When A. arrived over a year ago, she was this little thing, barely fitting into her size 3 toddler clothes. She weighed 31 pounds. We believed she was 3.
Now, I cannot pick her up: she weighs 50 pounds and has grown nearly three inches taller.
Which means she's healthy and thriving. But it also means she's the tallest kid in pre-school, has already lost three front teeth and has the motor skills of a first grader.
She is not four. Which means she was not three when she joined our family.
And so, we decided to change her official age, to make her a year older than what the birth certificate from Ethiopia says. That's a legal process -- just documents and signatures.
But what about her process? What about this girl who has been telling everyone who asks, "I'm four!"?
It's a delicate issue, for sure, and I couldn't figure out how to handle it.
Finally, one day, I just said to her, "We talked to your dentist, and when she saw you lost your front teeth, she let us know that you're actually five."
Finally, the Malawi court chose to do the right thing.
Hopefully, Malawi's officials have learned something from this saga.
Hopefully, rather than look at each adoption request "on a case-by-case basis", those in charge of the country's two million orphans will look to their fellow-African country for a good example of international adoption.
Hopefully, Malawi's officials will take a nod from Ethiopia.
Ethiopia is now the fourth-leading host country of international adoptions, and has the reputation for having a model adoption system -- free of bribes, chaos and confusion. Pretty impressive, given that the country has only allowed significant international adoption since 2004; back then, the Ethiopian government, grappling with its own five million orphans, did a smart thing: faced reality and opened its borders, but on its own terms -- terms that vet every adoption agency allowed to operate in the country, that vets each adoptive parent, and tries its best to ensure cultural ties for its children once they leave for new homes abroad. When we adopted our then 3-year-old daughter, we went through a relatively short 14-month process that involved paperwork winding its way through over a dozen Ethiopian governmental agencies, and a court proceeding that gave us parental rights before we were allowed to travel to the country. At the government's request, we also visited our adopted daughter's home village to meet her birth family. In addition, we signed affidavits saying we'd send back to Ethiopia yearly updates and photos until she turned 18; and we were asked to put in writing a promise that we would maintain our daughter's ties to her Ethiopian heritage. They were on it.
And lest we forget, the Ethiopian government also handled its own celebrity mom with respect and finesse. As a result, when Angelina Jolie adopted her daughter from Ethiopia in 2005, she brought a high-profile awareness of the country's adoption program to hundreds of families who went on to adopt from there as well -- my own family included. In other words, there is a right way to do this.
I hope Malawi chooses to do it the right way again. And again and again.
A. is speaking like an ESL student. I don't like it. I want her to take that final leap into perfectly constructed grammar. I hear her friends at pre-school, so I know this isn't just typical 4-year-old language development. This is the result of a child constructing sentences in a new language.
Not that she hasn't pulled off an amazing feat. She has. In less than one year, she has all but mastered English. It's not surprising that she doesn't have perfect language skills.
So why am I always correcting her these days? What's my issue?
I'm thinking about her in kindergarten in September. I don't want her to stand out, to stand apart. It's my ego, I know, but there it is.
Because looking at her, it's obvious to no one that she's adopted; I don't want her way of speaking to tip off the world. I'm not ashamed of her adoptive status, I simply want her to have the freedom of telling or not telling others her story. Because it's her story and she should be able to tell it when and how and to whom she wants.
Does the story of an adopted child have a shelf life?
By that, I mean once an adoptive family gets past the initial wave of adjustments -- annoying but minor medical issues, language barriers, tantrums & meltdowns, sibling revolts, lots of extra laundry, and the shock of learning her real age -- does life together become just normal family stuff?
In other words, now that A. has been with us for nearly a year, does this blog still have a raison d'etre?
I'm wondering. I certainly don't look at her anymore and think: "Wow, she's from Ethiopia."
And yet, she is. So now that she's blended into our family and all is nearly seamless, does it still matter where she's from? What must I chronicle here and mull over as a result of that singular fact?
I'm surprised myself that at this juncture, I have little interest in maintaining her ties to her culture beyond the most cursory efforts -- special-occasion visits to an Ethiopian restaurant, a map of Ethiopia on her bedroom wall, attendance at the yearly Ethiopian Culture-Day celebration uptown, and a vague promise to return to Ethiopia at some fuzzy point in the future.
I didn't anticipate this laissez-faire attitude, but there it is.
Now for the big question: Do I have the luxury of this lax position because my daughter and I share the same skin color? Would I be more vigilant if I knew that every day when she looks at me she's reminded --subtly or not -- that she's from somewhere else?
Am I lucky? Lucky that when people look at my daughter, they don't know that she's adopted?
When my friends and relatives tell me that she looks like part of the family, that she blends in, even resembles her brother, they feel they're complimenting me. And I do feel a bit flattered. It's a natural instinct. But a tinge of resentment also creeps in because I know how narrow-minded a lot of black folks can be about adoption in general -- a bit distrusting of it. And so what are they saying to me really? That her resemblance to us makes her a bit more legitimate, a bit more validated?
