Mom, The Dragon Slayer

In grade school the premier sport was basketball.   In fifth grade, although I didn’t like basketball, there was no question I was going to try out for the team and so did every other male in my class;  to not be on the team was social suicide.  My basketball skills were left on the assembly line floor when I was created, but I could run,  push myself off the floor(most would say jump but the lack of vertical lift I got didn’t meet the definition of jump) and dribble a basketball so I made the team.  And so did anyone who showed up for practice.  I played 5^th through 8^th grade and cherished my spot on the team.  As a TRA (transracial adoptee) my hidden fears of rejection sat on my shoulder like a pirate’s parrot, always squawking in my ear.  I especially desired to fit in here because the school I went to was predominately black and I wanted to be recognized as simply one of the group.    Fitting in was paramount and the basketball team was my vehicle to fitting in and it gave me a peace I can’t describe.

Friday nights were electric!  It was game night and I loved pulling on the blue and gold uniform and lacing up my all leather Pro-Keds.  Money was never in abundance in our house , so the purchase of leather shoes to play basketball was monumental.  The day I got to abandon my red Beta Bullets(remember our colors were blue and gold,) which were a cheap version of the Converse All-Stars, was an historic day in my life.   Converse All-Stars were about $5.00 in the 70’s, so to be any cheaper ,my mother would have to have gotten paid by the store to take the Beta Bullets off the shelves.   Throwing the ripped red canvas Beta Bullets in the trash was a celebrated event but that was only done after a few more months of wearing them as my “play shoes.” I was only able to wear my “play shoes” after I put the allotted time in each day wearing my orthopedic shoes that were designed to cure my flat feet.  The amazing thing with those shoes was how the salesman convinced my mother that not only did my brothers have flat feet but I somehow “inherited” their flat feet through simply living in the same house!  Mom, I WAS ADOPTED how could I have inherited their flat feet? Those orthopedic shoes and their offensively high price tag was the reason it took so long to get matching basketball shoes.

We would start each game as if we were a professional team.  The whole team would line up shortest to tallest in the locker room.  Finally, my lack of height came with a perk!  I stood at the front of the line and the coach would hand me the ball.  It was my job to lead the team in to the gym, make a lap around the gym, and then make a layup.  It was the closest thing to being a rock star that I had ever experienced.

I spent most of the game watching my teammates beat up on the smaller, rural, mostly all white teams we played.  It was our starter’s job to go out and put a hurting on the other team so my friends  and I could come in when the game was out of reach.  One game the coach decided to stray away from this strategy. At the end of the first quarter we were winning 34-0.  He called for me and 4 others whose ability was close to mine—nonexistent, to start the second quarter.  At the end of the second quarter the score was 34-32.  Coach never tried that strategy again and I was okay with that.

My eight grade year I was still watching mostly from the bench, but still on the  team and happy.  One of the perks of being on the 7^th and 8^th grade team was the end of year tournament held at a local high school.  The opportunity to play on a big high school floor was like playing at Madison Square Garden.  There was a limit to the number of people the coach could take to the tournament but traditionally the 8^th graders took priority over the 7^th graders.   This way everyone would have a chance to experience this opportunity.  My 8^th grade year the coach posted on the bulletin board in the hallway of the school the names of the players going to the tournament.  I ran to see who was going and my eyes ran up and down the list several times and each time my eyes failed to locate my name.  I did notice name after name of 7^th graders that were on the list but mine was not among those going.  I was more embarrassed than anything.  I wasn’t too disappointed because I could sit at home instead of on the bench and if I have to sit I’d rather do it home.  Two other 8^th graders didn’t make the team.  My friends Mark and John would also be sitting at home.  Mark was the one and only TRA I knew growing up and John was the only other biracial kid on the team.  At 13 years old I never made the connection between the 3 left out, but Mom did.

The day after the traveling team was announced, Mom made a special trip to school without me know it.  As we all sat down for dinner, one of my classmates called on the phone.  I grabbed the phone and my excited friend shouted in my ear, “Kev, man your Mom came up to the school and cussed the coach out!!!!  You should have been there it was GREAT!”

