Growing Family

We're Not Racist in Holland

With bright, dusty India in the rear view mirror, we are settling in for a few weeks in lush, green and cool Holland. A greater contrast could hardly be contrived. 

We come to Holland as often as we can to visit my husband's family. They are a humorous, gracious, and strong bunch of individuals and have always welcomed us warmly. The annual "Family Weekend" we are here to attend is really an amazing testament to family affection and dedication. I love coming here. 

We were at a party, meeting new people. Inevitably, our globetrotting life becomes a topic of conversation. My husband has left Holland and never moved back. We left America and became Australian citizens and then returned to America again. It can require much explanation for curious listeners. One family member who knows us well volunteered "part of the attraction of Australia is that there is much less daily racism there, in comparison to America." The sympathetic listener shook her head. "It's so sad that America has such a race problem. We just don't have racism like that in Holland." When she received some push-back she conceded that some people from some backgrounds might have some racist views, but it is definitely not the norm. I listened to the conversation in Dutch, trying to parse the nuance, and decided not to jump in.

That evening I went to lie down with my boys, talking the day over, and settling towards sleep. Small Sun told me that during the party he had been playing with the other kids, and he was pretending to be Sinterklaas (like Santa Claus) when one girl insisted, "no, you're Zwarte Piet!" (Black Peter) Almost too perfect an illustration of unchecked stereotype I discovered that the little girl insisting my Black son could not be Sinterklaas, but only Zwarte Piet was the daughter of the mother who believes that there is no racism in Holland.

We had a gritty discussion about black face, the tradition of Sinterklaas and Zwarte Piet, intent versus impact, the necessity to live amongst people from different backgrounds, and how unchecked stereotyping can blossom to full blown ignorance, which is a dangerous thing. Finch, who is seven, was hearing the history of black face for the first time. His heart hurt and he struggled. 

"So many white people in Holland insist that Zwarte Piet isn't meant to be a racist depiction, and it doesn't bother them at all. I believe that the most relevant voice to listen to, is the person being depicted, the Dutch people with dark skin. What do they think about Zwarte Piet?" I said.

"Yea.." Small Sun agreed. "It's like the people who need the power the most, don't have the power to say how it is for them." Too true, wise son, too true. 

Over breakfast the following morning I read this story in the paper. 

"The House of a Moroccan Woman is Vandalized"

"No Foreigners" has been painted on her windows. She has been experiencing this kind of racist vandalism in her home for years and is requesting a move to different housing. 

But no, there is no racism in Holland. Racism is lynching and burning crosses on lawns.

A climate of anti-foreigner couldn't qualify as racism. Ignoring the voice of the minority community standing against black face isn't racism. Allowing our children to only see people as stereotype isn't racism.

Is it?...???...

*I always engage these intercultural discussions with the admission that I can only see these things through MY lens. My knowledge of America's history of black face. My roots in a country that was built on the framework of slavery. I am willing to hear from other lenses, and I don't deny my own. 

Visiting Asha (Hope)

Visiting a slum was and was not what I expected. I expected I would become overwhelmed, and cry, and I did actually, but not at what I thought would move me.

My husband's company supports several local organizations doing humanitarian work. When I expressed interest in doing some volunteer work while here, the company offered to organize visits to the programs they are supporting, a mutually beneficial prospect - I get to see some local organizations in action, and the company gets an outside perspective on the work they are contributing to financially. 

We arrived at Asha, a community health clinic in a poor New Delhi neighborhood shortly before ten am. We were warmly welcomed by the staff, and led past local residents in the waiting room, to sit in a reception area where we were shown a short film about Asha's work, and provided with refreshments. We then had the opportunity to talk at length with some of the staff. I could have sat talking all day, if the children hadn't begun to fidget after about 30 minutes or more of my questions. I am so curious about the conditions in the slums, the situation here for impoverished children, and women's rights and prospects. I have been silently observing since arriving, and now I could ask questions.

We then toured the medical facility which includes a lab for blood work (equipment provided by my husband's company), an xray room is under construction, a doctor, and an ultrasound room (again, provided by my husband's company).  The premises are neat and tidy, though not spacious. Different days are dedicated to seeing different communities of patients - antenatal check up days, pediatric days, etc.

