December 20, 2011
Love This Boy
I know, I know, it has been months since I've posted anything on this blog. So, here's my 5 second attempt at repentance: a mere snapshot of William. He has been a handful lately, throwing hard toys at his brother for no apparent reason, exhibiting defiance in ways that only a 4 1/2 year-old can. Still, I love this boy.
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September 7, 2011
William 4.0: Who Are You?
As Andrew matures, it has been fun to note the emergence of certain characteristics and to chalk them up to Craig's genetics or mine. Swap out the heads and a picture of Andrew with his serpentine figure could be a photo of Craig taken 30 years ago. "What's that you say about wanting to be a dancing doctor, Andrew?" Credit that to the genes on his maternal side; my family is chock-full of doctors and teachers with repressed artistic leanings.
While we've never met any members of William's biological family, we do have a few details about key individuals - some pictures and a few descriptions about their personality, health, and interests. Based upon the photos we have, it's easy to see from whom William derives his sweet chipmunk cheeks and toothy smile. When he announced the other day that boxing was his favorite sport second to basketball, I was only half-surprised; a significant member of his Taiwanese family is also a fan. [Feel free to groan as I insert the obligatory disclaimer: no, we don't let our 4 year-old watch boxing matches or condone his punching people at random.]
Those tidbits notwithstanding, we have nowhere near the wealth of information we have about Andrew and the possible origins of his traits. In light of adoptees whose histories involve abandonment, where little to no information is available, I feel greedy in wanting to know more. And yet I do. Just who are these two people whose genetics have combined to shape this beautiful firecracker of a child? Reviewing William's development over the past year, I'm all the more curious to know. It's like trying to solve a mystery in which all the detective has to work with is an evolving outcome and a handful of clues.
Speaking of hands, if there is a gene for compulsive nail biting, William has definitely inherited it. The oral fixation that was so much a part of his toddler years has taken on the shape of incessant finger and toe sucking. Whether sitting in the car listening to music or lying in bed trying to fall asleep, his digits often end up in his mouth. The problem became particularly worrisome when he sucked a cut into his big toe last winter and contracted MRSA. Thankfully, a regimen of antibiotics cured him, but after that, we were careful to dress him in footed pajamas. Even now, during the hot summer months, we still make him sleep with mittens on. Despite those measures, it has been over a year that I have had to trim his fingernails since he continues to nibble them down when I'm not looking.
When not lodged in his mouth, those same nubby-nailed fingers have been busy. William figured out how to write the alphabet imperfectly over the past year and can now write his name and spell out a few simple words on his own. His handwriting still resembles the aftermath of a fly swatter come down on a granddaddy long leg spider, but in that regard he's a typical 3-turned-4 year-old. We still can't tell which hand he favors when it comes to writing and eating; he functions equally well with both. (Personally, I'm curious to know if anyone in his family line is a leftie.)
Clearly, there are also some smarty-pants genes lurking in his biological pool. In preparing to adopt, parents are warned to expect a whole range of intellectual abilities in their child. If anything, they are cautioned to set their expectations low, to anticipate learning disabilities of one sort or another. However, William has definitely surprised us. Shortly before he turned 3 1/2 years old, he began sounding out simple consonant-vowel-consonant words. As I did when Andrew reached that milestone, I started the "Hooked on Phonics" reading program with him. He completed the Kindergarten level some time before his 4th birthday and is now well into the 1st grade curriculum. Earlier this spring, his teacher gave him a standardized test used for preschoolers who are a year older. He scored a 95% on that test and lost the remaining 5% to a simple misunderstanding of a question. We're thankful that he seems to be on a pace where the content of his future schoolwork will probably not be a struggle. Rather, the voluntary, gentle-natured completion of it could be the greater obstacle.
Among his other strengths, William may claim to like boxing and can throw a pretty good jab (just ask me: he lobbed one at my chest just yesterday when I went to unstrap him from his car seat). However, sports involving balls are where he truly shines. Granted, we only have Andrew to serve as a reference point. While not uncoordinated, our older son's talents appear to lie moreso in the arts and humanities. So, perhaps then, our awe at William's sinking basket after basket into his Little Tykes hoop set at 5+ feet tall is misplaced. Maybe it's just I and my lousy hand-eye coordination thinking that a 3 year-old shouldn't be able to connect a ping pong paddle with an oncoming ball as often as he does. Maybe it's just the proud parent in me that keeps replaying a certain memory of William at his weekly Little Gym sports class. Even now, I can see him soaring through the air in slow motion, arms outstretched, hands joined together as he does a perfect flying dig at a falling volleyball. (Can you hear the "Chariots of Fire" theme song playing in the distance? I can.)
Yet for all his interest in sports, he's not yet a team player. Over the last year, he participated on a 3-4 year-old basketball team and a soccer league at our local YMCA. We thought he'd go nuts with excitement, but instead, he wound up passing much of the hour-long sessions wandering the sidelines and climbing all over our laps. When we did manage to cajole him onto the field, he'd play for a few seconds, then wander back to us in a foul mood.
His newfound reticence also manifested in other ways over the past year. The boy who would cackle with glee if a tsunami came rolling his way in the swimming pool, the child who would launch himself down a 10-story sliding board at the playground without a second thought, grew increasingly apprehensive as he approached his 4th birthday. He now panics when I let go of him just a few feet away from the pool wall, nudging him forward to swim the short distance. A year ago, he'd make the same swim with an ear-to-ear grin. When challenged to slide down the 3-foot high firefighter's pole at the park jungle gym, he insists I hold him all the way down. If I encourage him to try it on his own, he works himself up to an angry, fretful state. Some degree of caution is a good thing in a young child, but I wonder if this is a sign of more tentativeness to come, perhaps an inherent personality quirk.
A few readers patient enough to get to this point of the post may wonder: do we feel as if we're missing out by not having a child with traits and features that mirror ours? After all, as adoption experts like to point out, an ability to self-identify in one's child is arguably one of the small joys of parenting. Adoptive parents are sometimes denied this perk.
No. All things considered, I can truly say that I don't regard William and his differences with any sense of loss. Maybe it's because I have a biological child with whom I've had the pleasure of drawing such comparisons. Maybe my emotional compass is askew and I just don't feel the things I'm "supposed to" as an adoptive parent. Whatever the reason, I don't find myself mourning the incongruities. William is his own special person, and I love him very much for it.
If I'm left feeling anything, it's a deep-seated longing for his biological parents to see for themselves what a talented, beautiful child they produced. They would be so, so proud of him. I'm also left with a sense of wonder at the genius of God and his ability to create countless variations of people, each unlike the next. Finally, I'm left with a profound feeling of gratitude that of, all the people in the world, our family has been entrusted with the care and upbringing of this unique and delightful child.
Happy belated 4th birthday, sweetie boy.
While we've never met any members of William's biological family, we do have a few details about key individuals - some pictures and a few descriptions about their personality, health, and interests. Based upon the photos we have, it's easy to see from whom William derives his sweet chipmunk cheeks and toothy smile. When he announced the other day that boxing was his favorite sport second to basketball, I was only half-surprised; a significant member of his Taiwanese family is also a fan. [Feel free to groan as I insert the obligatory disclaimer: no, we don't let our 4 year-old watch boxing matches or condone his punching people at random.]
Those tidbits notwithstanding, we have nowhere near the wealth of information we have about Andrew and the possible origins of his traits. In light of adoptees whose histories involve abandonment, where little to no information is available, I feel greedy in wanting to know more. And yet I do. Just who are these two people whose genetics have combined to shape this beautiful firecracker of a child? Reviewing William's development over the past year, I'm all the more curious to know. It's like trying to solve a mystery in which all the detective has to work with is an evolving outcome and a handful of clues.
