Category Archives: Other Stuff

Liebster Award

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First of all, thank you very much Heart Mommy from Heart Mommy’s Strawberry Shortcake for nominating me for a Liebster Award. As Heart Mommy discussed in her own post, I had to run off and see what the Liebster was all about! It is a great way to spread the word about great blogs out there with relatively small followings. I’m touched that someone thinks my little ramblings are worthy of the attention. So thanks very much Heart Mommy.

So, for newbies to my blog, I’m a Black new adoptive mother to a soon to be 13 year old. My adoption journey started in January of 2013, and Hope and I just finalized our deal in early June 2014. Yep, we were speedy, so we’ve compressed a lot into a short period of time. Somehow during all of this I managed to finish my dissertation and graduate in May of this year. I’m single and Hope and I have a geriatric pup known as The Furry One—yeah, he’s special like that. Hope and I are just figuring this whole thing out, the ups and downs of life.

So, here are the questions my fellow blogger suggested I answer.

What do you consider to be your greatest accomplishment in life?

Oh, without a doubt becoming a mom. Geesch I can barely have a conversation without gushing about becoming a mom. Even at my recent graduation, having Hope, my daughter, there just made me tear up. Sometimes I just look at her and think to myself how frigging awesome it is that this person is in my life and that she chose me and that she is proud to bear my last name. Mad, mad cool.

If you could change anything in your life what would it be?

Well, the easy answers would be to be rich and healthy slim, but meh…more realistically, it would be to have more time to nurture my relationships with friends and family. The last few years in school I pulled back on so many things and the last few months I feel like I’ve barely seen anyone. I thirst for those relationships; so I would change things so I had more time and opportunity to just hang out with friends and family.

Who or what is your biggest inspiration?

There is a whole constellation of folks who inspire me to push forward. Each person plays a unique role. Some are great role models, others are cheerleaders, still others are motivators and still others practice tough love. I find them individually and collectively to be fascinating and they give me the fire to get ‘er done!

I’m not sure if saying that the Holy Homeboy is an inspiration as much a major force in my life, but I will say that I’ve learned more about grace in the last few months than almost any other time in my life, save one or two. I am mindful that the strength and the gumption and the at times reckless ambition that I have stems from knowing He’s got my back. There’s a peacefulness in knowing this that allows me to be the total badass (ironically) that I believe I’m called to be.

If you could travel anywhere, where would you go?

I’ve been working on a fantasy to move to a beach in Punta Cana, Dominican Republic for years. I would travel there or to Madrid—a city that dwells in my heart—in a NYC minute!

What is the best piece of advice that you could give a foster/adoptive parent?

I’m beginning to work on a piece about what I wish I had done differently. I would say to folks considering adoption–get that inner circle around you to support you and do your best to educate them in ways that help them help you. I regret not doing more of that prep work and I think the end result has been tougher than I imagined. Having friends and family support you is important, but there is type of nuanced support that is needed to grapple with the need for different expectations and different realities inherent in adoption stories. I think adoptive parents may feel under a lot more unintended pressure because we also get put on absurd pedestals for being such “good people” (emphasis on the air quotes). Pedestal falls hurt.

Other advice would be get and go to your own therapist, buy wine by the case and not the bottle, and try to reflect a lot so that you can keep track of progress. Progress can often get lost in the mayhem.

If you were to be granted three wishes, what would they be and why?

Wish 1: I wish I didn’t have the need to work for a living. I have little desire to live an extravagant life, but I’m finding other passions that I’d like to devote time to. Time constructs are pretty finite and I need to finance my and Hope’s lives. I wish I was at a point where I could monetize those other passions so that I could devote myself to them without restraint.

Wish 2: I wish the compound retreat that some of my best girlfriends and I often joke that we are going to start was real. Sometimes you just need to get away to a special place and shut the world completely out; you just need days or weeks to breathe deeply and rest, rather than just simply a few moments gasping for oxygen.

Wish 3: I wish there was a quick fix for Hope’s emotional healing. I wish I had one of those gadgets in the movies where I could just zap away all the bad stuff and replace it with good stuff. Healing take an enormous amount of energy, and it’s great to watch her blossom. But sometimes it’s just a painful, really painful process that I wish I could speed us through.

Describe your blog in three words.

Transparent. Irreverent. Emotional.

 

So, the Google tells me I should nominate a few other blogs to keep this thing moving along. So here are a few blogs that I follow and read with great anticipation.

Complicated Melodi: Melodi is a new adoptive mom to darling Nana. I see similarities in our experiences as people of color in the adoption community. I appreciate how Melodi talks about her own story and how it influences her adoption journey.

FosterWee: This blog chronicles Carrie Ann and Andrew’s experiences as foster parents to Blitzen. Blitzen and my Hope are similar in age and this blog has really helped me understand that the wacky things going on in my home are normal for older foster/adopted kids. I would hug these folks if I could.

Minuit262 AKA AdoptiveNYMomma: Awesome blog by an amazing single mom who juggles a lot and has this huge heart. She has encouraged me on many days, but she inspires me every day. Definitely swing by and check her out.

 

So here are my questions:

Why did you start blogging?

What is the biggest lesson you’ve learned on your adoption journey?

How do you practice self-care?

If you could be doing anything else right now in your life, what would it be?

What are your predictions for the next year on your journey?

 


Thoughts on Resiliency

Oh, y’all thought I was going to talk about Hope’s resiliency? No this post is about my own elasticity.

Honestly, nothing is wrong at home, really. Hope and I are doing fine, being normal (whatever that is), but there’s just messiness all around that has me feeling stretched and tired and cranky and just ugh.

Overflowing toilet, faux belly aches, missed buses, rejected dinners, continued village fallout, a nosebleed that lasted more than an hour, a demand to do laundry for one item, a sick dog, an epic grief attack, a meeting with the school counselor, the attorney, the adoption support rep and the fact that my hair looked remarkably like Fredrick Douglass’ hair yesterday.  Seriously, Frederick Douglass…I know that sounds vain, but don’t you find that you can handle things better when you’re having a good hair day?

