black is black and white is white

somethings about inter-racial adoption are unique and hard.  for example,  there is no denying that i didn't give birth to rose.  she is black and i am white.  when we go anywhere- our situation stands out.  it just does.  people look and wonder and assess. 

sometimes they ask. sometimes they comment. 
they say things like,
"she doesn't look like you." or
"you know she is black?"  to which i said, "she is?? how come no one told me!"
or "do you have an orphanage?" or
"is that your nannies child?" or
"where did you pick her from?"

then i get a lot of,
"thank you for caring for her." or
"how wonderful that you are helping her."

and i'm standing there looking into her soulful eyes and hating that she's hearing herself described as a need, or in need, or somehow lucky that she has me.  none of my other kids ever heard that. they never received random opinions from people in the market check out line praising me for doing my parenting job.

i know people are trying to being nice.  i know i signed up for another exposed underwear scenario.  i know these things.  they don't bother me for me, they bother me for her.  because i'm the lucky one.  i wanted another child, another daughter.  isn't it wonderful that she's helping me.  i'm actually fine with the stares and the curiosity and the remarks.  what is hard for me, is watching her in the moments when she feels the difference, when she misses the sameness that we lack, when she longs for a connection that i can't give her.  

tonight mike is with the guys in kampala.  my friend lydia stopped by and i invited her to stay for dinner.  it was the typical crazy of our house from 5:30-7:30, with the added crazy of one parent missing and the other one deciding to make gluten-free, dairy-free cinnamon rolls (from scratch, with yeast) for the first time during the crazy hours. things went fine, people were pajama-ed and brushed and read to- and i was fussing with the icing in the kitchen.  rosie walked over to lydia  and wanted her to read her ABC book.  she sat on her lap, listening to the familiar soft ugandan english accent.  she seemed to notice how their skin blended together.  there was something normal about it for her, natural, missed.  it seemed like it was what i call 'the safe feeling'. 

i thought about how i would have felt being plucked up out of an orphanage full of white kids and white caregivers who spoke english, and plopped down into an african family- where i stood out- glowed in the dark- and didn't match.  where i didn't speak their language- and if they spoke my language, it sounded different.  then a white woman comes for dinner- she is kind and something about how she talks and how she looks, makes me feel at home.  and i miss home- i miss what had been my normal.  i miss familiar.  i miss the safety of it.

when it was time for lydia to leave, and me to put everyone down for bed, rosie cried.  it was more than the cry of not wanting to go to bed- it was the cry of longing- of missing- of loss.  it is a cry that makes sense, and i would cry it too.  it's a cry that i get, that i'm thankful she allows herself to feel and voice, but this cry is hard for me, because i feel helpless.  i know i can't give her everything- i can't give her sameness- i can't look like her. 

this cry doesn't come very often- but when it does i hold her tight and say "i know. it's hard. i love you." 
because it is hard. this will always be hard in some way. mostly for her.  i know she loves us.  i know she feels safe and cared for and valued and i know she likes her life with us- she has fun- she is free.  but.  there is no denying that when we hold hands you can see the contrast.  next to each other, she is blacker and i am whiter. 

but contrast in life is also poignant and beautiful.  contrast is more interesting, it grows us and pushes us and makes us all think.  it makes things noticed, things are appreciated differently.  it can bring together.  it can balance.  it can make history look silly- when the insides aren't different- when what we focus on as different is irrelevant really. 

but history is there- it will be.  and so will peoples stares and shared observations.  and so will rosie's loss, her personal history will always be there, a void, a longing, a mild sense of displacement that is hanging out below the surface.  i'm no adoption expert, i'm not a social worker or a psychologist, but it seems that acknowledgement is essential.  letting her cry and long and know we aren't threatened by it- seems necessary.   that we share a longing to connect with her too.  that life has loss, for everyone.  that we all experience displacement.

earlier that evening bryn had been sent to his room for not eating his dinner and not staying in his chair.  when i went to talk to him, he started to cry.  i asked him what he was crying about and he said he didn't know.  but i did.  it's the same thing.  it's the displacement he feels being in africa- with out his cousins and his grandparents, because he's stared at for being white in a world of black people. it's constant.  today a kid in the supermarket petted him- she couldn't resist- she reached over and petted his hair. he didn't even notice. 

we live this displacement too.  our contrast we have in common.  she stands out- we stand out.  and these moments, like tonight, are important. they make sense.  she needs to cry it out.  to grieve.  she needs to miss the familiar.  we all do this.  we should.  so as we continue to grow as a family- a crazy, somewhat different family-  we will embrace and acknowledge our 'different'.  we will keep having the lydias over so rose can feel some home-ness, so she can be with her familar.

and we will hold each other, tightly, and say, "i know.  it is hard.  i love you."