I’ve been thinking about the power of fear . . .

When I was eight, I was pretty sure that monsters with claws six inches long and jowls as slobbery as a three-headed mastiff lurked beneath my bed. They crouched in wait, ready to snatch me by the ankle if I dared to get up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom.  I knew they would drag me to a dark pit that would open up beneath my bed and from which (I was absolutely positive) there was no escape. The only possibility of getting past these monsters was to leap off the safety of my bed into the middle of the room, where a writhing hoard of nearly invisible black snakes slithered across the night floor blocking my way to the door. If I happened to step on one of them, I was pretty sure it would rise up and bite me with venom that would make my face swell and then pop off my head in fewer seconds than it would take to rouse my parents and alert them to the likelihood of my imminent demise.

If I managed not to step on them, these sneaky snakes would surely race toward me and slither silently up my pajama legs and wrap themselves around my arms, before biting me in the neck. That much was certain.

If I jumped off the bed and survived the journey across the bedroom floor far enough to make it to the door, there was an enormous fox who lived in the closet just beside the bedroom door who would lurch out just as I reached for the doorknob.  He would grab me by the scruff of the neck like a helpless kitten and stuff me into his boiling stew pot.

Consequently, I sat awake in bed many nights urgently having to pee but too immobilized by fear to even attempt to make a break for the door until the light of dawn revealed the absence of any previously lurking denizens.

It wasn’t just things in the night that scared me.  Oh, no, I probably invented a host of phobias as yet unknown to the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual!

imgres-1Taking a cue from the Cowardly Lion who only needed to be told he was brave to find the courage he lacked, my mother hatched a plan to develop courage in me. She parked the station wagon in the lot across the street, assured me that as the eldest, I was the most suitable designee for this job, give me a dollar and commanded me to walk to the Cumberland Farms store, a mere twenty yards across the street to buy a gallon of milk while she waited in the car with the “little kids.” The enormity of the task loomed ahead like a hundred mile obstacle course!

I was so sure, absolutely positive, in fact that I would be hit by a car and flattened like a pancake that I WOULD NOT cross until I could not see any car in any direction. This drove my mother crazy. “Cross the street!” she would yell from the comfort and safety of the car.

My younger brothers would chant “Now! Now! Now!” from the back seat.

“Not yet!” I would whimper back as I stood, knees knocking, stomach in my throat, too terrified to move, watching until the last taillights disappeared over the horizon–because as we all know, drivers are apt to unpredictably shift their cars into reverse and back up in the middle of the road at full speed, giving no chance of survival to anyone crossing the road at that moment. Only when there was absolutely NO car in sight, would I race across the street as fast as adrenaline could propel me. I would purchase the milk and then I would have to take the harrowing trip back across the street to the car. After repeated trials with no discernable improvement, my mother gave up, pronounced me, “hopeless” and allowed my daredevil younger brother to complete the errand. How that kid could saunter across a street! To this day, he has absolutely no respect for impending doom.

One day, I gained a secret weapon. Aunt Amy gave me a magic blue flashlightaclk that had the power to make any monsters evaporate when they are exposed to even the faintest beam of its light. And, as strange as it may sound, it worked! That magic beam was as powerful as any light sabre and it saved my life on more occasions than I can count!

Though they seemed very real to me in the dark night of my childhood bedroom, I have learned since then that most of my childhood fears were imagined. The absurdity of my monster fears hit me one day in college and I burst out laughing.


In truth, if a pit were to actually open beneath my bed, it would have sucked me down to deposit me in my father’s lap where he sat in his La-Z-Boy, watching TV in the family room directly below my bed. But you couldn’t have told me that as a child.  As I child I lived in that vaporous reality between imagination and verifiable truth.

Dismissing these imagined demons of childhood doesn’t mean that the world isn’t full of monsters. Quite the opposite! The world is full of pitfalls and perils of far greater consequence than mere monsters. But, I have learned that life is nothing if we let fear control our path. In fact, the shortest way to success, and our greatest happiness is often plotted by taking a flying leap off the safe places in life and landing feet first into the middle of a writhing ball of invisible black snakes; doing the very things we fear most!

I suspect in fact that even as adults, our own fear; particularly the fear of failure is the biggest thing that keeps us from achieving our goals. Reason is the flashlight of adulthood.  Like a well-aimed laser beam, reason casts light on fear and zaps it into oblivion or at least slices it neatly into perspective. Given the right pieces of information, we can analyze complex situations and banish even the giant foxes hiding in our closets!