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Frederick is serving some serious side eye. Yeah, I was channeling this yesterday. I’ve even got the mean silver streak. Sigh…

Last night I poured a big glass of wine, fixed myself a cookie butter sandwich and washed my hair. Then I set about to google “Adoptive Parent Resilience.”

Ugh. Oh that was fun. #notreally

It always amazes me that while there is tons of research on child resiliency, there seem to be little about parental resiliency, much less about adoptive parents. Certainly there are resources, and it would seem that having access to resources seems critical to nurturing parental resiliency, whether you’re an adoptive parent or not. That said, I find myself wondering how parents just deal.

I mean, I just do deal and I know the adage that parenting is the toughest job…blah, blah, blah. But when it seems like Rome is burning and you’re the empress and you have a personal fan instead of at least a fire extinguisher, you might feel inadequate on a good day; absurdly stupid on the next.

So my next search string was “Self-care for adoptive parents.” This search was much better; apparently I stumbled on the right lingo.

I did find this article: Self-Care: Barriers and Basics for Foster/Adoptive Parents. I found this particular barrier resonated with me:

“Fourth, too many parents simply do not know what would help them. They know something is missing, but can’t put their finger on just what might make them feel better. Parents are often told, “Call if there is anything you need,” but it is hard to call and ask for help, especially when you cannot even articulate what you need. This leaves many parents vulnerable and exhausted.”

And also this because I just posted how someone is always doing worse:

“Compounding matters, recent disasters—9/11, Hurricanes Katrina and Rita, the earthquake in Pakistan, and the prolonged conflict in Iraq—remind us all that there are always other people who are worse off. We are taught as children to be happy with what we have since other people have it much harder. It is little wonder we sometimes feel guilty because our ongoing trauma pales in comparison to these catastrophic tragedies.”

Yeah. That.

So, the recommendations in this document are cool. Yeah, I need to find a few more things to personally look forward to and I need to just be ok with being different. I thought I was, but I’m not. And yes, connecting with other parents helps—there’s a delightful notion of finding commonalities in the countless struggles. It is validating, and reinforces that this stuff is “normal’ for this population, but does it make me feel better? Not really. And giving yourself permission to ask for help feels useless when you really can’t put your finger on what really would be helpful other than a good cry that can happen somewhere other than in your master bath with the bedroom and bathroom doors closed, sitting on the toilet because that’s the most private place in the house. #maybeIshouldtrythewalkincloset

On other sites I stumbled over, respite is the be all, end all solution to my resiliency problems. But as a single parent, I don’t have a partner who can pick up some slack and I’m sensitive about how I use the geographically accessible village and I love my sitter service and it’s worth the money, but “respite” makes for a pricey night out before I even leave the house.

So, now what?

Oh, I pray a lot. A lot; a lot.

So here’s my current approach to trying to practice self-care:

Lower expectations. Seriously, I’m lowering them all the way to the floor. Having so many unmet expectations can’t be healthy, so that’s where I’m going to sit down and take a rest for a while.

I’m tired of having expectations that the school counselor is going to respond to my email about bullying on the same day or that I’m actually going to get to play Boggle with Hope when she gets home from school or that some folks in my life will ever meet me where I am on this journey or that the Absurdly Hot Therapist’s scheduler will actually give me a consistent set of appointment dates or that Hope won’t lose her shiz every time she sees a bug as tiny as an ant or that I won’t cry inside when Hope and I go out and I get the crazy eyeballs from people while she’s in the middle of a meltdown because I can’t stop it and I feel like it’s a commentary on what kind of parent I’m perceived to be. I’m tired of a bunch of stuff, even though many things are going well.

I’m just tired of having expectations that are just not going to be met.

I never knew my skin was so thin. Maybe this process just strips so much from you; maybe you need that thick skin coming in just so you have a little reserve when it’s all sloughed off as you progress through the process. I don’t know. I do know that in terms of resiliency, I could use a lot more bounce to the ounce. #rogertroutmanfan

So there’s my current two nickels of thoughts on parental resiliency. Lower expectations to reduce heart and head pain risk. That’s my goal for the next month or so as we move toward finalization.

So, fellow bloggers, readers, parents, how do you keep it together? How do you recharge, how do you make it work?


Mother’s Day Musings

It’s Mother’s Day; my first one. Hope and I just returned from my graduation trip where we had a great time, and I got the best gift ever. Throughout the ceremony, I saw my sweet girl snap-happy, clicking away with her digital camera. After the ceremony after I met up with Hope and my sisters, my daughter hugged me repeatedly and said, “I’m so proud of you.” I had to hold back tears. #shehadmeathello

I’m sure she’d never gone to a graduation before, certainly not one for a doctoral candidate #gobigorgohome, but she was delighted to see my name and dissertation title in the program, happy to take many pictures and jazzed to hear my name as I was hooded by the university president. It was the culmination of a long journey for me and I couldn’t have been blessed with a bigger cheerleader. I will always drop a tear thinking about the moment she told me she was proud of me. (It was super, super awesome special to have my sisters with me too, by the way.)

Yesterday was really my Mother’s Day. Today is just a do-over for me that includes the need to cram in some errands, a family therapy appointment and take-out for dinner (my present to myself for the day) before doing Hope’s hair for the week. #mothersworkisneverdone #apparentlyever

Our trip to Chicago triggered “better” times which always make it easier for me to say yes, to have patience, to just have fun with Hope. After the last few weeks, I needed us to hit a stride of “better.” I hope it lasts a while.

And yet, there’s something about days that honor parents that brings tinges of sadness for Hope and other kids like her. This weekend we touched on issues of curiosity about the wellbeing of her birth mother, grief about the loss of her dad, the good and bad parenting she experienced in her short life, and a chat about me as mom.

We navigated things well with lots of reassurance and lots of openness. We don’t sugar coat things in our home; her experience is her story and she remembers the good, the bad and the ugly. I learn something new, and often heartbreaking, every time we have one of these talks. I also know that these talks are evidence that we’re doing ok, maybe even better than ok.

