Growing Family

Rememberings

Lately, without intention, I have been remembering my pregnancies with vivid intensity. Perhaps it is because of the dream I had, shortly after the meeting with the immigration attorney. In the dream I was in transition, the scary intense part of labor, that is unlike anything I have ever experienced before or since. The feeling is so other-worldly that I have never been able to re-create it in my mind.  Since plunging into it, in my dream, the feeling has come back several times, and I have remembered birthing my daughter with greater clarity than I have since the experience occurred, 21 months ago.

Then, today, I am remembering my first pregnancy. The one that ended early on, in a painful miscarriage. I am remembering being in the airplane bathroom, an hour from Schiphol airport, soaked in blood and panicked with grief. I am remembering staying at my husband's relative's house, excusing myself from a large family dinner, to sit on the toilet and lose my baby, spending hours in bed sobbing, and in pain. I remember feeling so empty, like there was a vacuum inside where the life had been, sucking all the color out of me.

Having children, bearing children, and raising children is intense. Most of the time here I focus on the intensity of my adoption experience, but these last few days, my experiences with carrying life in my body are often on my mind.

Continuing Education

Shannon, of Peter's Cross Station, has an excellent resource post up. She has compiled her must-read list for (white) parents raising Black children. She writes:

I don't think most of the Transracial Adoption Books are all that great. And when you tell me that people have to start somewhere, and these books are good introductions, I will disagree in the strongest terms. Because books that give you tips for handling public curiosity, or tips on styling a Black child's hair are not the places to start. They are the last details, not the beginning steps.

I couldn't agree with her more. Of course we need to know how to respond to public interest, and we need to know how to care for our children's hair. Those are real needs. However, I think it would so benefit potential adopters to understand, more fully, the multitude of factors that work together in contributing to the situation that has made adoption a consideration or necessity for the child they hope to adopt. That includes history, cultural influences, economics, so many things that are never mentioned at all in most books you are encouraged or required to read to "prepare" you to adopt transracially.

I really feel like adoption systems do such a disservice to adopters and adoptees, by requiring so little in the way of education and preparedness for engaging in a transracial adoption. I consider myself to be a little bit hardcore, when it comes to my devotion as a transracial parent, yet I am only familiar with a few titles on Shannon's list! I am doing my best, going to the bookstore and buying everything I can find on the Black experience in America. For me, it's really been like grabbing in the dark, hoping I am reading things that are educating me well, hoping that I am listening to authoritative voices (recognizing there is no one "Black experience"). For this reason, I so appreciate Shannon's list and will apply myself to working through it. It is daunting, yes, but I am thankful to have a guide on the journey.

He is SO Three

Today Small Sun voiced two noteworthy observations/questions.

This morning, in our bed, with the four of us snuggling, Small Sun said "I'm brown! And Pappa, you're white. And mommy's white. And Sprouty's white!"

Who told him that people with my skin tone are "white"? I didn't.

And this evening, during the bedtime wind-down, Small Sun asks The Captain, "are you Jesus? Are you Pappa Jesus?"

This boy has got a lot on his mind.

So do I.

Hijacked Seasons and Holiday Pathos

Over Independence Day I was going to write about being here while all my family made the annual pilgrimage to northern Michigan to spend the holiday in the most beautiful of all the world's woods. My heart is so connected to that experience, one I've cherished from girlhood on. The week is spent playing on the water, riding ridiculous 70s banana seat bikes with my sister: the bikes we've been riding since we were old enough to travel on two wheels.

In northern Michigan I am surrounded by family in every direction. Start walking through the woods and you'll run into a cabin owned by a first, second, third and on cousin. These people always felt a bit foreign to me. They are true Michiganders, or for those who have migrated, Michiganders at heart. They are IRISH, IRISH, IRISH Catholics. Doctors, writers, priests, mathematicians, sales people, models, lawyers, teachers, all gathering around the bond-fire, beer in hand, admiring the great grand children. I love it there. I am a leaf that is forever angled to the cool filtered sunlight of a northern Michigan afternoon.

Oddly enough, I didn't think much about being "Up North", as we call it. Instead I was thinking about being in Pennsylvania, which is where the other half of my family roosts. I felt drawn to the giant farmhouse, hundreds of years old, with the well under the front steps, and the cellar full of veggies, and the garden all gone limp under frost and thaw. It's not the right time to go to Pennsylvania. We do that for Thanksgiving. We go with hats and coats and scarves and mittens. We stand shivering while wholesome cousins run about out of doors, with no sweaters but rosy cheeks.

This season-swapping has got me all mixed up. We've had a cold week here (50s and 60s). With the wind coming off of the water, and no central heat, it has been c-o-l-d. We ventured out twice yesterday and I bundled the children up from top to toe, trying to shield them from the biting wind. So, naturally, in such temperatures, Pennsylvania, Thanksgiving, seems most logical.

