision takes up more space. Even the ones that used to be simple . . . like eating food . . . and saying words.
It gets better with time and discovery but expats are no foreigners to making big decisions.
There is ONE big decision however that circles overhead for the duration of our time abroad. It’s the looming question that we all wrestle with in varying degrees and often multiple times over the course of our expatriate lives . . .
When is it time to leave?
For many it’s easily dismissed with a simple “not yet.” For others the decision is out of their control . . .
“Contract’s up, we’re sending you home.”
“Embassy was attacked — everybody out.”
BUT — in any given time zone at any given moment there are thousands of expats grappling with the not so simple question,
“Should I stay or should I go?”
I’ve talked with dozens of these people in the past few weeks and hundreds in the past few years. Here are some of the highlights from those conversations and some things you might consider if you’re one of those expats right now:
1. Deciding to leave is a not an event it is a process
One of the biggest “Aha moments” ever for me was discovering leaving is not about the date on my plane ticket. I’m leaving long before then and continue to leave long after. It’s a process that ramps up (usually for months) to the airplane and then spends months ramping down.
The crazy bit is that the process itself actually encompasses a number of other processes. Deciding to leave is one of those. Announcing that fact is another. Then you can get down to the ongoing process of leaving well.
Reframing your decision as a process cuts you loose from the pressure of needing to know right now. There are a lot of pieces to consider. Slow down. Think it through.
Processing also reminds you that something should be happening now. Telling yourself that you will have a decision by the first of the year is not just postponing the event. You should be in that process between now and then.
2. Embrace the paradox
You’re no stranger to this one. This whole thing has been a paradox from day one.
Crossing cultures is one of the most starkly contradictory experiences life has to offer. It is wonderfully horrible and horribly wonderful and grasping that is key to thriving while abroad. Those who can’t find anything good have a miserable and depressing experience. Those who don’t acknowledge anything bad crash harder than the miserable and depressed ones.
It’s hard — but it’s good.
Leaving is not the exception here. Neither is staying.
The grass may be greener on the other side of the fence but that pasture is not without it’s fair share of weeds or manure.
(Confucius totally should have said that)
Whether you land on staying or going, embrace the paradox in the process. Explore the realities (good and bad) of all angles.
3. Wait until the ride has come to a complete stop
Life cross-cultural can be an emotional roller coaster. If that rings a bell you’re not alone. It is uber common for expats to feel like they want to stay forever on Monday morning and get on the next plane out by Monday afternoon. This is especially common in the first two years but not at all restricted to then. You may have been abroad for years and still go through roller coaster phases.
It’s ok. You’re not abnormal.
BUT — The worst possible time to get off of a roller coaster is in the middle of the ride.
Fight the urge to make a decision while you can’t seem to make a decision. Barring other external circumstances you’re probably better off staying in your seat and screaming for a bit.
Just so we’re clear. If you can’t choose between staying or going . . . stay. Ride it out. Don’t go and then wonder if you should have stayed.
4. Don’t confuse cancer for high crime
“I’m not sure this is a healthy environment for me.”
I’ve heard this sentence (and probably said it) more than once. Sometimes it’s legit. Maybe there is something truly toxic, abusive or threatening that is pushing you to consider leaving. Understandable. You can move on to the next point.
However, 97% (I made up that statistic to emphasize my point) of the time this sentence describes tough relationships. A demanding leader. A gossipy team. A lack of friends.
Here’s a metaphor. You can learn to live in a high crime area (much of the world does) even if that’s not where you’re from. You do have to make some major life adjustments that are based on applying wisdom to hard truths. HOWEVER — No matter how much wisdom you apply, your chances of survival in a bad neighborhood go down dramatically . . . if you have cancer and don’t treat it.
The moral of this story? No matter where you live there is no guarantee of affirming leaders, non-gossipy teams and super friends (the community type not the Wonder Twin type). Don’t run from an “unhealthy” place. Get healthy.
Then you can go anywhere.
5. Don’t overestimate your contribution
Sometimes people stay because things would fall apart if they left.
They don’t though . . . fall apart that is . . . when they leave.
Generally speaking (and of course there are always exceptions) cross-cultural endeavors are built to absorb the shock of transience. People come and people go. It doesn’t mean you won’t be missed. That’s a different issue.
Steve Jobs died.
I just typed that on my Mac which is plugged into my iPhone.
See what I’m saying? This thing will go on without you and yet, you are still important.
6. Don’t go (or stay) . . . on a guilt trip
“You’re leaving because you met someone on eHarmony? Wow. Shallow.”
“Aunt Bessie was asking about you. She’s probably not gonna’ be around long.”
“I came here to help people. I can’t imagine going home when so many people are hurting. Maybe you can . . . but I can’t.”
“People are hurting here at home too. They sure could use somebody like you.”
Pause. You know that these people . . . these well meaning people love you, right? They do — and they speak (almost usually) out of that love. It’s important that you start there.
Guilt, however, is a terrible decision driver. You can listen respectfully. You can also add every valid observation from noble-intentioned friends and family to the 4 billion other factors that you need to consider as you process your choice.
If you decide based on guilt though, you’ll never get away from it.
7. Be painfully honest
People who yearn for something become expert justifiers to get it. When those people interact with others (especially friends and family) on the subject of their yearning, the pressure builds. There is a compulsion to block, even the most legitimate, questions and objections.
SO — we find trump cards and shut the conversation down cold.
“It’s what’s best for my family.”
“My doctor says it would be better.”
“My kids really needs this.”
“I just know this is God’s will right now.”
ALL of these are great, valid, viable reasons to stay or go — that’s not the point. The point is that it takes some painfully honest introspection to discern whether these are REALLY your reasons — OR — you have discovered and defaulted to the one answer that no can argue with?
Don’t guard yourself from the tough questions and objections. Instead let those be the refining part of your decision process.
8. Consider option A.5?
If A is stay and B is go . . . is there anything else? Something in between maybe?
Sometimes we box ourselves into a two option scenario. While you are processing, why not wander around and explore outside of the box.
Could you stay and take on a different role?
Can you move laterally within the same organization?
Is there another expat opportunity available? A different country? New opportunity?
Do you just need a break to recharge? What are your options for that?
Could you do an extended visit home? A sabbatical? A year off?
Possible? Not possible?
That’s the point of exploring. You may be surprised to discover an option that you hadn’t dreamed of. You may find that there actually are only options A and B.
Either way — it’s worth some thought.
9. Lay a solid brick?
Expats are almost never pillars of their community. They don’t stay long enough for that and even if they stayed for 50 years their communities would change dozens of times around them.
Transient people are more like brick layers. Your life will look like a big brick wall. Chase this metaphor with me for a minute.
When you’re building a brick wall EVERY single brick is important. One sandy, mushy brick and I can poke a hole in your wall. Two or three and the whole structure is compromised.
Here are some things that cause mushy bricks:
The wrong materials in your brick.
Your brick didn’t set long enough to get hard.
You moved on to the next brick before you finished laying the one you were on.
Ask yourself (and be painfully honest again) — is the brick you are laying right now solid?
Have you engaged? Gone deep? Added value to the place where you are?
Have you stayed long enough?
Have you already checked out?
10. Build your processing list
Deciding to stay or go is a process. We covered that right?
So what are you processing? I mean besides those two choices. What are the factors? The variables? The consequences? The benefits? The challenges?
If you try to process without slowing down you’re bound to miss something.
Try this.