I see my job as, in part, trying to help her remember that her birth parents loved her, but they just couldn’t take care of her for lots of different reasons. Bad things happened but it wasn’t her fault and while people have maligned her birth parents most of her time in the system, they are no threat to me and they are no longer a threat to her. It’s ok for her to remember the happy times and to be free to talk about them. It’s ok for her to talk about the bad times and to try to reconcile how all this history could involve the same people. It’s ok for me to try desperately to teach her that nothing was her fault, that she is now safe and loved, even during the times when she is being a real pain in the arse.

I’ve heard about the bitter sweetness of days like Mother’s Day for some adoptive parents. I couldn’t understand it before, but I get it now. There’s a celebration of us as mothers and fathers, but it’s laced with a sadness and grief about how our children ended up needing us in the first place.

So, with that, I’m glad that I had a great day of celebration yesterday, before the actual holiday that represents a bit of both joy and pain for me and Hope.  It really is a privilege to be Hope’s mom.

Happy Mother’s Day, whatever kind of mother you may be.  xoxo

MotherDayPrivilege


Where Are We?

So, Hope loves teenie bopper magazines. LOVES them! Seriously, whenever she finds them in a store, my girl will grab a few and plop down in the middle of the store floor and commence to getting her celebrity news fix. I have to remind her that at 12, perhaps getting comfy in the store like that isn’t really appropriate unless we’re like at Barnes and Noble where there are some couches.

I get it. I went through a phase in the last decade where reading OK!, Life & Style and Star brought me loads of entertainment. I traveled a lot, and airports seemed to get the new rags first and I would load up while on the road and thumb threw them on the plane. It was a guilty pleasure. So, while I’m over it, I get Hope’s desire to see what’s going on with all the young celebs running the streets.

About a month ago, she asked me if she could put the 37,000 posters that come in each of her magazines on the wall. Ok, sure, why not. It’s your room. She was delighted; apparently her foster placements didn’t allow her to put up posters and help make the space hers. Meh, it’s a poster, no biggie, go ‘head girl, get your celebrity scope on.

And then she plastered the wall, nearly ceiling to floor. And I helped. And I was perplexed when I stood back and looked at all the little eyeballs staring back at me.

Posters

There are even more posters that didn’t make the snapshot!

Are there really no brown and black folks doing kiddie pop? Ok there are two brown girls in a couple of random girl groups that I’d never heard of (truth: Other than Bieber, Gomez, Grande and Mahone, I hadn’t heard of any of the kids plastered on the wall). But the lack of visual diversity gracing the wall was (is) jarring to my senses. Yes, yes, I know that Selena and Ariana are Latinas, but a quick glance at the wall doesn’t allow you to really take that tidbit of info in and process it. At least little Ariana drops some Spanglish lyrics in her songs…

There aren’t any 2014 versions of little Tevin Cambell? No B2K? No New Edition? #youhavetocountmeout No BoyzIIMen? #eastcoastswing No Monica? No Brandy? #theboyismine? No Kris Kross #makeyawannajumpjump? No Urshur (Usher—I can’t stand all that extra R in the pronunciation!)?

Has young “urban” pop just fallen off the sceen? Really?

Is Hope just left with White teenie boppers making age appropriate music?

I thought I was only bemoaning the ever declining state of hip hop, what with all the hypersexualized, drug glamorization and poor lyrical prowess out there. Save a few true artists putting in work out there, hip hop just makes me shake my head these days. I cringe sometimes when Hope is reciting some songs and then there’s a 4 to 8 beat pause when she’s skipping over the foul language. #youbettanotsaythatinthishouse

But now, I also see the absence of young teenie boppers of color too.  Does that mean that, well, that’s not the type of music “We” make anymore. We make rap music or when we’re much older, we make R&B music and some of us will make Gospel and some will rock Neo-Soul. But we aren’t really doing youthful, bubblegum pop music? I can’t imagine that there’s a dearth of talented, camera ready brown and black kids out there? So where are we?

Word Up magazine is gone. Right On! magazine is gone. Juicy magazine doesn’t target the tween/teen demographic. Damn, the good mags are gone too. Remember this gem from back in the day?

NewEdition

Back when jheri curls were fly.

 

Sigh.

Hope wants to be a singer. She is talented musically, but singing probably isn’t her strong suit; her strengths lie in percussion. I can see it, but she can’t yet. But she still fancies herself a future singer. I wonder what subtle impact, if any, does not seeing a representation of herself on the wall means. Does that mean she’s not even going to think about singing bubble gum pop? Does it mean she’s not going to be on the Disney channel? Does it mean that she’s going to skip right over and sing hooks on the latest Little Wayne Lollipop song, because well, that’s what brown kids do? Or gasp…just be in the video? (Hey, not bashing the ladies in videos, everyone’s gotta eat, but I’m going to be pretty transparent here and disclose that one of my goals to keep my kid out of clear heels in the club or on the video set, ya feel me? I want something different for her.)

Some folks will think I’m making too much of this. But there’s a huge body of research out there on the impact of not seeing yourself represented in the media. It’s not good. Sure, folks overcome it, but those folks are the exception and not the rule. I’m losing sleep over many other, more important things as Hope continues to get settled with me, but there’s something about this wall of posters that doesn’t really include any images that look like Hope…there’s something about it that bothers me.

She’s young, she’s impressionable. She believes every stinking thing in these tabloids—the good, the bad, the ugly. She’s not particularly discerning. She’s declared on some other things that “we” (Black folk) don’t do stuff because she’s never seen it; so why would she believe brown kids like her are doing bubble pop music if she’s not seeing it?

Am I really just going to have to push more youtube videos to teach her that NSync and Backstreet Boys weren’t the only games in town back in the day? (Side note: if she asks me if the members of New Edition are still alive or have they died from old age one…more…time…)

I just wonder where the brown and black teenie bopper pop stars are.

