There they were, two toddler friends playing together on a beautiful, hot July day. The girls hadn't seen each other since leaving their Addis Ababa orphanage. Back then, four months -- a lifetime? -- ago, they spoke easily to one another in their native Sidama language. On this day, at this lovely park in Manhattan, they still speak easily to one another. Only now, the language is English.
It was predicted, of course. Everyone who knows about these things said that my daughter would learn English quickly. And she certainly has. It's a marvel to witness her mastering this complicated language.(Although it's very sweet to hear her say, "Mommy, can I come here please?"). She does not use any of her Sidama language anymore, and rarely uses the Amharic she learned upon arriving at the orphanage.
That brings me to a dilemma. Should I try to preserve her native tongue? To what end? When will she ever use it? Or, should I ensure that she, like the Ethiopian-American youth I met at a Cultural Day celebration, take Amharic lessons?
Does it matter?
"Look at them," says D. as she and I watch our girls playing together on that hot July day. "They're going to have completely different experiences because you're African American and I'm white."
It's true. Most people see us together as a family and have no idea she's adopted from Ethiopia. Does that mean my daughter will not ache for a connection to her roots as intensely as her friend? Is it more important to retain the markers of your cultural heritage when you look so overtly different from the rest of your own family?
Or, is blood thicker than skin color?
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