Set your timer for 2 minutes. Grab a pen and paper. Mark it “STAY” then divide it into “PROS” and “CONS”
For 2 minutes (and 2 minutes only) write as many Pros to Staying as you can possibly come up with. Don’t think. Just write.
GO!
Now do two minutes for “Cons”.
Now do the same for “Going Pros” and “Going Cons”
You’ll be surprised what comes out and you’re likely to discover that you can produce a lot more in 8 intensely focused minutes than you can in 8 hours bouncing back and forth.
STOP — Remember that this exercise is NOT about making your decision. It’s about building your list of things to process. Don’t just look at which list is longer. Some of these things are weighted more heavily than others. Try rating them 1-5 to get some perspective on which sides are heavier.
Again. Don’t think. Just rate.
You’re still not there. Spend some time with your lists. Make connections. Draw lines and circles and stars and smiley faces. Make notes about the pieces that seem to be really significant — good or bad. What are the themes?
Learn something about yourself.
When you’re finished you should have a much clearer picture of what you need to spend time processing.
11. Seek wisdom
This one is simple.
This is a big decision. Don’t just read a blog. Find people you trust and invite them into your process.
12. Is it time?
I have had hundreds of one on one conversations with people who are either leaving or leaning that direction.
I try my hardest to shake them up. Throw them a loop. Make them consider something that they haven’t yet. I don’t try to change their minds I just push them to think it through . . . all the way.
In all of those conversations there have been a handful who are absolutely unshakeable and they have all responded with a nearly identical answer.
“It’s time.”
That’s it. They don’t justify their answer. They don’t defend their thinking. There is no shakiness in their voice.
They just know. They have found the wisdom that they went looking for and the peace that may not even make sense to them. They’ve been through the process and they speak with absolute confidence.
“It’s time.”
If you can’t say that honestly . . . not as a trump card but with absolute conviction — then it probably means one of two things:
It’s not time
You’ve got some processing to do
Grab a pen.
These are just a few things I learned from a bunch of great expats. There is so much more to learn.
I was pretty run of the mill. Unfortunately the mill that year was cranking out knobby kneed, gangly armed, pimply faced manboys who, despite devoting every waking moment to the art of faking cool, squawked like a chicken every time we laughed. I was (like all of my counterparts of the same patent) a strange and confusing chemical mix of misguided uber confidence and confusingly low self esteem. In my head I was some combination of Michael Jordan* (athletically speaking) and Arthur Fonzarelli* (with the ladies). In Actual World I regularly tripped over the free throw line and let’s just say that went much better than it ever did with the ladies.
*links to MJ and the Fonz included for younger readers.
They called me Jerry Jones chicken bones and my strongest comeback was . . . “I know you are but what am I?!” I remember holding my breath with high hopes of squeezing out a chest hair. I got three new pimples that night.
It was a strange and surreal time. Confusing. Painful. Weird.
You couldn’t pay me a bajillion dollars to go back and do it all again . . . and yet . . . here I am — weeks away from yet another international move and I’m flashing back.
Transition is like puberty . . . in so many ways. If you’re in the middle of it maybe you can relate.
Here are my symptoms:
1. Mood Swings
I’m sprinting the gamut between high highs and low lows. I’m finding that as we move closer to yet another massive life transition I can (multiple times in one day) make the jump between feeling like Tigger with a cup half full and Eeeyore who doesn’t even see the point of cups . . . or water . . . or being awake.
Between the visa applications, the doctor visits, the downsizing, the packing, the intentional eye contact goodbyes and the fact that time itself is moving much too fast and much too slow simultaneously . . . yeah . . . transition makes me irritable.
Is there a problem with that or could we please just move on to number 2 like a normal blog?!
Sheesh.
2. Funky Brain
I am scattered to say the least. My brain is all over the place and no matter what I’m thinking about I have a secondary nagging thought that there is probably something else that I’m forgetting to think about.
This nonsense ironically made perfect sense when I was 12 and could blame it all on hormones and girls.
I have no good excuses now. My brain is just full . . . and consequently funky.
3. Snarfing
In the context of our chaos, when meal time comes, I am pathetically unmotivated to make wise decisions about food . . . so I make stupid ones. I also have little ambition towards cleaning up afterwards considering the fact that clutter is the bain of our transition right now.
The simpler the better.
Somehow eating uber-hydrogenated cheesy puff munches out of a plastic bag or feeding my family with a sack of double cheeseburgers feels less daunting and just easier. I’m even inclined to try convincing my wife that $5 pizzas are a better choice than a home cooked meal . . . every day.
I’m flashing back to age 14 when my stomach was a bottomless pit and my metabolism burned calories before they even went in my mouth.
This is no longer the case.
Stop judging me.
4. Fighting with people I don’t disagree with
One thing I remember, very distinctly, from my adolescent years is that everyone who lived in my house was wrong . . . about everything . . . always.
It didn’t much matter what the topic was or where they landed on it. If they said it, I disagreed . . . wholeheartedly . . . and even if they changed their position to agree with me one hundred percent . . . I still disagreed.
Recently I’m finding myself (once again) prone to taking the alternative stance even when there is no good reason to do so. When everything around is a chaotic whirlwind it’s easy to forget that the people in my boat are not actually trying to sink me.
I talk to a lot of people in transition so at least I know that high tension and pointless arguments are par for the course. Unfortunately knowing it hasn’t given us immunity.
It helps to call it out though . . . we’re on the same team.
5. Digital paralysis
I was a part of the generation who discovered that there is no limit to the hours a teenager will spend playing video games or watching TV. We were hard core. Kids these days have no idea.
We numbed our brains into the wee hours of the morning long before PS4 and Netflix. We were trailblazers. Ground breakers. When we ran out of lives we started all over from the beginning of the game. When we rented a movie we had to leave the house. Our playlists were called mix tapes and they took days to get just right. When we sent a text message there was paper involved. And stamps. The licky kind.
It was a tougher time.
Times of transition (much like the formative years) present an often overwhelming temptation to disconnect from a stressful reality. Now more than ever, the digital options that enable unhooking from real life are without boundaries.
Let’s just say it takes longer to write a blog post while you’re binge watching 90’s sitcoms.
I get it now — why my parents feared for my generation.
6. My ears are broke
My wife tells me this is true and I really have no strong argument to prove otherwise. I can look straight at you. Make eye contact. Nod like I am absorbing every word. Even respond with noises that make total sense in conjunction with what you have just said . . . and immediately have ZERO recollection that the conversation ever happened.
I can ask you a question and you can give me a clear, concise, perfectly constructed answer. I will make a purposeful, cognizant effort to register that data and store it in my brain . . . and three minutes later I will ask you the exact same question again.
I am either regressing to my teens or fast forwarding to my 90’s.
Either way . . . what were we talking about?
7. Exhaustion
I am so, so tired . . . and yet never so much that I can sleep well. It’s a vicious cycle.
8. Weird things are happening to me
I’ve been having regular headaches and tiny little anxiety attacks. That’s not like me. I wake up in the middle of the night and can’t go back to sleep. I’ve learned that I can increase my heart rate at will just by thinking about the next few weeks and I have regular dejavu.
I’ve also learned that I can increase my heart rate at will just by thinking about the next few weeks and I have regular dejavu.
It’s weird.
Seriously. Is there not a pamphlet for this? With charts and graphs and awkward diagrams. At least when I was sixteen my mother gave me a book called, “So You’re Turning Twelve.”