From whom does William get his happy, yet fiery personality? I can guess, but I can't say for sure. William may have just turned 4 years old in mid-July, but he's a jolly old soul trapped in a 40", 38 lb. body. He loves "knock-knock" jokes, slapstick humor, and silly turns on everyday words and situations. If we could bottle up his belly laugh at the line in a "Curious George" book where George writes the word, "BLIMLIMLIM," we could put the depression medicine industry out of business. He is clearly not a child with an inborn tendency toward sullenness.
William's good humor often makes up for his quick-flaring, intense temper. He registers emotions deeply and expresses them not only with an ever-developing vocabulary, but with copious amounts of stamping, hitting, growling, and frantic windshield wiper hand motions. Oh, those hands! Thankfully, time and grace are maturing him; he has logged significantly fewer visits to the time-out chair for angry outbursts than he did a year ago. Still, something tells me that this aspect of his personality, this passionate side, shall we call it, is an enduring part of who he is.
William's good humor often makes up for his quick-flaring, intense temper. He registers emotions deeply and expresses them not only with an ever-developing vocabulary, but with copious amounts of stamping, hitting, growling, and frantic windshield wiper hand motions. Oh, those hands! Thankfully, time and grace are maturing him; he has logged significantly fewer visits to the time-out chair for angry outbursts than he did a year ago. Still, something tells me that this aspect of his personality, this passionate side, shall we call it, is an enduring part of who he is.
Speaking of hands, if there is a gene for compulsive nail biting, William has definitely inherited it. The oral fixation that was so much a part of his toddler years has taken on the shape of incessant finger and toe sucking. Whether sitting in the car listening to music or lying in bed trying to fall asleep, his digits often end up in his mouth. The problem became particularly worrisome when he sucked a cut into his big toe last winter and contracted MRSA. Thankfully, a regimen of antibiotics cured him, but after that, we were careful to dress him in footed pajamas. Even now, during the hot summer months, we still make him sleep with mittens on. Despite those measures, it has been over a year that I have had to trim his fingernails since he continues to nibble them down when I'm not looking.
When not lodged in his mouth, those same nubby-nailed fingers have been busy. William figured out how to write the alphabet imperfectly over the past year and can now write his name and spell out a few simple words on his own. His handwriting still resembles the aftermath of a fly swatter come down on a granddaddy long leg spider, but in that regard he's a typical 3-turned-4 year-old. We still can't tell which hand he favors when it comes to writing and eating; he functions equally well with both. (Personally, I'm curious to know if anyone in his family line is a leftie.)
Clearly, there are also some smarty-pants genes lurking in his biological pool. In preparing to adopt, parents are warned to expect a whole range of intellectual abilities in their child. If anything, they are cautioned to set their expectations low, to anticipate learning disabilities of one sort or another. However, William has definitely surprised us. Shortly before he turned 3 1/2 years old, he began sounding out simple consonant-vowel-consonant words. As I did when Andrew reached that milestone, I started the "Hooked on Phonics" reading program with him. He completed the Kindergarten level some time before his 4th birthday and is now well into the 1st grade curriculum. Earlier this spring, his teacher gave him a standardized test used for preschoolers who are a year older. He scored a 95% on that test and lost the remaining 5% to a simple misunderstanding of a question. We're thankful that he seems to be on a pace where the content of his future schoolwork will probably not be a struggle. Rather, the voluntary, gentle-natured completion of it could be the greater obstacle.
Among his other strengths, William may claim to like boxing and can throw a pretty good jab (just ask me: he lobbed one at my chest just yesterday when I went to unstrap him from his car seat). However, sports involving balls are where he truly shines. Granted, we only have Andrew to serve as a reference point. While not uncoordinated, our older son's talents appear to lie moreso in the arts and humanities. So, perhaps then, our awe at William's sinking basket after basket into his Little Tykes hoop set at 5+ feet tall is misplaced. Maybe it's just I and my lousy hand-eye coordination thinking that a 3 year-old shouldn't be able to connect a ping pong paddle with an oncoming ball as often as he does. Maybe it's just the proud parent in me that keeps replaying a certain memory of William at his weekly Little Gym sports class. Even now, I can see him soaring through the air in slow motion, arms outstretched, hands joined together as he does a perfect flying dig at a falling volleyball. (Can you hear the "Chariots of Fire" theme song playing in the distance? I can.)
Yet for all his interest in sports, he's not yet a team player. Over the last year, he participated on a 3-4 year-old basketball team and a soccer league at our local YMCA. We thought he'd go nuts with excitement, but instead, he wound up passing much of the hour-long sessions wandering the sidelines and climbing all over our laps. When we did manage to cajole him onto the field, he'd play for a few seconds, then wander back to us in a foul mood.
His newfound reticence also manifested in other ways over the past year. The boy who would cackle with glee if a tsunami came rolling his way in the swimming pool, the child who would launch himself down a 10-story sliding board at the playground without a second thought, grew increasingly apprehensive as he approached his 4th birthday. He now panics when I let go of him just a few feet away from the pool wall, nudging him forward to swim the short distance. A year ago, he'd make the same swim with an ear-to-ear grin. When challenged to slide down the 3-foot high firefighter's pole at the park jungle gym, he insists I hold him all the way down. If I encourage him to try it on his own, he works himself up to an angry, fretful state. Some degree of caution is a good thing in a young child, but I wonder if this is a sign of more tentativeness to come, perhaps an inherent personality quirk.
A few readers patient enough to get to this point of the post may wonder: do we feel as if we're missing out by not having a child with traits and features that mirror ours? After all, as adoption experts like to point out, an ability to self-identify in one's child is arguably one of the small joys of parenting. Adoptive parents are sometimes denied this perk.
No. All things considered, I can truly say that I don't regard William and his differences with any sense of loss. Maybe it's because I have a biological child with whom I've had the pleasure of drawing such comparisons. Maybe my emotional compass is askew and I just don't feel the things I'm "supposed to" as an adoptive parent. Whatever the reason, I don't find myself mourning the incongruities. William is his own special person, and I love him very much for it.
If I'm left feeling anything, it's a deep-seated longing for his biological parents to see for themselves what a talented, beautiful child they produced. They would be so, so proud of him. I'm also left with a sense of wonder at the genius of God and his ability to create countless variations of people, each unlike the next. Finally, I'm left with a profound feeling of gratitude that of, all the people in the world, our family has been entrusted with the care and upbringing of this unique and delightful child.
Happy belated 4th birthday, sweetie boy.
Posted by
September 6, 2011
..And They're Off!
 |
| Today, William and Andrew began Pre-K and 3rd grade respectively. To God be the glory for a start better than we could have ever imagined. |
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August 2, 2011
Rainy Day
Here in the K. household, we're grateful for this week's on-again, off-again rain that has been watering our heatwave-scorched state. The other day, I stepped outside to snap a shot of a raincloud that William thought resembled the shape of the United States (freaky- it really did!). But by the time I made it outside with my camera, the cloud had done a Zan and Jana on me and taken on the form of an alligator. I tried to redeem the moment by snapping a few shots of William from the outside looking in. As usual, William had a grand old time playing hide-and-go-seek with me and my camera.
Speaking of uncooperative, over the last several months, Blogspot.com has turned enemy on me. Some gremlin in the system keeps adding swirly lines to my posts where unwanted and toying with my text boxes as you can see from the ugly spectacle at the bottom of this post and the one before. If anyone out there can clue me in as to what's going on, please do.
In the meantime, can you make out the last picture below? It's a shot of our young Manny Pacquaio, who just turned 4 recently. A birthday post will follow one day.
Speaking of uncooperative, over the last several months, Blogspot.com has turned enemy on me. Some gremlin in the system keeps adding swirly lines to my posts where unwanted and toying with my text boxes as you can see from the ugly spectacle at the bottom of this post and the one before. If anyone out there can clue me in as to what's going on, please do.
