Red's Wrap
Happiness. It's relative.
Astonishing
I think this picture should be an ad for adoption. You know how most adoption family pictures are so posed? And everyone looks happy – but they kind of need to look happy because the meter’s running on some photographer’s time. Well, this picture wasn’t posed. It captured a moment that I needed to remember countless times as my husband and I worked hard to help this little girl grow up to be healthy and happy.
Remember her joy.
Forget my misgivings.
Remember her enthusiasm – her shout of “Mama!” when she saw me for the first time through the window of the little cabin where she had sat watching a novella with her little 6-year old friends. Remember how much she wanted a family again – parents and siblings and a house. Forget that my friend Christina had to hold my hand to keep me steady on the walk across the orphanage courtyard, forget that my worries about the future and my ability to be a good mother to a 6, nearly 7-year old with a traumatic past and a serious heart condition were just chewing right through me.
Look at the picture. And get the message.
Jan Wilberg Janice Wilberg
Too Dark
So how dark is too dark? Irrelevant, right? A kid’s a kid. An orphan’s an orphan. Or so I thought. I was so happy to get an actual child that I never thought about skin color before I became an adoptive mom although later, through the years and in many varied ways, I realized what a big deal skin color was — more to the point — what a big deal the difference in skin color was to other people and sometimes, even us.
So one day while I was skipping through daisies, I was asked by a respected friend of a friend to talk to yet another friend about the problems she was experiencing with her adoption. Sure. A lot of adoptive parents say they are barraged by calls like this. I never was. Maybe people took one look at my kids and got skeptical about my advice-giving potential.
In any event, I settled in at the kitchen table to hear this woman out. Mellow. Cool. I so know the adoption business, hey.
“I think the baby might be too dark for our family,” she said, right off the bat. The baby in question was from Central or South America, not sure. She had visited the baby twice, held the baby, spent time with him. But she was absolutely stuck on this color thing. “I’m worried he won’t be accepted,” she added, making me wonder if it was the family’s acceptance at issue or her own. “He’s so much darker.”
“And the summer will just make him darker,” I said. “A couple of hours in the sun and both of my sons nearly look African-American.” Looking back, this might be why people never called me for advice – my fondness for oneupsmanship. Hey, you think your kid’s dark? You should see mine!
We knew that skin color was important in Nicaragua where our kids were from. Lighter skinned children were more highly regarded, thought to look more European. Darker kids with more predominant Indian and African origins – like the son whose arm is in this picture – were kind of looked down upon. An interesting sociological fact to me – not much else. I adored those boys.
Finally, after listening to her explain all the reasons why this baby’s dark skin would be a problem, I said, “I think if you feel that he’s too dark for your family, you shouldn’t adopt him.” And she was glad I said it. And I think it was actually the right advice. That boy deserved better – orphan or not. But in my heart I was incredulous that her gratitude to God for finding her this baby didn’t trump the fear of her family’s disapproval. That she couldn’t find that magic place of happiness where she didn’t give a shit what her parents thought or her next door neighbors. Pity. I don’t know what she did. Maybe she went ahead anyway. Maybe not.
Dumb Luck
There are people who make a living figuring out the right adoption ‘matches’. Who’s right for who? Can this kid’s needs be met by these prospective parents? Will this kid fit into these parents’ lives? Science. Social work. Analysis.
For no apparent reason, this guy was chosen out of an orphanage-full of children to be our second son. I so admired the woman making the decision, Miriam Lazo Laguna – a wise, courageous, nearly saintlike person who risked her life in the Sandinista revolution – that I’d have smiled and been grateful no matter what.
I met Joseph Zeledon Snyder on July 4th, 1988, at Rolando Carazo Children’s Center in Managua, Nicaragua, after a hair-raising day visiting Father Fabretto’s in Esteli (see prior post). It was hot, late, the orphanage was dark. He was small and sick. He wouldn’t look at me and when I held him, he flopped backwards. He acted like it was useless to ingratiate himself, to grab hold, to even cry in protest. He was basically one very checked-out baby.
But look at him now. Look at those eyes. And that smile.
Who knew anyone could be so lucky?