(pausing to let that sink in)
There is hope
Whiny as I may be, the silver linings are not absent here — in fact they are multiple. The change of life (I mean the big one years ago) was not entirely horrible. It was certainly filled with paradox and there were challenges that I would never want to relive however, between the knobby kneed bumbling and the hormone driven awkardness . . . it was a rich, wonderful time.
I was surrounded by great people who poured into my shaky life. I probably laughed harder and more often than I have since. I was impressionable (although I tried my hardest not to be). I was formed during that time and my life (the grown up one) has been better because of it.
And the best part . . . it didn’t last forever.
The awkward development years served as a beautiful gateway between two wonderful stages of my life.
I expect that this transition will be the same.
How about you? Anyone else out there in transition and feeling 13 again? Or is it just me?
I could totally pull off the Amish look, don’t you think?
I felt strangely amish today . . . in a bizarre, science fiction, alternate universe, I live in China where there are no Amish people kind of way. From now on I will be blogging by candlelight.
I grew up in a part of America that we call the midwest. Actually, if you look at a map, most of the “midwest” is geographically closer to the East coast but no one in that particular part of the country prefers to say they live in the Middle East . . . so we call it the midwest.
Midwestern values are simple. Sit up straight, don’t cuss in front of your mother, buy American and don’t stare at people. Like all values though, there are exceptions. For example as important as it is to buy American products (we start riots over this) it is acceptable to buy imports if and only if said imports are 1. cheaper . . . 2. better quality . . . or 3. closer to where you live. Hence Wal-Mart . . . and Toyota . . . and everything else.
The two exceptions to the “no staring” rule are as simple as the value itself.
1. Staring is allowed if the person or persons being stared at are obviously unaware that the staring is taking place. It’s a little known fact that Midwesterners have distinctively over developed neck muscles and a keen sense of peripheral vision. The neck muscles are developed by repeated “glance aways” which is the proper response when one is caught staring. The peripheral vision allows them to intuitively sense when it is all clear to turn back and commence staring.
2. It is acceptable to stare if the person or persons being stared at are the exact combination of really strange AND not a threat to your physical well being. Ironically “strange” can encompass a broad range of traditionally non-midwestern characteristics but non-threatening is pretty cut and dried. For example, large tattoos on a pasty white teenager with orange hair and multiple face piercings leaning against the wall outside of the mall smoking a Virginia Slim cigarette. Ok to stare. Large tattoos on a huge, bearded man with a pony tail and black leather jacket that is embroidered with a human skull and the words “Kill em’ all, let God sort em’ out” straddling a Harley Davidson, smoking a Marlboro Red . . . Look away. Determining who fits the exception and who doesn’t is complex and confusing to the outsider but for the midwesterner it is second nature.
The Amish fit perfectly into exception number 2.
They are a fascinating group of peoplewho migrated to the States from Europe in the 18th century and have been led by their religious convictions to live the simple life, free of modern technology such as electricity, automobiles, telephones and iPads. They also embrace very simplistic, non-commercial fashion guidelines similar to that of Ma, Pa and Laura from Little House on the Prairie (all of which makes them really strange . . . at least in the spying eyes of the common mid-westerner). They are famous for outstanding craftsmanship, building barns in one day, long beards and non-violent, pacifist living (which makes them non-threatening and even a little bit cuddly).
Prime for staring at.
When I was a kid we would occasionally drive through “Amish country”. There was a giddiness that came with the trip. My mother, who was generally the prime enforcer of the “no staring” rule, would transform into some kind of Amish marketing rep. “We’re in Amish country Jerry . . . better look out the window we might see one . . . I wonder how many we’ll see today”. Now that I have kids I realize that this was just a sneaky parent trick to buy a few minutes of peace and quiet but it worked like a charm, every time. I would sit with my face pressed against the window waiting for the adrenaline rush of a big black horse and buggy. Just being in proximity where I knew we MIGHT see a real, live Amish person was electric. In my mind I drifted to a strange place, dreaming of how awesome it would be to live the Amish life and knowing full well that I wouldn’t like it one bit.
“There’s one! There’s one!” It’s like we were whale watching.
Dad would slow down and as we passed I would wave as excitedly as if they had been Mickey and Minnie themselves. They waved back with less enthusiasm than I would have expected from the Disney’s but still . . . they waved.
Several times on our recent trip to the States we had an occasion to drive through the Amish communities and the magic lives on. The moment I would see the big yellow horse and buggy sign I would have the kids perched on their lookout. “There’s one! There’s one!” One day we counted eight. Good times.
I live in a Chinese community that is also home to a lot of foreigners (like me). While we come from all over the world most of the foreigners around here share two characteristics. We are really strange and generally non threatening. Walking home today I saw a mother grab her daughter and playfully whisper something into her ear. The little girl laughed and looked at me.
It wasn’t hard to figure out what the mother was saying . . . “There’s one! There’s one!”
Nothing new. That happens everywhere we go. It’s the price of being strange and non-threatening but I wonder if it’s different around our apartment where so many the foreigners live. Do Chinese parents elbow their kids and say, “hey we’re in foreigner country, pay attention you might see one”? Do kids keep track of how many they see? Do they dream about what it would be like to live the life of a foreigner and know that they would never like it?
As they passed the little girl smiled and gave me the all too familiar, “HALLO!” I smiled back and with the enthusiasm of an Amish Mickey Mouse said, “HALLO!”
Sometimes its good to see myself through the eyes that I use to look at the rest of the world. I’m so Amish.
This poor guy thought he was getting a very cool “OUTLAW”
tattoo but instead came away with “HIDING CRIMINAL”
which basically carries the meaning “RAT FINK”.
Not as cool.
I have never been cool. I’ve spent nearly 4 decades just behind the trend curve and the closest I have come was that mullet just four years after mullets were hot (and they were hot). I used to blame my mother who said no Nike’sin the fourth grade, no rat tail in the fifth grade, no parachute pants in the sixth grade, no red, pleather, Michael Jackson zipper coat in the seventh grade and no earring . . . ever. She just didn’t see the value of cool.
Now I am thankful. If it had not been for the absolute inability to be cool that she planted deep in the core of my very being I’m guessing I would have a tattoo by now. That thought cross-referenced with the trend over the past decade and my connection to China would lead me to think that my tattoo would be (like all of the cool kids these days) a Chinese character . . . or the Fonz . . . or the Fonz with a tattoo of a Chinese character. How cool would that be?
Here is the problem . . . Translation is a vicious beast.
Speaking Chinese is hard (go here and here and here to learn more about that) but translating is a whole new level of pain. If speaking Chinese is a bear then translating it is a fire breathing T-Rex with laser beam eyes and a big tattoo that says “Bears taste good” (in Chinese). The cardinal sin of translation is that the translator makes the mistake of thinking language is words. Language is actually layer after layer of grammar and structure and rules and exceptions to rules and culture and history and emotion and . . . that list goes on for a while. So when you ask, “what’s the Chinese word for ‘I love you baby cakes?” you might end up with something that actually means “Your child’s flap jacks are loving and generous to me.”
The “filth room” is the Janitors closet at the
hospital down the street from our home.
Expats in China get a lot of giggles out of poorly translated Chinese (go here for “The Onion Explodes the Mutton and Other Fine Chinese Dishes”) but the translation beast eats Western food too. There are multiple thousands of very cool looking Chinese tattoos out there that would cause a Chinese crowd to laugh out loud (not with them . . . at them).
