Recycled

I wasn’t thrown away.

It has taken me awhile to digest the results of my searching for my birth family.  So much has happened so fast that it feels like I am living in a revolving room.  The meeting with my sister was great and to connect with someone who shares my DNA has given me a peace and a joy I can’t explain.  There are moments through out each day that I think about connecting with this tiny woman with the great laugh and I can actually feel my heart smile.

This was only the beginning.  Two weeks ago, I sat down at a restaurant in Plymouth Michigan with my biological brother, my birth mother’s best friend, and my niece and her family.  Meeting my brother was again an anxious moment but it was less stressful than meeting my sister.  I prepared myself differently this time.  My expectations were low.  My thought was that my brother was showing up because his sister made him.  I expected to meet someone who was more interested with what was on the TV screens in the restaurant than me.    If I got more, great; but if I got ignored than I got what I expected.

When I shook his hand, my expectations were exceeded.  I could tell by his hand shake that he was there because he wanted to be and not because he had to be.  He came because he was interested in meeting the brother he didn’t know about until a week before our meeting.  He showed interest in me and I sat in the restaurant next to him and my heart laughed and sang inside my chest.

My brother sat to my left and my birth mother’s best friend, Joanne, sat to my right.  She told me stories about my birth mother and showed me pictures of her and my birth mother fishing.  I found out my birth mother did beautiful needle point and she loved the Detroit Red Wings.

Joanne, who was more like a sister, filled my ear with priceless nuggets of who my mother was.   Then Joanne told me about the time her and I first met.   Forty two years ago, I rode in her arms from the hospital to my foster home.  Joanne sat in the back seat of my mother’s car holding me while my mother sat in the front seat sobbing uncontrollably.  Joanne tilted me forward so my mother could look in the rear view mirror and see my tiny face.  When we arrived at the foster home, Joanne kissed me and I was handed over to my foster mother who stood outside the car waiting.  Joanne kissed me once for her and once for my mother.  My mother sat in the front seat unable to do much.  She was too overcome by the emotions of the moment.

A week later, my mother and Joanne returned to the foster home to drop off some undershirts and diapers.  Joanne stayed in the car while my mother went in to make the delivery.

Joanne would never again bring up the events of those few weeks.  She saw how crushed my mother was and didn’t want to bring up such a painful subject again.  Over the years, Joanne explained she could tell that giving me up for adoption changed my mother.  Joanne could tell it also weighed on her mind.  When you know someone for so long it is easy to tell what they are thinking without them saying a word.  Joanne knew my mother for over 50 years.  My mother didn’t need to express her sadness to Joanne, Joanne could feel it.

By now my heart just sat and listened to Joanne.  My heart curled up in front of the warm glow coming from Joanne and sat still, quiet and peaceful.

Later on, I got to hear stories from my brother and sister about growing up with my mother.   While I sat listening to their stories a small bit of me was jealous.  I listened to them tell stories feeling a little cheated because they spoke about what I will never know.  I will never know what it was like to have a conversation with my mother or learn her likes and dislikes.  The momentary flare of jealousy took me off guard and took me away from the conversation for a few moments.  It quickly passed and I rejoined the conversation.

After our meeting, I was put in touch with an aunt and uncle; My mother’s sister and brother in law.  This sister held me at the hospital right after I was born.  In our phone conversation she told me her and her husband tried to adopt me a few months after I was taken away.  By that time I was adopted by my family.  My aunt and uncle both told me they tried to look for me since then many times but just didn’t have enough information to go on.  We are now trying to arrange a time so I can meet them.

The influx of new family members continues.  I have been sending e-mails back and forth to my brother’s daughter, my niece.  She is a great young lady and the fact that she has interest in knowing me stuns me.

This has all been overwhelming and so healing at the same time.  There are times when I just have to take a break.  I get so emotionally drained I can’t do much but just sit.  Then there are moments when my heart does cartwheels because I wasn’t just thrown away.  There have people, about 50 miles away, who thought about me and searched for me.  There have been people who didn’t want me to leave and are so happy I am back.

I wasn’t just thrown away and forgotten about like I thought for so many years.  The peace that rushes in with that realization is calming.

Now I have to rest.  There is a man that may still be alive that is my birth father.  This week one of my new nieces found my mothers old address book.  In it we think we found my birth father’s last name.  Soon there may another family I will get to meet.  I will need to rest up for that.