“She did what?” I said, as I looked at my Mom across the table.  The look on her face told me she did what my friend said she did and I shocked.  My Mom was very aware of the prejudices we as a family faced at times when I had no clue.  The commonalities between the 3 cut kids screamed something wasn’t right.  She had developed her BS thermometer so when things didn’t sound right the alarms went off in her head.  We experienced a similar prejudice when I was in second grade from a black teacher who openly disapproved of white families adopting black children.  The teacher found an unjustified reason to spank me in class and the next day I was in another class after Mom showed up at the school cussing someone else out.  In both situations, I was oblivious to what was going on around me but Mom was tuned in and growled at those who were behind the offense.

I hung the phone up and Mom confessed to what she did earlier in the day.  I was embarrassed and proud of Mom at the same time.   It’s an unwritten rule in sports that you don’t speak out against the coach and you especially don’t have your Mom do it.  The coach never conceded and  I didn’t get to go to the tournament and I was relieved.  Being put back on the team because my Mom complained would have been tough to recover from, but Mom became an icon among my friends.  She was the dragon slayer and it was great to know I lived with someone who would slay a dragon on my behalf.

I am often asked how parents should respond to incidents like this.  Below are a few tips

1)      Be an advocate for your child.  If you see something not right or your child brings something to you address it. This will be tough for some because many will rationalize why this isn’t racially motivated and talk themselves out of addressing it.

2)      Explain to your child in a calm manner what happened in an age-appropriate way.  The emotion that comes with racism can often make you want to yell and scream.  Do that away from your child or it will translate to them that you’re yelling at them or it’s their fault.

3)      Include your child in the process of addressing it.  While the Momma Bear in you will make you want to attack, take a breath.  Sit down and talk to your child and ask what they would like to see happen.

4)       Don’t lead with racism.  The moment you scream racism is the moment the offender shuts you off.

5)      Take credit for what you do.  Once it is address explain to your child what was done and how the situation will be resolved.

Now go be Dragon Slayers on behalf of your children!

The Absurd Town of Boysville

She walked out of her home exhausted and frustrated because she felt like no one really understood her. She lived at home with her father and three brothers and there were times when she felt like they spoke different languages and were birthed on different planets. She walked down her Mayberry-like street that was filled with activity. The group of kids who were playing street hockey were all boys. The group renovating the home next door were all man. But this was what she was used to experiencing. It was rare for her to see another female and she couldn’t recall how long it has been since since the last sighting.

She attends the neighborhood school and all of her classmates and teachers are all male. She heard about a family that had a girl who once attended the school but they moved away long before she got there. She gets along well with the boys in school but when they make fun of her for being a girl or say horrible things about girls she has learned to play along; because this is how you get along. Being the object of the jokes is much better than being ignored and cast off. She slowly begins to believe the stereotypes and demeaning things she is told about women.

The church they attend matches her neighborhood and school. She is the only female sitting in the pews listening to sermons that are designed and written for men because women rarely come to her church. She has learned to accept that the male point of view is the norm and there is not much room for her voice. She has approached her father about issues that would be considered female issues but her father doesn’t want to talk about them. Talking about her differences will only make her feel worse and it will only make her feel even more different. At least, that’s what her father thinks. So her voice fades and quietly disappears. She has also tried to talk about the mother she never knew but her father doesn’t see the need to talk about this painful topic, so they don’t. His unwillingness to talk about it has taught her this is a subject that should not discussed. Those types of conversations are confined to her head and never go away.

The only representation of women she ever sees is on TV. The women on TV become her definition of what it means to be female. She begins to measure herself against the one dimensional characters she sees on TV and falls short. She can’t compete with women with makeup artists, trainers, and coaches and her self esteem dips dangerously low. All this combines with the hormones that accompany a girl of her age and creates a struggle within her. She searches to find a place to exhale; a place to be understood. She has so many questions and no one around her who shares a similar life experience.