At least they’re not alone.
Here’s an excerpt from the NY Times on the subject:
“Marquis Daniels, of the Dallas Mavericks, thought he was getting his initials in Chinese characters but what his arm actually says is “healthy woman roof,” . . . Shawn Marion of the Phoenix Suns was under the impression that his nickname, “the Matrix,” was tattooed on his leg, but the inscription translates as something like “demon bird moth balls.” . . . Britney Spears . . . reportedly got a tattoo she thought said “mysterious” but actually meant “strange.”
I also heard a rumor that one of the Spice Girls tried for a “Girl Power” tattoo and ended up with “Electric Woman”. No idea if that’s true . . . but it’s funny.
Just for fun I’ve taken up translating. These are the love songs that I would have tattooed on my body by now . . . if I was cool. I translated them into Chinese using iciba.com (a Chinese online translator) and then back into English using Google Translate
1. I’m everything I am, because you loved me (first dance at my wedding) = “Because you believe me because you love me that I” 2. You are the wind beneath my wings = “You breeze in my arms under” 3. I got you babe = “The same car with the boys” (?) 4. Nothing compares to you = “You . . . unparalleled” (actually cooler) 5. You light up my life = “You light up my life” (about the same cool only it probably really means “you set me on fire”)
So pretty please . . . before you tarnish your body for life with a Chinese typo . . . send me your text and I’ll have it proofread by real live Chinese people. If I can’t be cool, at least I can help you be.
My dear Grandma (who is presently enjoying heaven) was once described by my mother (her own daughter) as being (and I quote) “about as cheerful as diarrhea“.
She rarely spoke (and she was rarely not speaking) without mentioning someone who had recently passed on or someone who was about to pass on or how she felt like her time to pass on was coming up quickly. She had a certain offensive obliviousness to her that allowed her to completely insult an entire room full (possibly a city full) of people and genuinely have absolutely no shred of a concept that she might have alluded to something even remotely unpleasant. When we told her we were adopting a child from China her first response was . . .
“Couldn’t you get one from America?”
Then I think she said something awkwardly invasive about the working order of our reproductive systems. It was weird. She redeemed herself, however, after we adopted Rachel by telling her Korean doctor (who proudly displayed a picture of her own daughter on the office wall), “You ain’t got nuthin’ on me . . . I got me a little Chinese girl too. She’s my granddaughter!”
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I never once sensed an ounce of sincere hatred in her heart for any group or race of people (except for maybe Southern Baptists) but by today’s standards she would register on the polar opposite end of the scale from politically correct . . . or polite . . . or acceptable in public.
IRONICALLY . . .I think it might have been my grandmother who planted the first seeds of cross-cultural curiosity in me. Grandpa was a WWII vet and then a General Baptist Pastor (not Particular . . . not Reformed and most certainly not Southern Baptist . . . bite your tongue heretic) for more than 50 years. He and Grandma made several trips to the Holy Land (the General Baptist one) and when they did they took the chance to see some other parts of the world a bit. When I was five they were the only people in my life who had seen any parts of the world a bit which made them my superheros. I had a stuffed camel from Egypt, some wooden shoes from Holland and a “My Grandma and Grandpa went to Jerusalem and all I got was this stinking t-shirt” t-shirt. I was king for three straight weeks of show and tell.
When I was 12, it was Grandma who led me on my first authentic cross-cultural adventure. My cousins and I went on vacation with my grandparents all the way to California. They crammed us, along with the luggage, into the back of a 19 seventy something, Chevy Station Wagon where we laughed and fought and blew southern winds for 12 hours a day (Grandma’s euphemism . . . not mine . . . “Did you boys blow another southern wind? Alva stop this car, somebody needs to go sit on the toilet”). We stopped to visit distant cousins once removed in Yuma, Arizona which just happened to be right across the border from . . . a whole other country. I had never been so excited in my life.
I can’t remember if I begged or not but I so wanted to go to Mexico. In my mind it would make me the coolest kid in Illinois. “Where’d you go for summer vacation? oh really? Iowa? That sounds nice . . . me? Oh no place really . . . just MEXICO!! The whole other COUNTRY!! where they eat TACOS!! and they speak MEXICAN!!”
I didn’t say I was savvy. . . or in touch with reality. Just curious.
So we went . . . and it was amazing. It was at least 150 degrees (Fahrenheit, Celsius . . . doesn’t matter at that point). The streets were dusty because it hadn’t rained in over a century. There were burros in the middle of the road and men with massive hats leaned against the shade trees taking naps or playing enormous guitars (in the interest of integrity I should mention that my memory is actually a bit fuzzy and some of this may be coming from Saturday morning cartoons) . . . but it was amazing.
I do remember very well one shop owner shouting, “COME IN! COME IN! WE HAVE AIR CONDITIONING!” That was the man who would soon hate my grandma. He welcomed us in to look at his hand sewn, Mexican purses . . . from Mexico. Grandma found one she liked and asked if he would accept U.S. dollars. “Of course! Of course, anything for you lady!” And then it began . . .
“How much?”
“For you lady . . . $14”
smiling because she knew in her heart what she was about to do“no no . . . I’ll give you 7”
smiling because he had no idea the force he was reckoning with,“Oh lady . . . for you, 13.”
“Nah . . . 7”
“Oh come on lady . . . I come down you come up . . . I’ll go 12”
squinting confidently with a smirk“mmm . . . how about 7?”
squinting in disgust “you give me 10 lady”
nothing but a grin
He continued “9! . . . 9 dollars, that’s my lowest price!! You give me 9 dollars, I give you the purse. Come on! You like the purse! It’s a good purse! 9 dollars . . . . (long pause) . . . . EIGHT DOLLARS!! You give me EIGHT DOLLARS! COME ON LADY!!”
I swear this happened. My Grandma said “5”.
“FIVE DOLLARS?!! YOU ALREADY SAID 7!! YOU CAN’T SAY 5!!
Still grinning. “Yeah, I think 5 now.”
pulling out handfuls of his own hair. “LADY I GIVE YOU YOUR PRICE, SEVEN DOLLARS!!!”
“hmm . . . nah . . . five.”
“OK!! OK!!OKAAAY!!FIVE DOLLARS!! YOU WIN YOU WIN, YOU *something I think was a Mexican cuss word.*
And I swear this happened too . . . My Grandma said, “nah.”
And she walked away. Seriously, she walked away. She successfully bargained a man nearly 30% below her own starting price . . . and she walked away. I looked back and saw the man turn cherry red starting at his feet and rising to his head. His eyes bugged out, steam came out of his ears and he blew his sombrero off like a train whistle (that may have been from the cartoons too but I really don’t think it was).
We shopped for a few hours and then finally came back around to the same little store.
“COME IN! COME IN! WE HAVE AIR CONDITIONING!” He locked eyes with my Grandma. “Oh you . . . GET OUT!!!!!!”
I miss you Grandma. Thanks for planting (in a way that only you could) a seed in me that has led me all over the planet and given me two of the most beautiful kids in the world . . . Oh yeah . . . we adopted again . . . remember that African-American doctor you had? . . . well he ain’t got nuthin’ on you.”
In June I quit my job to pursue my passion — something I’ve been dreaming about for a long time.
So (as one does), I laid out a plan for a transition that would be as smooth and seamless as possible. Not bragging — but it was perfect.
I can hear you snort laughing. That’s rude.
This was my plan: Five weeks in the U.S., quality time with quality people and a new work visa that would allow me to do the new thing.
