“Where are you from?” This question, and the unease that it brings, is something that third culture kids (TCKs) know well. No matter how many times I get this question, I still feel like a decision needs to be made, since who they are will impact what and how much I tell them. Each time I wonder, “What version of myself do I share with this person? What part of who I am are they looking for?”

“Mozambique and Malawi,” I answer. When I am in the States, this is where many people’s eyes go blank. “Awesome,” they say with a glazed smile. They have no clue where that is. A few people have responded excitedly, “Ugh, that’s so cool! I have always wanted to go to Maui!” I then have to break the news that I did not grow up in the place they always wanted to go to, but in fact a place they didn’t know existed and couldn’t care less about. If I don’t think I’ll see the person again, I will generally skip the awkwardness and not correct them.

For those who have an idea of where those places are, they get more interested. I can see the thoughts running through their minds: “A white girl from South Africa?” (They almost all make the same mistake, thinking because I am from Southern Africa, I am from South Africa. For those who don’t know, it’s not the same thing.)

“So were you born there?” they generally ask next. “Well no, I was born in the Philippines,” I say, knowing well the rabbit trail that goes down. I will then explain how, though I was born in the Philippines, I moved to Malawi when I was a toddler. I had no previous memories of living in the Philippines or the States (where my dad is from). My first memories were actually in Brazil, where my mom grew up, and where we spent the month before moving to Malawi when I was three. She was a TCK in Brazil, though I leave that part out as it only adds complication to the story.

When people hear where my parents are from, they often say, “Ooooh, so you’re not really from Africa, you’re actually American,” with a sense of having figured everything out. Pro tip to people who talk to TCKs: never say this. I say I am from Mozambique and Malawi because they made me who I am. Is that enough qualification for it to be where I am from? What really makes us from somewhere? Is it a passport? A language? Blood? Time? Memories? And who gets to decide? People have made it clear that we, as TCKs, aren’t the ones who get to decide. Instead, they choose the most convenient label and expect us to wear it. But for us, belonging is never so straightforward.

A fuller response to the question for us TCKs may be that we exist between places. Around places. Sometimes in them, but never forever or fully. We can never fully claim one place as being where we are from, but we can be quite comfortable and fit in almost anywhere. For many of us though, our passport country is often where we have the most difficult time fitting in and being happy. Why is place such a complicated thing for TCKs?

I feel most myself when I am home. In Mozambique and Malawi, I come alive. I am happier, and my personality comes out of the hibernation it goes into when in America. I see more color there, make friends easier, appreciate the little things more. Life is full of adventure again. In Africa, my looks set me apart drastically from everyone else, but inside I share so much in common with people there. I just hope that they will press past the outside and see how similar we are.

I make sense more in Africa. Many of my strongest values have come from the people there. I am surrounded by people who teach me more of who I want to be every day. I am surrounded by people who believe many of the same things I do. We have a similar experience of God and the spiritual world. There, me believing that a witchdoctor can walk through walls or turn people or themselves into an animal is nothing notable. If I said that sentence in much of Africa, people would look at me weirdly and ask, “Who wouldn’t believe that?”

During the hot season in Mozambique, some people in the village sleep on their porches so that they can catch a breeze and stay a bit cooler. One month, children started disappearing from their porches in the night. They were taken by hyenas. But the strange thing was that this was happening to children over a 40-kilometer radius, far too much distance for the hyenas to be traveling back and forth on a daily basis. And though this generally happened here and there, this time it happened to five or six kids in one month. The people knew what the problem was. It was not really hyenas. Everyone pointed their fingers at one man: the source of the issue. The police put the man in prison, and suddenly all the hyena killings stopped. An American may look at that and think, “Huh, weird. Must be a coincidence.” But I can’t. Stories like this make sense to me, and I think an American would have to spend a significant amount of time in Africa for stories like this and the believers of the stories to make sense. Until then, I am just an odd person who believes very weird things. How can I really be American if so few Americans understand my worldview?

In the world I grew up in, the physical world and the spiritual world are intertwined. Faith in Africa is not just belief—it is survival. There is no neutral ground.

In America, faith often feels optional. And looking at the Christian community here, it’s clear that faith is background music for many. We believe in the same God, but we live in totally different worlds. The realm of possibility is entirely different. The God of many Americans feels like a different God than mine.

I don’t feel like I make much sense as a person when I am in the States. In America, I feel like a chameleon hiding in a tree of leaves. I blend in, but when you really look, you can see the shape and being is entirely different from those around it. Many people would look at my passport and label me as American. But it feels so wrong to me.

In America I feel like an outsider. Like an immigrant. Am I allowed to call myself that? If I could, I think it would make things easier. It would give people a reason why I don’t seem to get their jokes or understand what they are talking about much of the time. But my American accent quickly makes them forget that I am an outsider, an alien.

Although there are TCKs all over the world, I know that we are unknown and confusing to most people. We are hard to place, unpredictable, and foreign. So, I generally decide it’s easier to keep to myself here or only give the parts that are more palatable to most people.

Who am I in the end? I am a smoothie, parts of cultures, places, and experiences all thrown in and blended together. My personality is a crystal prism. Depending on which side the light shines through, different parts of my personality will appear. My culture will somewhat resemble that of the onlooker, rather like a chameleon changing her skin to match her surroundings but never being able to become her surroundings.

Most people will only get to see small aspects of who I am, yet I would never choose to change this if I could. TCKs are some of the kindest groups of people out there. They have a world of skills, experiences, and understandings to offer. They welcome everyone, especially those who don’t feel like they fit in anywhere. I have grown up around so many wonderful people from around the world, and I can pool together all of those experiences to make most people feel more at home.

Now in Portland, Oregon, I work as a doula, assisting women as they go through pregnancy, childbirth, and early postpartum. Because of the skills I picked up as a TCK, I have worked with women from all over the world, and it feels natural and easy to me, even when we don’t share a common language or culture. I have been able to use the gift of making people feel at home through one of the biggest changes they will ever go through, and that is an honor I will always appreciate.