Ms. Matz

Below is a chapter that I just cut from the book.  Simply put it just didn’t fit.  The feelings, although stated in an earlier blog I wrote, are real to me.  This is how I read this situation and many like it.  I do think it is an important point which I will include in the book in a more precise and focused way.  Although cut from the book, I liked the picture painted of youth and the games we played.  It seemed like a waste to just hit the delete button and do away with it.

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It’s third down and one yard to go.  The yard we have to gain is Mr. Wright’s front yard.  He lives to the right of the Tenbuschs and his driveway is the end zone.  James, my oldest brother hikes the ball and lofts a perfect spiral to Peter who catches it at Mr. Wright’s walk way and breezes in to the end zone.    Peter raises the football above his head and then spikes it hard on the cement driveway.  Just as the ball leaves Peter’s hand a look of fear consumes his face.  As the ball hits the cement it bounces to the right and lands on Mrs. Matz’s lawn.  We all freeze.  Ms. Matz’s lawn is off limits.  As soon as it comes to rest in her yard, a loud banging comes from her front window.  The banging clearly shouts, “Stay off my lawn.”

We know we only have 23 seconds to retrieve the ball or she will storm out and take it.  We all figure she has to have a room in her house full of our Frisbees, baseballs, tennis balls, and kick balls.  Those types of balls were relatively inexpensive so to lose them is not a big loss.  The leather football is not in the same category.

We all look at each other and telepathically we were asking who is going to go get it.  The time is running out and we need to move or the football will be lost forever.  Wayne Scott, the crazy, loud kid with the unusual hazel eyes moves first.  He sprints wildly across Mr. Wright’s yard and on to the forbidden turf.  As he steps one foot on the grass, the loud banging on the window sounds again.  Wayne jumps as his nervous body reacts to the sound.  Now the race is really on.  Ms. Matz is headed to the front door.  As Wayne bends down to grab the football, she throws open her front door and yells, “STAY OFF MY LAWN.”  Wayne jumps again and shifts into an all out sprint.  Wayne grits his teeth, showing the shiny braces that cover his front teeth.   Wayne lands safely on Mr. Wright’s driveway with the football securely tucked under his right arm.

The cheers erupt and we all give him pats on the back or a slap him five.   Someone shouts, “Ok, who’s kicking off?”  Our game resumes and Ms. Matz returns to her seat at the front window.

Ms. Matz is a single woman, an elementary school teacher.  It is easy to see why there is no Mr. Matz.   She is about 55-60 years old and mean. She wears a scowl whenever we see her.  After years and years of being mean the facial muscles freeze in a bitter expression 24 hours a day I am convinced.  She lives with her elderly mother and drives a little red sport car.  The fact that she teaches kids and drives such a cool car makes my head spin.  These bits of personal information don’t fit the monster mold.

At age ten, Mrs. Matz is as close to a monster as Big Foot.  We run from her like she has the power to kill with her cold stares.  There is not a day that goes by in the summer that she is not pounding on her window or yelling at us.  When that doesn’t deter us, she calls the neighborhood security company to handle us.

The poor guy making minimum wage pulls up in his marked security car.  He parks in her driveway and goes to speak with Ms. Matz.  After a brief conversation where she appears to do all the talking, the plastic cop walks over to us dressed in his dark blue security shirt, jeans and no name gym shoes.  He usually says something like, “Ok guys, give the old woman a break, and stay off her lawn.”  We promise to have better control of our toys and he drives away.   I am sure he knows it is nonsense, but it is his job to keep the community safe from toxic baseballs and Frisbees.

As we get older, she is less of a threat and more of a game.  We purposely stroll across her lawn and like clockwork she raps on the glass.  The anticipation of the sound still sends us three feet in the air.   The fear is replaced by laughing and dancing across her lawn.

Wayne Scott, who is her neighbor to her right, takes great joy in harassing her.and he organizes a committee to burn a cross or a swastika in her yard.  No one is sure what  either symbol means but we know it would be a terrorizing and intimidating thing to do.  We decide to burn a cross in her front yard because the swastika is too hard to re-create.  The cross is two lines.  It takes less artistic ability.  We will use gas to outline a six to eight foot cross in the front yard and light it.

The fear of getting caught and being punished negotiates it down to a one foot cross in the back corner of her backyard made with lighter fluid.  Wayne volunteers for the mission.