Jan Wilberg Janice Wilberg
Boy in the Orange Sweater
I’ve never forgotten the boy in the orange sweater. I don’t know his name. I never talked to him. He was maybe 7 or 8. He was small and, I think, maybe blind in one eye. And he was so lonely. His loneliness was his aura.
This picture was taken at Father Fabretto’s Home for Boys in Esteli, Nicaragua. It was taken 22 years ago. We had traveled to Esteli from Managua, six of us packed into a tiny Toyota, often the only car on the highway, with big black helicopters buzzing over us every few minutes. It was a time of the Sandinistas and the Contras and needing to know where it was safe to go and not safe. Our driver was a Sandinista soldier who was AWOL who kept a knife in his boot and could drive a car up mountains and through rivers. It was hotter than anyplace on earth and I was scared to death every second.
This is going to sound crazy. But I’ll say it anyway. The reason I remember the boy in the orange sweater is because I could’ve been his mother. If I wasn’t already on the hook to meet my new 17-month old son later at the orphanage in Managua, I could’ve easily walked over and taken this boy’s hand. I would’ve told him everything would be ok. I’d tell him we’d get his eye fixed. That he’d have plenty to eat and he’d be safe. And that maybe we could get him a new sweater.
It works like that. You can look at a kid and just know -I could be this kid’s mom.
P.S. Father Fabretto’s is still around. I just checked it out. www.fabretto.org It sure looks a lot different than I remember.
Dew I Know You?
I’ve had a really bad attitude about Mountain Dew ever since I watched a PBS special about dental issues in Appalachia. So seeing my son walk into a funeral with a half-drunk MD in the back pocket of his jeans really put me around the bend. I hadn’t seen him in a couple of weeks – it was one of those periods where we kind of purposely stayed out of each other’s way.
Of course, he was late. And although he seemed to have showered, who comes to a funeral in jeans? He sat in a folding chair in front of me and put his Mountain Dew on the floor. I hissed at him. He turned around and gave me the look….the “what’s the problem, I’m innocent of everything ever, and why are you yelling at me” look. I sank back into my mortification. In my world, people still wore black to funerals, heck, in my ancient world, as a kid growing up in Michigan, I had three pairs of white gloves in my dresser drawer. Honest to God. And food at a funeral? I still feel guilty sneaking a Tic Tac in a church.
He started to reach for the MD on the floor. Damn, he’s not going to drink Mountain Dew at a funeral! I now hate this kid. I kicked his chair and decided that if he made another move, I’d clock him right in the back of the neck. Eighteen years of brush your teeth, tie your shoes, you can’t wear that to school, don’t eat with your hands, don’t talk in synagogue, don’t punch your sister back, and BE LIKE ME down the effing drain.
My friend leaned over, “Calm down, what does it matter? Nobody’s even going to know he’s related to you.” So true, I thought. Grateful. If we were the last two people in a room – me the whitest person ever and him a young Hispanic guy with wild black hair – no one would ever see any connection. And at the moment, I didn’t either. Let it be over and let’s get out of here. So I can roll my eyes and shake my head in private. And we can go back to our separate, rarely intersecting orbits where we can avoid the clashes that might make the cracks between us bigger.
Service over. Chairs rustling. Crowd toward the door. “Hey Ma!” Big hug, Mountain Dew in his hand. My son. No denying.
Orphan Shoe
We did almost everything wrong, right from the start. My husband landed in Managua in the middle of a huge international dispute — appearing in Nicaragua to bring home our new son, Nelson Ernesto Bravo, the same day in 1986 as Gene Hasenfuss, a CIA operative was shot down and taken prisoner by the Sandinistas. A communication screw-up meant that no one was at the airport to meet him so while several soldiers holding AK-47s watched, he nervously dialed our contact’s number until finally a car was sent for him. The lack of a finalized visa meant that he had to crawl over and around U.S. Marines and the Sandinista Army facing off at the American Embassy days later – being one of the last people in the Embassy before it was closed because of the growing conflict about the Hasenfuss case.
