Tag: Growing up in Africa Page 4 of 11

My Kids Don’t Have to Be Good at Everything

On July 20, 2017

Being an American parent is exhausting.

Your kids are supposed to participate in sports (more than one) and music and math and competitive spelling. They need to have experienced horseback riding and seen the National Parks and gone to a Broadway show and know how to build a robot. Oh, and of course, they need to know Latin and be classically trained.

And if they haven’t accomplished all these things, you are letting them down. You have failed as a parent.

I feel this even in Tanzania. I have tried for three years to find Grace a piano teacher with no success. I don’t want to drive her an hour each direction every week, and I haven’t been able to find someone close by. She keeps reminding me that she wants to learn piano, but she’s finished fifth grade and it still hasn’t happened. Which makes me feel like I am depriving her of something really important. Because everyone knows that every child is supposed to learn an instrument, right?

There are other things my kids miss out on because we live in Tanzania–gymnastics, Children’s Museums, craft stores, beautiful parks with towering oak trees, watching seasons change. Lily reminded me recently that she would love to take ballet lessons. Not going to happen.

I am a collector of lists of children’s books, as my favorite activity with my kids is reading out loud to them. But every time I get a new list, I panic slightly because there are just so many good books out there that my kids need to read. And I can never catch up. For a moment I think, But their lives will be tragic and deprived if they haven’t read every single one of the Little House books! How will they survive? And you wonder why Gil thinks I’m dramatic.

There’s this intense pressure in American culture that your kids must be good at everything. And if they can’t be good at everything, then in the very least, you must expose them to everything and teach them everything else. And if they don’t, they are really missing out and will probably become hobos when they grow up.

But I’ve had to remind myself that I need to step back from the frenzy and ask, Who says? Who says that my kids will never learn discipline if they don’t learn to play an instrument? Who says they won’t learn teamwork if they don’t play sports? Who says that they won’t be good thinkers if they never learn Latin? Who says they won’t learn to love their siblings if they are not homeschooled?

Of course, those are all good things. But somehow we’ve convinced ourselves that we aren’t succeeding in the rules of parenting if they don’t get all of the good things. Can’t there be more than one way to successfully raise and educate a child?

So when I start feeling the pressure and the panic that my kids are missing out, I try to remember what they do have, what they have learned. My kids know how to navigate multiple cultures and countries and international travel doesn’t phase them. They are great swimmers who love snorkeling. HOPAC shines when it comes to performing arts, community service, and ethnic diversity. In our home they’ve learned to be hospitable to our many guests, and my girls have learned to love cooking as much as I do. So even if Grace never gets piano lessons (though I am still looking!), no one can ever accuse her of being deprived.

If my list of what my kids are learning causes your stomach to tense with stress, then make your own list. Maybe you’re passing on your gift of creativity, or gardening, or adventuring. Maybe you’re using YouTube for art lessons. And honestly, the vast majority of middle-class American kids will never be deprived in the true sense of the word. Even if your kids never learn music or sports, even if they never master another language or horseback riding, they still will be some of the most privileged kids in the world.

And, of course, the qualities of courage, kindness, patience, and humility are by far what will make a child successful in this life–and those can be learned in a million different ways.

My Children Are Not Missionaries

By Amy Medina

On March 18, 2017

In Other

We recently bought plane tickets for six for our upcoming home assignment. (We leave in two weeks!) If we had wanted our kids’ tickets to be tax deductible, we had to prove to the IRS that they would be participating in our “work” while in the States. Namely, that they would be a important part of our presentations. Which means that we would pretty much parade them around and have them sing or recite facts any time we talked about Tanzania.

We decided to just pay the tax on their tickets.

Because Gil and I are the missionaries. Our kids are not.

Our kids are already growing up with a pretty convoluted picture of America. They are Tanzanian by blood and by birth, but are growing up with American parents…while still in Tanzania. It’s already pretty confusing, so if we bring them to America and parade them around like shiny ponies, that doesn’t help anything.

Home assignment can be really hard on kids. It usually consists of lots of travel, lots of new people, lots of different beds, and lots of attention. It’s definitely not “normal” life. And it will continue to get harder on my kids as they get older. It’s not so difficult for a four-year-old to visit a new church and make friends instantly. It’s a lot harder on a nine or eleven-year-old. And we’ll be visiting at least five different churches and innumerable small groups.