Oh . . . and selfies with 500 people. I was feeling optimistic.
Then — back to China and dive in.
So simple. What could go wrong?
Seriously? Again with the snort laughing?
I took a deep breath . . . and jumped.
Here’s what I didn’t plan on.
My father died — two weeks into my perfect plan.
My visa was delayed — turning 5 weeks into 14.
My kids needed to get back for school — separating me from my family for 6 weeks.
I missed the first jobs that I had lined up for the grand new thing.
Finally back in China and struggling to regain stability — my father’s wife died — sending us back to the States for an unanticipated, unbudgeted week.
And then, just in case there was anything left in my perfect plan that had not been disrupted … Cornonavirus.
Plans are awesome. Until they’re not. Am I right?
The great Scottish poet, Robert Burns said it best:
The best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry.
Ironically — China just celebrated the Lunar New Year … of the mouse.
Coincidence?
Disruptions are an inevitable reality and for anyone who has chosen a global life. That’s part is not up to you. What is up to you is how you respond.
Here are five ways to stay on track when your best-laid plans go awry
ONE: STOP PLAYING THE VICTIM ROLE
Sorry. We have to start here. Everything else hangs on it.
I’ve often said that expats are bold adventurers. The uncertainty is part of the deal and we know that going in. By nature, we are not intimidated by ambiguous challenges on the front end.
Political unrest? Not a problem.
Riots in the streets? Sounds exciting.
Ebola virus? Bring it on!!
However, we are also the first to fall apart in the airport when our plane is delayed
Stories have characters and the role of victim is the easiest part to play because it is 100% passive. Just lay there. Look sad. Put it on Instagram and wait for the sympathetic comments to roll in.
But “woe is me” thinking hands the victory to anything blocking your path. Time wasted on soliciting sympathy creates a second great wave of disruption.
And frankly, sympathy is intoxicating. It feels good — so it’s easy to get stuck there. In the big picture though, you’re not moving forward while you’re waiting for the hero to rescue you.
You are not the victim. Choose a different role.
One short disclaimer: Some stories have legitimate victims — but this is not a post about trauma or tragedy — just disruption.
TWO: PRACTICE FIRM FLEXIBILITY
There are two distinct characteristics that draw the line between expats who crush it and expats who end up in the fetal position. They seem contradictory but they are absolutely not.
Flexibility gets the air time. It’s what we put on the application for the expat assignment. It’s what shows up as a red flag on your psych evaluation when you don’t have it.
However — flexibility without firmness is all but a guarantee for failure. Your overseas assignment may be enjoyable if your greatest strength is flexibility but unless your only goal was a good time, you’re unlikely to achieve anything else.
Assignments that succeed have decision-makers. Decisive ones (which sounds redundant but is not a given). People who are willing to chart the course and say “this is absolutely the best direction and this is how we get it done.”
And THEN
When that falls apart (and there’s a good chance it will) flexibility becomes essential.
Solely flexible people get pulled in every direction.
Solely firm people snap when their plan is disrupted.
It is vital to have a plan and equally vital to have the courage to change that plan when the circumstances demand it.
Practice firm flexibility.
THREE: PULL IT OUT OF THE SWIRL
Disruptions may be expected but they are never planned.
“Sorry Coronavirus, this week really isn’t good for me, could we shoot for next Thursday … or … I don’t know, maybe never?”
It doesn’t work like that.
So the instant response is real-time adjustment in your brain — minor and major audibles called while you’re in motion. Sometimes there is a “wait and see” period with the hopes that the setback won’t even be felt or that the challenges will blow over.
Those adjustments build up quickly but until they are clearly identified and laid on top of your plan they will remain in the swirl of things that you are being forced to deal with but not really paying attention to.
So pull it out of the swirl.
Pause for a moment — even when it feels like you can’t. A critical moment to reflect on the impact of disruption could save you weeks of recovering from it later. Do it early, often, and to the best of your ability.
Ask yourself (and your team or family if applicable) some hard questions and be prepared to be brutally honest.
What is the unavoidable impact of this disruption?
What is the potential impact?
What are my actual losses?
What are my perceived losses?
Is there a potential gain in all of this?
What am I telling myself that is NOT true?
What adjustments need to be made?
Once you’ve gotten clear about the reality of this disruption you can stop pretending like nothing has changed. Then you can plug those realities into the plan and stay on track.
Adjust the plan, not the goal.
FOUR: FIND THE RHYTHM IN THE CHAOS
There’s a difference between someone who can dance and a dancer.
Full disclosure: If we’re speaking literally here — I am neitherbut follow my metaphor.
To dance, you have to learn the steps. Study hard and wrestle through every movement until you get it just right. Practice until the entire routine is flawless.
But a dancer feels it. They still work hard but the movement is more than rote memorization.
For the dancing person, one misstep or unexpected slip throws the whole thing off. It gets in their head and derails their trajectory. The next steps are a scramble as they try to find their spot and get back on point. They overthink the disruption and it impacts the entire dance.
The dancer though, moves through it. The disruption was just that — a blip in the bigger picture. Their body instinctively finds the rhythm and sets them back on track.
Chaos is often overvalued.
The impact of a disruption is real but that impact gets inflated in your head and consequently destroys things it didn’t need to.
You missed a step. You tripped and fell. Maybe the song stopped and restarted right in the middle.
Find the rhythm and keep dancing.
FIVE: DON’T MISS THE JOY
My plan didn’t work.
I didn’t plan to lose my father.
I never wrote the words, “get separated from my family for six weeks.”
I was not expecting to lose my step-mother.
No one thought Coronavirus would be a good idea.
Those things are hard. Frustrating. Horrible even. Major disruptions to my best-laid plan. They have thrown me off.
AND
BECAUSE of my disruptions …
I have had more beautiful, heartfelt, deep and meaningful moments with people I love this year than any year I can remember.
I got to go home in the middle of the winter which hasn’t happened since the last time someone died.
I road tripped around my home country and caught up with people I haven’t even seen for two decades.
I got to talk about life and death and love and legacy with my kids.
And I got selfies with 500 people which took me exactly 14 weeks … not 5.
I’m an expat.
I planned it that way and one of the realities that comes with that choice is disruption … lots of it.
That doesn’t seem likes it’s going to change anytime soon.
So to miss the joy that comes with it — would be a tragedy.
Find the joy in your disruption … and keep moving forward.
Got a story of disruption? How did you deal with it? Share below.
Welcome to Day 12 of a 31 day challenge to write 500 words or more. For more on that click here: goinswriter.com
My seven year old son is stumbling across his own gift of deductive reasoning. It is likely that he will either one day rule the world or destroy it.
His mother stepped into his room this morning and experienced the, visceral and physiological reactions that are built into the biological, maternal framework. Widening of the eyes. Quickening of the heart rate. Immediate gasp for air. Emphatic and involuntary statement of the child’s name (often paired with the middle name as well).
“Judah Mathias.”
Instantly his finely tuned and freakishly advanced survival skills kicked in.
“Mom.” He said in a calming tone, trying to deescalate the obviously volatile situation.
“Listen. If we clean our rooms it just makes us meaner.” He had clearly given this some thought.
His reasoning sounded ridiculous of course, but the shock bought him a few extra seconds to explain.
“If we clean our rooms, then when we invite our friends over and they just mess it up. Then we get mad and we’re not nice to our friends. Do you want me to be mean to my friends mom?”
Brilliant.
