Third Culture Kids didn't fit in India or at home
in America
From Chapter 5: World Traveler
and Foreign Student 1930-1939
 |
Easter 1931 -
On the front steps at 1051 Vance Avenue, Coraopolis
PA (which we called Cory-op- o-pop-o-lis for
fun!)
Back row: Grandmother Humphrey and Mother
(Helen Humphrey Brush), Middle row: Jean
Humphrey, John & me (the author) with Frances
in front... |
The rootlessness
of the missionary family was felt most by its children when
the time came to return home on furlough
. For
American Baptist missionaries in India it came regularly
at the end of seven-year terms. Dad and Mother's first term
extended from 1923 to 1930. The second was 1931 to
1938, and their final term in India would be from 1939
to 1946.
We children always felt we were temporary, really belonging
to some other place, although India was, in fact, where
we had lived for most of our lives. We weren't Indians,
though some of us were born there, or British/Europeans,
despite being classified in India as such, or even
a permanent part of the local Christian community.
We were
definitely Americans, but of a different kind.
Jean,
in a rare critical comment, told Mother that the
children had been spoiled in India by servants.
She particularly had in mind an episode when Frances
and I threw our apple cores behind the couch, to
be picked up from there by somebody else.
 Introspection
about personal identity, however, wasn't a problem for
me at this early age. Lack of local roots and a life
on the move
between the plains and the hills in India was simply a fact of life. And world
travel was a part of growing up. The long voyages, the dockside and shipboard
routine, the foreign ports of call and the ocean, itself, were just the kind
of experiences one had. So I didn't really understand envious comments from our
American relatives and friends, in part because they, themselves, had an enviable
life in America! But during adolescence and later, when I wanted to merge
with my peers and all of this foreign experience seemed to be a hindrance, I
kept quiet about it unless directly asked.
1938-39
Our
final destination was Coraopolis, a town on the
south bank of the Ohio River ten miles downstream
from Pittsburgh, and Grandma and Aunt Jean's house
at 1051 Vance Avenue. Coraopolis Junior High School,
just two blocks from the house, was my school.
The Coraopolis Baptist Church was our family church
and the boys my age who lived on our block became
my companions.
Get the whole story! Read Stan Brush's Memoir
of His Boyhood in India, "Farewell
the Winterline"
|
1051 Vance Avenue, Coraopolis
Pennsylvania: Grandma
Humphrey housed us
for the 1931 furlough. |
Living in Coraopolis
made tangible the rather vague idea of America which
I had formed over the years in India. Not all of
it was wonderful. Household chores came as a rude surprise.
Aunt Jean, in a rare critical comment, told Mother that
the children had been spoiled in India by servants. She
particularly had in mind an episode when Frances and
I threw our apple cores behind the couch, to be picked
up from there by somebody else. My duties included mowing
the lawn with a creaky push mower, scrubbing pots and
pans in the kitchen, helping Grandma empty the washing
machine by dumping the smelly soapy water by the bucket
full into a sump hole in the middle of the basement floor
and shoveling black messy coal in the basement from the
coal bin into the furnace. Somehow that wasn't as exciting
as stoking a Bengal Nagpur Railway engine! These chores
don't look like much but they seemed very burdensome
at the time. Perhaps Aunt Jean was right. But the worst
chore of all was spring cleaning when we faced the task
of erasing grime from the walls. It was done by
rolling a rubbery ball of cleaner by hand over the wallpaper,
one narrow strip at a time, with the ball getting ever
blacker, until the job was done.
The
inner dynamics of our family began to change. John
was mostly absent. He disappeared by Greyhound
bus into the interior of Pennsylvania, where Bucknell
University welcomed him as a member of the freshman
class. That left Frances alone with me, the brother
who had honed teasing into an art. Mother's advice
was the answer to her prayers. "Just
ignore him," she told Frances, "He
does it to get a rise out of you." The
simple act one afternoon of going to the bedroom,
closing the door and not responding in any way
to my pleas and threats, set in motion a new kind
of relationship, one that eventually evolved into
respect and appreciation. Mother must have marveled
privately at how wonderfully the advice worked.
Frances remembers that event as the turning point
for the better in my dealings with her, although
they were still a long way from perfect!
World
War II, rickshaws and
those beloved radio broadcasts. Chapter 6 |