I spoke to the doctor at length about the antenatal care for women in the slums, cultural impacts on women's and children's health, access to vaccines, nutrition, and contraception...again, I could have listened for hours. She was gracious to tell me so much.

From the medical clinic we got in a bus to drive to a community outreach center in one of New Delhi's slums. Asha runs multiple programs in a variety of areas so we were only seeing two. We drove down a narrow lane way before getting blocked behind a garbage truck, so we hopped out to walk the short distance to the community center. The surrounds were what I have seen in many places here - there is an open sewer that runs in a channel cut into the walkway. Animals like goats, cows, and pigs frequent the landscape. Carts piled with pyramids of perfectly arranged mangoes alternate with stands of symmetrically stacked fried goods, and piles of trash and debris soften all the edges. Children, in various states of dress and undress are about, with or without adults, seemingly cheerful.

We ducked into a doorway in an iron fence, stepping into the Asha community center compound. Peppermint colored plaster walls rose around a central courtyard, off of which led many rooms, all occupied by busy groups. English classes, tutoring, community women's organization, all in action.

Just like the U.S. and parts of Europe, there are currently school holidays for children in India, and many spend that time studying and getting prepared for the start of the next grade. My children were escorted upstairs to a room with children their age, and given permission to distribute the paper we had brought to make paper airplanes. I was escorted downstairs and sat at a chair in the front of the room with my guide and the program director, while several groups were brought before me to explain the programs they were participating in and how it was making a difference in their lives. 

First there were Year 12 students, in a class to help them apply to university. Evidently the online application is extremely tedious and requires the scanning and uploading of many documents, which is very challenging in a country where internet stability can be spotty. Next came current university students, explaining what they are studying, and how they contribute to the community through tutoring and mentorship. Then, there was a class of middle schoolers learning english. Finally, the women of the community came and saw down, crossing their legs underneath them, saris settling into colorful pools. They explained how the work of Asha had changed their lives and their communities. 

"I lost a child to diarrhea. I didn't know that I should give the child water, or salt, or sugar. I thought that would make it worse. My child died. No one else's child needs to die in my neighborhood because now I tell them what to do if their child has diarrhea." The women told me how at first they were suspicious of Asha, but after they saw the improved health of the children that received vaccines, they were emboldened to try for their own children. The message rippled on, once I learned, I told my neighbor, and she told her neighbor, and now we don't lose children in this way anymore. 

The stories continued...these women underwent six months of training to become Directors of areas in their community. Their slum encompasses four blocks (not U.S. city blocks), and each block contains 500 residences. Each lane is overseen by a community mother, and a series of laneways by another higher woman, and so on, until every resident in every lane is connected and looked after. If someone is sick, their lane mother knows and their neighbors bring them food, or take them to the hospital. If a couple wants to marry but lacks funds, they pull together to make the wedding happen. If a child is struggling in school, the lane mother knows, and the child receives tutoring and encouragement. If an elderly person is unable to tend for themselves, children take a collection and buy what they need and help with their household needs. 

Each residence is a small room, about eight foot square. A curtain hangs over the doorway, and the open sewer is cut into the lane, and must be stepped over to access the residence. The lane width is about four feet and animals occupy lane spaces as well. Power is unstable. Some families have AC units. I am not sure I understood where the toilets were.

Through Asha, the majority of children in this specific slum complete their education and go on to university. If they are not suited for university, they enroll in a trade course in electricity, or mechanical repairs. 

The women agreed that their community is family, they are devoted to each other for life. They explained that they would like to live in a better place, but live there together, because their community is beyond friends, they are a family. I had to blink away my tears. I spent my time listening, only offering one message to them.

"In my community, we had a big flood. Many people's houses were filled with water and they had to leave them. Our community strengthened around them. We helped fix houses, we brought food and clothes. We gathered together during the crisis. Now, that crisis is over, and we have returned to living isolated lives. I admire the strength of your community, and think you are doing an amazing job."