In the meantime, can you make out the last picture below? It's a shot of our young Manny Pacquaio, who just turned 4 recently. A birthday post will follow one day.
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Re-Direct: A Shower of Reality... Sort of
Just the other day, I ran across yet another well-intentioned person who told me William is "lucky" to have been adopted into our family. I wish I could have quoted the entire length of this brilliant post by Tonggu Momma on the subject (thanks, Sarah for the tip-off). Read it. It's good.
Posted by
July 27, 2011
Super 8
When I was 16, I spent a month at film camp learning how to make movies. Over the course of four weeks, I shot yard after yard of footage. My back grew sore from the late nights I spent in cramped editing rooms, hunched over workstations covered in fragments of Super 8 film. Each piece captured a series of images that, when finally spliced together, told a tale of questionable coherence.
As I reflect upon the highlights of Andrew's last year, I'm reminded of those bits of film. Strung through a projector bit by bit, the playback might look something like this:
A lanky, yet densely muscular 7 year old boy runs through his backyard. The autumn leaves fallen to the ground have long since surrendered their fiery red and golden hues for shades of brittle brown. The boy dodges his way around the tangle of tree roots protruding through the lawn. With practiced care, he hoists himself up on a swing dangling from a tree branch 25 feet above. "Mom, I need a big push!" he hollers across the yard.
This will be his last ride in the swing. Later that afternoon, his mother will unhook the swing, pack it in the back of their car, then drive it 15 minutes away where it will be stored in the garage of their new home. There it will remain on a dusty shelf for lack of any suitable trees in their new yard.
When he leaves school the next day, the boy will come home to the new house. The basketball hoop in the driveway, the bathroom that acts as a not-so-secret passageway between his room and his brother's, the open, finished basement all thrill him. Still, over the next several months, while pouring a cup of milk or climbing the stairs to turn in for the night, he will remark about the last home with sadness.
At one end of a dark room in the optometrist's office, the boy sits in an exam chair. On cue, he leans his forehead against a narrow cushion and peers through the two eyeholes. He looks like a character in a science fiction movie who has been time-warped into Victorian-era London, steampunk accoutrements and all.
"Does this word look clearer, or does that one? #1 or #2?" the optometrist asks, flipping a switch that obscures one image and reveals the other. "Again: #1 or #2?"
The optometrist directs the boy to read through line after line of a chart positioned across the room. From her seat in the shadows, the mother winces as the boy struggles to make out the letters. The doctor tells her what she has known since her son's birth: her child will need glasses. Her vision and that of her husband are equally appalling: so impaired are they that the size of the numbers on their alarm clocks could rival those on sports field scoreboards.
The optometrist turns the lights back on. Turning toward her, he proclaims that the boy's vision has plummeted from 20/20 to 125/150 over the course of the last year.
After the exam, the boy gets fitted for his first pair of glasses. It is a quick process; he chooses the second pair he tries on and can hardly be cajoled into trying on more. A week later, a foul ball flies toward his face during recess, shattering his new glasses beyond repair.
When his little brother is napping, the boy's parents summon him to join them on the couch. Past experience has lead him to believe that an announcement of something secret and good will follow - a one-on-one trip to the local ice cream parlor, a surprise viewing of a movie (with a scary scene!), popcorn. A knowing smile spreads across his face.
"Mommy and I have something important to tell you," his father announces.
His smile grows wider in anticipation.
"We've prayed very long and hard about this... and we've decided we're going to take you out of GloryHallelujah Christian School send you to Super-Dee-Duper Public School next year."
The boy's lower lip begins to quiver. His mouth slowly contorts to form a square shape and his face turns a deep shade of violet. Thick tears roll down his cheeks.
"No, no, no!!!" he protests. "This is a nightmare! I don't want to! I don't want to!"
The parents embrace their stiff-bodied son. They do their best to offer encouraging, sympathetic words while smearing away his tears that splatter down on their necks and their arms.
[This particular segment of film is a long one; the crying scene lasts 15 minutes as the boy despairs of leaving his good friends, riding on a school bus for the first time, and journeying into otherwise unknown territory.]
It is mid-June. The boy scans the hallways of Super-Dee-Duper Public School nervously. Without realizing it, he clutches his mother's hand. She uses her free hand to extract the back of his plain red t-shirt that has jammed itself awkwardly into his waistband. Over the past year, the boy has begun to eschew the clothing with skater-esque prints that she suggests for him in lieu of plain-colored, conservative wear - the very likeness of his father.
Pausing every three steps to reign in his curious 3 year-old brother, they locate the classroom where the boy will attend a remedial summer math class. The mother has heard stories of how the students at this school are doing math beyond what he has been taught and reasons that the extra practice and preview of the new building would do the boy good. He grumbles but assents to go. Such is his nature.
When the class is over, the mother asks him about his morning.
"It was okay," he says nonchalantly. "I made a new friend. His name is Max."
The boy groans again as he flips to his eighth page of math worksheets for the day. It is but one of the many sets that have landed his way since the late spring. Each pack contains 10 worksheets that he must complete six days a week as part of a tutoring program in which his parents have enrolled him. The father and mother wince at the extra workload it brings but concede that their son needs to build mastery in existing concepts while learning new ones to keep on track once school begins in September. Once a week, the boy joins the Changs and Parks, the Patels and Ramanurthys, the occasional Connolly or Rosenblatt. Together, they sit quietly in a room at the tutoring center completing more worksheets and taking diagnostic tests.
While cleaning up her younger son's mis-timed attempt to use the toilet, the mother alternates between worrying that she is turning her older son off to math for life and fretting that she has morphed into a caricature of an Asian mother. Is she, in stereotypical form, valuing academic achievement over inward character and spiritual development? As she continues to reflect on the matter, she acknowledges that she has begun teaching the boy piano and that the pair have briefly dabbled in a parent-child karate class together. The evidence does not stack in her favor.
As she rises from the floor and catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she is startled to notice orange and black-striped fur sprouting from her face, two triangular ears protruding from the top of her head. She raises a hand to her mouth in horror only to see a paw with sharp claws covering two rows of predatory teeth. "Nooooooo!!!" she wails. But all that sounds forth is a deep growl.
Morphed back into human form, the mother crouches low again, grabbing at her foot in pain. She has stepped on a sharp object. The floor of the boy's bedroom is a minefield of scattered Lego and K'nex pieces. On every level surface of his room, countless variations of vehicles, weaponry, and tactical buildings vie for space. Hidden among them are a half-broken ferris wheel and a crown fashioned for the boy's beloved stuffed dog. Every day sees the creation of something new, fiercer, faster, bigger. Over the spring, the boy has launched a blog in celebration of his handiwork. The blog secretly serves as the mother's excuse to take pictures of something within her home that will neither run away nor turn around and waggle its rear end when confronted by her camera.
Twenty acts later, it is the finally the boy's turn to take to the front of the auditorium. He is the last to perform. The spotlight casts an orange glow on him as he seats himself at an electric piano. Of his own volition, he has signed up to play in his school's fine arts festival. All weary eyes are on him as he takes a deep breath, laces his fingers together, and stretches out his hands. He cracks his knuckles as if he has done this very thing many times before. The audience chuckles. The boy launches into a version of "Ode to Joy" that he has arranged himself based upon an 8-measure version in his piano lesson book. Despite his mother's urging to play the piece legato, he pounds out the song in the same unyielding fortissimo that he uses when banging out "Jingle Bells" one too many times a day at home.
He finishes the piece with a triumphant whole note, rises, then confidently bows.
"Mom, look at me!" the boy calls out as he cannonballs into the pool. The same confidence that he showed during the recital has propelled him to take up his mother's suggestion to jump off the diving board just minutes earlier. Gone is the terror-stricken expression he once wore when faced with the suggestion of swimming with his face underwater. There is no more panicked crying, no frenzied chase around the pool as his desperate mother tries to coax him back into the water.
