"Keep Your Head Up"

Keep your head up, keep your heart strong (No, no, no, no), Keep your mind set, keep your hair long. Oh my my darlin' keep your head up, keep your heart strong....

Recently, I had one of those moments that is so incredulous that my jaw actually dropped open and I found myself looking around, as if to say "Did Anybody Else Just See That Happen?" And I'm not talking about a fender bender or an argument in the road that you can then relay to your friends in a play by play. It's not a story that makes people nod in agreement then shake their heads in disbelief. I am talking about a moment that changes you. And jades you. And makes you question every behavior you have ever exhibited towards another person.

But I digress... Rewind a few weeks to the Annual Girl Scout Camp Fire. Yes  - this story starts with a Girl Scout event. And I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "Only Carolyn could find drama at a Girl Scout Event".  "What is it this time? Cookie Crisis? Playground Politics? The Great S'more Debate?"

I Wish.

A few weeks ago, in the middle of a beautiful Scouts event - one where children and parents of all ages, races, and cultural backgrounds were playing together in a field - a woman, nay, a Mother - called me a Racist.

Now I've been called a lot of things in my life. I've been called a bitch and the c-word, and "that white girl" and an Oyibo (which loosely means Crazy White Girl). Once a woman from school completely freaked out on me and then had the gall to call me "Jennifer" for most of her rant. She was definitely angry with me, but seriously? If you're going to berate someone in public, at least get their name right. Evil Wench.

But this was different. This was not a slip of the tongue or a heated argument that escalated to the point of irrational accusations. This was a deliberate and well-timed verbal assault - an ambush, if you will. This person definitely and clearly felt (for some time) that I had been ostracizing (cue the most commonly used term from my college days - "marginalizing").. wait for it.. BLACK WOMEN when it came to my selection of volunteers. 

Like I said, I've been called some nasty names over the years, but I have also worked with volunteers across a dozen different disciplines - also, for years. Private schools, Fundraising, the Arts, Athletics - you name it, I have done it. And let me tell you something - volunteering is a thankless job where 20% of the people do 80% of the work. And if I have learned one thing, it is to never turn a volunteer away. Clearly, some people are better suited for certain roles than others but everyone has something to give. Time, Treasure, Talent - that's what we used to say in my Development days. Everyone can do one of those things. If you can make a decent cupcake or sell a raffle ticket or hook us up with a cheap DJ, then Honey, You're Hired. 

In my heart, I know it often takes me time to find a good fit for someone on my team. Other times, I am moving so fast that I don't stop and ask for help as often as I should. This is actually a big issue for me. Perhaps eager volunteers get left behind. Perhaps they don't know how to jump in. Perhaps I am one of those people that allows (wants?) everyone to think I'm in charge even when I have absolutely no desire to be.

But I know this much - I could give a (insert your expletive of choice here) what color you are. 

What burns me the most is not that I was accused of being racist (although, it is absolutely, most definitely one of my Top 5 Most Shocking Moments) but that this person chose to bring race into the conversation. What place does race have in this scenario? It's. A. Girl. Scout. Troop. This is an organization whose entire foundation is based on supporting and promoting the educational and cultural growth of girls across the world. One of its many goals is to empower girls and help them become strong women by breaking down barriers (Barriers People!), ultimately creating a sense of sisterhood .

Ahh.. Yes, Sisterhood! Remember those days? Anyone? Anyone? That powerful bond that used to exist when mothers and aunties and sisters and grandmas all raised each other's kids? I mean do we all need to read The Red Tent again? I'm gonna go with Yes. Perhaps the concept of Sisterhood died when the Mommy Wars started? Perhaps it lost its meaning when women were taught to secretly tear themselves apart while publically tearing each other down? Thanks for that, Internet.