I find that I am craving Holiday food. I am thinking of the recipes we cook for Thanksgiving and Christmas. I don't generally like the winter, but I love the building expectation of two long trips, nearly back to back, for Thanksgiving, then Christmas, with New Years like the cherry on top of a fantastic holiday season. The holidays, with the friends, family, meaning, food, music, and decorations, are what make the winter bearable...and even enjoyable.

I don't quite know what to do with this winter here. There is nothing building. There is no mid-winter explosion of joy. There is no reason to get down my biggest bowls, and thumb through the books that have recipes for special occasions. Instead we're just cold, cold, cold, wondering when it will end.

I wonder if we should make up a mid-winter holiday, just to boost our spirits and maintain a connection for our children? Something that reminds us that  cold=exciting? Not Christmas in July, although that would the the perfect time to have a cold Christmas here, but maybe something like Growing Family's Mid-Winter Spectacular. Or, as The Captain suggested, Festivus.

Please inundate me with your ideas!

Playground Revelation

After taking the children for hair cuts (the Sprout's first in-chair, professional bangs and bob hair cut), we stopped at the park for a bit of a play before heading home for lunch and naps. There before me was a mom that could be nothing else but 100% American, fresh off the plane. You might wonder what gave her away? It was her clothes. Long sleeved white shirt, North Face style vest, and white sneakers, set off by a smooth blond bob cut, with a wide headband. You couldn't miss the ginormous diamond ring and earrings. That's a look that always throws me off. The "I could be camping", combined with "my jewelry is worth more than your house" look.

It wasn't until I noticed that her daughter had the same Target shoes as the Sprout, and that she had a clear American accent that I went over to say hi. After introducing myself as a fellow American, I asked if she had been in Sydney long. She responded in that "what day is it", kind of way, that she has been here since Friday.

The last three months of my life flashed before my eyes!

Talking to her was a revelation for me. I have come so far. I can remember, clearly, just a matter of months ago, where I was killing time out of the house at the same playground. She told me what neighborhood she lived in, waving vaguely, not quite knowing where it was, herself. I remember that too! I gave her my number and told her to call me with ANY questions or if she just needed to get out of the house with her daughter. I SO empathize for her in those first few, crazy, emotional, shifting weeks.

It's hard for me to believe that only three months in, my house is starting to feel normal, I have a routine, we do stuff, we have friends, I know where to go to do all the stuff my current life requires, I drive on the left side of the road, and I take the bus into the city. Standing, talking to this woman, so bewildered and upside down, I felt so amazed that I am already feeling right-side-up.

It really is crazy.

Glimpses

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Speaking Up

I have two family members, through marriage, that have different cultural backgrounds than I. A brother-in-law whose family is Italian, and a sister-in-law who is Korean-American. I am always conscious of the remarks people make (be they positive or negative) about blacks or Africans, because my child shares those ethnic and cultural roots. I am less attuned to the comments made about other groups, though I feel I am always sensitive to racialized or stereotypical or racist comments.

Today I found myself "outing" myself as part of a multi-cultural extended family when I was in the company of some people who were talking freely about both the (strong and distinct) Italian community and neighborhoods, and the Korean neighborhoods, here in Sydney. The comments weren't fully racist, but they were stereotypical. When I purposefully yet casually mentioned that I have Korean family members, the speaker looked startled and said "oh really?" The speaker was a teenager so I understand this his social skills are still developing. When he started going on about the inter-ethnic African on African violence happening in the neighborhoods in Perth (his hometown), his aunt, my recent acquaintance, started to reel him in and told him to be careful with what he said.

It was a strange situation. I found most of what they were saying to be borderline inappropriate. However, within Australian propriety, the young man must have crossed a line that his aunt recognized, yet I didn't. Or perhaps she stopped him because the statements touched on my son's heritage and she knows that he is a biracial black American? Both people were connected to the Italian community themselves, so I assumed that the statements they made about Italians are culturally appropriate.

This move is providing such a unique opportunity to sit back, zip my mouth, and suspend judgment. It is fascinating (and tiring) to re-evaluate every conversation and innuendo as having different ascribed meaning here. The trickle-down affect is hitting every part of my life.

For example, cloth diapers. Back home, cloth diapering was an environmentally conscious choice. Here, where there is a water crisis, and we are just allowed to wash our cars again, but still can't spray down our patios, cloth diapering is not an environmentally conscious choice. Here they make landfills into parkland, growing native plants, and installing playgrounds.

Anyway, back to my initial thought, it's not every day that I communicate my status as part of a multi-cultural family, aside from my immediate family unit. Doing so today was interesting, but I am still looking for the social queues that other people can so easily read.