I have found that the motivation to complete a real life obstacle course and confront demons cannot be handed to someone or demanded of or shamed into someone. That courage must be born of determination that rises from within. Cultivating courage can be a slow process for a timid person. With each little stroke of success that life has handed me, I developed another layer of strength to fight even bigger, less imaginary monsters.

After completing a BA in English and Anthropology, I took a flying leap into Counseling Psychology—a complete change of major. I landed firmly in the middle of that writhing ball of snakes usually known as grad school. In a way, the snakes did climb up my pajama legs and wrap around my arms. I was afraid and overwhelmed for a while. It was like landing in a foreign country where I didn’t speak the language. I was sure I would flunk out before the first semester ended.  But I did not quit. I kept battling that mess one snake at a time! Imagine my surprise when I ended the semester with straight A’s. I looked around and all the grad school snakes had evaporated; they’d been cast into oblivion by my hard work and hard won confidence.

My husband and I had long decided that it was past time to leave Minnesota. Spring is the time to sell a house in Minnesota, not winter when the foundation is buried in snow and the driveway has to be shoveled hourly.

But the long distance job hunt was not going well. The time to move was upon us. If we did not jump soon, the moment of opportunity would be lost for at least another year. The only way to move beyond the nearly endless winter of Minnesota was to sell nearly everything; a lifetime of accumulated possessions and move to a warmer place where we had no jobs, no promise of a place to live, no family, no friends, no security, nothing to rely upon but our combined wits. We gathered up our kids and with both eyes opened, jumped into the thing we both desired and feared the most: a warmer life in North Carolina.

It was a difficult landing and we struggled for quite a few years. The snakes of life wriggled mightily, but I can honestly say that this biggest leap of our lives has been the most rewarding.

imgresEach of us has the power to fight the monsters under our beds, the writhing balls of invisible snakes in the middle of the room, and even the giant foxes in our closets. If you start with the focused light that is belief in yourself and aim that beam at one goal at a time, you will evaporate them all, one monster, one snake, one giant fox at a time.

Is there something holding you back from your goals? Take a good long look at it. Shine a clear light directly on it.  Analyze the situation and take the steps to reach your goal.

I’ve got a magic blue flashlight I don’t need any more. You’re welcome to it if you need one. Just pass it on to someone else when you’re done with it.



I’ve been thinking about cultural appropriation

Cultural appropriation appears to be a hot issue right now in international adoption circles. This is not something that just started nor is unique to international adoption.  What’s new is that it is viewed among some young adult adoptee groups as a negative rather than a positive. They seem to have latched onto it as a new source of blame.  Adoptive parents have done wrong not only by removing adopted children from their birth culture, but also by appropriating areas of their birth cultures into their adoptive family life.

Cultural appropriation is the way the world grows smaller. When we eat sushi, we have culturally appropriated Japan. When we send our kids to Tae Kwon Do, we have appropriated Korean culture.

The child adopted in previous generations was raised as a member of the new family and expected to assimilate into that family’s culture, leaving behind everything of their family of origin.  In my parents generation, if a couple adopted a child from another culture, there was no effort made to educate the child about their country of origin. This pretty much followed the trend among new immigrants who desperately wanted to be seen as “all-American,” not used-to-be-Polish or Hungarian. My husband’s grandparents immigrated and his American-born parents wanted nothing to do with Polish language or foods. As is typical, it was the second generation Americans, those born to American-raised parents, who then look back with longing for the “good old ways.”

I wonder when I look around at our increasingly mobile society, how many individuals have the luxury to stay in one place their entire lives, to grow in the same culture they were born to.  People no longer land a job right out of high school at the same place their father worked and work the same job until they retire at 62!  Today’s average worker changes jobs 10 to 15 times over the course of a career! Increasingly, promotion, even promotion within the same company also requires relocation, not just across the country, but across the globe. My cousin Chuck was unique in my family because he worked 22 years for IBM, but most of those years were spent in Japan. In search of education, and employment opportunities, my husband and I have lived in NJ, AZ, PA, VA, MD, NH, VT, MN and NC. Though all in America, the culture in each of these place is a little different. Like most Americans, we have kept the parts of our shared culture that were important and adapted to our new surroundings as needed.