She moves through life accepting this is how things are and she pushes down anything female. She graduates from high school and goes to a large university. The moment she steps on campus she is in awe of what she sees. There are women walking around campus, teaching classes, working in the library, coaching teams, and she is excited and terrified at the same time. She doesn’t know how to talk to other women because she has never done it before. She wonders if she will be accepted in with the woman that surround her. She wonders why this demographic was kept from her. Why did she struggle as the only one when there are so many women present outside of her community? Her struggles continue because she can’t seem to fit in–anywhere. The way women interact and even talk is foreign to her. It is like she is in an unfamiliar country where she doesn’t know the language, beliefs or cultural do’s and don’ts. Simply put; She is ignorant to the ways of women. She is seen as odd and this circle of interaction is closed to her.

On her first break from college she goes home to her all male town and home. She sits across from her father at the dinner table and asks why she never had contact with other women like her. Her father states it didn’t occur to him that that was important to her. As long as he was raising a child in a positive way he didn’t think much else was needed. Besides, she never asked to have contact with other women so how was he supposed to know. If she had requested it; showed that she wanted that, he would have provided it for her.

Love and anger wrestle in her chest and she doesn’t know how to feel. She loves her father but is frustrated that he doesn’t understand her. She feels she is being blamed because she didn’t take the initiative but she didn’t know what she didn’t know. Her frustration grows and she can feel her blood simmering moving closer and closer to a boil and then….

Her mother shakes her to wake her up. It was just a strange dream. She chuckles to herself at the absurdity of such a town and is relieved she nor any one else has to live life as she did in her dream.

The Geometry of The Triad

This past weekend I was fortunate enough to be a part of a powerful discussion at an adoption conference in Chicago.  I was the adoptee representative of the triad and was joined by an adoptive mother and birth mother and for approximately 45 minutes we sat in front of about 300-400 people and had a conversation.  It was our chance to ask the questions of each other that we have wanted to know personally or questions we thought others in the audience would want to know.  It was a unique opportunity to have a unique conversation.   Since I never met my birth mother and I didn’t really talk about adoption with my parents, I used this as an opportunity to further try and fill in some blanks for myself.  Yes, at 45 years old, I still have blanks that I need filled from my adoption experience.   I have recently come to the conclusion, that as an adoptee, I will never “just get over it,” like some people may assume. So my journey now is to address the issues and struggles to find closure and peace, and pass along these lessons to those who come behind me.  From this conversation, on the ride home for Chicago,  a powerful image came to me that I wanted to share.

It is my understanding that many adoptive parents look at the triad in the shape of an isosceles  triangle(Mr. Fridge, my 10^th geometry teacher would so proud of me!) where two points are closer together and the third point is a considerable distance away.  This way the adoptive parents and adoptee are in close proximity to each and the birth parents are at a distance.  One of many unspoken thoughts is that if we can keep the birth parents at a distance than the relationship between adoptive parents and adoptee will remain intact and close.   Having an open adoption, may be scary for some adoptive parents because it’s seen as threatening to their  relationship with the adoptee,  therefore, it’s easier to keep the distance between adoptee and birth parents at a comfortable detached distance, if at all.

 But what if the triad was diagrammed in the form of an equilateral triangle(Look at me Mr. Fridge!) where all sides are equal.  This way you can’t push one point away without all points growing further apart. Then I wondered,  how can we adoptees have a close relationship with our adoptive parents if we have unresolved issues with our birth parents? Upon further reflection it became clearer and raised more questions.    If adoptive parents work with adoptees and help them work through their relationships with birth parents and teach the adoptee how to love birth parents, won’t that also teach the adoptee how to love the adoptive parents?   If, as an adoptee, I am taught to keep my birth parents at a distance doesn’t that also teach me to have a distant relationship with my adoptive parents? 

What do you think?

The Day Cute and Brown Dissolved Into Black

At 8 years old I stood in line waiting to get a ride in the little cart attached to the small donkey at Upland Hills Farm summer camp.  This was a farm/day camp located in a rural area just outside of Detroit. While Mom and Dad worked during the summer months my brothers and sister and I and several other inner-city youths were bused Monday through Friday from Detroit to a farm.  It was a program designed to allow inner-city children the opportunity to experience fresh, clean, farm living.  Although at 8 years old, this farm seemed much more dirty than any city street I knew.  I vividly remember trying to avoid cow and horse pies all day long hoping my Range Master shoes wouldn’t sink in a freshly made pie.  Looking back on it, this program was designed for the “inner city” youth  but it doesn’t appear any of the black families got the memo, because I remember being the only child of color on the 45 minute morning bus ride, at the farm all day long, and on the 45 minute ride home at the end of the day.