Gil and I are called to be missionaries. We want our kids to just be kids. So when we’re in the States, we’re going to try hard not to put pressure on them to perform. They most likely won’t participate in our presentations (maybe Grace will, since she loves that sort of thing). Sometimes they might choose to stay home with Grandma instead of attending a meeting with us, and that will be okay. We know everyone loves our kids and might be disappointed if they are not always with us, but that’s just how it might have to be.

And honestly, we all will need your grace. Our kids are not perfect. One of them has significant struggles in controlling emotions. Another clams up and gets stubborn when in new or overwhelming situations. And considering that they all will be adapting to so many new places, with very little schedule and often inconsistent bedtimes, they are not always going to be at their best.

But if you know our family, you can help.

When you see our kids, yes, please greet them and welcome them and make them feel comfortable. But keep in mind that even though thousands of people in California know them, they only remember a handful. They probably don’t remember you. And some of our kids might start getting really uneasy around the constant stream of strangers who want to hug them. It’s hard for me to predict. They are different people than they were three years ago, so I’m not sure how they will respond this time.

So tell them your name. Tell them how you know us. And ask them some questions. But please, ask the same kinds of questions you would ask any other kid. You know, like, What’s your favorite color? or Do you have a pet? or What’s your favorite book or sport?

Try not to ask them questions that will force them make judgments about where they live. For example, avoid asking them if they like America or Tanzania better. Or what they like best about living in Tanzania. Or any questions that make them compare the two countries. First of all, they simply don’t have the maturity or experience yet to even know how to answer those questions. And second, I try not to have them think about which place is best. They both are best; they are just different. And they are still figuring out what those differences are.

You can ask me those questions all day; I won’t mind. But my kids just aren’t ready to do that kind of processing. I mean, if I asked your children, What do you like about living in America? They would probably just look at me blankly and reply, Uhhh….I like my puppy.

Of course, if you are talking to my kids, or introducing them to a Sunday School Class, it’s great to acknowledge that they are from Tanzania, because it’s obviously a part of who they are. But don’t expect them to tell you about our ministry. They are not the missionaries. What they need most is to be treated like any other visitor, instead of put on display as some sort of special attraction.

Gil and I understand that being put on display while we are in the States is part of our job. It comes with the territory. But my kids….I just want them to figure out what it’s like to be a normal American kid. After all, one day, that’s an identity they will need to understand.

Those Kids…Are They American or Not?

By Amy Medina

On February 26, 2017

In Third Culture Kids

Last night we had a dinner-time discussion on what a Peep is. I have no idea how this came up. My kids don’t remember what they are, so I gave them a description because I am feeling the urgency of what they don’t know about America.

Granted, I don’t even like Peeps. And I am not looking forward to my children consuming them this Easter. Or, for that matter, any of the various forms of garbage that are disguised as food in America. But they should at least be able to recognize those marshmallow American Easter icons.

We get on a plane exactly five weeks from today, and we’ll be in California for four months.

It’s been almost three years since we were in America. My kids were 8, 6, and 5 the last time we were there. Now they are 11, 9, and 8. And then there’s Johnny, who at age 5 has no conception of this mystical land we keep talking about.

As the oldest, Grace has the most memories about the States. She also has an uncanny knack for remembering people and names. (I think she remembers more people than her Dad does.) But an 11-year-old is entirely different than an 8-year-old. This time, she will be experiencing America in an entirely different way. All of them will.

We have thrust these dual identities on these children, whether they like it or not. I think I see it more acutely because our children have Tanzanian blood, are being raised in Tanzania, but by American parents. They’ve learned to say “Good morning” to white people and “Shikamoo” to brown people. They eat rice and beans multiple times every week, but wouldn’t recognize a box of macaroni and cheese if it hit them in the face. We insist they use a knife and fork, but the children on the side of the fence eat with their hands.

They saw The Force Awakens and Rogue One on opening day–both times–but they have no idea how amazing it is that they didn’t have to wait in line. They know Pizza Hut is a special treat, but they think it’s normal to rip up the box to make plates, since the restaurant here doesn’t provide them. They are used to trying on used Nike sneakers at the local open air market instead of going to Payless. Oh, and they think sneakers are called trainers.

They watched the last 30 minutes of the World Series and the Super Bowl–delayed, of course. But Josiah is insanely obsessed with (British) Premier League Soccer, which he insists can only be called Football. They came home from school asking if Trump is kicking all the black people out of America, because that’s what their friends said.

Lily loves her American Girl doll, but straps her to her back with a kanga, Tanzanian style. Josiah learned how to dab from….somewhere. He also learned that flipping bottles is fun. (Seriously? Of all the ideas America had to export?) But he doesn’t know what a Peep is.