Sigh.


Thoughts on Normalizing Adoption Experiences

Hope didn’t arrive yesterday.  Instead Snowstorm “Janus” arrived and dumped about 5 inches of snow and brought a bunch of wind with sides of single digit temps and below zero windchills.  When did we start naming winter storms, anyway?

Bollocks.

It was frustrating on many levels, including the social worker who kept asking “Is it really all that bad out there?”  Lady, I’m not a meteorologist, but they’re saying its bad and flights are cancelled.  You are bringing me the most precious, important delivery I’ve ever received, so can you take a chill pill and roll with it.

I travel a lot.  Weather happens, and it messes plans up.  Yep it’s annoying as hell, but it’s beyond our control.  You take a deep breath; you rearrange plans and you post up somewhere with a beverage and get over the self-importance stance that the universe is somehow targeting you.   It’s so not about you.

I spent the day on the couch, doing some writing and answering emails while enjoying good glasses of red and some gourmet popcorn.  I even took a nap; I can’t tell you how rare that is.

So today we get to do a do over on the placement.

Responses to the delay did make me emotional in other ways though.  I’ve been kicking around writing about this emotional slice for some time, but it feels touchy and sometimes ouchy, like I’m b*tching about not getting support, but getting it and it not fitting right for my needs.  That’s true sometimes, but it doesn’t feel like a polite thing to say to people who care about me.  It’s a topic that in some ways feels isolating and hypocritical, and like I’m trying to make a comparative statement on my family drama.  That said, I imagine that a lot of other adoptive parents feel these emotions and fellow blogger, Mrs. Family of 5 posted a great blog yesterday, Things that Matter, that touches on some of the stuff I think about and feel these days.  I thought about writing a redux on my Ten Things post from months ago, but decided that this probably needed a different approach.   So here goes.

I find that non-adoptive folks are eager to normalize my experience of becoming a mom in ways that feel, well, weird and sometimes, oddly dismissive.  I’m grateful for the sentiments, but sometimes behind the mask of strength there are some real tears.

What do I mean by “normalize?”  Well, take for instance the snow delay…a wonderfully supportive friend said, “Well it’s like an extra-long labor in giving birth.”  (I feel like I should apologize for saying this was painful, but it was. Gosh I have guilt about being offended, sigh.).   I’ve never been in labor so maybe it is like that without the physical pain.  But why did the comment tickle my innards?

Well, even though I always wanted to adopt, always knew this was a part of my journey, I thought I would have biological kids, at least one.  As I was approaching 40, I looked back and saw a minefield of gyn issues that might make it challenging.  Then a surgery 18 months ago that was critical and urgently necessary was so invasive that it wasn’t until after the surgery that my primary care doc and a reproductive specialist said that having a biological child was now not an option for me.  I no longer had that option, and I hadn’t even seriously tried for so many reasons.  Now I couldn’t.  I felt and continue to feel robbed.  Being reminded that my “laboring” isn’t ever going to be physical because somehow my body failed me is piercing.  It hurts.  And it happens with a level of alarming frequency.

Sure, I probably have fed it with my paperwork pregnancy t-shirt (I’ll own that), but the back story of infertility for a lot of adoptive parents remains painful even after a child has come into your life.  You don’t forget it.   People don’t mean to be insensitive, but they just don’t know because you don’t go around blabbing all of your business all of the time.

But this isn’t just about infertility, the desire to normalize my new mom experience happens in many ways.  Hearing a snippet of my confabs with Hope often trigger things like, “Oh that’s normal; you don’t need therapy for that.”  “Oh, you’ll get used to that, that’s just what teens do.” “I’m not sure why that freaks you out, it sounds normal.” “You don’t need to make a big deal of any of that, you just need to love her through it.”

Sigh. I often just try to hide the grimace of pain and just put on my mask, nod and reply, “Yeah” and wait until I get off the phone or go home to have a controlled cry about it.  I don’t want to say anything in response for fear of pushing folks away and being more isolated than I already feel.

It’s rare that I am able to share the backstory that led the conversation because to do so reveals so much of Hope’s sad story that isn’t my business to tell.  The story is riddled with so much trauma and loss.  I’m not sure I could’ve survived Hope’s life up to this point.  I know that on the surface our interactions may seem normal, but sometimes they really are not normal at all:  The sadness in driving past a cemetery triggers loss memories that take days to deal with.  A flip through a photo album of happy Christmases is a reminder of the many schnitty holidays she’s endured.  A visit to the local shelter triggers a memory of a lost puppy in the middle of a really chaotic life that leads to hours of cry filled rages.  The anxiety words that seem so random in conversations that make outsiders look at me with confusion or exasperation because Hope seems rude and disruptive when she’s really anxious and perhaps scared and I’m not even sure why.  The endless negotiations that are necessary to try to avoid more loss and trauma for her.  The self-censoring that is necessary because your parents and friends get offended when you refer to your traumatized and sometimes verbally abusive kid whom you adore as “my little dragon” (not  in her presence) because she spits hot, blazing and, sometimes painful, fire.

These are just a few things I and others like me don’t or can’t share.  It’s not normal, but it’s our normal.  It’s not that we don’t want to be everyone else’s version of normal, but often we just aren’t, and getting to that kind of normal and “happy” is a way off dream for a lot of us.  And society just doesn’t do abnormal very well.  So even when there are efforts to be inclusive and to reach out, we withdraw.  The cost-benefit and risk assessments just don’t bear out enough positive data for us to step out into a space that is really going to see, appreciate and make room for our versions of normal.  There are just too many qualifiers necessary to make it work.

One of those qualifiers is that so many people like to think adoptive parents of older kids are in line for sainthood, and so we, somehow, must be able to handle the messiness with the grace of other would-be saintly people.  Not really.  Nah, we’re just regular Janes and Joes who wanted a kid and thought, “Hey an older kid!  I can do that.”  We are not saints and being saintly is just way too extra.