Now I could use this forum to explain all the reasons why I am not racist. But I'm not going to do that because that would sink me to this woman's level. Also, people always look like jackasses when they do that. Attempting to prove I am not a racist would require me to list and categorize my friends and family in a way that is contradictory to how I see them and what they mean to me. Do I love meeting people whose race and culture differs from mine?  Yes. Do I love (promote, advertise, support) blended families and inter-racial marriages?  Yes. Do I have a thing for dark skinned guys?  Yes, Yes I do. But do I put people in boxes? ... Sometimes.

And don't we all? My world is full of people from all over the planet and I enjoy learning about where they are from. Mostly, I thoroughly enjoy hearing people's stories and learning about what makes them uniquely, them. And if someone takes issue with that, well I say, Goodonyou. Have at it. Bring It. It is an important discussion to have but not an easy one. So you better bring your A Game. (insert The Slow 80s Movie Clap here).

I am not going to stand here and defend myself but I will admit that I categorized this woman. I ticked the box and I put her in it. And that box my friends, is CrazyTown.

"Refugee"

Somewhere, somehow, somebody must have kicked you around some; tell me why you want to lay there and revel in your abandon;
Honey, it don't make no difference to me, baby...

Link to Lyrics I Love:

Listen on Spotify:

My friend Kelley is probably going to be cross with me for not using the Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers version of Refugee.. I mean we DID go to the show together around the time I started writing this - which was sadly.. several months ago. However, I was desperately in need of a strong female voice while writing and I love covers of songs I grew up with. Love ya Kels!

Here we go...As everyone knows, the kids and I had a very, very, very extended summer holiday due to some unforeseen "circumstances" in Nigeria and West Africa as a whole. And by "circumstances", I mean EBOLA.  

After a glorious summer in Pennsylvania, Cape Cod, and Houston, we returned to Lagos well rested and ready to start school in mid-August as we have for 3 years now. Although Ebola had already been in the news for several weeks (and with panic-driven coverage in the US), I felt it was just another hazard that came with the assignment. As I flippantly told both family and friends, "you know, we are much more likely to get malaria, typhoid, or tuberculosis at this point". It sounds bizarre when you say it out loud but it is (was), truly, the reality of our situation. E had also been in Lagos for several weeks and felt the overall risk was low. "If it is safe for him, then it is safe for us", I continually said to our family and friends - and myself.

Within minutes of arriving home, E told us the school had delayed opening by two weeks due to several cases of Ebola that had surfaced in Lagos. Worried - but not overly so, we hung around the house for a few days, recovered from jet lag, attended some (slightly unsettling) Ebola-related safety meetings and decided to "hunker down" elsewhere for a bit. Not wanting to deal with jet lag again or watch the kids play minecraft (groan) for two straight weeks, I opted to take the kids to Dublin and London for a holiday - making lemonade out of lemons - as I told myself (again).

What I didn't tell the children was how I was secretly panicked that an evacuation would occur while we were gone and we would never see our house again. I actually scurried around our flat, tiptoeing in a frenzied state - if that is at all possible - under the cover of night, in an effort to Pack Or Protect our most treasured possessions; simultaneously purging inconsequential items and cursing myself for bringing so many special things to a obviously hazardous place. Baby blankets, photo albums, our wedding video (gads.. on VHS!), jewelry, - even love letters. I ziplocked it all and put it in two piles - what I could take to the UK and what E could carry out should he be evacuated. Then I squirreled half of it away in a huge trunk (and out of sight of my children) and told my nanny what to do should ALL HELL BREAK LOOSE. She cried (and cried) and said she was sure she would never see us again.

Fastforward two weeks and all was well. E had organized some beautiful hotels, with access to parks and the best sight-seeing. We scored tickets to the Harry Potter WB Studio Tour (swoon!) and The Lion King in London and did nothing but eat, drink, and see the sights (Pics here!). Family and friends were relieved we were no longer in Lagos and we soaked up every last bit of it until school was ready to open.

