I've been blogging for a few months, and this will be my first post related to the fact that we have a transracial adoption. Lily is multi-racial. Both of her first parents are bi-racial. Lily is black, white, and Filipino, among others. G, Ferb, and I are white.
I've read extensively about transracial adoption. I've gained the most insight from adult adoptees who grew up in transracial families -- particularly those who grew up in "Whitesville." We live in an extremely diverse area. On an average day, we may see more people of color than white people. We have a diverse group of friends, and my great-uncle was black (he passed away a couple of years ago), so some of my extended family members are black. We have a collection of black dolls that rivals the doll collection at any store. We have a large book collection that includes stories about transracial families, famous people of color, folk tales from around the world, different skin colors, hair types ... the list goes on. And we have a very open adoption, so Lily knows and regularly visits with her first mother, father, and maternal grandmother.
I'm not naive - I know that despite our best efforts, Lily will deal with issues related to the fact that she is a different race than her immediate family members. I think I'm as prepared for that as one can be before actually being in the situation in which those difficulties present themselves.
We've had very few comments made to us about our transracial status. One surprising comment was made when Lily was only a couple of months old -- I was caught off-guard. After that, I prepared myself with an slew of possible responses; only no one has commented to us about it ever since.
We talk to Lily about race, about the fact that we have different skin colors. One day she picked up my hand and said, "Mama's hand white. My hand brown." I smiled, I told her she was right, and I told her that I love the color of her skin.
Some of Ferb's friends have been curious. When I've picked him up after school, I've heard kids ask him how his sister "came out" black. He explains that she is adopted. One night Ferb had a group of kids over to our house for a club meeting. Lily came into the room wearing her pajamas. One boy asked, "Is that your sister?" Ferb replied: "Of course that's my sister! Why would she be in my house wearing her pajamas if she wasn't my sister?" He understands that people wonder, and I see in him an effort to make sure everyone knows that Lily is just as much his sister as any sister would be. Lily and Ferb have a very special relationship that is far deeper and close than anything I could have imagined before I had children. More on this point --
I found a worksheet in Ferb's school folder the other day. (Ferb is in second grade.) It was a worksheet asking the student to answer a series of questions about Martin Luther King, Jr. - when he was born, where he was born, etc. Here's the last question and Ferb's response:
Why do you admire this person?
I admire this person in my very own way since my sister is black. I would like her near me on the bus and I want her to go to my school.
Friday, January 27, 2012
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
What Could Have Been ...
About a year and a half into our adoption, I decided to schedule a session with one of the counselors at C.A.S.E. (Center for Adoption Support and Education). We had zero support from our agency when it came to open adoption -- they essentially told us we were on our own, and when we pressed them for help, the "help" was so counterproductive that we quickly ran. When I made the appointment, I think I was seeking input from a professional because I wanted to know if I was doing things right when it came to our open adoption. I had learned so much from reading blogs and books and talking to friends of friends, but I yearned for a face-to-face conversation with a professional.
I spent the first part of the meeting telling the counselor our story, how we had applied to adopt from China, withdrew after several years of waiting, and then updated our homestudy for a domestic adoption on the off chance that our agency got a call from a local hospital, which happened (according to them) once every few years. We never thought it would actually happen, but then it did, and we were quickly thrust into a situation without any guidance from our agency. The counselor agreed that the agency was inept at best, but thought that everything that had transpired once we (G and I and Fiona and Nate) were on our own sounded very positive. Our adoption would definitely be described as very open, and while we've definitely hit some rough patches, we've built a solid relationship with one another that has helped us navigate through the tough times. We're family.
After I finished my story and she validated that things seemed to be going as well as could be expected, I suddenly broke down in tears, surprising even myself. It took me a while to compose myself and then, perhaps, I finally talked about what I think was really bothering me. I explained that every time we get together with Fiona and Nate, or even when we communicate, I'm fine during the visit and/or communication, but after it's over, I fall apart ... feeling very sad and depressed and sometimes crying for quite a while when I had time alone. The counselor asked me why. And then I said it out loud for the first time.
I see the three of them together -- Fiona, Nate, and Lily -- and I see the family that could have been. And it's heart-breaking. I feel the loss at such a deep level. And then I feel confused. If that loss didn't exist, then Lily wouldn't be my daughter ... so by feeling sad about their family that could have been, am I essentially feeling sad about the family that is -- my family. My daughter that wouldn't be my daughter if Fiona and Nate hadn't lost their daughter. It made my head hurt just saying the words.
