This is not a third culture kid post, but a post about having a family far away. My childhood abroad and in Norway, with my dad still in Africa, has meant that I’ve no close relationship with my Icelandic family. It’s natural. I have only been there on a holiday now and then and we have had our separate lives. I will never be “one of them,” even if there is only one ocean between us. We haven’t shared everyday life.
Even when the terror bomb went off downtown Oslo a couple of years ago, no one from Iceland checked up on me, even if I was their only relative at that time living and working downtown Oslo. A sign of the distance between us. There is Facebook, but it’s not the same. It’s sad, but I have accepted it. I have a part of me that is Icelandic, and it is one of the few places I feel almost at home, but I’ll get to know it on my terms. More on this in later post.
My greatest sorrow in this, however, is the lost bond with my Icelandic grandma, the one I have my name after. From what I have heard and the little I saw, we were very alike. She’s gone now, but I’ll always have a grief for never being allowed to get to know her, on my conditions, like I did with my Norwegian grandmother.
So, this. One of the backsides of being halfs.
Thanks for reading.