A couple of my white friends have said the same thing -- that I'm lucky. They mean something else entirely from my black friends. As one of those white friends bluntly put it: "People will think she's actually yours."
She is.
But I know what my friend meant. She was speaking to something visceral and deep down. Every mother wants others to recognize her child as her own, doesn't want to have to say, "I'm her mother." And so, I understand why some women go through untold obstacles to adopt from an Eastern European country so the child will have their racial sameness, and I also understand what other women give up when they choose to adopt a child of another race. They give up the luxury of assumption. I get it.
My black friends are speaking to something visceral too when they note with relief that my daughter looks like us. They're speaking to the imbedded legacy of black families torn asunder, of not knowing who your ancestors are, of black babies languishing in foster care at an alarming rate, of too many grand-mamas raising grand-babies, of fathers abandoning their own, of children raised by women they think are their birth mothers but secretly are not. It means a lot to black folks to "know who you come from", and it's a source of pride to be part of a nuclear family. They don't have the luxury of assumption. I get it.
And so, where does that leave me, and my little girl? Lucky, indeed, but not for any of the reasons my friends think. We're lucky for something more fundamental -- a burgeoning, hard-earned love between us.
I've taken a four-month hiatus to focus, ironically, on the subject of this blog -- my new daughter.
As things ease up at home, I thought a good way to ease back in would be to write about my first "daughter" -- my film Naked Acts. Ten years ago, as an independent filmmaker, I ushered this baby of mine into the world. On Sunday, the film has its 10th anniversary screening.
A lot has happened in 10 years.
When my film premiered at the Thalia Theater on the Upper West Side of Manhattan a decade ago, it felt bold and daring to debut a story about a black actress' struggle over taking her clothes off for the camera.
Oprah was our emblem of a black woman struggling with body issues writ large. Angela Bassett was the black actress of our generation, and she'd already drawn her line in the sand: no nudity, never. Too many of us still remembered Vanessa Williams' fall from grace. And we never could have conceived of a world in which a black actress would win an Oscar for a performance that included a nude scene showing her backside in its full glory.
In fact, there was one thing we really never could have imagined: a First Lady who possessed a black woman's body -- curvaceous behind and all -- and didn't try to hide it.
Back then, media images of black women skewed largely negative. Film felt like the most powerful way to counteract those images. There was a lot to counter, namely an endless stream of video hos on MTV, tired variations of boys-in-the-hood films, Martin's loud-mouth girlfriend Gina and Spike Lee's disappointing depictions of women. Girlfriends and Gray's Anatomy were still on the horizon. Tyra Banks was just a model, not a Top Model mogul. And discourse about this skewed media depiction was controlled by those who had the access. Youtube, blogs, Facebook and MySpace hadn't been invented. We just had websites and email. We used words like "eye candy." No one "uploaded" photos from their digital cameras. You could make your own film from a video camera, but who would see it? Had the term "streaming video" even been invented yet?
It was a different world.
So, I wrote and directed a feature-length film to deal with what was for me a growing concern: that black women, with a particular sexualized history in this country, still had a lot to overcome before we could accept and love our bodies. That what writer Rosemary Bray once said -- "My body and I have never been friends" -- was too true for too many of us. That it was time to examine this reality and launch a larger discussion about it. That I could do so by dramatizing one woman's journey from shame of her body to acceptance of it. Naked Acts resonated with audiences. The film showed for four weeks at that uptown theater, and traveled around the US and to Europe and Brazil and -- most importantly to me -- places on the African continent like Zimbabwe, Burkina Faso and the Cape Verde Islands. Everywhere I went, women told me their stories -- about tortured relationships with, new-found love for, and yes, violation of their bodies. It confirmed my belief in the power of film. It felt cathartic.
But that was then. Naked Acts will have its 10th anniversary screening this Sunday as part of the annual African Diaspora Film Festival in New York, and as the day approaches, I'm asking myself: Is this film still relevant? Or have we triumphantly said goodbye to all that?
Maybe.
Something else has changed of course since I debuted my film a decade ago: I now have an Ethiopian daughter. And while she was indeed born into a different world than the one I found in 1998, I'm taking nothing for granted. So I guess I am glad Naked Acts is still around, to help counterbalance those lingering negative images of black women -- the ones still lurking within our ever-expanding media landscape.
Just in case.
** NAKED ACTS screening @ ADFF Sunday, December 7 6:30PM $10 Cowin Center @ Teachers College 525 West 120th Street, 147 Horace Mann Hall Take the #1 train to 116th Street Q&A follows screening www.nyadff.org
There they were, two toddler friends playing together on a beautiful, hot July day. The girls hadn't seen each other since leaving their Addis Ababa orphanage. Back then, four months -- a lifetime? -- ago, they spoke easily to one another in their native Sidama language. On this day, at this lovely park in Manhattan, they still speak easily to one another. Only now, the language is English.