He’ll still be cleaning his room but you have to respect the complexity of that kind of manipulation.
Here’s the lesson I want him to learn. People over things.
His reasoning is skewed but solid. Yes — it is frustrating when people mess up your stuff but he loves people — maybe more than anyone I have ever met — and he gets incredible joy from having people over. It would be an absolute tragedy if you took people out of the equation but like all things in life there is a paradox attached. People are great but there is a line. If I just spent time cleaning up my stuff then don’t you dare mess it up. I don’t care who you are.
So in order to love people more effectively it is worth the investment of keeping his room absolutely wrecked to protect them.
He’s a giver.
What I hope he can learn when he steps back and deconstructs his logic is that people are worth the sacrifice. Like building a house of cards — the joy is knocking it down. I truly believe that he finds joy in other people’s pleasure. He may not know it yet and it is certainly not a fully matured characteristic but it is in there. How cool would it be to become the type of person who builds a house of cards and offers someone else the satisfaction of knocking it down. To clean a room, KNOWING that someone else is going to mess it up and looking forward to it.
Like all parenting there is a fine line. I have no interest in him becoming the person who always gets walked on, always gets taken advantage of and always feels knocked down. It takes a complex mind to stay in front of that — to give willingly instead of giving with regret . . . and anger.
He proved it this morning though — He can handle that level of thinking. Or at least he will someday.
Life abroad is a trade off isn’t it? You give some things up. You get some things back.
Some would call it a sacrifice which is perfectly accurate for so many. I prefer the term investment for myself. Both start with letting go of something but a sacrifice let’s go with no expectation or hope for return.
Truly and entirely selfless. Those people are my heros.
BUT
I’m getting way too much out of this to think that I have genuinely sacrificed anything (especially in comparison to those people). I’ve given things up but I’m an investor and frankly the returns are phenomenal.
To be clear — I’m not talking money here.
My investment has been comfort, connection and confidence.
I’ve given up things like a room full of power tools, a bathroom that doesn’t smell like raw sewage and literacy. Those are trivial compared to the relational investments — sure would be nice to drop the kids at Grandma and Grandpa’s for the day.
I’m whining a bit but I’m not complaining. The returns are not lost on me — I’m getting a bottomless adventure, a network of close friends from every continent (except Antarctica), kids who will never be held back by words like, “that’s too far to travel”, free language lessons with every taxi ride, fabulous family selfies, street food that would make your head spin and a chance to live out my calling every single day.
Seriously — not complaining — but I do miss my family. Especially this time of year.
The holiday season has me thinking about traditions. Are they an investment or a sacrifice?
I feel like many expats buy into the idea that when you live abroad you have to check your traditions at the airport. Just put them on pause until you get back “home”. A total sacrifice on the altar of “that’s not an option here”.
I don’t buy it.
Traditions, for the expat (and the repat), are one of the great opportunities for something solid in a life which is otherwise incessantly marked by change. Adaptation is required to be sure. Adjustment is essential. You can’t do this without some tweaks and twerks and modifications but rock solid traditions are worth the investment.
My family needs that. I need that.
So I’m investing in a solid set of traditions (holiday and otherwise) that can remain constant here, there or anywhwere.
sidenote: Twerks are probably less essential to this process than tweaks and modifications. Please consult a doctor before you include twerking in your family traditions. Please also consult your family.
When you squeeze the old, stable customs through the filter of expat realities you end up with a set of TRAVELING TRADITIONS that can go with you wherever you land.
I’m working on mine and here are some things that I’m considering:
Traveling Traditions should focus on people not places.
We don’t have the luxury of going to Grandmother’s house every year let alone going over the same river or through the same woods. Our stability will likely never be a place. It is people (namely us).
Traveling Traditions should be focused on what “can always” instead of what “can here”.
Every true tradition must be held to the test . . . could we still do this if we lived in Dubai or Moscow or Bangkok or Atlantis? If not then it always runs the risk of extinction with the next move . . . or the one after that.
Traveling Traditions should be focused on small and not large.
Ornaments travel. Trees, not so much. We are mobile people. Our traditions should not be tethered to “things” that cannot move with us.
Traveling Traditions are more likely to need “translating” than simply “transplanting“.
Traditions probably won’t ever move seamlessly between spots on the planet but discovering how to convert the heart of the old into a new location or culture is worth some thought. sidenote: something is always lost in translation which does not render it unworth translating.
Traveling Traditions should be firmly flexible.
I am 100% dead set, unflinchingly convinced and resolved that our traditions will move forward according to our plan, absolutely . . . until they don’t. Then I’ll be flexible. We’re expats so we’ve already learned something about flexibility. It keeps us from breaking.
Traveling Traditions should break the time-space continuum.
20 years from now I want my kids to finish the sentence, “When I was a child my parents always made us ______________”. Then I want them to wrack their brains figuring out how they’re going to get their families to love it as much as they did.
We have a wonderfully challenging, beautifully transient life. Things change regularly and rapidly even when we don’t go anywhere. We make more friends than we ever dreamed we would, engage more cultures than we even knew existed and say more goodbyes than we ever signed on for.
Considering the fact that pretty much everything changes on a regular basis for the average expat . . . something needs to stay the same.
Traditions are worth the investment but they are certainly not without return.
What have you learned about maintaining your traditions in a constantly changing life?
Ignorance is not just for expats. Oh no, no — it’s universal — but we do it so very well don’t we?
We typically get the chance to practice and showcase our ignorance more often than others. Like daily — maybe hourly — more for some. The goofy little language gaffes and the awkward culture blunders make for great stories and Facebook fodder but they can also mount up to become the bane of an expat experience.
So does the fact that ignorance is an inescapable reality (especially for the foreigner) mean we should give up and wallow in it? Accept it? Surrender to the idea that we don’t know so we won’t know?
My opinion? Absolutely not . . . but probably so.
We may always be ignorant but we don’t have to be THIS ignorant. We can’t ever understand it all but we could certainly understand more. Daily — hourly — more for some.
For expats who are genuinely ready to become less ignorant (and likely to discover that they are more so than ever):
Here are ten quick thoughts about things we should stop doing.
One: We should stop confusing ignorant with stupid.
Ignorance gets a bad rap. I blame stupidity. The two are NOT the same thing but they are often seen holding hands.
Stupid is always ignorant but ignorant is not always stupid.
Ignorance can be refreshing when it is acknowledged. It can also be the springboard for genuine understanding. That is not stupid. In fact it is the polar opposite.
There is a world of difference between the ugly, arrogant, bigoted tourist and the humble, inquisitive, respectful visitor . . . but they are both ignorant.
It makes sense that ignorance and stupidity are easily confused since they so often travel together but they are not the same.
Withholding judgment is important.
Two: We should stop ignoring ignorance.
Ignoring ignorance takes a million microforms. Shaking your head, gritting your teeth, raising your eyebrow, biting your lip. Offering an opinion as a fact. Starting a sentence with “They always . . . ” or “that’s just like . . . ”
It all means exactly the same thing — “I get it and they don’t.” “I’m right and they are wrong.” “I understand and them? not so much.”
In reality it is more likely that our frustration is growing out of something that we don’t understand. It’s a great place to stop and learn.
To be fair — the likelihood that any of us are going to flip a switch and turn off our visceral reactions is about zero. So let your gut driven teeth gritting serve as an alarm bell (post grit). “Ahhh, this is really frustrating . . . so there must be something here I don’t understand.”
Humility is key.
