Am I lucky? Lucky that when people look at my daughter, they don't know that she's adopted?
When my friends and relatives tell me that she looks like part of the family, that she blends in, even resembles her brother, they feel they're complimenting me. And I do feel a bit flattered. It's a natural instinct. But a tinge of resentment also creeps in because I know how narrow-minded a lot of black folks can be about adoption in general -- a bit distrusting of it. And so what are they saying to me really? That her resemblance to us makes her a bit more legitimate, a bit more validated?
A couple of my white friends have said the same thing -- that I'm lucky. They mean something else entirely from my black friends. As one of those white friends bluntly put it: "People will think she's actually yours."
She is.
But I know what my friend meant. She was speaking to something visceral and deep down. Every mother wants others to recognize her child as her own, doesn't want to have to say, "I'm her mother." And so, I understand why some women go through untold obstacles to adopt from an Eastern European country so the child will have their racial sameness, and I also understand what other women give up when they choose to adopt a child of another race. They give up the luxury of assumption. I get it.
My black friends are speaking to something visceral too when they note with relief that my daughter looks like us. They're speaking to the imbedded legacy of black families torn asunder, of not knowing who your ancestors are, of black babies languishing in foster care at an alarming rate, of too many grand-mamas raising grand-babies, of fathers abandoning their own, of children raised by women they think are their birth mothers but secretly are not. It means a lot to black folks to "know who you come from", and it's a source of pride to be part of a nuclear family. They don't have the luxury of assumption. I get it.
And so, where does that leave me, and my little girl? Lucky, indeed, but not for any of the reasons my friends think. We're lucky for something more fundamental -- a burgeoning, hard-earned love between us.
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