At that time, there were still active Ebola cases in Lagos and the risks in Sierra Leone, Liberia, and Guinea had increased exponentially. Despite concerns from my family and friends (some more overt than others), we felt good about returning to Lagos (i.e., our HOME). We even snapped the all too normal "First Day of School!" pictures. Had I known that on the Second day, the Minister of Education was going shut down Every. Single. School in the Entire. Country... I would have gone back to London for an indulgent Round 2.

It was a crushing blow. The kids came home frazzled - giving us the play by play about "the government men" that appeared on campus with papers demanding the students be sent home (at 12noon) without any warning. After having spent almost 3 weeks in limbo, we were now facing 7 (SEVEN!) weeks of virtual classroom - something I had little to no experience with. 

Sidetracked once again, we hunkered down at home, shaking our heads in disbelief. We watched the news - but we also watched the Ebola numbers climb - including new cases in new areas. Many of my friends had never returned from their home country and some had decided not to return to Lagos at all - difficult news to swallow for the kids and me. We lose a lot of friends in this life, but we always get to say goodbye  - in person. It was hard to accept we may not see some special people in our life for years to come - all due to an illness most people hadn't heard of in 30 years.

After several days of soul searching and talking to some very special people in my life - the ones you trust implicitly - the ones who tell you to be Safe no matter what the consequences, we made the difficult decision to leave once again, this time to Houston. Telling my family was met with relief. Telling my friends here was, at times, met with something else. Not everyone was in a position to leave and since we were not under evacuation, it was still an optional decision. My daughter was particularly sad - having just returned to all the special things she is forced to separate from over the summer - dolls and games, blankies and bears. At a precocious 9 and a half, I often forget she is still a little girl, whose baby-pink-meets-pre-tween-purple-bedroom is her Universe. At 7 and a half, my son, as always, was a bit more complacent. As long as his world (Mom-Dad-Kerrigan-Lego.. possibly in that order..) is intact, he does not require much else.

For me, those days are now a blur. Packing, researching, explaining, defending, crying, worrying, and even a bit of lying.  Truth be told.. there was a lot of lying. I lied to the nanny that we would be back in "a few weeks" while I was secretly packing fleece jackets and boots in case we spent Christmas in Boston. I lied to my friends and family when I said the driver behind our decision was the school closure when I was actually terrified of being quarantined in a Nigerian hospital or worse - having my child quarantined without me. I lied to the children when I said we would be gone only a short while when I was secretly calling schools about enrollment and polling friends for real estate contacts.  I continually lied to myself about how great another trip to Houston would be despite the jet lag, being without my husband, without childcare, not owning a car, or a house and having no idea how to homeschool my kids.

A lot of people have asked why we didn't choose a location where we had family to lean on, at which point I was forced to admit the truth. I was absolutely convinced that Ebola would drop kick Lagos into the last century and my husband would be evacuated - catching up with us in Houston where we would just start over.

Four weeks, several thousands of dollars, (and a dress size) later.. and we were back in Lagos.

Our time in Houston was rough - to say the least. I am not sure I could even recap it effectively here. They were Dark Days. There were a lot of tears. There was a lot of Wine. I put on the brave face during the day and rode the emotional roller coaster of an insomniac at night - talking to friends and confidants, scouring the web for more Ebola stories, cursing the globe for not paying closer attention. And the children hated me. Truly hated me. They will forever refer to that time as "Mom School".

Looking back, I know I made the best decision I could with the information that I had available. Our goal was to keep our children safe in an unsafe situation and that is what we did. What I wasn't prepared for was how absolutely out of place I felt in a place that I typically refer to as my "home county". For the past three years, I have breezed through Houston, catching up with friends, getting my fix at my favorite restaurants and with my favorite people, hitting that spot so to speak.. and enjoying every last experience one can squeeze into a summer holiday. However.... Coming home unexpectedly in the wake of a global fatal contagion? When all your friends work? And all your kids' friends are enrolled in school? And everyone is re-starting life after a long summer? Living in a hotel? With no childcare? Without a partner? And being from THAT COUNTRY? OVER THERE? THE ONE WITH THE EBOLA?.... Not Exactly a Homecoming.