As the boy's body hits the water, the mother turns her face away as a spray of water launches into her eyes. The boy still can't swim a decent freestyle, but how far he has come, she marvels. How very far.
She turns and shields her camera as another spray of water comes her way. Like a wartime photographer, she weaves, ducks, and snaps her way through the bursts of watergun-wielding boys who have come to celebrate her son's eighth birthday. The thermometer reads a blistering 95 degrees, but that is a small matter to the band of boys who dive in and out of the inflatable kiddie pool, refilling their guns with remarkable efficiency. Another group of boys launch themselves, penguin-style, down the dual concourse of a Slip-and-Slide. Nearby, others take turns spraying each other with the wide arc of a lawn sprinkler.
The mother looks through her viewfinder: F 1.8, ISO 100, shutter speed 1/600. The aperture is too wide for the image she aims to capture, and the shot won't eventually render as crisply as she'd prefer. But still, she likes what she sees through the lens: her eldest child, turned eight years old that very day, running about carefree. Weighted down with water, his brown hair and swim clothes adhere to his body, giving him a seal-like look. Surrounded by good friends, the past year is behind him, and he is laughing, laughing.
As I reflect upon the highlights of Andrew's last year, I'm reminded of those bits of film. Strung through a projector bit by bit, the playback might look something like this:
A lanky, yet densely muscular 7 year old boy runs through his backyard. The autumn leaves fallen to the ground have long since surrendered their fiery red and golden hues for shades of brittle brown. The boy dodges his way around the tangle of tree roots protruding through the lawn. With practiced care, he hoists himself up on a swing dangling from a tree branch 25 feet above. "Mom, I need a big push!" he hollers across the yard.
This will be his last ride in the swing. Later that afternoon, his mother will unhook the swing, pack it in the back of their car, then drive it 15 minutes away where it will be stored in the garage of their new home. There it will remain on a dusty shelf for lack of any suitable trees in their new yard.
When he leaves school the next day, the boy will come home to the new house. The basketball hoop in the driveway, the bathroom that acts as a not-so-secret passageway between his room and his brother's, the open, finished basement all thrill him. Still, over the next several months, while pouring a cup of milk or climbing the stairs to turn in for the night, he will remark about the last home with sadness.
At one end of a dark room in the optometrist's office, the boy sits in an exam chair. On cue, he leans his forehead against a narrow cushion and peers through the two eyeholes. He looks like a character in a science fiction movie who has been time-warped into Victorian-era London, steampunk accoutrements and all.
"Does this word look clearer, or does that one? #1 or #2?" the optometrist asks, flipping a switch that obscures one image and reveals the other. "Again: #1 or #2?"
The optometrist directs the boy to read through line after line of a chart positioned across the room. From her seat in the shadows, the mother winces as the boy struggles to make out the letters. The doctor tells her what she has known since her son's birth: her child will need glasses. Her vision and that of her husband are equally appalling: so impaired are they that the size of the numbers on their alarm clocks could rival those on sports field scoreboards.
The optometrist turns the lights back on. Turning toward her, he proclaims that the boy's vision has plummeted from 20/20 to 125/150 over the course of the last year.
After the exam, the boy gets fitted for his first pair of glasses. It is a quick process; he chooses the second pair he tries on and can hardly be cajoled into trying on more. A week later, a foul ball flies toward his face during recess, shattering his new glasses beyond repair.
When his little brother is napping, the boy's parents summon him to join them on the couch. Past experience has lead him to believe that an announcement of something secret and good will follow - a one-on-one trip to the local ice cream parlor, a surprise viewing of a movie (with a scary scene!), popcorn. A knowing smile spreads across his face.
"Mommy and I have something important to tell you," his father announces.
His smile grows wider in anticipation.
"We've prayed very long and hard about this... and we've decided we're going to take you out of GloryHallelujah Christian School send you to Super-Dee-Duper Public School next year."
The boy's lower lip begins to quiver. His mouth slowly contorts to form a square shape and his face turns a deep shade of violet. Thick tears roll down his cheeks.
"No, no, no!!!" he protests. "This is a nightmare! I don't want to! I don't want to!"
The parents embrace their stiff-bodied son. They do their best to offer encouraging, sympathetic words while smearing away his tears that splatter down on their necks and their arms.
[This particular segment of film is a long one; the crying scene lasts 15 minutes as the boy despairs of leaving his good friends, riding on a school bus for the first time, and journeying into otherwise unknown territory.]
It is mid-June. The boy scans the hallways of Super-Dee-Duper Public School nervously. Without realizing it, he clutches his mother's hand. She uses her free hand to extract the back of his plain red t-shirt that has jammed itself awkwardly into his waistband. Over the past year, the boy has begun to eschew the clothing with skater-esque prints that she suggests for him in lieu of plain-colored, conservative wear - the very likeness of his father.
Pausing every three steps to reign in his curious 3 year-old brother, they locate the classroom where the boy will attend a remedial summer math class. The mother has heard stories of how the students at this school are doing math beyond what he has been taught and reasons that the extra practice and preview of the new building would do the boy good. He grumbles but assents to go. Such is his nature.
When the class is over, the mother asks him about his morning.
"It was okay," he says nonchalantly. "I made a new friend. His name is Max."
The boy groans again as he flips to his eighth page of math worksheets for the day. It is but one of the many sets that have landed his way since the late spring. Each pack contains 10 worksheets that he must complete six days a week as part of a tutoring program in which his parents have enrolled him. The father and mother wince at the extra workload it brings but concede that their son needs to build mastery in existing concepts while learning new ones to keep on track once school begins in September. Once a week, the boy joins the Changs and Parks, the Patels and Ramanurthys, the occasional Connolly or Rosenblatt. Together, they sit quietly in a room at the tutoring center completing more worksheets and taking diagnostic tests.
While cleaning up her younger son's mis-timed attempt to use the toilet, the mother alternates between worrying that she is turning her older son off to math for life and fretting that she has morphed into a caricature of an Asian mother. Is she, in stereotypical form, valuing academic achievement over inward character and spiritual development? As she continues to reflect on the matter, she acknowledges that she has begun teaching the boy piano and that the pair have briefly dabbled in a parent-child karate class together. The evidence does not stack in her favor.
As she rises from the floor and catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she is startled to notice orange and black-striped fur sprouting from her face, two triangular ears protruding from the top of her head. She raises a hand to her mouth in horror only to see a paw with sharp claws covering two rows of predatory teeth. "Nooooooo!!!" she wails. But all that sounds forth is a deep growl.
Morphed back into human form, the mother crouches low again, grabbing at her foot in pain. She has stepped on a sharp object. The floor of the boy's bedroom is a minefield of scattered Lego and K'nex pieces. On every level surface of his room, countless variations of vehicles, weaponry, and tactical buildings vie for space. Hidden among them are a half-broken ferris wheel and a crown fashioned for the boy's beloved stuffed dog. Every day sees the creation of something new, fiercer, faster, bigger. Over the spring, the boy has launched a blog in celebration of his handiwork. The blog secretly serves as the mother's excuse to take pictures of something within her home that will neither run away nor turn around and waggle its rear end when confronted by her camera.
Twenty acts later, it is the finally the boy's turn to take to the front of the auditorium. He is the last to perform. The spotlight casts an orange glow on him as he seats himself at an electric piano. Of his own volition, he has signed up to play in his school's fine arts festival. All weary eyes are on him as he takes a deep breath, laces his fingers together, and stretches out his hands. He cracks his knuckles as if he has done this very thing many times before. The audience chuckles. The boy launches into a version of "Ode to Joy" that he has arranged himself based upon an 8-measure version in his piano lesson book. Despite his mother's urging to play the piece legato, he pounds out the song in the same unyielding fortissimo that he uses when banging out "Jingle Bells" one too many times a day at home.
