Land of the Soap Opera and Talk Show

Over a month ago we mailed $830 and our application to the application to petition to bring a foreign orphan overseas to the United States Citizenship and Immigration Service (USCIS). Funny enough, they cashed our check immediately and sent us a handwritten receipt, but said it will be a couple more weeks before they could send us an appointment to come into office and see them. In the beginning of October they sent us a very formal looking letter stating our date and time we are assigned to present ourselves in person, and to have our fingerprints scanned into the abyss that is our government at work. I couldn’t help but think, as my fingerprints were taken for the third time along this process, that my future career as a spy was all but crushed.

So, our biometrics a.k.a. ‘scanning your fingerprints into the abyss’ appointment was yesterday. Before we went, I was quite intimidated about the event. Whenever you think ‘immigrations’ you conjure up images of officers in sunglasses with a toothpick hanging out of their mouth, wielding a large gun in one hand and a leash to a barking dog in the other. It also didn’t help that the appointment came with a lot of rules: Must show up for your assigned date and time; Will not be admitted to building without formal letter stating your appointment; No cell phones allowed in building; No one but applicants allowed in building… but actually it turned out to be very docile.

It is a run down office in the middle of a strip mall, nestled between an UPS store and some other non-descript place of commerce. The windows are blocked out, so you cannot see in or out. The walls are a baby blue so light it could be just tinted white; and the only things on the walls are a poster proclaiming “Welcome to the United States!”, a wrinkled picture of Pres. Bush slapped up in a plexiglas poster frame, flanked by two other smaller pics of unknown-to-me-but-they-must-be-important old white men. In the first waiting room we were entertained by ‘The Young and the Restless’ playing on a fuzzy tv with rabbit-ears, the second waiting room / fingerprinting room / really just the other side of the same long room we were kept quiet by the ‘Tyra Banks’ show playing on another tv. Welcome to America, indeed!

It was really quite an odd experience. I know the government loves to spend money on itself… and I have been in enough city halls / government centers / police departments lately to know they are nothing fancy but they are at least adequate - but this was… odd. As we sat nestled between people of all cultures hoping for a life in America, and others whom I can only assume were fellow international adoptive parents, in this strange eclectic room with a wrinkly G.W. staring down from above, I couldn’t help but think -how surreal.

I’m thinking next time we should try it on acid.

Out of Luck

In a conversation with a very dear friend of mine who is due with her first child at the end of January (unless you can cross your legs and try really hard for Feb. 1st? What an awesome 30th b-day present for me!), we were talking about how all of a sudden we are so old. Seriously, wasn’t it just yesterday we were having parties at the Hampton Inn because we were too young to get into bars, and too stupid to just stay home? Worrying the next morning, “are my eyes too bloodshot, or do my clothes stink too badly?”. Oh, wait… no, that was… thirteen years ago! Geez. Don’t try and tell me I’m not old.

Anyways, back to my original thought – we tried to assure each other we will still be ‘kick-ass moms’ (who, by the way, will never tell my teenagers what I did as a teenager), but she, too, was wondering who decided we are mature enough to be PARENTS!?! It is a frightening thought, but this got me thinking… well, in my case: the adoption agency, the social worker, the local police, the police in every county I’ve lived in for the last ten years, the FBI, my doctor, my bank, Dept of Homeland Security, my employer, two friends and two family members, Dept of Human Services,… am I forgetting anyone? Oh, and yes, the Ethiopian Government. So, I guess I am ready. Or so I’m told. You, on the other hand, my dear Annie, may be sh*t out of luck. :)

Obligations

I never want to question a parent’s decision to make an adoption plan for their child; that is not my place nor my right. I do, however, feel it is my obligation as a mother-to-be of a transnational adoptee, to question and work towards a solution to the necessary reasons why these children are being relinquished or abandoned. I am not trying to say we should not adopt - far from it. There are children in need immediately, and they cannot wait for society to change. I also do not want to give the impression that I think Ethiopia needs to be ‘westernized’ to thrive better as a nation. I just think, as a fellow human – but even more so now as a mother of an international child – I am compelled to assist any countries in need so adoption doesn’t have to be the best option.

Though I feel totally blessed by the world of adoption - my eyes have been opened to things I had never even considered or brushed off before - and I hope to adopt again in the future (deep breath, Brad - I know we have to get through this one, first!), my real deep down wish is that international adoption would not be necessary. It painful to think that I will be given the unbelievable gift of a child, all because another woman somewhere could not afford him, but I can. That fact stings a bit more when you add in the fact that as an international adoptee, they are also losing their country, language, and cultural way of life. That does not change the situation for the children now, but maybe we can change the situation for the children of the future.