So we seek out others like us and relationships that give us that space to just be as abnormal as we can be.  We are grateful for those connections but it also means that we experience loss in withdrawing from meaningful relationships that we’ve loved for so long.  And we can’t talk about that loss either, it seems like whining because everything on the outside is supposed to look normal, remember?

Sure everyone has their ish that they deal with behind closed doors.  None of us is really normal.  But the quest to be and to make everyone around us assimilate to that faux standard is really hard.  And messy, really messy.

In my day job I am constantly beating the drum of diversity, the need to celebrate it, to embrace it and to respect it.  I realize that those lessons are valuable here as well.  We want to find our space in that place called “normal.”  We are families that can be a bit different.  We’re different, and we would love for that difference to be acknowledged and respected.   There will be shared experiences that transcend all this stuff I’ve babbled on about.  But there will be experiences that are really different as well; they may be behind the veil.  This is true for all of us, bio, adoptive and various forms of blended families too.  Let’s respect one another and in our quest to be supportive, let’s not always default to normalizing.

Besides, isn’t normal overrated anyway?

Thanks for letting me get that off my chest.   And thanks Mrs. Family of 5 for unwittingly giving me the courage to finally write about this topic.  I thank you for your courage to write about grief and loss.

Back to waiting—Hope’s ETA is 9:30pm EST.  I will be there With. Bells. On!


Privilege, Adoption and Melissa Harris-Perry

So, I’ve been chewing on the recent joke debacle involving Melissa Harris-Perry, her round table guests, Mitt Romney’s recently adopted Black child and the tear filled apology MHP delivered this weekend.

Don’t know what the drama’s about?  Peep the view below.

Sigh.

So, let me disclose a few things upfront.

First, politically, I’m pretty liberal.  I used to lean so far left that I might tip over, but I’ve found myself flirting with being more moderate in recent years.   That said: I’m not a fan of Mitt Romney.

Second, professionally I work on diversity issues.  I met Melissa years ago before she blew up on MSNBC.  We share colleagues, and we share a mentor in common.  I appreciate her social critiques.  She’s a smart cookie.  It’s awesome to see another young woman of color doing big things and wrestling with big issues—and doing that ish on national TV!  You. Go. Girl.

Third, I LOVE that song, “One of these things is not like the others…” I’ve been known to use it in my teaching.

Fourth, I’m unabashedly irreverent when it comes to issues of diversity.  I have good/bad days on issues of race, sexuality, religion and the list goes on and on.  It find it absurd that as a diversity professional I have so much job security because people can’t seem to just get over their ish about issues of difference.  I find it appalling that since Obama became president my work has actually become harder than it was 10 years ago because people want to wax philosophical about “wanting their America back.”  I find it disturbing that we could play that game “…in bed” with some of the stupid things people say, just instead of saying “in bed” we might substitute “from the Black guy” or “because of the lesbian” or “from the Muslim” or “because of the poor people.” Yeah, I said that.

So, now that the disclosures have been made, what do I really think about the clip shown above?

Truth be told, not much.

I think it was used to make a lot of political hay on both sides. I have a lot of thoughts about what wasn’t said in the clip but what seems to be a part of the narrative about transracial adoption and privilege.

We live in a world that spins on privilege.  Don’t know what privilege is?  Peggy McIntosh’s Unpacking the Knapsack of White Privilege is a good place for you to do some foundational reading on racial privilege.  Having privilege is having social capital that grants you ease in a navigating through our social and institutional structures.  Privilege can be based on race, gender, class, religion, sexuality, all sorts of characteristics.  You can be privileged in some areas of your life and not privileged in others.  Some might say that being both Black and a woman, I lack some social privilege.  I know that I have felt not privileged or even equal at times because I am both Black and female.  But I’m educated; I am middle class; I live in a prominent city; I am straight; I am Christian; English is my first language and I am a native born US citizen.

I’ve got privilege for days because my degrees give me social credibility; I can afford a nice lifestyle and have choices about where to live and how to educate Hope, I live in a city that affords me more choices than some other places; I am not personally affected by laws that prohibit LGBT folks from marrying; I practice a faith that some folks think is the only one that matters; no one asks me to repeat things because of an accent that is something other than the traditionally Southern dialect that I sometimes slip into, and I have a US passport easily acquired by producing my “Virginia is For Lovers” birth certificate.

Except for the times when the Black thing and the woman thing are problems for people, life is pretty good, right?  Pretty much.  (I’m still wondering if I’m in a Mitt Romney “binder full of women” somewhere!)

The Romneys are privileged in many ways that also matter in our society (I know some of us Christians can give the Mormons some shade, but hey, they’re still Christian).  Some no doubt twisty road brought some members of their family to the decision to adopt, and they adopted a Black child.  I think it’s awesome.  Yeah, I caught some feelings and threw some side eye when I heard the lovely little baby’s name meant “dark one” or black in Gaellic (um, yeah…), but it’s really none of my damn business.  I wish them well.  I thought the picture was charming, and yeah, I’m curious what Mittens thought when he first got the news that his kids were adopting a Black child.  <shrug>

Do I think the family will have to navigate some issues in terms of racial identity? Probably.  Do I think Mitt is a racist?  No, but I don’t think he gets the concept of privilege at all—this adoption might give him a taste.  Do I think he and the rest of the Romney brood are trying to figure out how this thing is going to work out?  Probably.  Do I think they are all stretching like the rest of us adoptive parents?  Yep.  There’s just some stuff on this adoption journey that I think privilege can’t buffer.  Make that a lot of stuff.

I think that the narrative of White families of privilege adopting Black children is glamorized.  I commented on another blog recently about how few People of Color (POC) I see in adoption promotional media.  We’re out here, but I think that the privilege of race frequently marginalizes us out of the adoption narrative.  Do I think that the class privilege is real for a lot of these White adoptive families?  Not as much as I used to.  Admittedly, I certainly see privilege among my fellow POCs who have chosen to adopt, myself included.  Do I think that POCs often sit back and question why White families adopt Black children?  Yep, and I’ve been curious as well.  Do I think that we all wonder about the social implications with respect to racial identity and personal development?  Yep.  It all seems and feels so complicated.   A lot of times it is complicated.