But, what exactly is culture and to whom does it “belong?”

Culture defines boundaries and it is  the way a group of people passes down a world view.  In a time of tribal identity, it was a way to define who was friend and who was foe. In time of famine, who do we let into the city gates and who do we lock out? What once had meaning in a culture may get handed down, but without the original meaning. In Croatia, where my grandfather lived, the women of each village use a different pattern of red embroidery on their skirts. You could tell where a woman was from (Is she one of “us?”) just by her skirt!

Cultural competency is a survival skill. It helps us know how to act in every situation. But cultural competency is necessary in the culture one lives, not the culture one came from. If one immigrates to a new culture but does not adapt to that culture, rather clings instead to the old ways of the former culture that are more familiar, one does not survive-at least not well.

As an Anthropology major, I learned that culture is not static but an ever evolving social construct. Our sense of identity and how we fit into society comes largely from our family stories and our community experiences. And yet, if that communal narrative does not adapt and change with newly evolved threats, the culture dies.

I grew up in a family with a strong sense of culture. My father’s father had founded a Croatian cultural society and participated in singing and dancing folk songs and playing traditional instruments as a family. But my mother’s family was Irish and German.  So, I learned to eat braunschweiger and onion sandwiches on a poppyseed roll and sing Irish lullabies to the babies. I thought of culture as wealth: something that enriched rather than limited one’s life. I didn’t lose my mother’s culture when I watched a Croatian folk group dance nor did I have a sense of betraying my father’s family if I sang Irish lullabies. I felt richer because I embraced all of these cultural traditions.

Before I married into my husband’s family, his grandmothers schooled me in all the important parts of Polish cooking. I got gold stars in babka and pierogi, and a passable grade in galabki and Chrusty. We joke that I nearly didn’t get approved for marriage because I refused to learn to make czernina (soup made from the blood of a live duck) something they considered an annual Christmas necessity.

The truth of the matter is that I am entirely American.  I have never even set foot on the the soils of these countries of my grandparents. I am neither Croation nor Irish or German. I am American. I would not fit in a Croatian village any more than my Chinese born adopted children would fit in China today. We celebrate the trappings of culture, keeping favorite family recipes and holiday traditions, but because we are American and because culture is a living breathing thing, we scuttle the stuff that has no meaning for us. All cultures do this. Chinese people, even those living in China, no longer break and bind the feet of young girls or arrange their marriages at birth.

As my generation began adopting children, we thought it was important to give children a sense of pride in their national origin. Maybe we overdid it? We sent our adopted kids to language schools and ethnic dance classes. We made an effort to find dolls that looked just like our ethnically-different-from-us children. Whole families participated in cultural festivals and ethnic holidays that were native to the adopted child’s country of origin, but usually not to the adoptive family. Some American Born Chinese friends once commented that we were more Chinese than they were! Typical of most immigrants, the parents of these ABC had been eager to assimilate into American culture. We have Chinese silk paintings and calligraphy decorating our walls and they had a portrait of Elvis.

As you can see, my husband and I are guilty of cultural appropriation: 971065_10152874983165035_285860828_n

We celebrate Chinese New Year  and Moon Festival in our house. We eat Chinese food several times a week. My kids snack on ramen noodles as if they were Twinkies.

These angry, young adult adoptees contend that their rights as a child to remain in their birth culture were never considered. They feel they would have been better off, less socially awkward had they remained in their native countries. Living among people of a different race and a different culture has been for them–problematic.

The world is changing. Our families and communities are expanding rapidly! It is interesting to note that Cultures that have migrated–diaspora–change less than the home base. Preserving the culture “just the way it was” is more important to those who move away than to those who are immersed in it as it continues to breathe and grow. It is one way that we humans resist change and hold on to the familiar in a world that is swiftly spinning beyond our control. The truth of the matter is that our culture, globally, is evolving so rapidly that  everyone (at least everyone who pauses long enough to consider such things) feels a little disconnected from their roots. The culture these adoptees were born into twenty years ago is not the same culture that exists today. They can never go back to the China of their earliest memories or of their dreams; not because they have been so Americanized, but because that culture no longer exists! While they were away, China or Guatemala, Korea or Haiti have changed. If you walk the streets of these countries today, you will see people dressed in western business suits, carrying briefcases and talking into cell phones. The culture of their memories and fantasies no longer exists. And, I say fantasies because I suspect the culture constructed by birth parents to give their children a sense of ethnic pride, is something we have idealized for them. It never, in reality ever existed. We have kept the good parts and scuttled the parts we felt were destructive. We told them stories about birth mothers who lovingly placed them in places where they would be found because they could not care for them. We left out any possibility of birth mothers who might not have wanted them because we found that thought too painful to bear. We insisted to ourselves and to our children that birth mothers were victims of circumstances and given a better world would have kept their children. We place the onus on economics or social constraints, never on personal inconvenience. The truth is, for many of us, we simply don’t know why our children were abandoned by their families of origin. We only knew that they needed a family and we needed a child to love.