The Adoption Story, As Told By Immigration Attorney "K"

Last night I lay in bed and shivered: within 24 hours I could be bolting past the green flag and scheduling a home study. This morning I felt so stressed. I sat with uneasy stomach, trying to eat breakfast, overcome by apprehensive emotions. I almost didn't want to keep my appointment with the attorney. When they phoned to confirm my appointment for the afternoon, I secretly hoped they were calling to cancel on me.

Well, I couldn't have asked for a more helpful professional to deliver the bad news. Here is the breakdown: the only way we can qualify for an adoption visa (and no other visa would be extended to a child joining the family through adoption) is through an "Intercountry Adoption". This means that we would need to move overseas for a minimum of twelve months. We would pursue, complete, and finalize the adoption before applying for an adoption visa. Moving overseas for the sole purpose of adopting is not permitted. An adoption can only take place within the context of an otherwise justified move.

So, job relocation - ok. Pursuing further studies - ok. Returning to the States for important (document-able) family needs (death of a loved one and handling of an estate, working out a will, etc) - ok. The move has to be thorough enough to hold up under scrutiny. It is thought that if we wanted to adopt from an international country (like Ethiopia), we would still spend the time living in the U.S., as we would be applying for an Australian visa after the child gains U.S. citizenship.

This puts me in a tough position. On one hand, technically we could do it. We would have to find a place to live, and furnish it. We would have to buy lots of airline tickets. The Captain would have to find a new job, after just starting this one, or request a transfer to one of the regional offices, again, after having just started.

It is hard to know that we could make it happen, and choose not to. I really want this adoption to happen. I've got this place growing in my heart to nurture a special child. Does that desire justify putting ourselves and our children through a potentially very difficult year (or two), when we've just moved them here?

And what about pregnancy? I'm just opening my heart up on that one, trying to find some guidance.

One of my biggest fears in this whole thing is that we won't get to adopt again, or that it will be really far down the road. I know that having another sibling of color can be a very important factor for transracially adopted children. We never intended to raise Small Sun without siblings who shared that experience with him. I am afraid that if we have more biological children, Small Sun will be isolated as a person of color in our family, and as an adoptee.

How hard to you press to make your dreams happen? I struggle between feeling compelled to fight for what I am passionate about, even if it means significant personal sacrifice, and accepting the fact that no doors are opening for us here, right now, and the cost to our family would be extreme. When do you resign yourself to the closed door, and when do you break it down with your shoulder?

To be really honest, there are no open doors here, leading us to a next step. The only agencies saying they can work with us are sketchy, at best. There is a great international social worker who has helped us a lot, but if we went back to the U.S. for this, he wouldn't be helping us anyway. Basically I've spent several intense weeks of searching and have no viable options to show for it.

So...so...yeah. I feel sad. I don't know what to do.

Looking Into Cultures

Forgive me if this post is like chewing sand. I usually mull over things for awhile before I write, but this started wandering around my head while I was washing dishes this evening.

I recently read a piece by Macon D., writing as a guest contributer over at Racialicious. He's discussing his own process of becoming aware of how he travels the world, and examining how his privilege as a white American male might be contributing to his mindset that he can go off the beaten track to see the "real lives" of people in less wealthy countries. I couldn't find the clarity to comment, nor can I comment here. I'm chewing on it, and finding a lot that I agree with.

So this evening, up to my forearms in sudsy water, catching my reflection in the foggy window over the sink, I thought about all of the cultures I stand outside of, looking into. Places where I will never cross the thresh-hold to belong, but I am committed to standing outside the door, all the same.

First there's Holland, and my permanent connection to it. I speak basic Dutch, but I am not fluent. I was really focused on learning about Holland when I married the Captain. I read books intended for outsiders: books that explain the culture and customs, and the basic history. I can cook a handful of Dutch dishes well. I know when the holidays are and how they should be celebrated. There are certain things about Holland that I love and yearn for with enough passion to bring tears. The green, green fields and the canals in between, the blankets of flower in springtime, the sand-spitting storms on the sea, the cheese, and the sweets, and the cobbles.

I've listened a lot, enough to have a pretty good feel for some of the nuances in Dutch culture. Not all of the social dynamics fly over my head. Yet, when I am in Holland, I am definitely viewed as AMERICAN. Everyone turns to me for answers about American history, politics, music, sports, and customs. Outside of Holland, with Dutch people, my knowledge of Dutch culture is appreciated, seeming more informed by the complete lack of knowledge in the surrounding culture.

This year, at the local Queen's Day celebration, I felt so absolutely out of place. People assume that if I'm there, I'm Dutch. After a few sentences they realize I am not, and hastily switch to English. Then I swiftly find my place: attached to Holland, but definitely NOT Dutch.