The counselor then told me two things:
First, the fact that I feel, see, and recognize the loss is a quality that will make me a good adoptive mother as Lily gets older. She told me that most of the people she sees regularly are teenage adoptees who are struggling. And one of the main reasons they struggle is because their adoptive parents either don't get it -- they don't understand WHY their child feels a sense of loss -- and/or they take the child's feelings of loss as a sign of betrayal -- a sign that they, the adoptive parents, aren't good enough. The counselor pointed out that the feelings of confusion that I was having -- the deep sense of loss over the family that could have been juxtaposed with the pure joy I feel that Lily is my daughter -- is the same kind of conflicted emotions that adoptees have. I get it.
Secondly, she told me, just like adoptive parents who don't give their children room to grieve their loss, I need to be careful that I give Lily to space to feel whatever she feels. Certainly her adoption will affect her in some way -- that's a given -- but how it affects her, how she processes and views it (which could change at various points in her life) ... I need to be sure that I give her the space to feel what SHE feels, and it may not be the same way I feel. I understood what she said, and reading the writing of adult adoptees has definitely helped me understand that no two people will ever feel the same way, and I need to support Lily wherever she is with her feelings at any given time. As with everything, I will always do my best to do right by Lily, but it struck me right then and there that if she doesn't end up having a good relationship with Fiona and Nate (or if she feels angry with them or even neutral/nothing toward them) ... it will be hard for me.
Nate and Fiona came over last month and I took what I think is the most amazing picture of the three of them. It's adorable and perfect and I love looking at it. Sometimes I look at it and start to cry. And then out of nowhere Lily jumps into my arms and we roll around and tickle and laugh ... her laugh is so happy and pure and I just want to bottle it up. And I feel myself smiling from ear to ear with the teardrops still sitting in my eyes.
I spent the first part of the meeting telling the counselor our story, how we had applied to adopt from China, withdrew after several years of waiting, and then updated our homestudy for a domestic adoption on the off chance that our agency got a call from a local hospital, which happened (according to them) once every few years. We never thought it would actually happen, but then it did, and we were quickly thrust into a situation without any guidance from our agency. The counselor agreed that the agency was inept at best, but thought that everything that had transpired once we (G and I and Fiona and Nate) were on our own sounded very positive. Our adoption would definitely be described as very open, and while we've definitely hit some rough patches, we've built a solid relationship with one another that has helped us navigate through the tough times. We're family.
After I finished my story and she validated that things seemed to be going as well as could be expected, I suddenly broke down in tears, surprising even myself. It took me a while to compose myself and then, perhaps, I finally talked about what I think was really bothering me. I explained that every time we get together with Fiona and Nate, or even when we communicate, I'm fine during the visit and/or communication, but after it's over, I fall apart ... feeling very sad and depressed and sometimes crying for quite a while when I had time alone. The counselor asked me why. And then I said it out loud for the first time.
I see the three of them together -- Fiona, Nate, and Lily -- and I see the family that could have been. And it's heart-breaking. I feel the loss at such a deep level. And then I feel confused. If that loss didn't exist, then Lily wouldn't be my daughter ... so by feeling sad about their family that could have been, am I essentially feeling sad about the family that is -- my family. My daughter that wouldn't be my daughter if Fiona and Nate hadn't lost their daughter. It made my head hurt just saying the words.
The counselor then told me two things:
First, the fact that I feel, see, and recognize the loss is a quality that will make me a good adoptive mother as Lily gets older. She told me that most of the people she sees regularly are teenage adoptees who are struggling. And one of the main reasons they struggle is because their adoptive parents either don't get it -- they don't understand WHY their child feels a sense of loss -- and/or they take the child's feelings of loss as a sign of betrayal -- a sign that they, the adoptive parents, aren't good enough. The counselor pointed out that the feelings of confusion that I was having -- the deep sense of loss over the family that could have been juxtaposed with the pure joy I feel that Lily is my daughter -- is the same kind of conflicted emotions that adoptees have. I get it.
Secondly, she told me, just like adoptive parents who don't give their children room to grieve their loss, I need to be careful that I give Lily to space to feel whatever she feels. Certainly her adoption will affect her in some way -- that's a given -- but how it affects her, how she processes and views it (which could change at various points in her life) ... I need to be sure that I give her the space to feel what SHE feels, and it may not be the same way I feel. I understood what she said, and reading the writing of adult adoptees has definitely helped me understand that no two people will ever feel the same way, and I need to support Lily wherever she is with her feelings at any given time. As with everything, I will always do my best to do right by Lily, but it struck me right then and there that if she doesn't end up having a good relationship with Fiona and Nate (or if she feels angry with them or even neutral/nothing toward them) ... it will be hard for me.
Nate and Fiona came over last month and I took what I think is the most amazing picture of the three of them. It's adorable and perfect and I love looking at it. Sometimes I look at it and start to cry. And then out of nowhere Lily jumps into my arms and we roll around and tickle and laugh ... her laugh is so happy and pure and I just want to bottle it up. And I feel myself smiling from ear to ear with the teardrops still sitting in my eyes.