Two of my children, adopted from China, like my grandparents and all adoptees born in another country–are immigrants to America. There is a tendency among immigrants to look back at the old days with nostalgia and forget the reasons that drove them to America. Trips back to “the old country”DSCF0565 seldom live up to the expectations of the second generation. My grandfather never went back to the old country. It was the second generation that looked back with nostalgia and said, “Look what you stole from us by coming to America!” After he retired, my uncle visited the old family homestead in Croatia and commented that it was “a real dump! How did they raise all those kids in that small house?”

Despite the good stuff they tried to bring with them, there were reasons my family and my husband’s family immigrated to America. Potato famines and insurrections, abject poverty and world wars drove various relatives to the land of opportunity.

On the one hand, I totally agree that It would certainly have been easier for adopted children to have grown into a sense of cultural identity had they remained in their countries of origin—if the culture of those countries was accepting of single parent families or multi-race children or differently abled children or second daughters. In fact, the changes I do see happening in those cultures are largely at the hands of adoptive parents who have remained connected with the birth cultures and formed organizations to reach out and benefit the children deemed “unadoptable.” They have started schools to educate handicapped children who are not allowed in public schools. Adoptive parents have started foundations to provide corrective surgeries for babies with disorders that mark them as outcast in their home cultures. They have now infused these birth cultures with western values of inclusion and opportunity for all.

Our global understanding of culture is expanding into broader and broader circles of inclusion. Like a bride who learns to cook her husband’s favorite ethnic foods, most of the adoptive parents I know have spent a great deal of time and effort not only bringing their children into their own culture, but extending themselves into the culture of the child. We have so much Chinese art in our house that my eldest son, product of my husband’s and my gene pool once asked, “Where’s the Polish Art?” We have paid for Chinese schools and friends have sent their kids to Korean camps, Djembe drum lessons and Guatemalan folk arts classes, not only for their adopted child but for other members of the family as well.

Another error I see in this thinking by adoptees, is that one culture is mutually exclusive of another. That in gaining America, they have lost their countries of origin. I would counter that adoptive families become a very real, multi-ethnic celebration of the expanding global family.

The angry adopted young adults refer to cultural appropriation with a sense of disgust, as if  adoptive parents have stolen something from them or kidnapped them from something that is rightfully theirs. In reality, they have likely appropriated much of American culture that they are not aware of! These young adults with college degrees who would not have been allowed to go to elementary school in their birth cultures because of social status or gender have no trouble speaking out and claiming rights that their birth countries would have denied them without the intervention of American and European adoptive families.

The truth is that the life of an orphan in these places is not hopeful. The prospects for education and career, quality of medical care, indeed the prospects for survival are quite limited for most of them had they remained in their birth culture. The children who need homes today do not have time to wait for their cultures to grow toward greater acceptance. Their only hope of education, life-saving surgeries, healthful nutritional options and emotional stability was and still remains; adoption.

Yes, I strongly agree that it would have been best if these babies had been able to stay in their countries of origin had the social network existed to care for them. I am not alone.  This is why so many adoptive parents continue to support efforts in their children’s countries of origin to support single mothers, to encourage in-country adoptions, add staff to orphanages and “hugging grannies” for nurseries, build and train staff for early childhood education centers, or provide education fees for school children and life altering surgeries.  It is not only a way to give back, but a way to alter the culture just enough to assure that orphans don’t need to be adopted to other countries in order to live productive lives.

Personally, I think our family and other adoptive families are a little richer for appropriating a bit of Chinese or Korean or Ethiopian or Brazilian culture into our home and one day, I hope the kids see this as the gift we intended it to be.