I did have some heroes - a select group of amazing friends that went above and beyond. Some were other "refugees" from Lagos. Some were confidants living far away. Some watched the kids so I could go grocery shopping or see the dentist. Some took me out for Tex Mex and let me drink my fears away. 

Kelley took me to see Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers and then he sang Refugee. And we danced, and danced, and danced. We danced like fools. 

"Voices Inside My Head"

Voices inside my head.. Echoes of things that you said....Jump jump jump

Link to Lyrics I Love

Listen on Spotify

Over the past year or two, my now 9 1/2 year old daughter has played this imaginary game with herself and sometimes with her brother. At some point a while back, she created a planet in her head that she revisits from time to time to develop, tweak, and add on to. She is continually building upon her original idea - adding new rules, new inventions and ways to make it the most perfectly easy and spectacular place that a 9 1/2 year old girl can imagine.

Interestingly, she tends to come up with improvements and add-ons in times of frustration or even turmoil. Sometimes it is driven by something minor -  "On my planet, we never have to wait in the queue"; "On my planet, every airport has air conditioning and everyone goes first class". Sometimes she comes up with larger, more telling ideas, "On my planet, every child gets to go to school where they want and their best friend is always in their class".

Sometimes I play along - in an effort to keep the creative juices flowing of course. "On my planet, we never have to stop for fuel". (Me: "Oh yeah? Well what do the cars run on?). "Sugar". (Me: "Good.. one less thing to rot your teeth.") which is of course then met with "On my planet, no one has to see the dentist and everyone has perfect teeth". Uh huh. Of course they do.

Sometimes, in a weak moment of total mommy exhaustion, I feel her stories are completely and entirely directed at me in some thus-far-undiscovered-form-of-tween-meets-twixter-passive-aggressive-disorder..

"On my planet, children can live wherever they want and can decide what jobs their parents have."

"On my planet, I can dye my hair and have a cell phone and I don't have to wait until I'm 13."

This is usually the moment I am rubbing my temples, taking a huge deep breath and returning with a kill-her-with-kindness "Awesome sweetie. Sounds great".

Let's face it. Children are selfish beings. They have no filter whatsoever. It is entirely normal for them to wish aloud for more choices and more power, especially in a powerless situation. There have been times over the past month - perhaps the hardest month we have faced since we began this assignment - that I thought I would ban the interplanetary and imaginary assault on our life choices because, like me, my daughter can go on for - everrrrrr. And does. She can go on and on and on. And On. And mostly at the most inopportune times - in passport lines, in traffic, during emergency runs to the toilet, in the last leg of a multi-leg journey where you are literally hanging by a thread - "On my planet you don't have to search for an ATM at 2 in the morning just because your mother doesn't have any Turkish Lira to get a taxi." At one point of our nomadic Ebola-fueled trip across the continent, I heard the children bickering only to discover that Kerrigan had informed Clayton that he was not allowed to visit her planet - because, of course, "On my planet, little brothers are banned."  Tears ensued. And let me tell you, my son was not the one crying.

Amazingly, over the past few weeks, I have heard my daughter's stream-of-conscious ramblings echoed in my own thoughts. They sneak in without warning and like her, only when I am faced with a particularly frustrating or unpleasant situation.

"On my planet, there are no ants in my toothpaste."

"On my planet, the money doesn't smell like fish."

"On my planet, I can drive and there is no traffic and I don't have to see people urinate in the street."

"On my planet, raspberries are free and carried to my door by unicorns - who also happen to have cured malaria."

"On my planet, the government doesn't shut down its schools leaving its guests stranded in a nation they don't understand and no longer feel welcome to visit".