Socially, we typically don’t like things that are different. We simply don’t–it requires us to stretch and stretching can be uncomfortable. Seeing families that are not what we expect makes us uncomfortable. Reading narratives that are different from what we think it should be make us uncomfortable. What do we typically do with unavoidable discomfort? Often we joke, make light of it and fall into a ridiculous denial of the issues at hand. That is when our humanity is vulnerable and visible, and we are most likely to fail in living up to our potential.

The MHP story was just a tiny pebble on a beach of rocks related to perceptions about adoption, race, class, with a dash of politics on the side.

I did stumble across something else here.  I realized as this all played out that same race and biological families have some social privilege that adoptive families don’t.  Certainly same race adoptions can fly under the radar and acquire assumed bio-privilege (They can “pass”).  But transracial adoptions?  Nope, it’s too obvious and too different.  Had little baby Romney been White, none of this would ever have happened because he wouldn’t have stood out in the big family picture with Grandpa Mitt.  I should also note that had Grandpa Mitt been a left-leaning Democrat this probably never would’ve happened either; Democrat social privilege might’ve led to a celebration of sorts that played into the “See, the Democrats really like us!  They really, really like us” narrative.  Sigh.

Does this make MHP or her guest jokesters racist?  I think they were uncomfortable figuring out how to reconcile a family led by someone who struggled with garnering Black folks to vote for him with said politico now having a Black grandkid. Hell, I think it’s a bit ironic too <shrug>.   But I don’t think that’s racist (a term that gets thrown around wayyyyy too much if you ask me). The episode showed discomfort with the perceived irony about the mishmash of all kinds of social privilege being turned upside down.

So peep the apology:

And Melissa trips over this particular issue of biological privilege in her apology.  I think she realized it when she looked at her own multiracial family and saw the hypocrisy of giggling about a Black child bouncing on the knee of White guy who appears to be excited about his family.  I’m sure some of those kinds of pictures are in Melissa’s house somewhere, but the privilege of biological family wasn’t something she was consciously aware of.  I’m not sure she still has a name for it, but make no mistake—this was still about privilege.

So there’s my dime store commentary of the Harris-Perry/Romney Joke episode.   Privilege is real, and it’s everywhere, even in adoption.  I wish my colleague well and I wish the Romneys well.

Meh!

Incidentally, I thought joke about the family picture looking like the GOP convention was funny.  Yeah, I did; sue me.  Did you watch the convention?  I did.  I even sat through the foolishness of old Clint Eastwood talking to a chair for an hour.  I swear I felt like the networks showed Condi Rice like 50-11 times in hopes that no one noticed that there weren’t that many people of color in attendance.   Where is the outrage about that?  Why we didn’t we, in critical mass, attend a convention with a platform that didn’t resonate or seem terribly inclusive?  Hmmm, there’s a quandary for you…<pursed lips, shaking head, low hum>

Yeah, that last bit was some shade.

Oh, if I could bang out 1500 words at a time on my dissertation…smh.


Old Visions & New Identities

With the New Year, like many people, I often take time to take account of what happened the previous year, consider what I hope will happen the next year and just take a moment to breathe the present.  The last couple of years, I’ve also embarked on creating a vision board using Powerpoint.   I use pictures, words, clip art, etc to create a vision for what I want to happen in my life for the next year.  I print it out and post it somewhere in the house so I see it every day.  I’m not necessarily into the whole “Secret” thing, but I do believe in making sure I stay focused on moving things around in my life to make that vision a reality.

So, in 2013 my vision board tackled this adoption journey, a bathroom and bedroom renovation, some vacation time, health improvement, faith building, advancement towards graduation, seeing a group of girlfriends that I adore and finding love.

Well, you know how the adoption thing is going.  The dissertation is underway (Woot, starting chapter 5 this weekend!!).  I did some bathroom updates myself on the cheap, enough to get me by for now.  Hope’s bedroom is shaping up fabulously.  I saw my girlfriends when one got married. Vacations got subbed with trips to see Hope.   I grew in my faith and in my church.  I began 2014 weighing the same thing I weighed a year ago (eh, could be worse, shrug).  And then there was love; love was nowhere to be found in 2013.

Sigh.  For some reason in the last 24 hours, the lack of romantic love bothered me the most.  Never mind that my life is about to be turned upside down with the adoption; nope, last night I found myself crying out to God, “Hey, what about the brown chocolate dude I put on that vision board last year?  Huh?  What about him? Where is he?  I even put a pair of wedding rings on my vision board. Come on man!!  Holy Dude, what is up with that???  Well I’m putting it on the board again! ”  Then I cried.  Oh, good grief, these emotional landmines are ridiculous…Jeesch!

I haven’t cried about being single in a long time; honestly I can’t remember the last time I got emotional about being single.  Sure, there’ve been lonely moments, but I’ve dated a lot over the years, had good relationships, not so good ones, ones that I thought would lead to marriage and others where I just knew it was never going to work, but boy were they  fun <smirk>.

All this emotion came out of nowhere, and it annoys me.  I haven’t really had time to think about dating in months.  I saw someone off and on for a few months, a lingering relationship that was kind of comfortable, but we both knew it wasn’t going anywhere.  The upside is that it wasn’t a relationship that was threatening to my goals since I knew it wasn’t going to lead to anything permanent, and require me to navigate figuring out this parenting thing, this dissertation thing and then the whole real relationship thing.  We remain friends, but we’ve moved on.

I know that I’m not in a space to handle a serious relationship at the moment, but I suppose I didn’t realize that underneath it all there’s a loneliness I simply wasn’t cognizant of until I took a moment to take stock of life.   I don’t mind being alone, but I just didn’t know I was kind of lonely until I was putting another faceless Tyson Beckford-esque looking dude on my 2014 vision board.  I do wonder whether the loneliness is somewhat exacerbated by some of the isolation I feel on this adoption journey.   I don’t really know.