I’ve been thinking about international adoption

I have been thinking about international adoption and the ways this decision to parent children from another culture has shaped not only their lives, but my life and the life of our entire extended family and maybe countless other people we don’t even know yet.

On October 5th, 1997, we became a Chinese American family when we adopted Ben GaoRong from  the city of Gaoming in G971065_10152874983165035_285860828_nuangdong province, China. On that day, we embraced not only a very excited, very malnourished, very sick six-year-old, but an entire culture.  We had struggled with the implications of removing a child from his country of origin. We believed that what was really best for him was to remain in China and to be raised by his birth parents. But thousands of years of Chinese culture cannot be changed overnight.  The second best adoption would be his adoption by loving Chinese parents. At that time, domestic adoption in China was not a legal option. We knew that for all that we could offer, we were really his third best but only real option for a healthy life in a loving family. Despite all the benefits of medical care and nutrition and education we could give him, he would experience a profound loss of cultural identity. But the clock was ticking for him as it does for thousands of the world’s orphans. He was in fact, so sick that he would have died within months in China had we not adopted him when we did. The cultural systems that should have provided his greatest benefit would not evolve in time  to save his life. He could only be adopted by a foreign couple. His only hope of family life and stability and life at all (as it turned out after multiple medical interventions) was foreign adoption.

7791_10152874982795035_762395409_nHe would not be aware of this loss, at least not at first, but, like parents everywhere, we anticipated this need for him. To minimize that loss, we felt it was our responsibility to retain as much of his Chinese identity as possible. We knew that we could not give him, or the two-year-old daughter we adopted two years later, a true experience of growing up in the China he had left or even approximate the experience of living in a Chinese American family, but we wanted to come as close as we could. We wanted these kids to be proud to be Chinese. We sandwiched their Chinese names between their new American Names so that they would have the option to choose any configuration of that name in later years. We studied Chinese language and filled our home with Chinese music. We decorated their rooms and much of our home in Chinese art to the point that our eldest son (product of our own gene pool) asked, “Where’s the Polish art in this house?”

We contributed to Chinese charities and marked the passage of the year as much in Chinese holidays as American holidays. We made Chinese foods a regular part of our diet. My daughter says we have not made it enough a part of our diet as she would still eat Chinese food every day, for every meal with the exception of an occasional pepperoni pizza.  –And maybe peanut butter.  I am not sure she could survive long without peanut butter.

As time went on, we became more and more aware of white people around us. We became sensitive to racist comments as if they were directed to us because, well, they were!  “Why didn’t you adopt an American child?”

Despite our efforts, our kids, now teenagers, are both far more American in their identity and their world view than Chinese. They attend schools where they are more accepted among English-speaking American peers than among first and second generation Chinese-speaking immigrant peers. English has become their primary language. I find that I now mourn their loss of China more than they do.  My daughter who used to sing herself to sleep in Chinese lullabies and nursery tunes now struggles to remember the words and sometimes doesn’t remember what they mean when she does remember them.

When we adopted our daughter, we visited a monastery on a steep Nanjing hillside 971072_10152875043925035_631403615_npopulated by Buddhist nuns. The nuns surrounded us, intrigued by our little girl who after only two days, clearly knew who Mama was and already rejected their overtures of affection. “Will you bring her back when she is grown?” they asked.

“Yes,” I said. “She is Chinese.  I want her to know her country.  I will bring her back when she is old enough to appreciate everything she sees.” They all nodded in approval and patted my arms and thanked me for honoring this little Chinese life.

I still dream for her that she will be able to return to China.  I want her to be able to go for more than just a tourist trip. I want for her to traipse through hutong-men and talk to people in the market. I dream for her to live there for a time, to study, to learn about her roots in more depth. I want her to retrace the steps of her early life, to meet the people significant to the beginning part of her story. It occurs to me that I will need to rely upon the good graces of many Chinese people. I will need them to teach her to celebrate all that I took away from her and could not replicate for her.

Why do I not wish this for our son? I wish it could be so, but for him such a dream is not realistic. The years of malnutrition and illness left their mark on him. He is too mentally, physically and emotionally challenged to make such a voyage on his own.

More and more I think it truly takes a village to raise a child.  And more and more, especially for internationally adopted children, that village is global.