Three: We should stop confusing knowing with understanding.
Information is vital but it doesn’t change you at your core.
When your mother told you that the pot on the stove was hot she was passing on some great information but the first time you grabbed the handle you came into a whole new level of understanding.
Expats are dangerously prone to mistaking something we have learned for something we understand. We read the books, go to the training, follow a blog (ouch) and we think we’ve got it. There is no intellectual equivalent though, for what our five senses are capable of.
Engagement matters
Four: We should stop confusing understanding with agreeing.
Fundamental, core value disagreements are tough — and a fertile ground for ignorance to spread.
We pick teams and huddle up. We teach each other (quite persuasively) about things we already agree on. We high five, amen, chest bump and rally around our rightness. The lefties learn about righties but only from other lefties — the Baptists teach each other about Buddhists. I would assume that vice versa applies across the board.
We’re terrified of a conversation with the actual people that we disagree with. People might think we’ve switched. Sold out. Fallen away.
But understanding a different perspective (from the person who holds it) does NOT equal agreement. In fact, if you’re grounded, it’s likely to strengthen your core. Civil conversations with people on the other side of an issue sharpen understanding.
Respect changes things.
Five: We should stop confusing AN answer with THE answer.
The problem with finding an answer is that we think we’re done.
Boom. Got it. No need to keep searching. I understand it now.
Repeat after me — there is ALWAYS more to it. No matter how good the answer is. No matter how brilliant the source. There is ALWAYS something else to be explored. Another angle. Another perspective. Another opinion that opens the gate to understanding more of what you thought you understood already.
Complexity is a reality.
Six: We should stop learning from the experts only.
Experts are smart (you can quote me on that). They know stuff and they’ve proven themselves worth listening to. You can learn a lot from the masters — but you can’t learn everything.
I can get a PhD in Chinese Studies from Oxford or Harvard and still learn something new by sitting down to eat with a Chinese farmer. I can learn about expat life from the 30 year veteran gurus who have thrived cross-culturally BUT there is still, heartfelt wisdom that comes from the starry-eyed newbie or the guy who fell flat on his face and went home early.
There are sages all around . . . sometimes in the least expected places.
Regular people might shock you.
Seven: We should stop complaining and start processing.
This one is tricky.
Processing and complaining both begin at exactly the same spot but they go to remarkably different places. The statements on the front end are often identical. “This is not good — I hate this.” That’s where the two part company.
The processor wants a solution — The complainer wants sympathy.
The processor seeks wisdom — The complainer seeks validation.
The processor listens to hard truth — The complainer picks their favorite truth and hears nothing else.
The processor makes changes — The complainer expects others to change.
The processor learns — The complainer already knows everything.
The processor gets less ignorant — The complainer gets more ignorant.
The trickiest part is that no one fancies themselves a complainer . . . especially complainers.
Here’s a quick litmus test:Are most of the people around you complainers? Then you might be one too. It’s likely you’re a safe place to gripe and complainers attract their own.
In the end, processors are great for community. They become the wisdom that other processors seek out. Complainers are toxic (but might be really fun to talk to).
Introspection couldn’t hurt.
Eight: We should stop forgetting what we want to understand.
This is so simple it hurts but most people still don’t do it (which hurts worse).
Every single day I come across something that is BOTH interesting AND confusing. Something that I would like to know more about, read about, look up on youtube, check out on wikipedia, ask a friend about. Sometimes I even make a mental note to self — “I should learn about that”
“Someday”
What I fail to recognize (in that moment) is that I have just chucked this important opportunity to erase ignorance onto a massive heap of other things that I would like to learn about . . . someday.
I know this about myself. If I don’t capture it . . . right in that moment . . . it is lost. It may pop up again but I’ll chuck it right back on the heap of good intentions.
There is a fancy tool that the experts use and I’m going to share it with you right here . . . for free.
Ready?
It’s a piece of paper.
I know . . . mind blown right?
Writing your questions, and confusions and baffled uncertainties down in a notebook or an app or on the back of a business card does not guarantee that you will learn something about it. But NOT writing it down generally guarantees that you won’t.
Making a note is the first step towards intentionality. There are other steps (that’s probably a different post).
The Alphabet will change your life.
Nine: We should stop using periods so soon . . .
I don’t understand these people.
I don’t speak their language.
I’m ignorant.
If you’re like me you (far too often) speak of the present tense as if it were the future. When it comes to cross-cultural issues, I speak matter-of-factly, as if there were no hope for something different.
Here’s a thought. Use a comma. Try a conjunction . . . maybe two. Even better? Do that little dot dot dot thing . . .
Forget the grammar, it’s a way of thinking. An alternate perspective that not only unlocks the door, it opens it and anticipates walking through.
I don’t understand them . . . BUT I really want to . . . so . . .
I don’t speak their language . . . YET . . . AND . . .
I’m ignorant . . . SO could you help me understand?
If you surrender to the idea that your current condition is bound to be your ongoing reality, you’ve settled for ignorance.
That’s stupid.
Puncuation redesigns what’s next.
Ten: We should stop fixing everyone else.
Neither of us has the capacity to erase the ignorance of the world. Try erasing some of your own though, and see if it’s not contagious.
“Me first” is a powerful phrase
I feel like we’re just scratching the surface here. What have you learned that might help us all face, embrace or erase our ignorance? Help us out — comment below.
Welcome to Day 6 of a 31 day challenge to write 500 words or more. For more on that click here: goinswriter.com
IT’S ELECTION DAY!!
That’s pretty much all I have to say about that.
I would like to discuss a serious issue however that I have yet to hear addressed from any of the candidates who are running for . . . you know . . . the offices.
Warning – Some of the language used in this post may not be suitable for children.
When I was a child it was understood that were two four letter “F words” although only one of them was ever spoken in our home and that one, only once . . . by me . . . at the dinner table. There was the standard “F word” which none of us dared to think, even in the privacy of our own rooms because we were certain that our parents would sense it immediately and the consequences would be apocalyptic. The other was less severe but nonetheless, there was a clear understanding that we do not say (I can barely type it now) “f-rt” in the Jones home.
We mostly talked around the actual function itself but when it was absolutely necessary we had our own, more tolerable vernacular that had been handed down from my Grandmother. “Letting a pufter” for example or “blowing a southern wind” (think about that one for a moment) were perfectly acceptable — but never — under any circumstances — the F word.
Don’t get me wrong. We still laughed until our ears hurt when someone snapped a branch off the cheese tree because I don’t care who you are, f-rts are funny. I get that — BUT — shouldn’t the real source of comedic potential be rooted in the fact that you’re not supposed to talk about it? This is why I was aghast (no pun intended) today when I took my five year old son to the toy aisle at the Wal-Mart. There were (and I am not exaggerating here) no less than 37 billion toys whose entire purpose was to simulate flatulence and most of them had the F word printed right there on the packaging. There were f-rt megaphones, f-rt iPods, remote controlled mega f-rt radios and f-rt pianos (I’m not making this up). If that wasn’t enough there were half again as many toys that pulled out all the stops and went straight for the p-0p word. Games named “Doggie Doo” and DIY make your own poop kits. Why would you ever need that?
I am only slightly comforted by the fact that this is not JUST an American problem. Korea for example has a famous cartoon character who spends the bulk of his time collecting poo and sculpting things from it. He even wears a poo hat. In Japan you can visit the toilet museum where you can get a poo hat of your own and be serenaded by toilets. And you’ll be relieve to know that Doggie Doo was wildly popular in Germany, Spain, Holland and France before it ever hit American lawns.
