Mama Bear and Her Two Man Cubs
Question number five on my child's school application, "How would you and your child reflect and support the School's commitment to diversity?" I pause and let out a heavy sigh. My sigh is from the deepest part of me. A pure exhaustion of the mind, spirit, and body. Someone else might read this application question and feel pleased at the fact that the school places diversity as one of its priorities and insists that all those accepted must proactively support this value. On another day my reaction might be just as positive. But tonight I cringe as I read it aloud to myself. It feels invasive and I am actually irritated by it. How much do they want? How many labels should I share? Will they be embraced and celebrated or will my child be marked as different and difficult? We are a transracial adoptive, special needs, low-income, single-parent family. There, you have it all...or really just the surface labels. There is so much more to us than that, but those labels are what most people choose to see and judge us by.
My oldest son Louis, 6, was adopted from Senegal, West Africa, when he was 8 months old. My 4 year old, Benjamin, is my biological son. I was married at the time of the adoption and birth. The adoption was a first choice. We simply wanted to create a family through both adoption and birth. We planned on adopting a second child from Senegal, but then again life often takes unexpected turns and here I am recreating myself as a single parent.
You learn as a multiracial family that simply because we look "different" than a "typical" (cringe) family, we draw attention to ourselves and often elicit uninvited comments, looks and questions. I continually rework my efforts to handle these encounters in a way that honors my family's identity by responding appropriately to the inquiry, while also respecting our privacy, dignity, differences and commonalities. Throw in the behavioral challenges of a "special needs" child, the stresses of financial worries and doing it all as a single parent and I am usually not inclined to deal gracefully with people's ignorance and insensitivity. But gracefully I must, because more important than the foolish words of strangers, my children intently watch my response and internalize the meanings of that into their very sense of self.
I have a choice in my reaction. There is the one that pops into my head immediately, fueled by disgust at the moronic, thoughtless people who should mind their own business. This is the Mama Bear response: protective and defensive. It is the one that would feel the best to say at times, but also the most inappropriate with children watching. Then there is the response that I call "informational" - just give them the information they want to know in a fairly monotone voice and move on. It is easiest when I am tired and spent. This is, of course, after assessing whether or not the response does not violate my family's privacy or include information that not even my son knows. We are very open about his adoption, but six years old is not a time to tell him he was abandoned on a doorstep or that he was physically abused in the orphanage. And my final choice for responses has lately become my favorite. It is not really an answer, rather it throws it back at them and makes them think about what they are really doing in that moment. I simply inquire back, "Why is it that you ask?" Or "I'm not sure I understand your question." This causes them to pause and actually realize their tactless act, which often leads to embarrassment and hopefully to thinking twice before violating the privacy of the next family who does not fit into some tidy category.
Let me give you an example of how this works. A typical encounter while innocently standing in the checkout line at the grocery store with my children might look like this. A woman stares, to the degree where one of my kids might ask me, "Why is that lady looking at us," at which point the woman somehow sees this as an opening to inquire, "Is he your real son or is he adopted?" In that first moment I feel my internal flinch and hear the Mama Bear words shouting in my head "Are you a real insensitive bitch or are you just having an off day?" On that day I had my wits about me and instead replied, "He is my real adopted son" and began unloading my cart. Just as appropriate might have been the "I'm not sure I understand your question" response, forcing her to explain and thus enlightening her about her blunder.
Physical boundary violations are especially difficult, since Louis has sensory integration issues and touch has many levels of meaning for him - unpleasant at best, but often terrifying. Somehow the child who does not "fit in" with the rest of the family gets touched more by strangers.I draw from many examples. We walked through the lobby of my parents' church after enjoying a Mother's Day brunch. My mother introduced the choir director to my children. He seemed delighted with them, but fixated his attention on only Louis (interestingly Oscar becomes the "other" child left out in odd ways because of the "novelty" of Louis - this becomes as much of a challenge). Immediately he approached Louis with hand outstretched saying, "You have lovely hair, may I touch it? It is so nice" The Mama Bear Response: "Yes you may touch my son's hair, if I can first touch the shiny bald spot on your head." Oh, that would feel so good. But Louis is at an age where I need to empower him so that he can be prepared to deal with these situations when I am not around to come to his defense. I say to Louis, "It is your choice. It is your body and your hair and if you do not feel like having someone touch you, you can just say no and that is okay."