He finishes the piece with a triumphant whole note, rises, then confidently bows.
"Mom, look at me!" the boy calls out as he cannonballs into the pool. The same confidence that he showed during the recital has propelled him to take up his mother's suggestion to jump off the diving board just minutes earlier. Gone is the terror-stricken expression he once wore when faced with the suggestion of swimming with his face underwater. There is no more panicked crying, no frenzied chase around the pool as his desperate mother tries to coax him back into the water.
As the boy's body hits the water, the mother turns her face away as a spray of water launches into her eyes. The boy still can't swim a decent freestyle, but how far he has come, she marvels. How very far.
She turns and shields her camera as another spray of water comes her way. Like a wartime photographer, she weaves, ducks, and snaps her way through the bursts of watergun-wielding boys who have come to celebrate her son's eighth birthday. The thermometer reads a blistering 95 degrees, but that is a small matter to the band of boys who dive in and out of the inflatable kiddie pool, refilling their guns with remarkable efficiency. Another group of boys launch themselves, penguin-style, down the dual concourse of a Slip-and-Slide. Nearby, others take turns spraying each other with the wide arc of a lawn sprinkler.
The mother looks through her viewfinder: F 1.8, ISO 100, shutter speed 1/600. The aperture is too wide for the image she aims to capture, and the shot won't eventually render as crisply as she'd prefer. But still, she likes what she sees through the lens: her eldest child, turned eight years old that very day, running about carefree. Weighted down with water, his brown hair and swim clothes adhere to his body, giving him a seal-like look. Surrounded by good friends, the past year is behind him, and he is laughing, laughing.
Posted by
June 5, 2011
Little by Little: Baby B.
Now that Andrew and William are almost 8 and 4 years-old respectively, I've forgotten how small they once were (yes, even hunker-chunker William, whom we first met at almost 8 months-old). Who are these Goliathan children who populate my home, whose footfalls in the room above seem to signal the advent of the Apocalypse, who mistakenly wear my sneakers when we go out to eat? It's an odd thing to regard yourself in a mirror holding your baby, only to note that that "baby" is about 2/3rds your size.
I recently had the privilege of photographing 2 week-old Baby B. Cradling this beautiful, delicate newborn made me realize how much my boys have grown in what often seems like a short time.
Of course, little B. won't be so little one day; in the few weeks since I took these pictures, she has no doubt grown significantly (isn't human growth, so invisible to the everyday eye, an amazing thing?). As she matures, some things are certain: she will be well-tended to, well-prayed for, and well-loved. After all, any mother who could sit through a photo shoot in an 85-degree house (I cranked up the heat to keep B. warm in her birthday suit), who could simultaneously wrangle a busy 2 year-old while sleep-deprived, and who could smile while getting peed on by her newborn must love profoundly.
As you grow in stature, may you also grow in grace, Baby B. Blessings to you.
I recently had the privilege of photographing 2 week-old Baby B. Cradling this beautiful, delicate newborn made me realize how much my boys have grown in what often seems like a short time.
Of course, little B. won't be so little one day; in the few weeks since I took these pictures, she has no doubt grown significantly (isn't human growth, so invisible to the everyday eye, an amazing thing?). As she matures, some things are certain: she will be well-tended to, well-prayed for, and well-loved. After all, any mother who could sit through a photo shoot in an 85-degree house (I cranked up the heat to keep B. warm in her birthday suit), who could simultaneously wrangle a busy 2 year-old while sleep-deprived, and who could smile while getting peed on by her newborn must love profoundly.
As you grow in stature, may you also grow in grace, Baby B. Blessings to you.
Posted by
May 27, 2011
Should Know Better
The following is a re-post of a piece I wrote for the Taiwan R.O.C.K.s blog at the request of my friend, Tiffanie. As a co-chair of the team that is planning an upcoming reunion of Taiwanese adoptees, she asked if I'd consider authoring a post for the group's new blog. After muddling through half a year of writer's block and struggling one too many nights to sort out my own feelings on the subject at hand, I finally hit "send" on the following:
Consider this: a few years ago, a friend told me about a situation at his workplace involving one of his employees. She had come to him complaining about her salary, feeling she was owed more for the effort she had put forth. Eventually, she tendered her resignation, claiming she had been the victim of gender and racial discrimination. However, as my friend told it, her history of performance simply didn't rival that of her higher paid co-workers. Try as he did, he could not think of an instance in which he might have spoken to or treated her in a demeaning way. The employee herself failed to offer up any specific examples of bias on his part.
While I can’t assume to know what happened - after all, we’re all flawed individuals capable of anything and everything - I was upset when I heard the story. The idea that my friend might discriminate in such ways made me want to shake my head in disbelief. In the 15 years that I have known him, he has gone out of his way to treat women equitably and honorably. His circle of friends includes many people of different ethnicities. His family circle includes a child adopted from Asia. Of all the people to accuse of gender or racial discrimination, he would be the last person who’d come to mind.
My incredulity skyrocketed when my friend mentioned that the employee is Asian-American. That a person of Asian heritage would lodge such loaded charges and be guilty of lackluster performance, as my friend told it, stunned me. “She should know better!” I wanted to protest. True, faultless job execution and relentless work ethics aren’t virtues unique to Asians alone. However, they are qualities towards which many of them are raised to aspire. And it’s quite true that Asians can sometimes be the worst at speaking up for themselves when wronged, perhaps fearing they’ll rock the Confucian all-for-one, one-for-all boat. But to levy such loaded and (presumably) empty charges smacked of a degree of entitlement and a lack of self-awareness that I – and no doubt other Asians – would consider embarrassing to the race as a whole.
Then, my friend happened to mention something: the employee in question was trans-racially adopted. Suddenly, a light went off in my head. Aha! All made sense now. The woman didn't have traditional Asian parents to inculcate the ages-old lessons in her. Her non-Asian parents probably never smacked her across the mouth the one time she dared to talk back to them, didn’t guilt her with stories of how they shared a ball of rice between them each night to pay for her school tuition, didn’t raise her to cringe when she read stories like this because she knew that this would inevitably ensue.
Her adoptive status suddenly exonerated her from hypocritical expectations I didn't realize I had held of Asians up until that point. I suddenly became aware of a double standard at work in my heart. For many years I have bemoaned the fact that many non-Asians expect me to speak fluent Mandarin and read the language, to be an expert on Chinese and Taiwanese culture, to be a demure and passive female with bound feet, or to be a 10th degree black belt in karate with a sixth sense. And yet, despite my own list of grievances, I found myself demanding that this woman be “Asian” in ways that I had personally defined. Shame on me! If others’ stereotyped expectations bother me as much as they do, I should have had enough sense to recognize the same faulty thinking at work in myself. I should know firsthand the yearning to live a life free of the mantle of race and its concomitant associations, to simply be human. I should have known better.
Sadly, I’m aware that I’m not the only Asian person in the world guilty of this hypocrisy. My own self-deception makes me wonder how my two boys will fare as they face a lifetime of interactions with other Asians. Will some of those Asians be their harshest critics? Or have times truly changed? Perhaps today’s kids more accepting. Even if they are, I don’t for a moment pretend to think that my older, biological son is exempt from racial expectations since he is Eurasian. Being biracial can come with its own particular set of obstacles. But for my younger son, adopted from Taiwan, I foresee potential challenges already. The world is a hard enough place for adoptees, particularly internationally adopted ones who may feel out of place in both their adoptive countries and their native lands. They don’t need people of their own heritage, the same people who should be the most supportive of them, to offer further resistance, either inwardly felt or outwardly expressed.