It was predicted, of course. Everyone who knows about these things said that my daughter would learn English quickly. And she certainly has. It's a marvel to witness her mastering this complicated language.(Although it's very sweet to hear her say, "Mommy, can I come here please?"). She does not use any of her Sidama language anymore, and rarely uses the Amharic she learned upon arriving at the orphanage.
That brings me to a dilemma. Should I try to preserve her native tongue? To what end? When will she ever use it? Or, should I ensure that she, like the Ethiopian-American youth I met at a Cultural Day celebration, take Amharic lessons?
Does it matter?
"Look at them," says D. as she and I watch our girls playing together on that hot July day. "They're going to have completely different experiences because you're African American and I'm white."
It's true. Most people see us together as a family and have no idea she's adopted from Ethiopia. Does that mean my daughter will not ache for a connection to her roots as intensely as her friend? Is it more important to retain the markers of your cultural heritage when you look so overtly different from the rest of your own family?
Back in November, NPR did a series on the black family. One of the segments was devoted to black families who adopt from overseas. I was obviously happy about that, as there really aren't enough examples of African Americans who choose international adoption reflected in popular culture -- even though our numbers are growing. It's a fascinating piece that includes an interview with Thomas Atwood, president of the National Council for Adoption. You can check it out here.
The woman interviewed, Sheri Redwood, was in the process of adopting from Ethiopia. The host of the show asked The Question: "Why Ethiopia?" Ms. Redwood said she chose international over domestic adoption because she wanted to have the biggest humanitarian impact. Yeah, but why Ethiopia? asked the host. Because:
"We wanted to choose an African country because we're African American. We would never go to Asia or somewhere else...we want the child to be comfortable in America racially and socially."
In other words, she specifically wanted a black child.
I've been following a heated and heartfelt discussion about race on the major ET board. So many of the white parents are earnest in their efforts to understand what their adoptive children's experiences will be in this country, but the pervasive underlying tone is one of duty, of obligation. I get the impression that if they could avoid the race issue, and still have their lovely Ethiopian children, they would. I don't see anyone on those discussion boards saying, "I felt a desire to integrate my social world, to push past my comfort zone and explore my own prejudices and deepen my understanding of black culture, to delve into touchy racial subjects firsthand --that's why I decided to adopt a black child."
People are rising to the occasion, true, but that's different from saying, "We wanted a child whom the world would see as African American. We wanted the challenge."
As one mom on the discussion board said: "Does it always have to be about race?"
Yes.
As someone who has spent a lifetime learning to fit in in a predominantly white culture, I can both applaud trans-racial families, and admit that that's not a challenge I'm willing to rise to. Given what my children must face from society, and given my own history, I want them to blend in within the family unit as much as possible. You could say I know too much.
Whatever it is, I have always been clear that my adopted child would be many things I could not control and one thing I could: she'd be black like me.
Here's one of the the most moving and eloquent pieces I've ever read about black women and hair (something I know far too much about!).
It's by Tami at Anti Racist Parent, and it's a reminder to me that even though I've worn my hair natural for many years, I'm not totally free from the insecurity that led to my spending too much money and too many hours in salons, enduring scalp burns from harsh relaxers, and developing an unhealthy dependence on my hairdresser. I was afraid of my hair, and so I let others tell me what to do with it. That phase of my life was a tangled mess!
White adoptive moms of Ethiopian girls may have to learn how to care for their daughters' hair, but black mothers like me have a harder psychological task -- to let our daughter's hair just be.
Take a close look and you'll see that her hair looks clean and natural and in the throes of growing -- i.e., healthy. The child's hair is being allowed to follow its natural curl pattern. But to the prejudiced and over-sensitive eye -- that of most black women -- her hair doesn't look "right". Yes I've seen biracial girls' hair that was so unkempt I wanted to confront their mothers on the street. And yes, I admit that there's some subtext at play here as well: You, white woman who chose to have a baby by a black man (or adopt a black child), should care enough about our culture to learn how to properly care for your black daughter's hair."
Sometimes, the woman really is clueless, or frustrated by the work a black girl's hair requires, or unnerved by her daughter's tears of pain when she attempts to comb it. Sometimes, she is in denial.
But in this case, it's obvious that The Black Snob has an ax to grind and an easy target to grind it upon. Never mind what's in Angelina Jolie's heart. And never mind that too few African Americans are taking up the charge to adopt some of the five million orphans in Ethiopia. So much easier to make fun of someone who did step up.
Few things have moved me more than witnessing the white adoptive families I met in Ethiopia. I'm awed by their bravery and willingness to venture into an unknown world -- too often a hostile, judgmental one -- in an effort to simply love a child and give her a home. Some of them are naïve, I'm sure, about what that life will be like, and what their children will pine for despite their best intentions. This is what the blogger is really doing -- expressing racial umbrage at Zahara's loss of a black world. But what's the alternative? Once you've seen the street children of Addis Ababa, once you've seen the faces of little ones left behind at an orphanage, once you've seen the desperate lives of birth families, you know that a safe and loving home is far more important to an Ethiopian orphan than how her adoptive mother styles her hair.
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