Girl From Ethiopia

Enough Already

Are you going to send a photo of her to the adoption agency so they can send it to her mother?

This question came from my mother-in-law. Innocent enough, right?

Bugged the hell out of me.

First, I'm her mother. Yes, I know it takes time for folks to adjust their language, to learn to call me her mother and the woman whose womb she grew within her birth mother. Still.

Here's what I really didn't like: the unspoken assumption that it's my job to keep her birth mother updated, as though I'm an aunt or a godmother caring for her until her "real" mother can take over, again.

It's not an open adoption, I said to my mother-in-law. Her birth mother gave up her rights to A. in a court of law. I am her mother. Not so pure, not so simple, but that's the way it is.

Do I want her birth mother to see how she's grown and flourished? Sure. I just don't want to be obligated to do so.

Anyway, yes, I do send photos of her back to the agency -- at Christmas, and on the anniversary of her adoption.

For now, that feels like just enough.

Black Like Me

Back in November, NPR did a series on the black family. One of the segments was devoted to black families who adopt from overseas. I was obviously happy about that, as there really aren't enough examples of African Americans who choose international adoption reflected  in popular culture -- even though our numbers are growing. It's a fascinating piece that includes an interview with Thomas Atwood, president of the National Council for Adoption. You can check it out here.

The woman interviewed, Sheri Redwood, was in the process of adopting from Ethiopia. The host of the show asked The Question: "Why Ethiopia?" Ms. Redwood said she chose international over domestic adoption because she wanted to have the biggest humanitarian impact. Yeah, but why Ethiopia? asked the host. Because: 

"We wanted to choose an African country because we're African American. We would never go to Asia or somewhere else...we want the child to be comfortable in America racially and socially."

In other words, she specifically wanted a black child.

I've been following a heated and heartfelt discussion about race on the major ET board.  So many of the white parents are earnest in their efforts to understand what their adoptive children's experiences will be in this country, but the pervasive underlying tone is one of duty, of obligation. I get the impression that if they could avoid the race issue,  and still have their lovely Ethiopian children, they would. I don't see anyone on those discussion boards saying, "I felt a desire to integrate my social world, to push past my comfort zone and explore my own prejudices and deepen my understanding of black culture, to delve into touchy racial subjects firsthand --that's why I decided to adopt a black child."

People are rising to the occasion, true, but that's different from saying, "We wanted a child whom the world would see as African American. We wanted the challenge."

As one mom on the discussion board said: "Does it always have to be about race?"

Yes.

As someone who has spent a lifetime learning to fit in in a predominantly white culture, I can both applaud trans-racial families, and admit that that's not a challenge I'm willing to rise to. Given what my children must face from society, and given my own history, I want them to blend in within the family unit as much as possible. You could say I know too much.

Whatever it is, I have always been clear that my adopted child would be many things I could not control and one thing I could: she'd be black like me.

THE QUESTION

 
Several of my African American friends asked it. Some were polite: I was just wondering.... Others were rude: Why are you doing THAT? Most simply said: So why Ethiopia?

No matter the tone, the implication of the question was always the same: Why are you adopting an African child when there are so many needy black children without stable homes right here in the U.S.?

Of course, many people think this way about all Americans who adopt overseas, but special judgment is meted out to African Americans who choose to do such a thing. It's as though we're turning our backs on our own.  

Never mind that this is a deeply personal decision. No one ever asks, "Oh, you're pregnant? Did you conceive naturally or did you have to use in vitro?"

Adoption doesn't garner respect for privacy the way childbirth does. I know. I've now done both. One prompts congratulations. The other prompts questions.

Some of it is curiosity, sure. Some of it, though, is latent judgment prompted by myth. People don't know the facts: that you can foster-parent a child for years in this country and still not be allowed to adopt her. Or that infants of all races are in such demand in the U.S. that it's often costly and time-consuming and emotionally exhausting to adopt one; or that, while few do, birth mothers have the right to change their minds. Or that, if you only want to adopt an older child, but don't want to be a foster parent first, you're out of luck in this country.

People just know that it's unusual for an African American to adopt an African child.

So why did I decide to adopt a little girl from Ethiopia? Because that was what my heart led me to do.

But that's not good enough for most black folks. And so, I used to give a fuller answer. I'd say, "I've always felt a connection to the African continent. People have told me I look Ethiopian. And 
I wanted to do my small part to offset the devastating impact of AIDS and other diseases on Africa's children."

That's what I used to say.

Now that my daughter is home with us, I look at her and say, "How could I not?"