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Remembering a Great Man
A few days ago I ran into one of my neighbors at a local Starbucks. I met her in 2008 when she and her husband Don volunteered with me on our neighborhood team working to elect Barack Obama. Don was a soft-spoken man, but he had so many important things to say. I was always impressed with his calm demeanor and his way of diffusing difficult situations. He had an adult son with special needs, and my heart melted when I watched the two of them together. He was an amazing father; he was a good person with a special soul. He was very Zen. He was the type of person you felt lucky to know. While I didn't keep in close touch with Don and his wife after the election was over, I frequently ran into them in the neighborhood and we'd stop to have coffee or chat with one another whenever we had the chance.
So I was absolutely floored a few days ago when I ran into Don's wife at Starbucks and she told me that he had passed away. He had been diagnosed with the late stages of pancreatic cancer and there wasn't much that could be done. I still am having a hard time believing that he's gone.
There was something else very special about Don. After we adopted Lily, it was normal for us to run into friends and acquaintances in the neighborhood and get some surprised looks when they saw us with a baby. I clearly hadn't been pregnant and I wasn't at all offended by people's interest in how Lily came into our lives. In my 60-seconds-or-less version, I always mentioned the fact that we have an open adoption, that Lily's birth parents live locally, and that we would be having an ongoing relationship with them. I did this in part because I wanted the rest of the world to know that open adoption is happening and it's not something that should be shocking or something that we should be afraid of.
The response to the fact that we have an open adoption has often been "that's so nice of you," which of course sets off all sorts of alarms inside of me. I would explain that we are the beneficiaries of Lily's adoption, and having an ongoing relationship with her wonderful first parents is the natural thing to do. (After all, no one tells me how nice we are to facilitate a relationship between our children and my sisters and parents.) But when I told Don about our open adoption ... for some reason, I don't remember exactly what he said, but I do remember thinking that his reaction to our open adoption was different. He also complimented us, but in a different way. It wasn't until the third of fourth time I saw him after we had adopted Lily that he told me that he had been adopted as a baby, too. And so had his sister. He told me that his sister had searched and searched for her birth parents but never found them. He gave me the impression that it had somewhat broken her. He also told me that he never had the motivation to search for his birth parents, but I could see in his eyes how happy he felt for Lily that she wouldn't ever have to search, or think about whether or not to search.
The world lost such a wonderful person when Don passed, and at the risk of sounding childish, it's just not fair that he had to leave so soon. Adding to the heartbreak is the fact that his birth family never got to know what an amazing person he was. What a tremendous loss for them.
I will think of Don often. I will remember his smile, his witty remarks, his fighting spirit. His passing reminds me how thankful I am for all the people in my life, for my family that grew in such unexpected ways. It's a bittersweet new year. I'm ready for 2012.
So I was absolutely floored a few days ago when I ran into Don's wife at Starbucks and she told me that he had passed away. He had been diagnosed with the late stages of pancreatic cancer and there wasn't much that could be done. I still am having a hard time believing that he's gone.
There was something else very special about Don. After we adopted Lily, it was normal for us to run into friends and acquaintances in the neighborhood and get some surprised looks when they saw us with a baby. I clearly hadn't been pregnant and I wasn't at all offended by people's interest in how Lily came into our lives. In my 60-seconds-or-less version, I always mentioned the fact that we have an open adoption, that Lily's birth parents live locally, and that we would be having an ongoing relationship with them. I did this in part because I wanted the rest of the world to know that open adoption is happening and it's not something that should be shocking or something that we should be afraid of.
The response to the fact that we have an open adoption has often been "that's so nice of you," which of course sets off all sorts of alarms inside of me. I would explain that we are the beneficiaries of Lily's adoption, and having an ongoing relationship with her wonderful first parents is the natural thing to do. (After all, no one tells me how nice we are to facilitate a relationship between our children and my sisters and parents.) But when I told Don about our open adoption ... for some reason, I don't remember exactly what he said, but I do remember thinking that his reaction to our open adoption was different. He also complimented us, but in a different way. It wasn't until the third of fourth time I saw him after we had adopted Lily that he told me that he had been adopted as a baby, too. And so had his sister. He told me that his sister had searched and searched for her birth parents but never found them. He gave me the impression that it had somewhat broken her. He also told me that he never had the motivation to search for his birth parents, but I could see in his eyes how happy he felt for Lily that she wouldn't ever have to search, or think about whether or not to search.
The world lost such a wonderful person when Don passed, and at the risk of sounding childish, it's just not fair that he had to leave so soon. Adding to the heartbreak is the fact that his birth family never got to know what an amazing person he was. What a tremendous loss for them.
I will think of Don often. I will remember his smile, his witty remarks, his fighting spirit. His passing reminds me how thankful I am for all the people in my life, for my family that grew in such unexpected ways. It's a bittersweet new year. I'm ready for 2012.
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