Added:
I was just made privy to an article that may explain some of my ideas, but in a far more eloquent way than I. It is a little long-ish, but well worth the read.
http://www.motherjones.com/news/feature/2007/11/did-i-steal-my-daughter.html

A Flag By Any Other Name...

Nothing new on the adoption front… but the ole’ blog is looking a little bare, plus I’m feeling a little wordy. So, I would like to share my opinions with you on a video my husband has shown me (I think he knew it would make me all irritated), in which all the comments on the forum where he found it were overwhelming positive, proclaiming this man a hero.
Please watch, then I will rant:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nONjlZ8YMkA

Before I even begin, let me start out by saying I love living in the United States; there is nowhere else I would chose to live. I feel extremely fortunate that I was born here, and that my great-grandparents were the ones that had to make the difficult journey of immigrating here, not I.

Here is my issue with the video - this man acted in obvious anger, shown by the look on his face and the tension he exuded. I agree with him in one aspect, the American flag needs to be flown higher than others, merely because that is the law. True, I feel the law a bit silly and feudalistic, but whatever. It is the law. The two ‘shopkeepers’ standing by and watching, they did not look to be aggressive fellows. In fact, they seemed a bit befuddled by the whole situation. Instead of this man angrily marching to the storefront brandishing a weapon (with videographer in tow, none the less!) and practicing his own form of vigilante ‘justice’ by also breaking the law (vandalism and robbery) – why not go to that shop and say ‘Hey. There is a law here that the American flag must be flown higher than all others.” But oh, no no! That is not the American way! We must do things with vengeance and fanaticism, and hide it behind an allegiance to our country!

Intolerance masked by patriotism is still intolerance.

There is no reason the shopkeepers cannot love living in the U.S., work hard to prosper at their store, building a better life and still be proud of their Mexican heritage. We who are more removed from our immigrating ancestors, such as I, do not really feel a connection to my source countries… I think I am mostly German? But, my guess is my great-grandparents, as with any first generation immigrant, felt very differently. I wonder, if it had been a flag of a Scandinavian country flying above the Stars & Stripes, would the reaction had been the same? Would he still have acted so boldly and unlawfully, with hate in his voice, or merely explained to the shopkeepers why it shouldn’t be flown that way?
Being an American is not a right you can only be born with, it is a right extended to all who all who lawfully come to be.

Thanks for letting me rant. Please feel free to tell my why you think I am wrong or right.

Go Ahead. Be Jealous.

Of the shirt, that is. Not the rack.

Working on the Room

Just a whole lota' waiting on our hands... So the best-est sister ever came over and helped me paint some wooden circles to decorate the baby's room.

Here is some proof of our hard work:



Thanks, Kimby!

Changed Perceptions Part Deux

A few post down, I stated I’ve started to realize I see things a little differently than my ‘post-adoption-decision’ self. This is another example of that, one I’ve thought about for quite awhile, but wasn’t sure if I should talk about. Makes me feel awful, and that my love is conditional, but it is not, I swear! It just is an example of how your total thought process changes… well, I will just let you read it and decide if I am evil or not.

You know how when you are in the grocery store, and there is some runny-nosed kid pouting and screaming and trantruming, and you think to yourself “Glad that is not my kid!”? Admit it! I used to think that way, too, but now instead I get this weird, “Could I love you?” thought instead. It is like, now that I know my child will not biologically be a part of me, any random kid I run into could be a living example of what and who my child is, and I constantly feel the need to validate that fact that I am okay with that. I have no doubts I will love my child as fiercely as I would if I grew him myself, but still the fact that my child is as foreign to me at this point as the kid trantruming in the cereal isle (its always seems to be in the cereal isle...) is kind of a daunting thought.

I cannot look at my husband and mine’s baby pictures, and try to envision what kind of scrunchy baby face ours will have. I can’t close my eyes and try to predict what features s/he will have, who they will resemble when they are older. Therefore, now any child of color who happens to walk in my path, I feel the need to study. Will my child’s hair be soft ringlets like this little boy, or more textured like this one? It is like a disease.

On the other side of the story, it also makes me a little sad for my future child. S/he also will not be able to look at us as his parents, and see what s/he will look like as they grow old. Unless the agency can give us pictures of the birth parents or relatives, it will be a complete mystery to him.