And the World Will Know

I try not to play the Third Culture Kid card too often, but tonight I’m throwing it down.

Because guys, there are so many versions of Becca Spellman.

There’s a version of me that loves angsty alt-rock. I left her at a combined church/school campus in Rio.

Lincoln, NE holds a gutsy Becca that sat with the football players at lunch time when most girls didn’t dare.

Would you believe there’s even a sporty-Spice version of me in Minnesota who was a star on her swim team? Ok, maybe not a star, but I killed on the backstroke.

Least favorite among these versions is the Becca who is sitting in a beachside apartment, paralyzed in fear.

The map is littered with remnants of who I once was, and who I sometimes still am. That’s probably true for most kids who grew up between cultures.

And I don’t dwell on what I’ve left behind too often, but sometimes a ghost-of-Becca-past will rear its head in a way I can’t ignore. It happens when I’m talking to someone who “knew me when” or maybe when I travel to a place I used to call home.

Call it a quarter-life crisis, but this head-rearing has been happening a lot lately. I’ve been thinking on who I was and who I am and who I want to be.

Reconciling all these identities is not easy. I love gutsy Becca, and I want to be her all the time, but other things crowd her out as I try to hold on to all the pieces of myself. It’s easy to feel like I’ve lost the things I love most.

So I’m struggling through the creation of a new version of myself that honors all the other versions. I’m spending time reminiscing on what I valued and what brought me joy. It makes me feel all kinds of nostalgic for people and places that may never be a part of my life again, but I’m slowly recalling the truth of who I am. It’s sort of ugly and really messy and sometimes painful, but I’m thinking the end result just might be worth it.

I mean, everyone deserves to know first-crush-Becca who one day told her sister, “I understand love songs now.” Who am I to deprive the world of that?

Bust a Move

I moved into a new apartment a month ago.

Feeling some déjà vu? It happens to be the fourth time I’ve moved in the last 18 months, so I don’t blame you.

Seeing as I’m now an expert, let me impart my hard-earned wisdom:

Living in a third-floor walk-up will help you get your daily cardio and save money on that pesky gym membership

When shopping for couches, it’s a good idea to measure it before trying to get it into the back of your car while the thrift store employees watch on in laughter

Make memorizing your new address easy by spending three hours updating your information with the bank, post office, work, credit card, magazine subscriptions, student loan accounts, and insurance company – and all you risk is your sanity!

When your parents ask about your new apartment, maybe don’t lead with the fact that your neighbors smoke weed on the stoop (WHICH IS TOTALLY LEGAL, DAD, SO IT’S PROBABLY FINE)

The best roommate bonding happens over Ethiopian food and The Fast and The Furious

Quarters are worth their weight in gold when it comes to laundry, and it’s totally ok to get into arguments with the cashier when she gives you two dimes and a nickel instead of the quarter you rightfully deserve

Owning a lot of books is a great thing. It’s less of a great thing when you have to carry them all up three flights of stairs (“what’s in this box?” “my entire Nancy Drew collection” *groans*)

Good music makes cleaning and unpacking more tolerable, so be prepared with some solid playlists. I suggest 90s hip hop, because what else is there?

In conclusion, let me leave you with the slightly-modified words of the ever-wise Spice Girls:

I’ll tell you what I want, what I really really want, so tell me what you want, what you really really want, I wanna, I wanna, I wanna, I wanna, I wanna really really really wanna NOT MOVE AGAIN FOR A WHILE