#blogust

13. What gives you confidence?

Practice.

I need to have done something at least once before I have anything other than anxiety about it. If I have to do something important I’ll practice it once (preferably in private with no observers who might criticize :).

I have moved nearly 50 times in my life. That might sound like hyperbole but I assure you it is not. I’ve lived in some places for as little as a month and for as long as 3 years. Though that’s the longest I have ever called one place Home. I went to more than a dozen schools in my childhood. I was perpetually the New Kid growing up. I have no childhood home I could pinpoint.

I’ve moved houses so many times, I feel like I can’t even concentrate on them. Talking about each move would be like most people going though each haircut they’ve ever had in life. So instead I will focus on the times I’ve moved country. I’ve moved countries 10 times in my life now.

I’ve only ever lived in South Africa, England, or America, but I’ve bounced back and forth between them a lot. Making that “where did you grow up?” question so much harder than it should be.

I was born in South Africa, so I suppose technically that’s where I’m from, though no one believes me when I say that. My parents did move to London when I was only 2 years old. Where we stayed, and bounced from borough to borough, until I was 8 years old. When my mom’s parents moved to the states, Georgia to be exact, and my parents decided to follow. Which began our dance with the visa and immigration system.

We moved around so much at this point in my life, I find it easier to go by where I had my birthday than year by year.

I turned 10 in the states.

We then moved back to the UK again, but only for 6 months. I wasn’t old enough to completely understand why, but I believed it was to do with sorting visas out

I turned 11 in England.

We moved back to the states not long after, but had problems with our visas(again 🤨) so we returned to England. We didn’t stay long though, no more than 2 months before my parents decided to move back to South Africa. (Which means we moved countries 3 times in a year)

I turned 12 in South Africa.

Though my parents still couldn’t commit to a house, we did stay in the same area for 2 years, before their itchy feet kicked in. The crime and corruption was their reasoning for relocating back to England.

I turned 14 in England.

Though again we didn’t stay long, less than a year, before they set their sites back on the states.

I turned 15 in America.

We then stayed in America for 4 years. We moved states a couple times and house plenty of times of course. But I spent all of my late teenage years there. Until the itchy feet stuck again and we moved back to England.

I turned 19 in England.

Where I stayed for the past 8 years, until recently. Where I’ve some how returned to My country of birth. I never thought I’d end up living here again, yet here I am.

If you’ve managed to keep up with that, then you’re doing better than me. If not, you can see why it’s so hard to answer that question. No matter which answer I give to who ever, it doesn’t sound right.

I have an accent no matter where I go. It’s not American enough, English enough or south African enough to sound local to any of those places. If a South African asks where I’m from and I say Johannesburg, they’ll think I’m joking. If an Englishmen asks me where I’m from and I say London, they laugh and say no really? If I tell an American that I’m from Georgia, they’ll think I’m crazy.

(My 19 year old brother thought that’s how to say ancestory, so it stuck in our family, and it’s how we all say it now)

My family is such a melting pot. I have tentative claims to so many different heritages. I really wanted to do on of those DNA ancestory tests, but I’ve yet to have a chance.

There have been quite a few family trees constructed by distant relatives, because our history’s so intesting, I suppose, on either side on my parents.

Starting with my dad. He’s a born and bread Africana, a bore through and through. On his mother’s side, our linage can be traced back to the Moore’s who fled France. Specifically French Moore’s, with more than a few rumours and some evidence that our line stems directly from that of the French aristocracy that fled during the revolution. That’s where the dark skin in my family comes from. My great grandmother on my dad’s mom’s side, was so dark that she wasn’t allowed to go to a white school in South Africa. Where his mothers side was quite staunch and traceable, his fathers side was also a melting pot! His fathers father was German, his fathers mother, a red haired green eyed Irish lass, right off the boat. The legacy of that could be seen in my brothers bright red hair when he was born.

My mother, on the other hand, was born in England, London. Her dad was a cockney lad through and through! I’m sure if I could trace that line, I’d find chimney sweeps and old English gentlemen. His family was as English as you could get. Her mom however, is another confusing factor. She was born in England but raised traveling around, like I was. My mom’s mom’s dad, was a Russian Orthodox Jew, who was as born in Egypt and smuggled in to South Africa in a suitcase. Which should give you an idea of how complicated that side of the family tree is. There’s actually been a proper family tree made for that side of the family. I have a strong enough Jewish heritage that I could visit Palestine.

One thing I can say for sure is that my gene pool is very my diversified. For about 4 generations on either side of my family, we have all married and had childeren with people of different cultures and heritages. It seems like my history is filled with people escaping persecution or prosecution. There ain’t nothing pure about my blood.

What is fascinating is that lyle has just as strange of a heritage. Mixed mixed mixed and mixed again! For generations there is half of this or half of that and half of this again. So our childeren would beable to trace their linages back to a multitude of cultures and countries.

My parents were convinced I was gonna be a boy, to the point that they didn’t even have a girls name picked out for me when I came. I was going to be called Tyrone, had it gone to plan.

My love language, with out a doubt, is words of affirmation. I feel most loved when I’m told how loved I am.

It’s not just with romantic love, it’s with all relationships. I like being told lovely things. I love getting praise and compliments. I feel loved when I feel appreciated and valued. I like being verbally reassured, about everything. I feel that there is power in the words we speak.

It’s how I show love too. I’m full of compliments all the time. I love the feeling of making some one else feel good about them selfs. I usually tell people exactly how I feel about them (so long as it’s positive) because I’d like to be told too.