By Olive Hay-Edie, BA social anthropology
I am a fourth-generation third-culture kid, four generations of itchy feet. My father’s father’s father, my father’s father, my father and I, all have itchy feet. We aren’t the shadows of imperialism (I have checked), we simply reject that of what we are, authentically, begrudgingly and with privilege, which makes way for guilt.
My father is something, a mixing bowl of experiences, a little cinnamon and a touch of grey in his later years. He has the itchiest feet. His identity is scrambled, made apparent through 100 homes, 1000 hobbies and 10000 memories. If I were to ask him who he was, there would be no straight answer, no clear-cut crispy immunity from self-doubt. I feel that he would stare at me blankly and then say his name.
When people ask me where my father is from, I often say, ‘I don’t really know’ because he has never told me. I sometimes say Portugal because that’s where he’s most at home, his place to return to, but his passports are British and Brazilian, yet his father is Norwegian? If I were to ask, he would not recite citizenship nor a nationality, he would never say he was English or that he feels at home on this soil. If I were to pick up his passport and hand it to him as proof, he would probably put it away.
If he were to look in a mirror, I wonder what he would see? The wind chill from Portugal, the hard jaw from Scotland, the tall brow from Norway, the sunspots from Hong Kong, the smile lines from Brazil, or the tired eyes given generously by the UK?
My mother is English. Yet she has adjustments about her – from her own experiences elsewhere. Her smile lines are from Hong Kong, and her moles are from Thailand, yet both of her feet are buried deeply in English soil. Not once have they been itchy since she returned home. Home is her house in the countryside. Home to her is solid and tangible, it has never been shaken. My mother has changed since she first left, her clothes are colourful, and her house is filled with things you’d find elsewhere, but home has always stayed the same, in the soil, on this island.
I am grateful to my mother as one of my feet is free from the itch and is buried deeply. Yet thanks to my father, one foot is sticking out and is hyperactive, existential and on fire. I think it’s hard to feel rooted when you’re moving all the time. There have been moments where I have tried to dig my deepened foot free, you could say I’ve used pickaxes, shovels and my bare hands to get it out so I can be detached from my half homes altogether. It works for a bit, I go manic, I am energetic, enthusiastically so, yet my tired foot always finds its way back down, deep in the cold and soft English soil. There have been times where I have buried the itchy foot as deep as the other so that I can be still, be English too. Again, this is a temporary fix.
My identity is English, yet when I say it, I feel empty. I don’t remember long summer evenings playing in fields or ice cream vans, wood pigeons and metal slides, picking blackberries or village fetes. To me, that’s two feet in the ground English. Yet I’m not anything else. I’m informed by other things; my tastes and memories were given to me elsewhere. My hair has been bleached by Hong Kong, my teeth damaged by Thailand, my knees worn out by Portugal, my ribs bruised by London, and my nose singed by Stafford.
I think there are plenty of itchy feet. We all itch in different ways, some for home, some for adventure, some for a person or a culture. I think there are as many deep feet; feet under the surface; grounded and buried in belonging. Do your feet tickle for something or somewhere, do they need to be seen too? Or do you prefer them buried deep, would you bury them deeper? Or do you circle, pirouette like me? If so, let’s talk about it, let’s hook toes. We can complain about that itch on the one foot, and the inability to scratch it, as the other has nowhere to go.
I think that belonging and identity speak through metaphors, images and senses. I’ve never had a straightforward conversation about it. We’ve always liked the belonging to something and the nostalgia or longing for another. So if I asked you to draw it, would you draw itchy feet like me or a rug you used to curl up on? If you’d like to find out more, drop me a message at [email protected], and we can talk about it.
Photo Caption: Four Generations of Hay-Edie (Credit: Olive Hay-Edie).