Second Choice

a female wood carrier walking down from the mountains, Addis Ababa

Daniel and Lily both have Life Books, which we try to read often.  Right now they are not as interesting as The Avengers Sticker and Activity book, but we try.  Their life books are simple versions of their story; how they came to be living in America, with us.  In the old days of adoption, children weren't told their story- sometimes living until adulthood without any idea of where or from whom they came from.  We try not to have any secrets from our children.  Daniel, especially, knows exactly what happened: he was there.  But there are parts of the story that we don't dwell on, at least not now.  We don't dwell on the fact that there are medicines in America that could have cured his mother. We don't dwell on the fact that in America, fathers don't have to watch their infants starve. Hunger, yes. Starve. No.

We also don't dwell on why mommy and daddy decided to adopt.  There are many people who create or add to their families through adoption as their first choice.  I love these folks.  We came to adoption the round-about way. First we tried to get pregnant.  Then teams of doctors tried to get us pregnant. Then we decided to adopt. PHEW! (Side note: a homestudy is nothing after infertility treatments. Want to know everything about me? Sure! I have no secrets anymore. I get to keep my clothes on? Even better!)

One of these years the kids will figure out that adopting two Ethiopians was our second choice for creating our family.  But you know what?  Relinquishing their children to be adopted was their Ethiopian family's second choice too.

Adoption is a tiny beautiful bandaid on a large ugly problem.  My children have a loving family, plenty to eat, and a chance for a successful, healthy life.  They are very lucky in how their bad luck turned out. Their family's second choice turned into a second chance.  There are millions of children around the world who just have bad luck and then more bad luck.  There are millions of families torn apart by disease, poverty, lack of clean water, fear and religious intolerance.  Only a small thousand of those children are adopted.

So when people say, "It is just wonderful, what you are doing."  I first say "Thank you", and "We have been very blessed."  Then I think, if I was really wonderful and saintly, as you might be thinking, I would have given all the money I spent adopting these kids into keeping their first family intact.  That is the argument that folks make when they criticize celebrities, and non-celebrities, for their international adoptions.  I don't really disagree, in theory.

John Seabrook wrote a beautiful piece about adopting his Haitian daughter in The New Yorker last year.   In it he reflects on how, in miniature, international adoption makes perfect sense. A child needs a family; a family needs a child.  When you pull back and look at the bigger picture, things aren't so clear.  It suddenly seems like there are millions of families who need better choices, more choices.

There are parts to our children's story that we don't dwell on, at least not now.  But someday, I hope, those sadder, harder, more confusing parts will inspire them to create change in the world, as they have inspired me to share our story here.  Until then, Avengers! Assemble!

Careful.

I used to joke that the two most useless words in my vocabulary were "be careful." Yet I say them all the time... to my headless, athletic, fearless, nimble, precocious children.

To my black children.

Be careful.

It's not a joke anymore.

It seems that lately every grand jury announcement, every news cycle, every hashtag explosion brings tidings of death and punishment.

News of the wages of being black in America.

Apparently,

The wages of resisting arrest is death.
The wages of buying a toy gun is death.
The wages of playing with a toy gun is death.
The wages of jay walking is death.
The wages of walking in an unfamiliar neighborhood is death. For a black man. For a black child.

And the punishment for a uniformed man killing another man or child is... none.

I've sat with the news of the grand jury non-indictment for the murder of Michael Brown for a few days now. I've been trying to let that sink into me... and it was hard, but I did manage to push it aside a little bit, because we don't live anywhere near Ferguson.

And then today. Another police officer, another murdered black man. Another grand jury that cannot find a single charge despite there being a recording of the death. I can't push that aside, because I live here.

And so does my son.  Not by his choice, most certainly.  If a series of tragic events hadn't unfolded in a small town in Ethiopia he would still be playing under her blue sky  Safe from bullets, if not from the diseases of poverty. Safe from racism, if not from hunger.

I used to think that my precious children were safer here. Safe with a fridge full of food, safe with a good doctor and great schools and the awesome opportunities afforded to them. Ha! That illusion has been shattered forever.

It was nearly invisible to me before we became an inter-racial family, but the day we adopted our two African children is the day that my white privilege shattered into a thousand jagged pieces.

I can feel every one right now.

There's that saying that your children are your heart walking around outside of you. My heart is inside of two beautiful Black children, walking around innocently outside of me in this terrifying world. And there is precious little my white privilege can do to protect them. The wings of that shelter grow ever tattered and thin the older they get. Our son is young still, but strong and large. He, like many 8 year old boys, has the heart of a fighter and the temper of a stinging bee. In a few years he will be 12, just like Tamar Rice, who was killed for playing with a toy gun. In a playground. By a cop. Will his killer walk free too? Or will we finally realize that All Life Matters? That Black Lives Matter? That our fears and our racism and our prejudices and our hatred are terrible, murderous illusions.

I may look white. I may have ancestors who threw up on the Mayflower. But the heart inside me is black. And right now it's bruised and broken.

But it's still beating. Because around me now and throughout our history thousands, millions of black hearts have been bruised and broken and yet still pounded. Wept. Marched. Chanted. Sang.

Prayed.

My prayer tonight is that more hearts will be broken open. The hearts of those who defend murderers, who accuse the innocent, who suspect their neighbors, who tell lies, who blindly hate or fear. Broken open and filled up with the love of children. Every one, every where, is some one's child. Some one's heart, walking around.

And my second prayer, is be careful.  Dear God, be careful with my heart.