One quiet summer night, Wayne jumps the fence, clothed in all black.  He quickly squirts the lighter fluid on to the lawn in the shape of a cross, lights it, and leaps back in to his yard.  We muffle our cheers so we don’t draw attention to our terrorizing act.  The little cross glows for about 30 seconds.     The lighter fluid is eaten up the flames and the flames die quietly.

Burned in her yard, is an outline of a cross and it takes about three weeks for the grass to grow in and cover it.  I always wonder what her reaction was when she came across it while mowing her lawn. I’m not sure because she never mentioned it.

The Detroit Free Press paper route that I share with James, my oldest brother, forces me to interact with Mrs. Matz regularly. The route is divided in to two.  James delivers the papers on Outer Drive, one street over.  I deliver to Shaftsbury.  James pays me $5.00 a week and I feel like I am a descendant of Rothschild.

Mrs. Matz is one of my customers.  Each morning before the sun wakes up I walk up her lime stone walk way to drop off a paper.  As I approach her front door, I begin speaking in tongues and praying that she is not up yet.  I walk as light as I can, concentrating on making delicate, soft, weightless steps.  Once I make it to the door, I softly and slowly turn the squeaky handle.   I would sacrifice one of my siblings for some WD-40 at this moment.   I pull open the screen door and place the paper down absent any sound.  Then I return the door to its prior position and I creep away.

There are days when my luck cheats me and she meets me at the door.  She says nothing as I hand her the paper.   No, “Thank you,” no “Good morning” just THE LOOK.

The way her lips turn up and her nose wrinkles gives off the appearance that a very foul smelling object has entered her presence.  My hormones have not started producing those odors yet so it is not that I smell.

Her disgusted look  shows what she  thinks of me without saying anything.  She looks at me and she makes me feel small, inferior, subhuman, repulsive.

My internal compass labels her a racist just as simply as north is north.

Occasionally, Dad will hear how she treats us all and I can tell by his questions that he is probing for her true intentions toward me.  It is comforting in a deep way to know Dad looks for what is not obvious.

At this point in my life, my self esteem is still maturing.    The wounds inflicted by Mrs. Matz penetrate my armor and cause me to walk less upright and confident.

Growing up as a minority teaches me to always question the intentions behind the actions.  This cerebral dialog is a private conversation I often have with myself and one that I don’t share.  The fear of being labeled as “too sensitive,” keeps me quiet.  I often question why I would be labeled “too sensitive” and why the violator isn’t labeled “too insensitive.”

Privilege or Paranoia

The red and blue lights turned on and began to circle as Mom looks in her rear view mirror.  The police car that sees her before she sees it  is pulling up closer to her car from the rear.  I am in the front passenger seat facing forward unaware of the cruiser quickly approaching us.

Mom, with a disappointed tone in her voice says,  “ahh shoot, I am being pulled over for speeding.”

Mom brings the car to a stop on the shoulder of the rural road.  The police officer approaches the car as Mom searches for her insurance card and asks me to get the registration out of the glove compartment.

The officer now standing at Mom’s window asks for the two pieces of information we are trying to locate.  Nervous fingers and hands often pass over the obvious.  The officer is understanding and tells us to continue to look as he returns to his cruiser.  Unfortunately, he promises to be right back.

As soon as he leaves and we are able to calm down the registration and insurance card are found.  Mom notices the insurance card shows it expired the day before.  Mom recalls the new insurance card is on the kitchen table, 25 miles away.

The officer is now back at the door with a pink ticket.  He explains Mom was doing 48 miles an hour in a 35 mile per hour zone.  He checks her insurance card and notices it has expired.  Mom explains she has the new one at home and he is very understanding.

He hands Mom a warning and asks that she pay more attention to the speed limit in this area.  She thanks him and he  tells her to have a nice day.  He returns to his cruiser.

Mom turns to me and says,  “Well, that was lucky.”

We continue down the road and I reflect on the many times I have been pulled over by the police.  Luck has never been so favorable in my encounters.  If I had a Leprechaun with a pot of gold in the front seat my luck would not have been as favorable as Mom’s luck today.

I am conflicted with my thoughts.  My initial thought is that if I had been driving I would have gotten a speeding ticket and a ticket for no insurance.  Did Mom get a pass because she has less melanin in her skin?  How would this have played out if I was the driver?

The only time I ever got a warning and not a ticket  was when I was pulled over with two white college friends in the car.

Is this an example of  white privilege or me being paranoid.  Since there is no way to verify either way I wrestle with the thought that because of my skin I am treated differently or I am being too sensitive.