It was here at this farm while waiting in line to ride in the donkey buggy that I matured from a cute little brown boy, who could flash a smile and get my way, into a black male adolescent.

While getting in line, I mistakenly cut in front of an older white boy and when he pointed out that I “took cuts,”  I flashed him my cutest smile.  The same smile that made color disappear in the past.  But that day, I grew out of cute and no longer would the smile cover my darker skin.  The boy looked at me with such disgust, anger, and hate that I instantly felt myself shrink.   It was the look I would come to learn and understand exactly what it meant as I continued to mature in this color conscious world.  This was the look that could call me all kinds of names, and demean me without a word being spoken;  the look that I still see today as I walk through life as a black man.

At the farm,  I learned that my white privilege that I had benefited from living in a white household stopped for me at my front door and once cute and brown dissolves into black the world becomes a different place, a much different place especially for black males.

My parents never had the talk with me to prepare me for this but my black friends had the talk with their black parents.  The talk that told them when this day comes that the person trying to shrink you with their eyes is the wrong one and that you are just as valuable as anyone.  Instead,  when this day came for me,  I walked back to the end of the line several inches shorter than when I got up that summer morning.

 

A Seat At The Table

The guest stands on the small cement porch nervous with anticipation.  His nervous energy generates extra heat that pushes its way out through the sweat that is pouring out of his palms.  He wipes his palms on his khakis, inhales deep, and slowly exhales hoping to calm his heart that is knocking against his rib cage.

This is the first time he will meet with this group outside their 8-5 schedule and dinner parties have never been his stage.  He reaches for the small lit doorbell that sits to the left of the door.  His host greets him with a warm, welcoming-smile and with a soft firm handshake the host pulls him in to the party.  The guest quickly and instinctively scans the room and in the large open living area he sees 4 clusters of 3-4 people each.  He wonders which cluster will welcome him in to their conversation.  As he walks in to the room, the clusters stop and all turn and acknowledge him with a wave or warm smile.

Over the next 30 minutes he moves from group to group and stops long enough to have easy, natural conversations and the nervousness is quickly evaporated.

The host calls all to the table. There are name tags on each plate and on the left side of the table about half way down the guest finds his name.  He is relieved the head of table was not designated for him.  The conversation throughout dinner continues to be easy and not forced.  People reach out to him to include him and he reaches back.  As his comfort with the group increases so does his charm and he is relieved that the “real him” is emerging.

The night concludes and he leaves happy, relaxed, relieved.  On the ride home, he calls a friend who immediately asks how the evening went.  He replies that it went well.   The friend asks, “So if you had to describe the evening with one word what would that word be?”

“Welcome!”  The guest quickly and thoughtfully replied.

*******************

Recently, I was asked to be a part of a group to celebrate and encourage diversity.  There is something in me that really gets excited about having the diversity conversation.  Maybe it is the DNA of my white mother and black father screaming to be heard and united in harmony.  Maybe it is the understanding that I have gained from living as a child of color in a white family which has given me this very unique view of both sides, almost naturally creating somewhat of an expert in diversity.  Whatever the reason, it is a subject that I feel very comfortable talking about.

As I sat with this group, I began to wonder what the majority thought about this whole idea of diversity. Do they think that giving in to diversity means losing something else?  I wondered what the majority thought the expectations were from those in the minority and then this idea of a guest at a dinner party came to mind.  The guest has no demographic information revealed in the story above.  He is identified as male but you could easily replace him with a female.  What he feels and why he feels it are universal themes and that makes him easy to understand and easy to relate to.  He doesn’t expect special treatment and is relieved when it is not given.  In the end he just wants a seat at the table in an environment where he can feel a part of the group, and welcomed.