Then there is my connection to the African American community. I have undertaken the life-long pleasure of raising a biracial son, and am committed to doing my best to connect any way I can.

Even after three years of effort, this connection is much less solid than I would like it to be. I am connected less through relationships, and more through reading and attending functions. Without an adult guide, like the Captain is for me and Dutch society, I make my own way, trying to adequately interpret the differing language, customs, and perspectives.

Outside of my own cultural reality, it is hard to know which voices to trust as representative of a majority. I react to extremes, not knowing where the middle ground is. But I stay close, and keep reading, and keep listening, so that I can be all that I can be for my son, when he relies on the connections I've forged to be the bridge to that part of his person.

Then, of course, there's me here in Sydney, doing my best to get my bearings. Brikkies? What the heck are brikkies? Cookies, of course. Biscuit+Cookie=Brikkie. And what a "dear little posi" I live in. It's a nice position, as in, our house is in a nice spot. And every day I pop on the kettle, trying to think of American English words to describe it, but floundering as I've never seen an electric kettle (teapot) in the States, and you really do just "pop" it on the base, flip the switch, and pour out boiling water in seconds.

Of course, those are simple, surface examples of deeper differences that I am struggling to navigate. Even if we stay here forever, I won't stop being American. I might lose my American ways, but national heritage runs deep, even in non-patriotic families. It shows up in things like yearning for familiar native plants, and the taste of home-country food.

So, I am permanently invested, yet permanently excluded from multiple cultures. It's an interesting dynamic. I wonder how it will feel, another ten years on?

More Centered, Finding Calm

I feel badly for spilling my emotions all over the place, here. I know that you all probably want to hear all the confirmations that this was a good choice, to come here, and all the adventures we're having. These is plenty of that going on, as well!

A friend here lent me a "cultural training" curriculum for expatriates moving to Australia. In the section discussing culture shock it describes the effect of culture shock on the body, saying that when everything in your environment is new and you are processing new information, constantly, every day, it physically exhausts the body. From sending a letter to attending a party, everything is just different enough that you can never completely rely on your previous experience. It is tiring, and I felt comforted to know that I am experiencing a very normal part of a move of this scale. Also, that it will pass, and things will require less effort in the future.

In our service on Sunday the teacher spoke about finding the quiet place, where we hear truth, feel peace, and find bravery to walk in strength through our days. Hearing that was so restorative to my peace. Also on Sunday, a friend here who is growing more dear by the minute, called to ask us out to afternoon tea. We bundled up in our scarves and coats (so glad they finally arrived!) and met them at a nearby bakery/cafe for a hot drink before we turned the kids out of doors to play at the park. My new friend shared her vulnerability and fears with me, and I am so thankful for a friend that is going below the surface. The mens got along well too, and are meeting for lunch as they work close to each other, in the financial district, downtown.

My continued exploration into expatriate adoption is a big contributer to my stress levels! After getting close to nowhere talking to agencies, I set up an appointment with an Australian immigration lawyer for next week, spoke to the Consulate here in Sydney, and spoke to someone at USCIS (U.S. Citizen and Immigration Services). It's a bit of a game of hot potato, everyone says that what I am inquiring about isn't under their jurisdiction and hands me off to someone else, who in turn hands me to someone else! Each immigration authority points at the other, saying "it's their issue, you'll have to take it up with them!" No wonder the agencies don't have a clue.

So hopefully, after seeking legal council and hearing back from the detailed inquiry I submitted to the Consulate, I'll have a clearer picture. May I just say, I can't believe how much time and effort (and stress!) I have put into this process, before even submitting an application! It's hard to imagine having the energy to follow through an adoption process, which may involve preparing a dossier (gathering documents from abroad), coordinating the legal systems of three governments, and time spent in the U.S. Not to mention the emotional experience of adoption.

On Saturday, on the park bench, I was asking God "do I keep pushing on this, or do I let it go?" I was miffed when He said "both". I saw a pictures of pushing on the wind, like I do with my arm out of the car window. I saw that when you open your hands and let go, that doesn't mean that the surface you are pushing disappears. Sometimes it moves and you just keep pushing, open-handed.

Lately, a lot of my guidance from God has been puzzling. So I'm puzzling over it, waiting for the clarity to develop.

When people ask me why we've moved here, I sometimes feel foolish trying to explain what we want out of this transition. But foolish or not, I think we heard right. I think we're in the right place. And who was it that said, "sometimes you have a tough year and then a good future". We feel like this might be a tough year. However, even at the low points so far, it has been incredibly grace-filled.

So, here's to open hands, pushing on who knows what and stepping out, into the invisible. May the housing market and the immigration and adoption authorities smile on me!