All the while, Howard, whose prior diapering experience had been with a teddy bear we used as a teaching tool at home in Milwaukee, was on the fast track of learning how to be a dad to Nelson, a 21-month old, very sick, but extremely handsome little boy. He flew back to the States with Nelson, feeding him a dinner roll and not much else, and putting liquid Tylenol in his ear (yes, in his ear) when he seemed to have an earache. We’d only gotten as far as the diaper changing in Howard’s home instruction – hadn’t covered Tylenol administration yet.
Anyway, Howard missed his connecting flight in Memphis (because he was changing a diaper oddly enough) and ended up being the last person off a midnight plane, carrying a sleepy, incredibly thin, and very grey baby. Here came my husband walking down the long hallway of Terminal C with Nelson on one arm, a bag over his shoulder, and triumph in his eyes.
I realized right then that if Howard never did another thing in his life, if he never remembered my birthday or our anniversary or mowed the lawn or paid the mortgage, if he never worked another day or decided to become a forest ranger, it didn’t matter. He had just made us parents when everyone said it was impossible. And he has been golden to me from that night to this minute.
I Got Your Back, Baby
My girl Jhosy is one tough cookie. Tough cookie, as in if I was in a dark alley and could pick only one buddy – I’d vote for Jhosy over some big muscle guy. Because she’s got grit, like you wouldn’t believe.
The downside of all this toughness while she was growing up was that she could be a handful. She was used to fending for herself before she became part of our family and never lost the skill. I respect that.
Jhosy also knows when to call in reinforcements. Yesterday, she asked me to come to an important meeting, just to be there, to be her back-up. So I did. That’s what I do. A lot of times I don’t necessarily agree with what’s happening. Jhosy’s got a gift for sticking up for herself and sometimes it gets complicated and expensive. But she asks and I show up. It’s the deal we have.
Loyalty is everything to an adopted kid. More than love. It says that no matter how tough a customer you are, you’re not on your own. Ever.
Surprise
It was impossible to be happier than we were when our boys were little. Because of times like these but also because we were lucky and we knew it.
This day at the beach in Marathon, Florida Keys, has stuck with us for a long time. Part of family lore. Here’s the story.
We were lolling about in the warm sea water watching our two guys chasing each other and playing with the inflatable dolphin. And then I heard two Cuban women talking and pointing at our kids. “Where are their parents?” “Does anyone know where their parents are?”
We looked at each other. We’re here. We’re the parents. Something about my sense of dignity kept me from jumping up with my credentials. Instead we moved over toward them and started acting like their parents, feeling the up and down stares of the Cuban women. The question unsaid but in their faces and floating in the air toward us….”Why are these your boys? They belong with their people.” Janice Wilberg, Jan Wilberg
Hair
Hair was always a big thing in our house. A really big thing. Son Joe, adopted from Nicaragua at the age of 17 months, came with a sweaty mop of curly hair and a bald spot on the back of his head from laying in his crib all the time. By 4th grade, he had latched on to the Elvis look. He left the house each morning with his hair carefully sculpted, using handfuls of gel, into a glossy, hard as steel black helmet. No amount of talking to him about what great hair he had changed a thing — his style was his style.
Enter Jhosy. Jhosy came to the U.S. from Nicaragua at the age of 6. She was already annoyed about her hair which was short – in the fashion of institutions that want to cut down on lice and scabies. So she grew her hair and it was gorgeous – thick and black. And then, oh jeez, she started with the coloring and the dying and the henna and the red. And all of it was agony to watch because she was so beautiful. But yes, you got it — her style was her style.
Yesterday was Jhosy’s 23rd birthday. Her dad called to wish her happy birthday because, naturally, she was with her friends and not with us. “Where’s Joe?” he asked, knowing that Joe had promised to drive out to her party. “I don’t know,” Jhosy said. “He always gets lost. You know how he is.” “Besides,” she added, “he said he had to stop and get a quick haircut.” Janice Wilberg, Jan Wilberg
Snow Door | wisconsinacademy.org
Listen to Jan read her essay “Billy” presented on WUWM’s Lake Effect
Jan’s essay “At the Breakfast Bar” on WUWM Lake Effect
Jan’s essay “The Parish Hall,” on WUWM Lake Effect
“Fury Cannot Touch Me,” Modern Love, NYT, 9/29/11
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