I’m all for freedom of speech. I would never suggest that we pass legislature banning toilet humor from the Wal-Mart toy aisle but couldn’t we try just a wee bit of restraint (no pun intended). Show me a leader, like my father, who can sit across from toy manufacturers and, without speaking a solitary word, give them a glare that instantly freezes their innards and for the rest of their lives will cause their tongue to go numb the moment they even consider uttering the F word . . . again . . . at the dinner table.
It’s not your fault. You tried to raise them right.
And then those ornery kids of yours grew up, had little ones of their own and moved away. What are they thinking?! This was supposed to be your time. You put in years of hard labor, thinking all along that some day, some glorious day you would enjoy all of the joys of frolicking, adorable children with none of the responsibility. Sugar em’ up and send em’ home. It was a flawless plan.
But now they live far, far away.
Don’t give up your dreams of being the best Memaw and Papaw ever just yet. There is hope.
Even though there are plenty of things that distance makes impossible, you can still bridge that gap with a little bit of research and and a whole lot of intentionality.
Here are some tips and tools to help you get moving in the right direction. Take what is useful but don’t be overwhelmed by the rest.
1. Update Your Technology
I tread lightly here.
There is a new generation of Memaws and Papaws in the world. You may very well already be fully digitized and up to date on the newest and latest technology. Kudos to you. Please don’t be insulted here. However, don’t feel bad if you fit a more traditional stereotype.
Technology can be intimidating but it’s different than it used to be. Today technology is so fast moving and competitive that it must be easy above all else to survive. The result is mind-blowing resources that often cost you nothing and generally take a few mouse clicks to get running. Don’t be too proud to get help if you need it but once you’re set up most tools are simple to use.
Start with this list (hint – click on the blue words)
Consider a Smart Phone – Lot’s of communication potential that is not possible on your old cell phone.
Upgrade – If your computer is more than 5 years old it is an antique. Consider a new one or a tablet to ensure that new technology will run ok.
Get Skype (or FaceTime) – See your grandkids while you talk (think Jetsons). Key word – FREE.
WhatsApp? Send messages anytime without paying texting fees.
Facebook– Just in case this post reaches the last three people on earth who don’t have a Facebook account yet. You should get one.
These are simple resources but not having them in place and running smoothly will mean deep frustration when all you really want to do is see your grandkids.
2. Read Books to Your Grandkids — No Matter Where You Are
Remember back in the old days when books were . . . well, they were books. Paper with words and pictures on them. No more and no less.
Those days are behind us. While nothing in the world can replace holding your grandkids in your lap and reading words from paper while they look at the pictures it is now possible to get closer to that experience than ever, even if you’re on different sides of the Ocean.
Here are three options that all take a little different approach to the same goal. Reading to your grandkids.
Option 1: Recordable Books
These are brilliant. A wide variety of popular children’s books designed with a recording device that lets you read each page. Follow the simple instructions and once you’re finished all your grandkids need to do is open the book and boom . . . they hear your voice. Twinkle bells ring and they move to the next page. These are a huge hit in our home.
Here are some places you can buy them (there are more):
Now you don’t even have to buy a physical book. You can record your voice (and video) reading a book. Your grandkids can watch it as many times as they want.
readeo.com has brought together all the best bits of recent tech advances. This is kind of like reading a book while Skyping but you don’t have to hold it up to the camera for them to see or try to read it while they hold it still. Check it out.
3. Make a Video
I’m about to inspire you. Ready?
Meet Shirley. You can call her Grandma. She is the mother of our dear friends whom we lived and worked with in China. She raises the bar when it comes to loving on grandkids from a distance and it all started with a video.
I quote . . .
“One Sunday afternoon, between meetings and dinners and while Grandpa was taking a nap, I set up our video camera and recorded a ‘lion hunt‘ activity that I hadn’t ever done with our own grandchildren. It was very quickly edited and sent out in the mail the next day so it could arrive for Christmas.”
1. It is FULL of resources and inspiring ideas (books, videos, worksheets, tips, games, recipes, links and more)
2. She is a real Grandma: This is not a high budget, super slick website built by marketing teams and web developers at Fisher Price. It’s a Grandma who wanted to love on her grandkids and then shared it with the public.
3. You can do it too: I quote again —
“I’ve always wanted to be a grandma. You see, I had a wonderful grandma . . . “
You don’t have to be Grandma Shirley. Everything she has put together flows very naturally out of who she is and a life long desire to be a great grandma.
Be yourself but find a way to share that with your grandkids?
For starters — Wait until Grandpa takes a nap and grab a video camera. See where that takes you.
You can get ideas from “My Grandma Time” at her Facebook Page as well.
4. Send a box
You cannot fathom the joy that fills an expat family’s home when a box arrives and Grandparent boxes are the best. Here are some tips.
Consider Flat Rate Boxes: If you are shipping from the US the US Postal Service offers a one rate box (in different sizes). You pay one price no matter how much it weighs (there is a limit but you can still cram it full). Other countries may offer this service as well.
Fill up the empty spaces: If you’re going flat rate you don’t pay for weight. Empty space is wasted space. Also the more space there is in the box, the more likely things are to shift and get damaged during shipping. Pack it tight and fill those spaces with goodies and treats (you may want to get permission from Mom and Dad first depending on the goodies and treats).
Don’t send breakable things: Rule of thumb — If it CAN break it WILL break.
Don’t send liquid: Same basic idea only liquid ruins everything else in the box.
Send things they can’t get: There is nothing more exciting than a box of cereal when you live in a country where cereal doesn’t exist. Find out what is hard to find and send it.
Include something for everyone: No one likes to get left out
Make it personal: Always include a note or a picture. As great as the stuff is, they really miss YOU.
Be Grandma and Grandpa: Remember your plan? Sugar em’ up. All kids need socks and underwear but that’s not your problem.
Shipping internationally is not cheap but trust me you are investing in HUGE relationship points when you send a box.
5. Play Diary Tennis
I love this idea. Buy a journal. A good one. Leather bound, blank pages, no lines.
Now write a note on the first page to your grandchild. Something simple. What did you do today? What’s the weather like? How much do you miss them?
Date it.
Love, Memaw and Papaw
Now mail it to them.
Page 2 belongs to them. They can draw a picture, write a note, scribble, handprints, finger paints, tape a photo, whatever.
And then they send it back to you.
Your turn.
Sounds simple but how incredible will that book be in 20 years?
My dear sweet mother never once in her entire life smoked a single cigarette or sipped a single drop of alcohol. To my knowledge she never even said a cuss word except the one time she read a Van Halen t-shirt out loud which doesn’t count because she was asking me what it meant. She married the only boy that she ever kissed and kept her vows until death did they part. She taught Sunday School and took meals to sick people and visited little, old ladies and wrote books for her grandchildren and crocheted (not joking here) Christmas cards every year for everyone she knew (and some she didn’t). She was the supreme epitome of absolute uncorrupted purity, selfless compassion and life-long humility. But she had a dark side. A dark side that could have landed her in prison had the feds caught up with her.
You’re still not there. Spend some time with your lists. Make connections. Draw lines and circles and stars and smiley faces. Make notes about the pieces that seem to be really significant — good or bad. What are the themes?
mother of our dear friends whom we lived and worked with in China. She raises the bar when it comes to loving on grandkids from a distance and it all started with a video.