If I closed my eyes and ran the audio through Google translator, I could have been listening to the sales pitch for the most amazing planned community ever. Inter-generational living where elders are respected and cared for, high community connection and nurturing, tutoring by local college students, struggling children identified and nurtured, the highest level of neighborly kindness and care... I thanked them for explaining their community to me and stepped out into a few brief minutes of touring their neighborhood.

I declined going into people's houses when offered. I didn't take pictures. We walked down two lanes and then were escorted back into our waiting car. A veiled woman holding a child stood knocking on the window begging for money, her elementary aged daughter holding her hand outstretched. We exited past the piles of trash, the men laughing together, the children hopping the sewer, and the goat chewing on a plastic bag. The neighborhood where everyone is connected and Asha is providing a ladder from poverty to success and encouraging each child to climb it.

Everything is complicated. Some things are very simple. I am chewing on all the layers. 

 

 

 

Dinner and a Sandstorm

We had already had a full day before jumping in the taxi to go to a friend's home for dinner. The children's heads lolled and bounced as we made our way through the crush of bicycles, auto-rickshaws, and cars, like a surging tide lifting so much flotsam to a singular destination. 

Darkness descended as we traveled, and the children sat up in delight as the headlights picked out the outlines of a family of pigs stepping down from the curb to trot across the busy road, traffic coming to a screeching halt behind them.

As we entered the neighborhood, and began searching for the desired street, a dust storm whipped up within moments. Flags and awnings stood straight out, and a young boy struggled with a metal sign the wind tried to rip from his hands. Illuminated in doorways, people rushed indoors, closing doors firmly behind them.

We turned left down a lane way and craned our heads for house numbers, quickly becoming invisible in the swirl. Trees from the park on our right layed their branches out long over us, thrashing as we passed under. In a side street to the left, a small child was sitting in the street, in the dark, and a mother came rushing to scoop the child up. 

Visibility was dropping as we spied our friend standing on the corner, waving us to our destination. We held our hands over our eyes as we exited the cab. Instantly the sand was between my heel and the smooth bed of my sandal. A few running paces had us indoors, in a clean stairwell. 

"Come up, come up." we could hear our hostess' voice ringing down to us from above. We entered the apartment with high ceilings and marble floors, with furniture in rich gold tones and inlayed with semi precious stones. The silk curtain were pulled closed and the doors locked against the storm which began to howl and throw itself against the building.

We sat in the relief of fans, run on a generator back up, as power had already been lost. 

As we sipped cool beverages, thoughtfully replaced whenever the cup's bottom was in site, two men were busy in the kitchen creating a feast for our dinner. We started with chick pea salad, panear seared with sauteed vegetables, deep fried cheese balls, their crunchy exterior giving way to a creamy inside, and vegetable croquettes that also had a delightful crunch. I swirled each bite in the delicious sauce provided and had a delightful meal before the meal was even served.

Later, the main course was delivered to the table - vegetable Biriyani with cashews which was prepared with great restraint on the hot spices for our benefit. Only one of our children found it too spicy and ate a bowl of Raita instead. Raita, a fresh tomato and herb puree, and piles of mango completed the serving. I ate two portions (so thankful, as the Biriyani I had earlier in the week was so hot, I was unable to finish it) before discovering that there was also DESSERT, a custard with pomegranate seeds sprinkled on top, and chopped fruit mixed in. 

As dinner progressed, the storm traded dust for pelting rain, thunder and lightening, before spending itself or travelling on. We talked about the move from Delhi to Houston to Delhi that this family had undertaken, and what they were happy to return to, as well as what they missed in Houston; the conversation that travelling families have around the world again and again. There are always losses and gains, all mixed up. The cooks had quietly cleaned the kitchen and slipped away. When I offered to help clear what was left on the table, our hostess refused, her maid would be coming in the morning.

Shortly before our cab arrived to take us home, the power returned, and the air conditioning hummed to life. The air was cooler, and fresh when we stepped outside. Water stood on the road as we started back towards our hotel. The children's heads lolled and bounced as they quickly fell asleep. Finch had to be carried in, sound asleep, as usual when we've had an evening outing. 