The possibility of such adversity has been weighing on my mind as my husband and I consider schooling decisions for our two boys. Andrew, our 7 year-old son, now attends a small private Christian school with strong academics and a diverse student body. Minority students form the 60% majority of his grade. His friends are Latino, Caucasian, and African-American. Unfortunately, there are very few Asians in his school. It’s a regrettable statistic, but I’m not overly concerned. As an introvert who thrives in smaller crowds, whose life doesn’t revolved around athletics, and whose partial heritage is substantially represented by the school’s 40% Caucasian population, Andrew would probably be well-served by staying there.
But enter 3 year-old William. Social William. Athletic William. Bright William. Adopted William. So much of the school district to which we’ve recently moved seems to be a good fit for him. True, he would lose out on the quality Christian education and the diversity that attracted us to Andrew’s school. But the impact of the district’s almost 8% Asian student population (higher than the 4.8% Asian population in all of America according to the 2010 census) cannot be overlooked. I can’t help but wonder what being surrounded by other children of Asian descent might do for him.
Having been shuttled in and out of various public and private schools in which I and sometimes another student comprised the entire Asian population, I know firsthand the strain of being the odd one out. It’s speculative, of course, but perhaps my 13 year-old self might have been more at ease with the looks God saw fit to give me. Perhaps I wouldn’t have stood before the mirror pulling wide the ends of my eyes and tugging at the tip of my nose, wondering if I’d be more attractive if my features were more traditionally Western. For William, for whom the world suggests at every turn that he’s less valid, just not the same because he is adopted, looking like many of the kids around him could have a powerful effect.
Or, it might not.
Could it be possible that surrounding our kids with others who loosely resemble them actually do more harm than good?
“Don’t be silly!” many would retort. “There’s everything to gain and nothing to lose.”
I would like to believe that those people are right. However, my own experiences make me stop and ponder. If we do place our boys in the local public school, we would be putting adopted William in an environment in which he would be surrounded by Asian kids who are mostly children of immigrants, if not immigrants themselves. The same kids who might help him feel more comfortable with his ethnicity may also be the same ones who might give him the greatest grief about his heritage and how he might choose to express it.
In my 36 years, I have found that it is sometimes the 1st and 2nd generation Asian-Americans who hold the narrowest view of what Asians should or shouldn’t be. They can sometimes be quick to make their opinions known. On multiple occasions, I have been given a hard time about my sorry Mandarin (“How come you Chinese but you no speak Chinese?”), my Caucasian boyfriend-turned-husband (“Hey, Judy, do you know what a Twinkie is?”), or my choice to join Christian groups in college that weren’t Asian-specific (whatever happened to the apostle Paul’s declaration that “there is neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free, nor is there male nor female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus”?).
Don’t get me wrong: I’ve had countless positive interactions with Asians, too. Not all are back-biting, self-loathing critics. However, my less-than-pleasant encounters have given me cause to think about our differences and the friction that may ensue as far as my children are concerned. While William is technically a first generation American (or 1.5 generation as some may classify him), his upbringing will probably be more similar to that of a 3rd generation Asian-American. His experience won’t be marked by the rigid adherence to old-world mores and the cultural groping-about-in-the-dark that characterize many 1st generation Asian-Americans, particularly those who moved to America as adults. It will lack the one-foot-in-the-West, one-foot-in-the-East dichotomy that many 2nd generation Americans, myself included, feel. Rather, like many 3rd generation Asian-Americans, I imagine William’s outlook will be more traditionally Western, that he will feel less tormented about picking and choosing which cultural expressions he wishes to retain or forego.
As such, he could very well have a harder time relating to his 1st and 2nd generation Asian-American peers. Whether those kids recognize it or not, there is an invisible bond that joins them. They can laugh at jokes like this, understanding the humor on a surface level that would engage anyone, regardless of race. Yet, they can also appreciate the immigrant frugalista mentality that gives the picture an added layer of humor because they’ve likely experienced it firsthand in their own family. They can read something like this and roll their eyeballs with everyone else at the harshness of the father’s response. However, they’re less prone to charge the father with emotional abuse because they can probably relate to the uncanny mix of severity and love, of sacrifice and good intentions that prompted his words. And, chances are, lists of commonalities like this will have them wiping away tears from laughing so hard.
As the adopted child of a 2nd generation Taiwanese-American whose ways are more traditionally Western than Eastern, the deeper humor may well be lost on William. Sure, he’ll pick up a traditional mannerism or two from being around me, things that will naturally transmit with little effort on my part. For better or worse, he can already spot a sample cart at Costco from 100 feet away and maneuver his way toward it like a guided missile. As he gets older, nothing will thrill him like scoring a good bargain via multiple discounts and sad puppy-pleading for an additional price cut because the item is slightly stained. He will learn to honor his elders (though I won’t threaten to disown him if he puts me in a nursing home). He will learn from early on that he represents not only himself but every Asian because frankly, the world is watching, because there are enough ignorant people out there who’d sooner impute the crimes of a single Asian person upon the entire race. And whether it’s an Asian value or not, he will learn the value of a strong work ethic and not making excuses for himself (though if he breaks his arm, he will not force himself to operate on a patient the next day as my father did). Still, in the end, William’s cultural education will be one diluted by my own upbringing, filtered through my personal assessments of what did or didn’t work. As a result, he just might not be laughing as hard as his 1st and 2nd generation Asian peers.
Will a potential inability to relate innately to others of his heritage be just another thing he lost when he was placed for adoption? Only a fool would think he could return to Taiwan one day and be able to “disappear” among the native crowds. My own mother, who spent her first 20 years growing up there, can be easily spotted for a tourist when she returns to visit. Time and distance have an uncanny way of altering one’s mannerisms, style, and general outlook. Even here in the great melting pot of America, William could just as well have a hard time blending in with his non-adopted Asian peers. It would seem that the very act of adoption has wedged him between a rock and hard place when it comes to being fully accepted by people of his own heritage.
Perhaps it’s the worrier in me that fears this conundrum will one day be my son’s. For all I know, there are many international adoptees who go about their lives without wondering whether they’d fit in on either side of the ocean. Perhaps they live in communities that hold looser views of what people of their race “should” and “shouldn’t” be. Or, perhaps they experience antagonism but have the inner confidence to not be shaken by it. In William’s case, I’m hoping for the former scenario but will willingly accept the latter.
Like most parents, adoptive or not, I have resolved to do the best I can to raise my son to be happy and healthy, both inwardly and outwardly. I want so much to make William’s life one that is free of pain, but I know that this is just not possible on this side of heaven. Humans are imperfect beings capable of hurting one another deeply. Knowing that, what can I, as a concerned parent, do to prepare my son to deal with potential opposition from those of his own race? I could teach him to use chopsticks and speak Mandarin so he might “blend in” better with his Asian peers. (I’d argue that there is strong value in having our adopted Taiwanese and Chinese children learn these things.) But I also realize that such outward expressions can only go so far.
In the end, I know that it is the inward lessons that will have the greatest impact. Thus, I am endeavoring to teach my son how to forgive, to have a sense of humor in the face of adversity, and most of all, to place his self-worth in something far beyond his ethnicity and his ability to adhere to someone else’s notions of how to express it. For my husband and I, as Christian parents, this means teaching William that he is so precious that God himself would lay down his own life in order to live out eternity with him. Our child has worth because he is immeasurably worthwhile to his heavenly creator. To root his self-esteem in anything on earth, ephemeral as those things certainly are, would only lead to an endless cycle of disillusionment and bitterness. And isn’t there enough race-related anger in the world already?
These are not easy lessons to apprehend. As an adult, I find myself constantly struggling to learn and re-learn them. But if both William and I can have teachable hearts and learn that we have significance because of Who loves us and not because of the heritage into which we’ve been born, we might slowly but surely find ourselves knowing just a little better each day.