I also wonder whether it has to do with the identity shift that’s so imminent.  The day that Hope arrives I’ll officially be a Single Black Mom (SBM) in addition to ABM.  I’ll be a SABM.  Ugh, acronyms.

And since I don’t plan to go around announcing that Hope is adopted, the absence of a partner potentially puts me into an identity category rife with stereotypes and unpleasant narratives.  It also creates a narrative for the imaginary man that folks will assume passed through my life about 13 years ago, whether he was a husband or just a ‘baby daddy.’  Hear me clear, I have nothing against SBMs, but like most, I didn’t expect to be one.  I’m so excited about this chapter, but something about the looming new identity and the absence of even the imaginary dude has me mourning what I thought my life would be like at this point.

I’ve been thinking about that life a lot lately.  I didn’t think I was still mourning it, but the parallels and bittersweet episodes that put me on the path to adoption occasionally lead me to think about what might’ve been.  I’m a doer, so I resigned to change my life when things didn’t turn out the way I expected, but I guess I still think about that life.

I do wish I had a partner on this journey.  I wonder when I’ll have another date.  I wonder if I’ll end up as one of those moms on an afternoon talk show, desperately needing a makeover because I started wearing “mom jeans” and just stopped grooming because I accepted never going on another date because I was so devoted to my kid, and I just let myself go.  Yikes.  So dramatic.

I don’t want to be that person either, even though I intend to be devoted to Hope.  I still hope, in time, to go out with the hot single dad that I met when I forced her to play one season of county soccer, during which time she sulkily rode the bench, while looking forward to the after-game pizza party.  I want to be that SABM.  I want to still have a separate identity as a fun, sexy, desirable woman.  I’m a little afraid that the Single Black Female (SBF) that I’ve known all these years will just cease to exist for a while.  That makes me sad…and a bit lonely.   Sigh.

This life changing stuff is a messy, messy business….a business that, apparently, will keep my therapist in nice shoes for many years to come.


OMG, She Looks Like You!

So, I’ve been pondering this topic for a minute and am finally sitting down to see if I can parse through some of my own thinking and feeling about a curious phenomenon related to my recent announcement to family and friends that I am adopting Hope.

Last month I posted a cute picture of Hope and me as an announcement of my #pregnantbypaperwork status.  The very, very kind and supportive comments flowed.  It was lovely, beyond lovely actually.  It was super awesome.  Numerous people commented, “OMG, you guys even look alike! Match made in heaven” or something like that.  I had a lovely chat with a sweet, dear friend who called to check in today.  During our chat, she broached this subject of my and Hope’s alleged resemblance tenderly, noting that she wondered if she really saw a resemblance or if it was some kind of way her brain was trying to knit Hope and I together in a supportive way.

Hmmm.  I’m utterly convinced it’s the latter.  Hope and I do not look alike, despite many comments to the contrary.  Good Lord, even my mother thinks Hope has my late uncle’s eyes…she might, maybe, a little bit.  Eh, shrug.

So, here’s my thinking on this:  People are happy for me (warm fuzzies).  People want to be supportive (more warm fuzzies).  We see what we want to see in order to further the desire to be happy and supportive.  This is pretty natural.  Hey, I dated someone for two miserable years because I thought being with him would one day, miraculously, make me happy—it didn’t.  Actually, I’ve had a few of those kinds of relationships, though I seem to have broken that nasty habit.   Ok, maybe that was a melodramatic example, but stay with me here.

I’m not creating a family the way that many of my friends are or have, and I had no desire to seek out a child who bore some resemblance to me or my family.  Sure I thought about it as I thought about all the various scenarios about what life would look like with my child and how we might be received by the world around us.  I really didn’t give much thought specifically to resemblance though; maybe because I just assumed we wouldn’t look anything alike.  I mean really, what are the odds??  It was startling when people started to comment about Hope’s and my alleged resemblance.   I didn’t see it then; I still don’t.  Hope says she favors her biological father; she’s proud of that.  She loved him very much.  She doesn’t have any pictures of him, so looking like her dad is important to her and her identity.

I’ve come to believe that the warm desire to help me tie my adoption of Hope together with a neat bow and be supportive leads the brain to seeing a familial resemblance between Hope and I that really isn’t there.  Of course, Hope’s desire to look like her father may affect any ability I have to find some shade of resemblance between us; the brain is funny that way.  I’m sure the fact that we’re both Black helps to facilitate all this brain activity.   I’m guessing it also happens in other same/similar race adoptions too.   I’m guessing this is not a particularly common occurrence in cross-racial adoptions, but some quick google searches reveal there are desires to find some kind of resemblance connection in these adoptions too.

With infants, we’ve all made comments about whether the little one looks like a presumed parent—this just happened with fellow blogger, Complicated Melodi, who was providing respite care for an infant recently.  Hope isn’t an infant, though, and really, I don’t think she favors me at all, so it’s an intriguing occurrence to receive these comments from pals.

This is different than when we’re out and about and someone assumes I’m Hope’s mom.  Usually, the assumption is based on our proximity together or their having been privy to a bit of our banter, which on my trip this week I realized totally sounds like a mom and tween daughter (Squeal!!  More on that later).  There is rarely a mention of any resemblance; no, this phenomenon only happens with people I know.

So, what’s the point of this post?  Not sure, other than to parse through another emotional nugget in the adoption process.   My daughter is lovely and just beautiful.  I don’t think she looks anything like me.  I have no idea if she looks much like either of her biological parents.   The compliment that Hope favors me is sweet and I think I understand what is really being seen and said.  I’m a mom. Biology really doesn’t matter, because I’m still a mom.  I’m grateful for the sentiment even if I don’t see the visual connection.  I’m also grateful that so many people were so kind and supportive of my new little family.