Women

It started as we approached the entrance to Akshardham. A group of women, moving like a colorful flock of birds, embroidered saris billowing around them in the breeze, craned their necks to watch us enter. I avoided their gaze.

We entered the security checkpoint, following the bright women through the line, the men and boys on the distant other side of the wall, being checked as well. After patting her down, the security guard began to hug and cuddle Sprout, cradling her head with affection. Afterwards Spout confided "I kind of liked her hugging me, but I also thought for a minute that she might take me away somewhere."

After we were through security, the women were no longer sneaking glances, they were staring. One fell back to begin to talk to us, asking Sprout her name and complimenting her hair, which still has remnants of pink dye in it. "I like your hair, like fairy!" she sung out, her accent lilting side to side, like a hammock in the breeze.

Our groups walked together before separating naturally, us to read about the strong women of India, represented with graceful lines in bronze statues. 

The complex is extensive, and as we stared in awe at the ornate carved domes of the temple*, or turned the corner to reveal endlessly repeating arches terminating in a water view, we would happen upon the same flight of bring women, shifting our measured neutral gazes to flash a shared smile. Amidst all of the people staring with frank curiosity, they had extended a kind interaction and it felt like we had a little secret friendship, a flash of joy at each other's reappearance.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Our driver dropped us off at Connaught Place, so we could  grab a bite to eat. A central park encircled by two concentric rings, with seven main roads radiating outwards, CP is a bustling hub of business, shopping and restaurants. Immediately, I was struck by the bustle, the volume, the impact of the place. 

The white columns are stained with what I imagine is some kind of red spit, and every arch seems to provide shelter to a wild dog covered in sores, a man sitting, looking for all the world like a windblown piece of rubbish come to rest against the column, or peddlers with their wares layed out in repeating patterns on rugs.

I found myself gripping the hands of my children, walking faster as a boy with a shoeshine kit tugged incessantly on The Captain's sleeve, persisting in his offer to polish my husband's green suede Adidas sneakers. How would he even do that? He stayed with us block after block until another man took his place, telling us all about the dangers of dishonest shoe shine boys.

Finally we broke free, and then, as I strode along seeking a calm looking place to duck into for lunch, I looked down and saw something my mind struggled to process.

A baby. A tiny, impossibly tiny baby, lying on a blanket in front of her mother. Both completely unmoving. Asleep? The baby was at my feet, lying on her side, the size of a newborn, but not curled up like a newborn. Layed out long, but not long. So, so, tiny.

I wanted to snatch her up. I wanted to hold her into that little place in my neck where I can feel how a baby is doing, that little place that indicates what they need. If her mother had looked into my face, I would have given her anything I had. I would have taken my clothes off and left them with her. I would have offered anything. But she didn't look at me. Was she staring into nothing? Was she asleep?

I hardly broke my stride. They were simply something I saw before I ducked into Nandos chicken, a restaurant we knew well in Sydney. I cried silently as I ate my roasted vegetable wrap. I choked each time I saw the baby in my mind's eye. 

Later, as we drove through the city, I imagined how that girl, that tiny child, could be the next head of a company, an olympic athlete, a writer, a bright flash of life and beauty. Would she ever? I say I simply saw them, but it was not simple at all. 

 

In India for the First

My husband's job involves managing a team in India for a major project. He works in India several times a year for what is never long enough for the team here, and yet too long for us, his family. This year we were able to coordinate to come join him here, allowing him to work directly with this team for several weeks, while seeing us outside of office hours (and late meetings, and office drinks, conference calls, and all the ways these big projects spill into so many other hours).

This is our first time in India. My first time in India. I wanted to visit a long time ago, and was fascinated with stories of India as a child. My parents introduced us to Ghandi and Mother Theresa as heroes early on. In high school I interviewed to go work as a nanny for a missionary family somewhere in India. When they told me that I needed to prepare myself to dress extremely modestly, and learn to keep my eyes lowered to preserve my safety, it struck a painful chord (I had heard that message for long enough in conservative Christianity) and I decided not to go. I was looking for less restriction in my life, not more.