Consider this: a few years ago, a friend told me about a situation at his workplace involving one of his employees. She had come to him complaining about her salary, feeling she was owed more for the effort she had put forth. Eventually, she tendered her resignation, claiming she had been the victim of gender and racial discrimination. However, as my friend told it, her history of performance simply didn't rival that of her higher paid co-workers. Try as he did, he could not think of an instance in which he might have spoken to or treated her in a demeaning way. The employee herself failed to offer up any specific examples of bias on his part.
While I can’t assume to know what happened - after all, we’re all flawed individuals capable of anything and everything - I was upset when I heard the story. The idea that my friend might discriminate in such ways made me want to shake my head in disbelief. In the 15 years that I have known him, he has gone out of his way to treat women equitably and honorably. His circle of friends includes many people of different ethnicities. His family circle includes a child adopted from Asia. Of all the people to accuse of gender or racial discrimination, he would be the last person who’d come to mind.
My incredulity skyrocketed when my friend mentioned that the employee is Asian-American. That a person of Asian heritage would lodge such loaded charges and be guilty of lackluster performance, as my friend told it, stunned me. “She should know better!” I wanted to protest. True, faultless job execution and relentless work ethics aren’t virtues unique to Asians alone. However, they are qualities towards which many of them are raised to aspire. And it’s quite true that Asians can sometimes be the worst at speaking up for themselves when wronged, perhaps fearing they’ll rock the Confucian all-for-one, one-for-all boat. But to levy such loaded and (presumably) empty charges smacked of a degree of entitlement and a lack of self-awareness that I – and no doubt other Asians – would consider embarrassing to the race as a whole.
Then, my friend happened to mention something: the employee in question was trans-racially adopted. Suddenly, a light went off in my head. Aha! All made sense now. The woman didn't have traditional Asian parents to inculcate the ages-old lessons in her. Her non-Asian parents probably never smacked her across the mouth the one time she dared to talk back to them, didn’t guilt her with stories of how they shared a ball of rice between them each night to pay for her school tuition, didn’t raise her to cringe when she read stories like this because she knew that this would inevitably ensue.
Her adoptive status suddenly exonerated her from hypocritical expectations I didn't realize I had held of Asians up until that point. I suddenly became aware of a double standard at work in my heart. For many years I have bemoaned the fact that many non-Asians expect me to speak fluent Mandarin and read the language, to be an expert on Chinese and Taiwanese culture, to be a demure and passive female with bound feet, or to be a 10th degree black belt in karate with a sixth sense. And yet, despite my own list of grievances, I found myself demanding that this woman be “Asian” in ways that I had personally defined. Shame on me! If others’ stereotyped expectations bother me as much as they do, I should have had enough sense to recognize the same faulty thinking at work in myself. I should know firsthand the yearning to live a life free of the mantle of race and its concomitant associations, to simply be human. I should have known better.
Sadly, I’m aware that I’m not the only Asian person in the world guilty of this hypocrisy. My own self-deception makes me wonder how my two boys will fare as they face a lifetime of interactions with other Asians. Will some of those Asians be their harshest critics? Or have times truly changed? Perhaps today’s kids more accepting. Even if they are, I don’t for a moment pretend to think that my older, biological son is exempt from racial expectations since he is Eurasian. Being biracial can come with its own particular set of obstacles. But for my younger son, adopted from Taiwan, I foresee potential challenges already. The world is a hard enough place for adoptees, particularly internationally adopted ones who may feel out of place in both their adoptive countries and their native lands. They don’t need people of their own heritage, the same people who should be the most supportive of them, to offer further resistance, either inwardly felt or outwardly expressed.
The possibility of such adversity has been weighing on my mind as my husband and I consider schooling decisions for our two boys. Andrew, our 7 year-old son, now attends a small private Christian school with strong academics and a diverse student body. Minority students form the 60% majority of his grade. His friends are Latino, Caucasian, and African-American. Unfortunately, there are very few Asians in his school. It’s a regrettable statistic, but I’m not overly concerned. As an introvert who thrives in smaller crowds, whose life doesn’t revolved around athletics, and whose partial heritage is substantially represented by the school’s 40% Caucasian population, Andrew would probably be well-served by staying there.
But enter 3 year-old William. Social William. Athletic William. Bright William. Adopted William. So much of the school district to which we’ve recently moved seems to be a good fit for him. True, he would lose out on the quality Christian education and the diversity that attracted us to Andrew’s school. But the impact of the district’s almost 8% Asian student population (higher than the 4.8% Asian population in all of America according to the 2010 census) cannot be overlooked. I can’t help but wonder what being surrounded by other children of Asian descent might do for him.
Having been shuttled in and out of various public and private schools in which I and sometimes another student comprised the entire Asian population, I know firsthand the strain of being the odd one out. It’s speculative, of course, but perhaps my 13 year-old self might have been more at ease with the looks God saw fit to give me. Perhaps I wouldn’t have stood before the mirror pulling wide the ends of my eyes and tugging at the tip of my nose, wondering if I’d be more attractive if my features were more traditionally Western. For William, for whom the world suggests at every turn that he’s less valid, just not the same because he is adopted, looking like many of the kids around him could have a powerful effect.
Or, it might not.
Could it be possible that surrounding our kids with others who loosely resemble them actually do more harm than good?
“Don’t be silly!” many would retort. “There’s everything to gain and nothing to lose.”
I would like to believe that those people are right. However, my own experiences make me stop and ponder. If we do place our boys in the local public school, we would be putting adopted William in an environment in which he would be surrounded by Asian kids who are mostly children of immigrants, if not immigrants themselves. The same kids who might help him feel more comfortable with his ethnicity may also be the same ones who might give him the greatest grief about his heritage and how he might choose to express it.
In my 36 years, I have found that it is sometimes the 1st and 2nd generation Asian-Americans who hold the narrowest view of what Asians should or shouldn’t be. They can sometimes be quick to make their opinions known. On multiple occasions, I have been given a hard time about my sorry Mandarin (“How come you Chinese but you no speak Chinese?”), my Caucasian boyfriend-turned-husband (“Hey, Judy, do you know what a Twinkie is?”), or my choice to join Christian groups in college that weren’t Asian-specific (whatever happened to the apostle Paul’s declaration that “there is neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free, nor is there male nor female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus”?).
Don’t get me wrong: I’ve had countless positive interactions with Asians, too. Not all are back-biting, self-loathing critics. However, my less-than-pleasant encounters have given me cause to think about our differences and the friction that may ensue as far as my children are concerned. While William is technically a first generation American (or 1.5 generation as some may classify him), his upbringing will probably be more similar to that of a 3rd generation Asian-American. His experience won’t be marked by the rigid adherence to old-world mores and the cultural groping-about-in-the-dark that characterize many 1st generation Asian-Americans, particularly those who moved to America as adults. It will lack the one-foot-in-the-West, one-foot-in-the-East dichotomy that many 2nd generation Americans, myself included, feel. Rather, like many 3rd generation Asian-Americans, I imagine William’s outlook will be more traditionally Western, that he will feel less tormented about picking and choosing which cultural expressions he wishes to retain or forego.
As such, he could very well have a harder time relating to his 1st and 2nd generation Asian-American peers. Whether those kids recognize it or not, there is an invisible bond that joins them. They can laugh at jokes like this, understanding the humor on a surface level that would engage anyone, regardless of race. Yet, they can also appreciate the immigrant frugalista mentality that gives the picture an added layer of humor because they’ve likely experienced it firsthand in their own family. They can read something like this and roll their eyeballs with everyone else at the harshness of the father’s response. However, they’re less prone to charge the father with emotional abuse because they can probably relate to the uncanny mix of severity and love, of sacrifice and good intentions that prompted his words. And, chances are, lists of commonalities like this will have them wiping away tears from laughing so hard.