One would think that the offending adult would realize at this point how inappropriate his request of my six year old truly was and just back off on his own, but he is apparently dense and leaves his hand outstretched. Louis says it is okay and lets him glide his hand back and forth on his head several times while I struggle not to kick his arm out of joint. Should I have stepped in? Was Louis ready to make that choice? I constantly question myself. But we talk about it again as we walk to the car and Louis does not seem fazed by the encounter. I reiterate that he decides who touches his body. He nods and then runs off to jump in a puddle with his brother. I take everything so seriously, as if each incident will scar him for life. I tend to not credit his resiliency. I can't fathom how I will cope with the teaching moment of why the cops pull him over more often for no apparent violation than any of his Caucasian friends.
Interactions similar to those above occur often. At this time I am particularly sensitive to inquiries regarding parentage, probably since Louis is currently hyper-cognizant of the concept of birth parents, that he does not know his birth parents (and never will have that chance), that I am Benjamin's birth parent and not his, and that his (adoptive) dad is not present in his life. So many women in particular are curious to figure out the missing dad figure. More annoying are the women whose prejudices compel them to meddle further, somehow needing to know if miscegenation occurred (if I slept with an African-American man).
One encounter that completely threw me was an elderly woman who walked deliberately to our grocery cart, put her hand on Benjamin while glaring at Louis, and loudly declared, "I feel so sorry for this little one to have to have a brother like that." And while most strangers' comments stem from innocent ignorance and reek of subtle racist undertones, this was so blatant, exuding racist disgust, that it stopped my Mama Bear in her tracks. Ramming a petite elderly woman with my grocery cart didn't seem like a bad option. But I was lucky, neither of the boys heard since they were fighting over the last apple slice for snack. I quickly turned the cart and practically ran in the other direction. Though not really my nature, it was a day where I wished I could push the cart through a portal where all of the judgmental, insensitive people couldn't go, where our family could just be a family.
But today we had none of these trying interactions. Our journey as a family, since the beginning, includes innumerable unanticipated events. Like applying for another kindergarten mid-year. Or finding the adoption process more difficult and stressful on so many more levels than pregnancy and childbirth. Or not realizing that I would eventually need to let go of old friends whose lack of understanding of my situation caused too much tension. I find my support and empowerment from other transracial adoptive families, many with special needs children. We actually did not check the box requesting a "special needs" child. All of our careful research led us to believe adopting from Senegal would lower certain risks (a Muslim country forbidding alcohol and drug consumption, low AIDS rates, fewer orphans per capita than many countries, seemingly well-run orphanage with medical care). But then Louis did not check some box saying he wanted to be abused either. We had no idea my in-laws (now ex-laws, thankfully) were openly opposed to a transracial adoption. But unlike the strangers in grocery stores, I can control whether or not they see my kids.
I did not know that I could not adopt again from Senegal as a single parent, and so another door to a dream closes. And at the end of the day I expected to have a partner to help carry the weight of the world with me. But it is just me. So I pop another Ghiradelli chocolate and slip into what I call the "not enough" syndrome. It is that bad habit of guilting myself about everything I didn't do well enough today, for not being the supermom I should have been. I did not call Louis's teacher back about some aggressive altercation at school. I forgot to schedule a playdate with the Senegalese family we met at the park (I've got to be more deliberate about honoring his African heritage). I must check on the time for the African-American storyteller tomorrow (another layer to his cultural heritage). I only did half the activities recommended by his occupational therapist. I think I could have answered Louis's question better about why he came out of his birth mother's belly rather than mine, and why did I say babies come out of bellies anyway? The book about the effects of trauma on early brain development lies unread on the coffee table. Not to mention the loads of laundry, dishes, and one-on-one quality time with my kids that I did not get to today. Oh, and I think I forgot to breathe.
I did not expect to be this tired in my mid-thirties, and on some days feeling this alone. I expected to be my child's advocate, but some of the battles I fight blow my mind. It is my most challenging job, but I am also so fortunate to have it. Because I also did not expect to fall in love so deeply with my children. I did not expect their beautiful smiles to fill me with such joy and delight. I did not expect to be this lucky that somehow Louis and I found each other in this crazy spinning world. I did not expect that I now toy with the idea of adopting another someday. The three of us - Louis, Benjamin and me - we were meant for each other even on the days when I fall asleep during storytime and they begin to giggle as my head drops, pleading, "Just one more book, Mama, please?" I do read just one more story, gratefully hugging both boys tightly, realizing this gift. We are so different from each other, and yet we share so much.So tonight I pick up the school application question regarding our diversity one more time. And without pausing I write, "We are a family - a beautiful, complex, dynamic family. We have strengths, we have weaknesses, good days and bad. We laugh, we struggle, we love, we argue, we play, we get by like any other family - like no other family. We are a family and that is all you need to know.
