An Open Letter to the Spaniards

Dear Spaniards,

I have no idea who you are. The only reason I know you exist at all is a brief mention in court by the judge: "You are aware that a Spanish couple petitioned to adopt the child and then rejected her?" Was it that harsh in the judges own words or just in translation? Was it that harsh in real life?

When we got a picture of her in our referral package there was not an instantaneous feeling of "this is my child." I must admit it was closer to, "oh, my. She looks so angry." And our first visit with her at the orphanage supported that first impression, so I suppose I can understand why you decided not to adopt her.

But....

How could you turn your back on this child? Were you insane? Really? I mean what a woman she will be. Did you pay any attention to her spirit? She is fierce. She is strong. She will not yield. She is amazing!

That first visit in the mid-spring of 2007 was interesting. We brought two things with us other than our camera: a little black stuffed dog and some blocks. The dog was for her to play with, the blocks were for us to test her - how was her development? We played stack the blocks, which she did, but she also chose to throw the blocks at my head, and she had good aim for a 15 month-old - and power!

Did you do this too, Spaniards? Did it frighten you?

We also walked. She wouldn't hold hands and insisted on walking where she wanted to go, which was back to her play group. Over and over we had to turn her around and try to interact with her. But she had her own ideas and the most determined look on her face. Perhaps the anger in the photo wasn't anger after all, but was simply determination to get back to what she wanted to do.

Did she do this to you too, Spaniards? Did you fear you couldn't control her? You couldn't. God knows I can't.

We could have rejected her then and there also. But there was something there that let us see past the anger and the sores on her head from the infections and parasites: She had spunk. Nobody is going to tell this girl what she can't do. Nobody is going to hold her back from her dreams. I hope she will let me guide her, but I know I'll never be able to set her destination.

She is my daughter. From that first day until the end of time. How could she not be?

And even on days like today, when she screams and stomps her feet insisting on wearing the same dirty clothes that she wore the day before, I sit back and smile at her power. I also remember that she was rejected twice before we came to her and realize that she is wounded with a deep fear and may always wonder when the other shoe will drop. I hate you for that, Spaniards, I really do. How could you have hurt her like that?

So tonight, I will snuggle with her and listen to stories of her day and tell her my stories and let her know that she was my choice and that I will continue to choose her as part of my family again today. And tomorrow. And every day forward.

And that is why, dear Spaniards, I thank God each and every day for your lack of vision, your fear. Without that, she wouldn't be here to frustrate me to the edge of my sanity and thrill me with the joy of her being. She is my daughter, not yours, and I am grateful.

Ghost in the Driveway

We moved from California 15 years ago, long enough that we no longer think of travelling there as going home. But travel there we do, usually twice a year for each of those 15 years. It's always a delicate dance balancing the two sides of our family, but due to my wife's parents location to LAX, we always stay there the day before we leave. Every time we leave, even if that means leaving the house at 10:00 pm to catch a red-eye, or leaving at 4:00 am for an early flight, my mother-in-law would always walk us out the door and wave to us from the driveway. On some of those early departures she would tell us that she would say goodbye the night before because we were leaving too early for her to get out of bed. But every time, even if she was in a housecoat and slippers, she would wave to us from the driveway.

But last week we said our goodbyes to her and put her to rest beside her loving husband of 52 years. The vigil, funeral, and graveside ceremonies were difficult but as family and friends gathered at the house for food and recitations of fond memories, it seemed that the worst was past. Having done this before with my father-in-law and my own grandparents, I knew that grief comes in waves that rarely end at the graveside, but I wasn't expecting such a big one when we left the house yesterday for that 6:30 am flight.

There was plenty of rushing around the night before and even the morning of as we tried to get out of the house. We got the kids all loaded up and I pulled the rental care out of the drive and waited for my wife to close the gate. I looked up and expected Nadine to be there waving goodbye, but she wasn't there. I realized that she never will be again. The grief hit me new and hard. Much of the grief I had felt earlier in the week had been empathy with my wife and children. This wave of grief was for me and it hurt - still hurts.

Goodbye, Nadine.

Where Does That Blond Hair Come From?

Today was a special day for no particular reason. Thursday is Dimitri's chess class before school, so everyone was up early and he and Laura left the house earlier than usual. This gave me the opportunity to have breakfast out with Lily. I love these one-on-one opportunities to eat with my kids, and breakfast helps to set the tone for the whole day when they get to have a special time with dad all to themselves.