As the adopted child of a 2nd generation Taiwanese-American whose ways are more traditionally Western than Eastern, the deeper humor may well be lost on William. Sure, he’ll pick up a traditional mannerism or two from being around me, things that will naturally transmit with little effort on my part. For better or worse, he can already spot a sample cart at Costco from 100 feet away and maneuver his way toward it like a guided missile. As he gets older, nothing will thrill him like scoring a good bargain via multiple discounts and sad puppy-pleading for an additional price cut because the item is slightly stained. He will learn to honor his elders (though I won’t threaten to disown him if he puts me in a nursing home). He will learn from early on that he represents not only himself but every Asian because frankly, the world is watching, because there are enough ignorant people out there who’d sooner impute the crimes of a single Asian person upon the entire race. And whether it’s an Asian value or not, he will learn the value of a strong work ethic and not making excuses for himself (though if he breaks his arm, he will not force himself to operate on a patient the next day as my father did). Still, in the end, William’s cultural education will be one diluted by my own upbringing, filtered through my personal assessments of what did or didn’t work. As a result, he just might not be laughing as hard as his 1st and 2nd generation Asian peers.
Will a potential inability to relate innately to others of his heritage be just another thing he lost when he was placed for adoption? Only a fool would think he could return to Taiwan one day and be able to “disappear” among the native crowds. My own mother, who spent her first 20 years growing up there, can be easily spotted for a tourist when she returns to visit. Time and distance have an uncanny way of altering one’s mannerisms, style, and general outlook. Even here in the great melting pot of America, William could just as well have a hard time blending in with his non-adopted Asian peers. It would seem that the very act of adoption has wedged him between a rock and hard place when it comes to being fully accepted by people of his own heritage.
Perhaps it’s the worrier in me that fears this conundrum will one day be my son’s. For all I know, there are many international adoptees who go about their lives without wondering whether they’d fit in on either side of the ocean. Perhaps they live in communities that hold looser views of what people of their race “should” and “shouldn’t” be. Or, perhaps they experience antagonism but have the inner confidence to not be shaken by it. In William’s case, I’m hoping for the former scenario but will willingly accept the latter.
Like most parents, adoptive or not, I have resolved to do the best I can to raise my son to be happy and healthy, both inwardly and outwardly. I want so much to make William’s life one that is free of pain, but I know that this is just not possible on this side of heaven. Humans are imperfect beings capable of hurting one another deeply. Knowing that, what can I, as a concerned parent, do to prepare my son to deal with potential opposition from those of his own race? I could teach him to use chopsticks and speak Mandarin so he might “blend in” better with his Asian peers. (I’d argue that there is strong value in having our adopted Taiwanese and Chinese children learn these things.) But I also realize that such outward expressions can only go so far.
In the end, I know that it is the inward lessons that will have the greatest impact. Thus, I am endeavoring to teach my son how to forgive, to have a sense of humor in the face of adversity, and most of all, to place his self-worth in something far beyond his ethnicity and his ability to adhere to someone else’s notions of how to express it. For my husband and I, as Christian parents, this means teaching William that he is so precious that God himself would lay down his own life in order to live out eternity with him. Our child has worth because he is immeasurably worthwhile to his heavenly creator. To root his self-esteem in anything on earth, ephemeral as those things certainly are, would only lead to an endless cycle of disillusionment and bitterness. And isn’t there enough race-related anger in the world already?
These are not easy lessons to apprehend. As an adult, I find myself constantly struggling to learn and re-learn them. But if both William and I can have teachable hearts and learn that we have significance because of Who loves us and not because of the heritage into which we’ve been born, we might slowly but surely find ourselves knowing just a little better each day.
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May 22, 2011
O, Happy Day!
When it comes to holidays, it's easy to forget why we celebrate the occasion on hand. Easter, the most joyous day of the Christian calendar, the celebration of Jesus' triumph over death, is no exception. The significance of that pivotal miracle often gets lost in the mess of plastic grass in a basket with an impractically long handle, tear-stained attempts at pictures with a guy in a bunny suit (for only $14.99!), or the guilt of having snuck too many chocolate eggs out of that basket with the impractically long handle when the kids aren't looking. In the end, we sometimes find ourselves with little time and energy and far less stillness of heart needed to marvel at Christ.
This Easter, our family had the opportunity to study Christ's resurrection in a different way. We loaded the boys up in the Honda and drove 6 hours south to visit my parents in Virginia. Ahgon and Ahma regaled the kids with a trip to the Ringling Brothers' circus, an egg hunt, and lavish amounts of good food and loving attention.
The highlight of the weekend was attending my father's baptism at a local Chinese church. It was well worth wrangling wiggly William for an hour to hear my dad share how his battle with cancer ultimately led him to faith in Christ. While we are saddened that his recent radiation therapy has failed to check his cancer, we delight to know that out of something bitter has come something beautiful. In coming to terms with his powerlessness and relying instead on the ability of Christ, he has discovered a source of strength that will not fail him, an abiding joy that will fulfill him in a way that nothing on earth can, and a Savior who will be with him through eternity. He has discovered the kind of new, inner life made possible by Christ's resurrection on the very first Easter.
Welcome to the family, Dad.
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April 30, 2011
Numbers
Do you like numbers? I don't. In fact, I have an irrational fear of them.
Nonetheless, I thought it worthwhile to serve up the following random figures. I'll just deal with the digit-induced headaches later.
A few decades from now, if we've successfully redirected William's quick temper and bossypants attitude, the boy might eventually transition from self-supposed CEO of the playground to CEO of a Fortune 500 company.
Nonetheless, I thought it worthwhile to serve up the following random figures. I'll just deal with the digit-induced headaches later.
- The 2010 U.S. Census numbers are in. The statistics on Asian-Americans are particularly fascinating. Over the last 10 years, the Asian-American race has become the fastest-growing population, increasing by 43% in just a decade. That being said, Asian-Americans, including those of mixed race, still represent just 5.6% of the country. Holla!
- Of interest to our family, mixed white and Asian individuals like our older son, Andrew, comprise at least 1.6 million of the nation's population.
- 2010 was also the year of a strong grassroots push for Taiwanese-Americans to identify themselves as such, rather than lump themselves under the category of "Chinese-American." 3/4 of our household added our voices to the ranks of those that stood up for Taiwanese-America on the census. I'd show you the final stats if only I could make sense of how to use the not-so-user-friendly 2010 Census Fact Finder.
- Speaking of Asian-Americans, do you ever wonder if it's true that we sometimes have a harder time getting admitted to top-tier colleges due to hidden quotas? If so, then this article, chock full of numbers, may be for you. Yikes. After reading it, I'm thinking Andrew might stand a better chance identifying himself as "white," while William might do well to play up his status as an international adoptee.
- Now, 1/2 of our family's population have blogs. For some time now, Andrew has wanted his own website to showcase his creative undertakings. Last week's spring break gave us some time to finally start working on it. As much as Andrew complained about having to hunt and peck for the keys to type up the brief blog posts, he really enjoyed seeing his work online. And I? I was personally glad for an excuse to snap a few pictures of my now camera-antagonistic son. If you have a moment, click on over to Creations and K'nexions and leave him a comment. You'd really make a 7 year-old boy's day.
- 2. 2 years is how long our friends, the Fadelys, have initially committed to spend serving orphans in India. We first met this beautiful family of 6 online when we began our journeys to adopt from Taiwan. Their path eventually took them far south of Taiwan, to India, where they adopted their 3 year-old daughter, Dorothy. So haunted were they by the orphans they left behind that they've made the leap to abandon the comfortable life of the average American and work at an orphanage Ongole, India Please check out their blog and cheer them on.
A few decades from now, if we've successfully redirected William's quick temper and bossypants attitude, the boy might eventually transition from self-supposed CEO of the playground to CEO of a Fortune 500 company.
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