When I think of diversity, as a minority this is all I want; good conversation, mutual respect, some good eats, and a comfortable average seat at the table.

An Open Letter To Those Like Me

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It’s not just in some of us; it’s in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others. –Marianne Williamson

Whenever I read these powerful words I think of us and the potential that is often left untapped and wasted. I want to highlight, underline, bold, italicize and enlarge five simple words.

WE ARE POWERFUL BEYOND MEASURE!

These are the five words I would like you to hear, breathe in, and tattoo on your gray mater, until they become part of you. Use this truth to live better, do better, and be better than I was as a young adoptee.

I often wish I was aware of these powerful words when I was growing up. I wish I had adopted them, recited them, and pulled them over my body like a too-small lycra body suit. It would have been life changing to have my quiver filled with these five word; to have these words within arms-reach as my first and best defense against the adoption residue that quietly stole space in your skull.

My head housed squatters who took up residence without my knowing it. Over and over these liars would whisper,

“You are not good enough.”

“You are less than those around you.”

These words said over and over began to wear and tear away at my self image, my self esteem, and my self. After a while these lies became proved facts and I lived my life well under its created potential.

YOU ARE POWERFUL BEYOND MEASURE!

YOU ARE POWERFUL BEYOND MEASURE!

YOU ARE POWERFUL BEYOND MEASURE!

Let this be our battle cry; our national anthem, that summons us to a potential so great; so powerful; that those around us have to shade themselves from our brightness.

Adoptees, give yourselves permission, regardless of your background, to be powerful, brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous. Resist the temptation to shrink, to be small; instead shine, shine, shine. Be the great child you were created to be, for you are powerful beyond measure.

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Starting a contest for adoptees and foster youth. Memorize and video tape the adoptee saying the piece below by Marianne Williamson. Post to YouTube and send me the link. The best one wins an autographed copy of my book. Good luck!!!

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It’s not just in some of us; it’s in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”

Tracing The Path of Icarus

I sat across the conference table facing a mother whose pain gushed out of her and ran down her cheeks. Today was the day she was supposed to agree to terminate her parental rights and consent to having her child placed for adoption.

My job, as a CASA volunteer (Court Appointed Special Advocate) is to review cases where children are removed from their home and placed in foster care. I have been tasked to speak on behalf of the children and report back to the court what course of action is in the best interest of the child. Part of that job includes days like this where tough life collides with tough life-altering decisions.

As the mother sobbed I could see her mind wrestling with her heart. Her mind knew the answer but her heart wouldn’t allow her mouth to say what, in this case, was the right thing to do. To come to this conclusion as parent; to admit that your child is better off in someone else’s care is about six football fields beyond my comprehension. At this meeting this mother was realizing that what she had agreed to prior to the meeting was much harder to force out of her mouth; saying it meant it was official and permanent.

At different intervals during this painful process, I glanced at the mother and saw what HEARTBROKEN looked like and that image was speaking to my heart. This is the picture of adoption that is often deleted and replaced with a drug-addicted, promiscuous, immature girl whose party life takes priority over the inconvenient result of a good night of partying. In this broken mother, I saw my own birth mother and wondered if her struggle to terminate her parental rights was as hard as the struggle I was witnessing across the faux wooden table. I also wondered if I was tracing the flight-path of Icarus; an adoptee with a back stage pass to relinquishment could be dangerous. There were several moments where I felt my adoptee heart was diving and swooping too close to the sun. There were several times my emotions wanted to detach and run out of the room seeking shelter in some mindless activity far away from the sensitive nerve endings that were exposed during this too-real, too close to home exchange.

But…I have come to learn in this fascinating journey that it is right here in the eye of this hurricane where I find answers about myself. That statement may sound as if I am a voyeur to this process, but that was not why I agreed to advocate for children as a CASA. But…it is here where I find answers about this emotion-filled A-bomb called adoption, and it is here where I can glimpse shadows of my own birth mother and gain insight in to her experience.

The meeting with the heartbroken mother ended with her unable to say or consent to terminating her rights. Her heart and mind stood in opposite corners of her skull; both refusing to surrender and I understood in a more intimate way than I had before the anatomy of such a profound decision.