Chapter One- Meet Me

Hi. I'm an MK, a home-schooler, and a Christian. I have friends who are MKs. I have experienced many cultures, and at times felt weird or left out. It has taken a while for me to realize that being different or weird isn't so bad. In fact, at times, it means you are more in control. It means you are special and have gotten to do things that many adults only dream about, much less kids.
It means that you know how to do things that most people learn in college, by the age of eight. Or even six.
I love every culture I have ever been a part of. I believe that everyone should try out a new culture at least once in their life, and I know they'd love to. Well, I have gotten to do it three times.
Venezuela, the States, and then Paraguay.
For you, the States is normal, and Venezuela and Paraguay are different. For me, it's the other way around.
I have swam in the Amazon, and learned three languages, cried myself to sleep at night because there was a strike going on outside, learned to walk in the Indians' mud hut, and eaten worms. Dead and alive. Yes. I. Have.
It's odd to think that someone who looks American fits in better with Latins than Americans, but it's confusing. It's the inside that makes us different by someone who has probably never left their state. Much less town. It's the thought that we have been somewhere dangerous, or beautiful or both. The fact that we can correct adults who have studied a language for eight years and we learned it in two years, and the people understand us better than that other scholar-person. The fact that we can say Hola without it sounding like Oh-Law.
And because we have done this, people fear us, and practice their Spanish on us, or Russian or whatever language they want to hear. If we know it, then you can guess that we have said the same thing we say to you about eight thousand times. At eight hundred different churches.
When we aren't very enthusiastic when you say how much we've grown, it's because we have heard it a million times and are upset that we still hear 'you were this big when I saw you last'. And, we wish we had grown at least a LITTLE bit since the last person told us that.
It's because our favorite thing to do is baffle people who speak the same language as us in public just to see their faces when they see someone who looks like they can't understand the person's accent.
For example, US. At Mexican restaurants. And at Wal-Mart and everywhere else we happen to see someone who speaks our language.
So now I am gonna let you in my 'canoe' and we'll float down the river of my life. Wear a life jacket. This is gonna be bumpy, and wet, and EVERYTHING in between.

Worms!

The earliest memory I can recall clearly is eating worms instead of my mom's chocolate chip cookies. I may have been crazy, or simply craving worms. I don't know. But they were smoked, and they were very tasty. They taste a lot like beef jerky only a little bit more...um...wiggly. Plus, they are long. About a foot long. Let's just say that they are like Slim Jims. Only living.
They are much tastier when they are cooked, as are most foods. But, eating them live and raw can gross out any tourists or city-folk and it is fun. I used to snack on them like potato chips. I prefer them over potato chips.
Anyways, I'm guessing myself to be about five to six years old, and obviously, I was hungry. I was growing anyway, and I needed something to hold me over until Mom finished making lunch.
"Mama." I said, and looked up at her as she stirred the pot...Or cut the vegetables...Or baked or whatever she was doing. And she looked down at me.
"What?"
"I'm hungry." As I said this, I rubbed my tummy.
Mom told me to go look in the fridge, as there was something to snack on. "Go look."
I walked over, and opened the fridge. Inside was a wild array of meat, fish that the Indians had brought, baby veggies, leftovers and...Worms. I dug in for the worms. I took them out, and carried them up to the loft while I played.
As soon as the Ziploc was empty, I quietly slipped back down the ladder, and threw the bag in the sink as Mom had always instructed me to do, because 'those magical bags didn't grow on trees'. I found this odd, because, to me, everything grew on trees. Fruits, vegetables, and I thought birds grew on trees. And the fact that they were magical meant they had to be cleaned every day, to be used again. And then stuck against the window when wet, to dry.
Anyway, once I threw it in the sink, I looked over and saw Mom leaning into the fridge. (I remember this clearly).
I went over and asked what she was doing. Mom stood back up, and said, " Where are they!?!?! They're--They're---They're GONE! What happened? Do you know??" She asked me.
I shook my head. Then Mom saw me. And looked in the sink.
"Did you eat the worms??"
I nodded. "You said there was a snack in the fridge."
"But--Those were for your cousins for when we see them next week. Oh...I was gonna surprise them!..." Mom looked so sad. So I looked at her, smiled and said,
"They wouldn't like them anyway. They would think that they were gross. So I eated them."
"I'm sure you did."
Turns out, she had meant the chocolate chip cookies when she said a snack. Who knew?