When I go to the store and I am ignored is it because I am black?  When I go to the store and I am given too much attention is it because I am black?

Experience has taught me my skin color may be a factor.  I have been conditioned to question its involvement whenever I am treated rudely or unfairly.  It is the first thought that rushes to the front of my head.

“Did they do that because I am black?”  I spend then next 30 seconds debating the question.  It is automatic and a conditioned response.

This past summer I sat in a room with mostly white adults and we openly talked about white privilege.  To be in a room of whites who admit there is such a thing as white privilege was an experience in itself.

They were transracial adoptive parents and they were fearful of how white privilege would affect their children.

Since that conversation I think a lot about how it affects me and this is a great example.   I am not saying all incidents like the ones above are racially motivated.

The gray area of doubt that accompanies how I am treated and why gives way to a 30 second debate several times a day.  To be free of this debate would truly be a privilege.



Black Moms Advisory Council

A few weeks ago I sent an email to 40 black moms I know.  In the e-mail I told them I would be doing a blog on black hair and skin care for white mothers raising black children.  I asked them to share some advice on hair and skin care and below are their responses unedited.

The thing I found most interesting was that even black mothers struggle with what to do with their black child’s hair and skin.

Thanks to the BMAC and I hope this helps shed light on a difficult subject.  Please let me know what comments most helped you and other topics you would like the BMAC to address.

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The very first thing I would tell white mothers of AA children is that is no hard and fast rule to abide by.  There is no one perfect method.  You can ask 10 different AA moms opinions and get 10 different answers.  Then that everything depends on the texture of your child hair.  This will vary from child to child.  Our children have textures that are completely different and require completely different approaches.  With boys I also recommend keeping it cut short.  This will require a trip to the barbershop every couple of weeks.  A brush is mandatory.  A soft brush may not do the job Diane brand makes a selection of brushes for different hair textures.  For girls the hair must be combed out before it dries after a washing with a quality detangling shampoo.  A monthly hot oil treatment might also be helpful for very dry hair.  I agree with Nicole about using a silky headscarf and pillowcase, this is key to lessening the breakage that will happen at night.

Skin care can bring on another challenge. Plan soap is very drying to the skin and if the child has eczema you must be very picky about what you use.  I recommend Eucerin, Cetaphil or Aquaphor gentle body cleansers and moisturizers which all work very well.  Each of these product lines have complete skin care systems.  Cetaphil and Eucerin works best with moderately dry skin and Aquaphor works great with very dry skin.  At the very least I would recommend a moisturizing bar with limited perfumes like Lever 2000 for sensitive skin.

SHILEASE

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“Great question Kevin! I met my stepdaughter at the age of 3, and we had to do some REAL work to ‘train’ her hair to grow and be healthy. If the children have coarse African American hair I recommend the following. Washing not more than once per week with a gentle/moisturizing shampoo – nothing with a lot of perfumes; followed by a deep conditioner covered with a plastic cap for at least 15 mins. THIS IS VERY IMPORTANT….after rinsing the conditioner, wrap hair in towel and blot dry. use a light oil (olive, jojoba) even what we call ‘grease’ (Ultra Sheen, etc.) and massage a small amount in the palm of your hand to soften, be fore massaging onto hair. Separate the hair into sections with your fingers (while hair is still damp) and comb through with a WIDE TOOTH comb. You can buy one of these at Sally’s Beauty Supply. The ‘grease’ and the comb are the key! Hold the hair at the roots and begin combing at the ends – then work toward the roots. That way there is less pulling on the scalp. To maintain ‘control’ you can quickly braid each section after you’ve de-tangled, and keep moving all over the head. Once you’ve removed the tangles you can apply oil to the scalp. Just apply to your fingertips and spread directly on to the scalp – not thick, just enough to make it shine. So, now it’s not STRAIGHT, but tangle free and moisturized. GOOD. From here you can blow dry by section and style in pig tails, french braids, curl it – whatever. OR….and this works best on younger girls, more active girls, and for busy moms. Don’t blow it dry….while it is damp and oiled, braid it in the cornrow or french braid style. Whatever style you choose, consider using a satin pillow case, or scarf on her head for sleeping. Cotton pillow cases deplete natural oils from the hair. Don’t give up, practice makes perfect.”