I am incredibly grateful that my kids have Haven of Peace Academy, because there they have their own culture. It’s a mixed-up, semi-western, very international melting pot of ideas and cultures and trends. Most of the children there are confused about their ethnicity and identity, so my children fit right in. I’m thankful. But I also worry, because I’ve given these children American passports. And chances are good that at some point in their lives, they will be living there for a lot longer than just a few months.

The great thing about kids is that they just go with it. My children have no idea that it’s crazy that they have two passports, that they have already criss-crossed the world a number of times, that international travel is normal for them. Or even more, they haven’t realized that it’s unusual to grow up as Tanzanian children of American missionaries.

I worry because this time around, they may start to feel that tension. They are kind of American, but kind of not. Kind of Tanzanian, but kind of not. The Third-Culture Kid paradox is even more acute because my children are adopted. Who are they? Who will they identify with? Where will they feel at home? That struggle looms large before them. They don’t see it yet, but I do.

I gave them this struggle. It is my fault. I have to trust that it was the right decision, that giving them a family will be worth the struggle in the long run. I chose this life for them, and all I can do is hope and pray that they continue to love it. That they become bridge-builders, reconcilers, peace-makers. That they ultimately find their identity as children of God and citizens of Heaven.

Grace Went to Amani and Lily Turned Eight

By Amy Medina

On February 17, 2017

In Other

Last week was pretty exciting around here.

First, our wonderful, long-time friends drove in for the week. Imani and her mom stayed with us, and Caleb joined Grace’s fifth grade class on their epic 4-day trip to the Amani Rainforest. This trip is highly anticipated by every HOPAC student, and is often mentioned by seniors as their favorite HOPAC memory.

I had the privilege of taking the first HOPAC elementary class to Amani way back in 2003. Gil and I later chaperoned a few other times. In fact, one year baby Grace went along!

2007

Gil got to chaperone this year, while I held down the fort at home. But it was so special to hear Grace’s stories and see the pictures of places I had been with my class so many years before.

Chameleon hunting at night

Tea plantation

Tea factory

Gil and Grace came home just in time for Lily’s eighth birthday. My little introvert does better in small groups, so she had just a few friends over. They made Valentines, played Twister, and had ice cream sundaes.

I keep telling my children to stop growing, but they just doesn’t listen. I guess we better work harder on obedience.

Snakes Simply Don’t Belong in My Children’s Bed

By Amy Medina

On December 23, 2016

In Other

Snake stories have always been the territory of the “real” African missionaries; you know, the ones who live in mud huts in the middle of nowhere. City dwellers like us rarely see them, unless you are my friend Alyssa who found 16 in her house.

In all our years in Dar es Salaam, we’ve only had one snake in our house, and that was about 10 years ago in our dining room. We’ve seen a few others in our yard, but that’s about it.

So yesterday, when Lily came out of her room to tell us there was a snake in her bed, we thought she was seeing things. For one thing, she was quite calm (which is very un-Lily-ish….this is a child who has been known to scream bloody murder over a frog). And she had been sent to take a nap (which she despises), so we thought this was a convenient diversion. But she insisted it was a snake. So Gil and my dad (who is visiting) went to investigate, and lo and behold, there was a green 3-foot snake hanging from the slats of the bunk bed. Johnny was already sleeping on the top bunk, but we rapidly decided that his nap was now over.

Thankfully, the snake stayed put while my husband and my dad grabbed a box and various instruments of death. My dad knocked it into the box and covered it, and we all trailed behind him as it was carried outside of our gate. I was ready with the camera, but once the box was opened, it made a quick exit, and started slithering away into the bushes. Gil hacked at it, cutting off about 8 inches of its tail, so we are assuming it has now perished. Fitting punishment for having the audacity to get into my children’s bed.

We tried to play it cool the rest of the day so as not to alarm the children, though Lily dissolved into tears at bedtime and refused to get into bed. I tried to reason with her, but considering that I’m not sure I would want to get into my bed if I had looked up and seen a snake, I couldn’t blame her. She slept on our floor last night.

After the kids went to bed, we started Googling snakes, and great discussion ensued over whether the snake was greenish-yellow or greenish-blue and whether it was skinny or really skinny. All of this is very important, because our visitor was either a harmless tree snake:

Or a green mamba, one of the most venomous and deadly snakes in East Africa.

If missionary life were a video game, we would have just gone up a level.