It's eerie how often I find myself taking part in her little game lately (it is also possibly a sign of mental illness). But I have to admit, there is some small feeling of relief that comes over you when making such an affirmative statement - even one that is said in jest or in the vein of the fantastic. A bit of escapism perhaps, but one that provides consolation nonetheless. Wishing it doesn't make it true, but it does somehow ease the pain of the reality.

I'm sure a wiser person would remind me that we can all learn something from children and the way they cope with change and challenges. All I know is the planet I am now creating in my head is a place where I run the show - every day, all the time, and on my terms.  

"On my planet, there is no such thing as ebola or edline or thermo scans.  Or the Lagos Airport."

"Lover, Where Do You Live?"

It would be nice to come home, I guess...to a couch, and a stove, and a backyard...

Link to Lyrics I Love

Listen on Spotify

Recently we passed the two year mark on what I expect to be a four year assignment in Lagos. I was feeling pretty good about it at the time - proud even.  Proud of how the kids have adjusted, proud of the work I have accomplished and for finding the niche that gives me purpose outside of my role as the "trailing spouse".

But lately I have been conflicted about what we call "home"  - about our life here versus our life back in the US. I use quotation marks around the word "home" because despite my efforts to make a home here, the word still feels a bit foreign. And despite actively trying to live our life in a way that does not feel temporary, I still struggle to answer the question - Where is home for you?  Until recently, our "home" in the US was the one that felt temporary because it was nothing other than a PO Box in the company mailroom. But now I'm not entirely sure where our true home is.

Last year we were given the amazing opportunity to buy a house that has been in my family since the 1940s. It is a perfect situation in that my aunt and uncle continue to live there - in the home they love - and look after it on our behalf. When we return to the US for our annual home visit (ack, there's that word again - home!), my aunt and uncle take a holiday and we live in the house, er, the home, that is now, officially Ours. 

While this was never part of our plan, I have found the benefits to be far greater than I expected. There is something very reassuring in having an address versus a PO box. We have left bikes and toys, clothes and supplies at the house which makes our summer vacation feel slightly less nomadic. I finally have a valid driver's license and we even receive little updates from the neighborhood association despite our overseas existence. No doubt we are those folks who live in Nicaragua (or was it Somalia?). 

Still, the children love being able to tell people they have a home on Cape Cod. They go to summer camp there and have their own bedrooms. They even tell people we have a pet. I love this because it is actually a surrogate pet that belongs to Grandma. Clearly, they have adopted my 'Fake it till you Make it' approach to life! But when they are feeling homesick, I remind them that we got the house so we would have a home no matter what comes next (psst.. that's code for  "after Lagos"). For me, the house will always be in my heart, but unless someone strikes oil in Hyannisport, I don't see us truly living there anytime soon.

Truth be told, I feel a bit guilty if I don't refer to Lagos as my home. Especially considering my job here requires me to help new arrivals make Lagos their home. Counseling families, helping them get settled in, creating a community, anything to offset the homesickness that accompanies families on the move. I mean, you can't sell someone on something you don't believe in right? If I were to allow myself to think of Lagos as a temporary location or worse - a waiting room, I fear I would miss out on so many experiences and friendships. I don't want to look back later to find I had wished it all away.

Unfortunately, after 2 years, people stop seeing you as a newbie and start seeing you as a veteran and the inevitable question comes up - How much longer are you going to be here?  I dislike this question because it adds an expiration date to our life and reinforces the idea that our life is again - temporary. For me, the word temporary is often synonymous with unsatisfactory, or inadequate - temp housing, temp schooling, etc.  When have you ever heard someone say something was amazing and also temporary? (Hey! I just got a new leg! It's only temporary though! wahoo!). Putting an expiration date on our life sends a message to our families and to my children, that somehow this is not really what we want . That we just have to tough it out somehow. I just don't feel that is a healthy way to spend your days - let alone four years.

I know I should feel grateful that we have so many homes - and by "Home", I mean a place that you are comfortable; a place where there are people you love and who love you back. Boston, Pittsburg, Houston, Melbourne, Lagos - I can't imagine how different our lives would be had we not lived in all these places. I also can't imagine leaving the friends I have here.