DEANA

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“Okay this is funny because all mothers have a hard time figuring out what to do with their child’s hair. My daughter’s hair is thick and coily takes forever to comb and only looks good first couple of hours—- if you want the kid to keep natural texture find an African-american beauty shop if you want to make the hair a little more manageable a soft kiddie perm no-lye perming once a year depending on texture. Boys just keep the hair short but do not cut boys hair until they reach 18 months.”

“Oh yeah for girls a good leave in conditioner especially if the hair is perms. Kevin I bet you didn’t know it’s a lot to hair.

KIMBERLY-JO

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“check out the website http://www.facebook.com/l/511b3;naturallycurly.com.When it comes to black hair there are so many different types. It does a good job at explaining hair care”

NANCI

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Kevin, this is such a great project and topic that needs to be discussed. I think we can all learn from one another.

I am currently dealing w the same issue w my daughter.
I orignally took the easy way out and started relaxing her hair at a very early age, 5yrs old.

It was so easy and it simply worked for me.

The nighmare didn’t begin until I couldn’t get her in w her aunt (who I must state was ALWAYS oppossed to relaxing her hair).
We were about to travel and her aunt was out of town so I took her to an unamed popular salon and they jacked her hair up. She is now 13yrs old. While it didn’t fall out she had tons of
breakage.

When i took her to her aunt 6 weeks later she said enough is enough. We’re currently letting her relaxer grow out and I am catching HELL! SOMETIMES I wanna shoot myself. Lol

Its been about 3 months and its such a learning process. The biggest thing I’ve learned is to use  oil, oil, oil. Something I would never bombard my hair with but for her, it keeps the hair healthy. While I hate that she doesn’t have body and movement, it helps repair her hair especially since I’m still using minimal heat. I also learned that the hair weakend w a relaxer and she’s also at risk for more breakage as the new hair which is stronger grows in. Hair can break at the perm point.

When we were in Orlando, I took her to the Aveda spa and we worked w an African American stylist who specializes in natural hair. Her grade of hair was exactly like my daughter’s but it was so healthy that she’s able to wear natural curls like a Wanda Sykes but a little funkier. While my daughter plays sports and big bushy hair is not an option right now, she taught me the less heat the better. I was blowing her hair, pressing and flat ironing it everyday. I was trying to get it straight like when we had a relaxer which obviously was not helping matters.

What we do now, is wash her hair every 7 days and then blow dry. She told me that if she didn’t play sports I could wash her hair every 10 days or so. I’m allowed to use the flat iron one additional day throughout the week.
A miracle saver that I have seen but didn’t realize realy worked is that damn hair scarf. Let me tell you sleeping in a head scarf is a complete gift from God.  I wrap her hair and take it down in the morning and its like silk. I understand silk scarfs are even better but unfortunately it slides right off of my daughters hair because she’s such a wild sleeper.

Once the relaxer completely grows out, I will be able to add the hot comb to her hair again but because her hair is so fragile we can’t use it right now.

The hair oil we’re using right now is called Morracan hair oil. It’s a complete hair care line and is sold at usually high end salons. I don’t use the shampoo and conditioner because its so expensive but if I could I would.
When I take her to the salon once a month, they cut her ends and give her a deep morrcan hair oil treatment.

If I had to do it all over again, I probably would have never looked for the quick fix in getting the relaxer. The other option would have to only let her sit in someone’s chair that I had full confidence in.

If the moms chose chemical relaxers make sure they research their stylist and get referrals. The salon I used is a popular salon but I went w a new stylist because I couldn’t get her in w their head stylist. The new stylist pulled the relaxer over the already permed hair and thus my nightmare began.

Whew! Nice to vent but I also hope my experience can help your moms cuz I completely get it!!

LISA

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“I agree with LaWanda and KIm B, mama did a trial and error. They didnt have perms and things like now, she used a straighting comb. Now some of my friends use the kiddy perms on their girls, some do braids and sum stick to the all natural puffs. I used a perm as soon as I was old enuff to do it myself. I have used marykay products on my skin since high skool (why I became a rep lol) and they now have products for teenagers (velocity line). I have 3 boys, who have skin and food allergies so Im careful with them. The teenager uses a combo of marykay & avons skin care products and I use hot six oil on the hair of the youngest 2. keep their hair cut every 2 weeks and brush it at least once a day. also remind them that dark skin gets ashy and I use avon moisture therapy in the blue bottle or the shea butter but works the best is disney baby”s gental naturals (in the baby isle) baby eczema cream. good luck”