My attraction to India was always a humanitarian one. A desire to help in a place that has extreme poverty. Of course as I've grown up, I've come to realize how complicated and layered those desires are. Growing up I had never heard of White Savior-ism, I didn't know much about colonialism, post colonialism, and neo-colonialism. I just heard about need and wanted to help. So early on, I would have imagined myself living in an orphanage, helping destitute children (our ideals of helping can really be romanticized, can't they?).

Now, here I am actually in India under very different circumstances. Our accommodation is of the highest standard, and our hotel is full of business people, who come to Gurgoan, south of New Delhi, to coordinate work product and further industries. The hotel provides anything we could want or need, and the staff is extremely gracious. It is a true luxury holiday, in what can feel like the most unlikely of settings. There is so much to see, to feel, and to process. I'll muddle through it as best I can, here.

It's been a year since I accepted a new job, and it has taken me a year to feel like there is any margin in my energy to write. I really left things hanging writing a 1 of 2 post about the flood and then never finishing it! Since then our neighborhood has flooded again, twice. So much has happened in the last year.

-My return to full-time work
-More Floods
-Small Sun's first year of Middle School
-Our first foster care placement in Texas

Who knows what else?

And that's really why I'm coming back. I don't know what all I am going to choose to write about. Mostly I want the record of our life experiences that blogging provides. Right now we are in the midst of a BIG adventure, and I want to preserve it. Turns out, I can't seem to manage that in a journal so I'll come back here.

So that's it. No fluff. No fanfare. Just hi!

The 500 Year Flood of 2015 Part 1

Monday, Memorial Day, was relaxed. A birthday party, swimming, an impromptu poolside dinner with "The JJ Brothers", some of my children's best friends down the block. We parents sat around the table, drinking wine and laughing until dusk, when we finally fished the kids out of the pool to send them to bed where they promptly fell asleep.

The thunderstorm promised earlier in the day began to rumble in. 

I went to bed lulled by the sound of pounding rain and nearly constant lightening flash, and thunder. I was concerned about our new pool flooding, and could hear odd burps and bubbles rising from the overflow drain. I checked it, head out the window, in the dark, before deciding to go to sleep and check on it in the night.

At 10:47 p.m. there was a *pop* and my neighbor in the adjoining cul-de-sac messaged that she lost power, for the SIXTH time this month! I sent my condolences. The rushing rain sounded peaceful, and I snuggled down to enjoy it, ignoring the occasional blaring *flash flood alert* that lit up my phone, as they do every time it rains in Houston.

At 12:39 p.m. I woke to see my cell phone screen glowing, and saw that I had a number of text messages from my friend in the cul-de-sac. 

"Flooded!" "D" at 12:37 AM

"Whole house going! Smells kids sleeping "D" at 12:38 AM

Want to come here? Shall I send The Captain to help? 12:39 AM

I can start making beds for the boys.  12:40 AM

I don't know what to do. I'm shaking! 12:40 AM

Big time 12:40 AM

Constable on line 12:40 AM

I need help 12:41 AM

I had no idea deep water across the street 12:41

How high is the water? 12:43

The Captain is coming 12:47"

I lept out of bed reading the first text and woke The Captain. He jumped up to check to the pool and I was saying "not the pool, D and A! D and A are flooding! They need help." As he pulled on swim trunks, I went to look out the front windows and my mind scrambled to understand what I was seeing. Between our house and the neighbors, a river was flowing down the street. Rain was still pouring down.

Water already entering the cab of my neighbor's massive truck.

Down the cul-de-sac, on the right, where you can see light, several vehicles' alarms' were going nonstop, as water reached their dashboards. The interior lights were on, and even as the headlights were submerged you could see them flashing. As they submerged, the alarms became muffled, but continued.

Our neighbor across the street pulled his monster truck into our higher driveway, and struggled to save his other cars in his driveway, as water rose up their hoods.

I remember my husband grabbing an umbrella and heading for the front door and me yelling "what are you doing?! we have to have a plan!" Next thing, he was gone.

I ran to my closet and switched my nightgown for swim shorts, a sport's bra, and t-shirt. Then I turned my focus to the guest room, making up Little Sister's bed, and putting a mattress down on the floor and making it up.