Minding the Gap

I remember when I had my first meeting with my adoption agency in January.  I had to explain how I had come to the decision to adopt and why I wanted to adopt an older child.  I remember telling the program director that this was an incredibly bittersweet time in my life; I had a few short months before been told by a reproductive specialist that I would not be able to have biological children without the help of a whole frigging school of engineering and even then the window of possibility was ridiculously Continue reading


Why this Life is Awesome

I have several dear friends from high school with whom I’ve remained close over the years.  This year, many of us turned 40.  It’s one of those birthdays that seem to be a fork in the road where you either run to it or go kicking and screaming—Ok, the kicking and screaming might be a bit dramatic, but let’s just say that some folks are not excited about turning 40.

I could not wait to be 40.  I couldn’t wait.  I’ve been ready to be 40 for a couple of years. Why was I a 40 runner?  I enjoyed my 20s immensely.  There was a season in my life when I was footloose and fancy free; I went out and partied a lot.  I enjoyed the joys of tequila a lot.  I had a collection of little black dresses.  I met cute guys and danced until 4am on a Wednesday and was still in the office working before 9am!  Then life got really, really real in the 30s.  My ability to refresh and reboot between 4am and 9am started to wane.  I learned how great red wine and good quality food could be.  I transitioned to wanting to find a nice lounge on a Friday night rather than wanting to hit the club.  I morphed into a fun loving homebody; I’d done my partying.  Friends started getting cancer or having heart attacks; some died.  I struggled with my own serious health issues throughout the decade.  My parents started to show some age, and I began to worry about the need to help them make plans, especially when I had to start attending funerals and sending condolence cards to friends who lost their parents.  A couple of epic failed relationships crystalized some long term thoughts about relationships.

It was sometime in my 30s when I realized that I was really good and grown and dealing with life’s rigors.  The 40 plus crew also deal with life’s rigors but there seemed to be a bit more emotional freedom and less caring about what folks thought about how you chose to live your life.  I still cared way too much about what other people thought about my decisions for much of my 30s.   The day after I turned 40 it was like a switch flipped and I really didn’t care as much and sometimes I don’t care at all.

Something about that emotional freedom I started seeing just before 40 keyed me in on the time when I knew this would be the time to move into adoption and parenting.  This month, I’ve noted that the pre-40/pre-Hope chapter is really coming to a close and again, I feel like I’m running to the new chapter.  Sure, I’ve chuckled and raised a glass to the last unfettered happy hour, the last trip to my hometown without Hope, the last weekend of staying out to go to the movies or dinner or “the club” without the need for a babysitter.  For many of my friends they experienced the first wave of this parenting transition of the ‘lasts’ years ago while I was still running around like a wild horse from Chincoteague Island.  Several friends have celebrated these lasts with me with both joyous smiles and sometimes sad eyes because my “single girl, sex in the city,” ala Carrie Bradshaw, days are closing out.

Gawd, I haven’t been Carrie Bradshaw-like for about 7 or 8 years, though I like buying shoes.  And even Carrie started liking being home as the show dragged on.  Life’s adventure profile changed, just like mine is changing.  It isn’t sad.  It’s an evolution and while the transition can be…rough…it is transformative.  I have no regrets about my previous chapters; they were great, but <shrug> they are what they are now, great and sometimes not so great memories.

A friend and I went to what we thought was a hookah lounge after dinner and cupcakes last night and found that it was really a 20 something club.  This friend is becoming famous for dragging me into situations where I end up pondering my previous life chapters in cheeky ways.  Last night, a 24 year old cutie bought us a round of shots and asked me if I was scared of the shot.  Bless your heart (as we say in the South), no child, I’m not scared of this shot and took it down way easier than he took his down.  Knowing I could be his MTV Teen Mom made me giggle not because a young dude was chatting us up, but because the whole scene for me was so utterly ridiculous.  Young women teetering on heels trying to look a blend of young, but older and sophisticated, and apparently dancing just means grinding—there was a Miley Cyrus-VMA look-a-like out there twerking for her life with anyone she could back that thing up to on the dance floor.  I had on an Old Navy sweatshirt with some sequins, a pair of jeans and some shoes similar to clogs.   I watched the scene, remembered the days when I rolled out of the house in a tiny dress with spindly heels and no coat in 30 degree weather.  It was awesome at the time, but now I just want a vodka tonic and a couch.  And when the 20 somethings made it rain in the club with paper napkins, I puffed away on my blackberry hookah, laughed and thought I wouldn’t do my 20s or 30s again for anything, even knowing what I know now.   I also looked at my watch and grimaced; it was going on midnight, and I am not into the whole “turn up” phenomenon.  I was ready to turn in.

So, like I was eager to turn 40, I am eager to welcome Hope into my life.  Oh it’s going to be drama at a whole new level, but it’s ok.  This has been an amazing life and I have no doubt that the Hope chapters will be rich and colorful and that 20 years from now, I’ll look around and ponder my 40s and chuckle when a then 40 year old man sends me a glass of Cabernet because he likes my silver fox hair.  This has been one of the most challenging years of my life but also hands down the best year.  I’m so blessed to step into this next chapter; I don’t need to look back; I don’t care what people think.  This life is awesome; it’s not what I would’ve planned, but God’s plan for me has worked how pretty well.  I guess he’s good like that.  Ha!

Life can be only what you make it
When you’re feelin’ down
You should never fake it
Say what’s on your mind
And you’ll find in time
That all the negative energy
It would all cease

And you’ll be at peace with yourself
You won’t really need no one else
Except for the man up above
Because he’ll give you love
(My life, my life, my life, my life)
If you looked into my life

Take your time
Baby don’t you rush a thing
Don’t you know, I know
We all are struggling
I know it is hard but we will get by
And if you don’t believe in me
Just believe in He

‘Cause he’ll give you peace of mind, yes he will
And you’ll see the sunshine for real, yes you would
And you’ll get to free your mind
And things will turn out fine
Oh, I know that things will turn out fine
Yes they would, yes they would
(My life, my life, my life, my life in the sunshine)

                                    My Life by Mary J. Blige


K E Garland

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