Today's special moment was interrupted by one of those little moments of shock and indecision. While paying the bill after our meal, boom: "Where does that blond hair come from?" While I certainly belong to the "burn, don't tan" camp of the pigment spectrum, my hair color is far from blond these days. No, this question was about my Lily, who is finally adding a small amount of flaxen to her white and transparent hair now that she is nearly four. While this seems like a fairly simple question, it leaves me with a brief deer-in-the-headlights moment: how should I field this question?

I could go with direct and honest: I imagine that it comes from her birth parents. I could simply lie: My wife is blond. I could go vague: Blond runs in the family. Which answer I give depends on the situation. In this case we were in a public place and the question came form a waitress that I don't know and will only see from time to time. Do I care that she knows how we made our family? Is it any of her business? Will I enter into a relationship of trust or caring with her? No, so I go with vague. If I had been at church and a fellow member asked the question, I would probably opt for direct and honest, but perhaps not for any number of impulsive decisions made in the heat of the moment.

At this point,the decision to hand out this information is mostly up to me, but as the children get older I expect that I'll have to defer to them much more. I want them to feel comfortable with their whole identity from their birth family to their adoptive family, but I also know that I need to balance that with discretion due to the culture we live in. The general consensus from the courts to the media is that non-extended family adoption is an inferior form of family and that those who participate in it are defective. In my state a non-extended family adoption must be published in the public notice section of the paper for multiple weeks informing any biological family that they have the right to contest the adoption. And then there are the movies like The Orphan and numerous television shows that use that childish old insult, "you were adopted." I've even had a school teacher tell me that "most adopted children are sexually deviant."

After all this mental calculation is complete and the answer is given, I'm left with that empty feeling after the illusion is broken. Most of the time, I don't even think about the fact that we built our family through adoption. But in these moments, I'm reminded of the fact that my family isn't considered "normal" by some people. But then, many other families are rejected by our culture, from single parent families to inter-racial families and on to families with same gender parents. And in this realization that there are other families out there like mine and otherwise, each looked down upon, I relax a bit and hope cracks the surface. I sincerely hope that people can recognize that choosing to love and choosing to commit is much stronger than blood. Belonging based on choice is far more substantial than belonging base on obligation.

And then the most amazing thing happens: Lily grabs my hand on the way out the door and starts to bounce along the sidewalk, feet flailing, hair a golden mane about her head. The question is gone and only a father and daughter remain, having breakfast on a beautiful autumn day.

Welcome!

This is a new adventure for me.

Or is it?

When I emailed a co-worker about starting a blog, I mentioned that I wanted to start writing again. She told me that she didn't know that I was a writer. My first reaction was, "well, I'm not a writer and never have been." But that's not quite true. I've spent the better part of the last 19 years as a consultant in the area publishing technology. This means that I read very dry technical books, travel all over the world, listen to people talk about how they create very dry technical books, then write reports for them on how they can create those very dry technical books easier and repurpose the content faster and cheaper.

I've had the opportunity to work on fairly typical publications that most people are familiar with such as software technical manuals, school text books and tests, encyclopedias, dictionaries, and government publications. I've also got to work on more exotic projects like aircraft maintenance manuals from commercial and military aircraft to rockets and even the space shuttle. In every case I needed to communicate, most often in writing, be it a sales proposal to a recommendation for a system design.

But I never really thought of that as writing. There is creativity involved and plenty of opportunity to exercise your powers of persuasion, but your rhetorical devices are certainly limited. In my current gig I find that I'm not writing as much as in years past and I feel less for it. To a certain extent, I don't feel as smart as I did 10 years ago. Is this because I don't write as much as I did before? I think so.

But recently I started writing again in a way. I found my self getting engaged in long threads on facebook. It wasn't structured and it wasn't all that lengthy, but I could feel my brain working again, and I liked it. So I decided I would start a blog. If I had more sense, I would have started a technical blog to shamelessly promote myself. But I wanted to go another way and this is it.

I'm not sure where this is going to go, but I'm going to give it a go. I'm the father of two children that came to my wife and I through adoption, so I'm sure I will write about the experience. I have also been working on my own genealogy, so thoughts on history and family float at the top of my brain often, so I'm sure you'll be able to read about these topics here as well. Religion and politics will certainly round things out since I'm concerned about the world my children will inherit from me and I get passionate about some things from time to time. OK, you got me, I'm almost always passionate about religion and politics and I probably was even before I had kids, but I guy can rationalize, can't he?

So stick around and read if you want. My first real post will be about how I came to be known as the Dancin' Hippie. It happened 23 years ago this fall. I'm not sure it ever fit me, but perhaps that is what makes it fit so well, especially today.

--DH