Small Sun woke up and came out bleary eyed. I explained that there was a flood happening, that I needed his help, and he moved into action, fetching sheets for me, and following my every instruction.

As I was doing this, I heard voices, and recognized my neighbor D, crying. They came through the front door, wet, distraught, and in shock. The Captain said the water was up to his thighs crossing the street the first time, and over his waist on the return just minutes later. On petite D, it was up to her ribs as she carried her child high.

I found dry clothes for our 6 year old neighbor first, then for his mom and dad, and finally for his 2 year old brother. D stood dripping, and crying, in absolute shock, for quite some time, and I got S, the six year old into dry things and tucked into bed under my elephant blanket from India. He dozed off quickly.

After getting dry clothes and towels to everyone, I quickly set to flood preparations. I had The Captain and Mr. A, the father of our water-logged family, bring in a queen mattress that was in the garage that was starting to flood. I also had The Captain bring in all the bottled water I had stored in the garage for such an emergency. Oddly, many jugs were empty through evaporation or slow leaks. He brought what he could, including an axe, should we need to break out of the attic.

I filled laundry baskets with non-perishable food items, our first aid kit and our toothbrushes, sleeping bags, and the children's special "softies" that they sleep with. This was all lined up between the front door and the attic steps, along with the dog's bed and leash. 

We watched the water rise higher and higher up our front walk. I had Small Sun fill the bathtub with water and pack two backpacks for himself and his brother.

I think it was about 3:00 in the morning when the water reached into our front shrubbery, we woke Sprout and Finch, loaded up our baskets and our children, and struck out through calf-deep water to our neighbor's house. They have a second story and were ready to receive us. The Captain went to the front door, through deeper water, while the rest of us went to the back, which is higher, and struggled to stand under the gutter line as the rain pounded down. It seemed to take minutes for our neighbors to open the door, in their pajamas.

Their house seemed quite, calm, and was unsullied by pools of water and fear. We fell down onto the couches, wrapped in nice dry towels, to calm the scared children. The Captain dissapeared again, to our house, to ready our house for flooding.

By 4:00 AM we were all tucked into a cozy bed on the second story, kids snuggling down into sleeping bags on the carpet floors, the dog curled in his bed next to ours, and our neighbors in the second guest room across the landing. We seemed so high, so warm, and so dry, by contrast to the earlier hours.

I couldn't stop looking at my phone, as it exploded with Facebook messages from our neighborhood mother's page, texting back and forth with local friends, and thinking about two of our neighbors. One had a brand new baby in fragile health, and they were on the low end of the street with no second story. Earlier I had lost contact with the JJ family, knowing that the water was rising in their house, they couldn't escape, and their cell phone batteries had died. They also had no upstairs, and possibly no attic. 

As the rain slackened after 4 am, I fell into some kind of sleep, repeating these words over and over again...

May the God of hope, fill you with you all joy and peace, as your trust in Him, and may you overflow with hope, through the power of the Holy Spirit. (Romans 15:13)

 

Tumble Dry

We're savers and planners, folks. We've got a two year plan, a five year plan, a ten year plan, and spreadsheets to map all the details. We budget and allocate, and maintain an emergency fund, and don't make impulse decisions. After all, The Captain did spend six years working for Dave Ramsey, the debt-free guru. 

Life has been rather expensive lately. Moving Stateside incurred some major and unanticipated expenses, which I won't go into here. We've finally got that mostly settled and decided to make a major investment in our family, and put in a swimming pool. Anyone who has undertaken a major renovation or building project knows that budgets rarely stick. Unexpected things pop up that raise the numbers, whether you want them to or not. Well, that's been kind of okay, because I have had so much work lately, and my contribution to the coffers is making a difference.

Then, this.

By the amazing grace of God, we were not in our car when this turtle on his back flew into it, so we were not hurt. The car, however, was severely wounded and will not be making a full recovery. Story for another day.

I wasn't too worried. We have insurance, I thought. I'll get a car that I like better, I thought. But insurance is being a pill and offering us half of what we payed for our car less than two years ago. Unanticipated major expense. 