CARMEN

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For boys I would suggest they keep the boys hair cut low.  I notice that some people allow the boys hair to grow too long and it gets curly (you know what I mean).  They should really attempt to keep a neat low cut, get a good brush and apply a lite oil to the boys hair (i.e. Hot Six oil)

MICHELLE

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“This is such a good list already — and I’m going to use some of this advice for my own family.  A copule things to add re: girls’ hair: Don’t wash the hair more than once a week.  I think it’s common for white women to wash their hair pretty much every day.  Our hair is much too dry for that.  Also, purchase a silky head scarf and/or silky pillowcase for girls.  A lot of breakage happens at night…and an unprotected head doesn’t help.  And depending on the type of hair, you should probably also put it in large braids or plaits at night…particulary if they’re younger and still wearing their hair natural.”

NICOLE

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Sometimes the soap used can help with skin problems. Aris has exzema and I could never use a deodorant soap as it would cause severe dry patches. He can only use Dove or Oil of Olay. I would also use Eucerin for severe dry skin. I like to use St. Ives  collagen elastin lotin daily. It works really well especially in the winter months when dry skin can be pervasive.

I agree with Michelle about keeping the boys hair cut low and Aris would say “tapered” and yes a good brush is the key. Girls hair can be very challenging. It is very important to comb the hair out while it is wet when you wash it. Also, the hair should be blow dryed with an attachable comb or detangling wire brush. If you don’t want to use a blow dryer then the hair should be braided in medium size braids to dry. Never, ever just let the hair air dry  without out braiding or blow drying. It will be a big, bushy unmanageable nightmare. Also don’t use rubber bands on wet hair. When washing the hair a good detangling, conditioning shampoo is vital. I recommend Motions or Creme of Nature. Also, use a good conditioner of the same brand. A light oil (isoplus or motions) should be applied to the hair once it is dry. Refrain from using hair lotions as they are highly water based and tend to dry the hair out.  A flat iron is safe tool that can be used to straighten coarse hair at home.

TOSHA

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My advice for boys would be to keep their hair cut low and trimmed up. And make sure they keep their hair mositurized and condition. I know their boys but they require condition in the hair. I wouldnt recommend cutting the boys hair with clippers until they are at least 15 months, but they can even their hair out with scissors as I had to do on a reagular basis until their little heads could handle the clippers. It’s hard to recommend hair care products because everyone hair is different. Our family uses the olive oil products. When my boys were younger we used dove products to wash/condition. I would say also get a wave brush for their heads and to make sure that they wash/condition their hair at least once a week and moisturize it at least weekly dont be afraid to do it more if their hair is dry.
As for the girls that can be challenging simply because again their are so many variations of black hair from curly to kinky, wavy to straight and then theirs the combination heads. I use Carols daughter products which have proven to be successful you can order from off line and they also sell in various stores. The website is http://www.facebook.com/l/efcdc;www.carolsdaughters.com they have a variety of natural hair and skin care products that they can select from we utlize these for both my sons, my daughter, myself and my husband because we all have different types of hair. I would also find someone who knows how to french braid (cornroll) that can be a life saver for dealing with hair but they need to make sure the person doesnt braid to tight and that their hair stays moisturized by oiling their scalp. Invest in a wide tooth comb to comb out hair when it tangles so that you dont break hair out, and a open air brush (conair) they are about 5-10.00 and can be picked up anywhere. Also wash the hair weekly and find a good conditioner and detangler and a leave in conditioner (check carols daughters for specifics)  when blowdrying hair it would be was wise to part the hair in 4 plats and blowdry them in sections it’s just easiert to manage and I would recommend buying a blowdryer that has a comb attachment and use that. Also a good flat iron(chi) to straighten the hair after it’s dried. Most people know how to use a flat iron so I would recommend that over a pressing comb. If at all possible I wouldnt perm/relax the young girls hair unless they had someone who could properly care for it because if not properly cared for it could lead to hair loss and breakage. So please dont buy over the counter kiddie perms if  they are not familiar with how to apply it could make a bad situation worse.

