As a Third Culture Kid (TCK), I often wrestle with who I was and who I am today.
The following are snapshots from the life of a thirty-something TCK.
The Almaty I love exists only in pixelated photos
and the faint accent behind Viktor’s English.
All of my stories and anecdotes begin with,
“When I was in Kazakhstan …”
How can one explain kumis?
It can only be experienced.
My local farmers’ market
has too many vegans
and not enough gold-toothed smiles.
There aren’t enough trees in this American suburb.
I’d apologize — my dastarkhan is awfully bare —
but Americans don’t know how to eat,
so I guess it doesn’t matter.
I never thought I’d put down roots,
but here I am—
ranting at the HOA.
So, this is how Susan must have felt
in the years after the railway accident?
Almaty, city of apples and heavenly mountains,
I will never forget you.