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It’s Going Home Again That Hurts
Culture shock cuts deeper when you return to your home country
Sixth grade was the worse year of my childhood. It was the year I changed from a cute little girl with long strawberry blonde hair to an awkward preteen with an unflattering bob. The year my friends were gone. The year my dad lost his job. The year my family moved from the Philippines back to the US after six years abroad.
I was five when we moved to the Philippines. I vividly recall the shock of the oppressive heat and humidity rolling over this little girl from Michigan when we first arrived. I remember my bitter disappointment tasting coconut milk. It wasn’t chocolate-flavored.
Why I had expected it to be I don’t know. Perhaps one of my brothers had suggested this to tease me. The origin of my expectation is lost to time but not my emotions when I realized my imagined paradise where I could wander into the garden whenever I liked, choose a coconut from those conveniently scattered on the ground, effortlessly poke a straw in as if it were a juice box and enjoy delicious chocolate milk, did not exist. It was a crushing blow.
Soon I learned to appreciate the Philippines for what it was, a country bursting with amazing plant and animal life, delicious fruits available year-round, and very friendly and…