But again, when someone asks "Where is Home For You?", I pause. Perhaps it's just easier to answer the question - "Where Do You Live?"

"Too Close"

There's nothing to say, nothing to do, I've nothing to give, I must live without you, You know we're heading separate ways.

Link to Lyrics I Love:

Listen on Spotify: 

Last week my good friend Diane Lemieux held a book launch for her latest publication - The Mobile Life. The book is about making the choice to live overseas or outside your home country, which of course appeals to me and many of the people in my life. I have a lot of books on expatriate travel - the same pile that most of my friends have- Third Culture Kids, A Moveable Marriage, basically the whole Robin Pascoe series. In her talk, Diane smashes the myth that "Culture Shock" is a temporary situation - like an illness - that has a beginning, middle and end. She dissects the idea that at some point, the culture shock will be over and one will come out the other side healthy and better than ever. I love that she took this position, because it really resonates with me. Anyone that has ever lived overseas and moved back to their home country (and suffered reverse culture shock) knows it is not a 3 or 6 week period that you "just have to wait out" - like the chicken pox.

In my experience, culture shock never really goes away. It sneaks up on you from time to time - most often without warning and when you least expect it.

For me, it is a bit more like a parasite, one that has been lying dormant, and just when you think you are rid of it and feeling like yourself again, it knocks you off your feet. And I'm not talking about a bad experience at a restaurant or the airport. I don't miss home just because I can't find my favorite salad dressing or a good dentist. Those are temporary changes I can live with; gaps I can fill in on holiday or with a sympathetic ear from a good friend. 

Lately I have found it is the permanent changes that I struggle with. The loss of time that comes with living "off the grid"- time for your career, your interests, your family back home. More importantly, it's the loss of friendships that comes with leaving your support group. The realization that despite how much you might love and commit yourself to your new life, people you care about or people you thought cared about you don't understand, or accept the changes in your life. My friend Audrey used to have this saying whenever someone let her down - "I am shocked but not surprised". I have to say, I am actually surprised. I am surprised by the comments, emails and conversations I've been subjected to since choosing this life. Thinly veiled criticisms about bringing my children here. About money. About position. Even worse - overt, hurtful comments about our choices. 

Sometimes the shock - and the inevitable sadness happens because of people who share this life with me as opposed to friends from home. It can be incredibly hard to forge a friendship when both parties know the other person is leaving at some point. Two years, Three years - Who the Hell knows right? But we both know the day will come when that person disappears from your life almost as quickly as they appeared. 

The last time I was home, I faced the traditional and all-too-expected "How much longer will you be there?" interrogation. I hate this question. I hate it because the wording already indicates that the person is tired of waiting (read: how much longer do I have to wait? Me Me Me..).

Truth be told, I don't want to go home. Not Yet.

But you can't tell someone that - not someone who misses you anyway. You can practically see them doing the math in their head. Wait, two more years and maybe four more after that? At which point, they are now writing you off and finding a new BFF, or at least someone to fill the void. And then, you think, Was I just a void filler all that time? 

On my best day, I am really proud of the choices I make and the work I have done here. My friends here tell me how much they rely on me and my positive spirit - that I am the sympathetic ear that they need and I love that. But no matter how you deal with the Culture Shock of leaving your home, and making a new one somewhere else - somewhere strange and foreign, there are consequences. There are consequences that don't just go away after a few months of "settling in". You will lose friends. You will lose relationships. You will lose a piece of the anchor that you used to imagine when you imagined your "home" - maybe even the one thing that you relied on when you really are, in fact, homesick.

On my worst day, I have to face the fact that some of these consequences are mine to own. They are not due to a fault in the other person or their inability to understand, empathize, or wait. I chose this life - for good and bad. Sometimes that also means choosing to walk away from a relationship you thought you would have forever.

Like I said, when you least expect it.