Tonight we're doing the laundry. I like to start Monday with everything fresh and clean. The dryer powers on, but when you press "start" is just kind of blinks its electric eyes at you as if there has been a misunderstanding. "You want me to do what? Tumble? No, I don't do that."

Time to call the service technician, and just add that to the climbing bill of unanticipated expenses. I noticed some grout had fallen out from between the tile in the shower, and one panel of tile seems to bounce when I hit it. While I would love to renovate the bathroom, this really isn't the time! 

Please, no more expensive surprises! 

Mother's Day

Today I had the pleasure of having my mother here with me on Mother's Day. I went to bed early last night, which is my version of a sleep in, AND I got 45 minutes extra sleep this morning. Lovely. I woke up to this...

Finch's turtle has lost an eye, and he wanted me to fix it first thing. Not creepy at all, eh?

My mother and the children had prepared a Mother's Day feast for me, and there were lots of presents. I wanted to record some of them here, so that I can remember, and enjoy them again.

Sprout cut flowers from her very own rose bush. How sweet.

Finch gave me this "horn" which when blown, will make all children instantly fall asleep. I can't wait to try it tonight!

Finch gave me two pomegranate blossoms, saying "You can save the seed to plant next year!" He knows me well.

On the right hand side, you can see a bracelet, that Small Sun made for me, during lunch and recess at school. I can only imagine how carefully he would have had to work with the tiny thread and the beads, my boy who works in broad strokes, and bounding energy, not tiny details. I am so proud.

Finch, overflowing with gifts (does anyone love their mother more than a five year old boy?), made me this flower "that will last until you're 96!"  May it be so.

On Mother's Day, I always feel an increased connection to Small Sun's other mother. I wonder if she is feeling a mix of joy and sorrow? My son's eyes beam at me, and I also notice him having some very quiet moments. We are so blessed to have communicated with his first Mom over Facebook and text today, and I can't express how thrilled I am that he will get to call her before the day is done. Not many adoptees have the access to reach out so easily. We are very blessed. 

I also think about our previous foster children and their families, many of which have been severed and reformed in different configurations.

I think of the daughter we are carrying in our hearts, who I imagine to be waiting in Houston for us somewhere, and her mother who is likely also near, but separated by an impossible divide. 

We are officially certified and waiting, in fact, we have submitted our family profile to be considered for a specific girl, but will be waiting several more weeks for news. 

I was so, so happy to spend the day with my mother, I am so blessed to have the daily privilege to mother my children, and will do my best to be worthy of that honor.

I want to include my thoughts from last year's Mother's Day, as they still ring true in my heart.

Mothers

 

Some People, My People

Sometimes the questions that torment the minds of all my children, but that are too awful to curl on tongue, and release from the mouth, come from the voices of my white children. 

"But they would never shoot a kid, right? Has this ever happened to a kid?"

I gather strength, I tell the truth. The overflowing plate of injera before me, sustenance for each horrible answer I must convey.

"I am so sorry that this is true, and that I have to tell you, but yes, last year a police officer shot Tamir Rice, who was twelve years old, and playing with an airsoft toy gun in the park. A police officer shot him, and killed him."

I imagine my nearly ten year old son goes pale under his gorgeous caramel hue. His voice sounds pale, and his eyes go deep into mine when he breathes "Mum, thank you for not letting me get that airsoft gun I wanted earlier this year."

At night the tears come. My son is from Charleston, and in his mind, I believe he sees his father fall, as he watches the uninvited footage of Walter L. Scott fall again, and again. He cries because he saw the police beating Black men on the television for the first time, at the restaurant. He saw the lift of the arm, and the swing of the club on Black flesh that lies prostrate. He saw a montage of these last few years of violence, Black lives lost, aggression caught on film. The things we have spoken of carefully, with great intention and prayer, jumped the boundary of far away news to be part of our story.

Something that has happened to some people got mixed up with his people (my son's), and it became very personal.

Since the very beginning we have prayed for grace and wisdom to raise a Black baby, who grows into a Black boy, and into a Black man. This undertaking is done with fear and trembling.

America, please stop killing our boys and our men. America, please understand that the sex talk is not the hardest talk we have with our sons. America, please.