Diary of a Confused Mom (in Morocco): September 2nd 2016

One thing I wish people realized was, how difficult it is for me to answer the simple question "Where are you from?"

I inherited a passport from each of my parents. My father's origins are from a different place than the passport he handed me. I was born and raised until I was fourteen in a fourth place altogether. 

I grew up as a third culture kid not really knowing what belonging to a specific culture meant. I had friends from everywhere. We connected based on a personality and interest match, unrelated to our 'nationalities.'

Now my new nuclear family perpetually moves from one country to another to follow my husband's work and I know that makes me all the more aware and yet all the more confused. I can't begin to imagine how confused my poor children must be.

At one point, I wanted to declare my own country. I come from the Republic of Me. I just don't see most adults appreciating that type of response. 

But I'm just me. You can't stereotype based on what nationality I hold or where I'm 'originally from.' 

I just don't fix in any neat box.