LENORA

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Achieving a manageable texture is key for hair care. Wash and Condition every week.  Blow drying with a comb and moisturizing olive oil lotion, hair food, light bees wax or good old fashion grease are good.  A soft, hard brush, wide tooth comb (tangles) and a rat tail comb (parts and smoothing) are essentials.  Stock up a bow box with hair ties, twists and barretts. Practice parting hair in manageable sections and make pony tails.  Outside of that recruit some help to learn cornrows and chemicals.  Just don’t do the wild curly mane.  It is not cute.  Do not have these girls looking crazy by the head.  For boys, please line them up.  Invest in some good clippers and trimmers.  For skin…good lotion Jergens, Vaseline (cocoa butter) and Eurcerin.  Mild soaps.

LYNN

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You know I have two girls and both have different hair textures.  Kendall’s hair is thick and has medium curl.  Kristen’s is EXTREMELY thick with tight curls and she’s tender headed, which makes combing her head an all day event.  I normally wash their hair once a week with a moisturizing shampoo and condition.  I oil their scalp with a light grease and maintain it through the week with Pink Oil Moisturizer or Liv.  I love french braids, but after a week, they start looking a mess if you don’t maintain them.  I make K & K tie their heads up every night with a scarf or wrap to keep the braids looking fresh.

ALISIA

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My children have AA hair and no mixture at all- My suggestion is since every child is different and every family- male and female have different grade of hair- is to see a stylist who knows how to do hair.
The thing I hate most if children are racially mixed or not is parents who don’t comb their girls hair regularly because they are lazy- They need their heads combed everyday – The braid your hair for 2-3 week is such a mess!! Boys are easy- cut it- keep it cut every two weeks- Don’t try to grow it out and have the curly nappy look- that does not work!!!
My advice is to locate someone who has been there and done that and get help- The mistake some White Moms make is letting the black women do the kids hair and it looks a mess because we don’t know how to do it either- There is a lot of literature out there and lots of help
Skin- If they are darker – use Vaseline- I hate ashy kids black or white- LOL!!!
I hope this helps- just my opinion!!!

AVIS

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The first things that came to my mind have already been said. I would add that leaving your child’s hair natural doesn’t mean that you don’t have to comb it regularly. I’ve seen too many black children looking a mess about the head! Even if you have your child’s head braided, you do need to take the braids down and comb the hair. More than likely, they would need to use a wide tooth comb and a stiff bristle brush. Oh and oil the scalp regularly with a moisturizer that is appropriate for your child’s texture of hair – your child might do fine with a Pink Oil moisturizer or you might need to use a heavier pomade. As Kim already said, they need to experiment and see how quickly their child’s hair soaks up the oil. If it feels brittle, it’s time to put some oil in it – if your palm comes out their head feeling like cooking oil, you probably have too much oil in it and you need to wash their hair! Skin care – I think black people’s skin tends to dry out and get ashy more quickly than white skin and need a skin moisturizer that is thicker like shea butter, especially in the winter. Please tell them to put lotion on their child’s skin (face, legs, arms, everywhere!) EVERYDAY!

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Healing

The door bell rang and my legs turned instantly to noodles.  Trying to balance and walk on thick noodles is impossible.  Fortunately the door was not far away.  I opened the front door and on my porch stood my sister holding a Poinsettia, standing next to her adult daughter.  We immediately hugged and just held each other.  The sister that had the same birth mother as me was squeezing me and I was squeezing her back.  I have waited 42 years for this meeting.

In the three days leading up to this hug I worked hard at trying to understand what this meant.  It was hard for me to conceptualize what it would be like to meet someone from my birth family.  I spent a lot of time trying to get my mind to understand this was a blood relative.  Convincing my mind this was more than seeing a friend I hadn’t seen in many many years was very difficult.

Throughout the days prior to our meeting I kept telling myself, “Your sister is coming in two days.”  “Your sister will be here tomorrow.”  This is a hard concept for me to understand.  Since I have never known a blood relative older than my oldest son this is an intimidating concept to digest.

My broad range of emotions prior to our meeting was exhausting.  There were moments I was very excited, moments were I was very confused as to what I felt or should feel and one moment of panic.

The moment of panic came about 30 minutes before the door bell rang.  I sat on my living room couch watching my football team, the Detroit Lions, struggle with portraying themselves as a professional team.  I was hoping the Lions would distract me from the emotions that were wrestling in my stomach.  For a brief moment, I questioned why I was doing this.  For a brief moment, I concluded this was a bad idea.  For a brief moment, fear invaded and came close to over throwing my common sense.

I pushed the fear to the side and tried to concentrate on the interception-fest, sponsored by the Lion’s quarterback, that was going on inside my TV.

By the time the doorbell rang excitement had pushed fear back and excitement was staking claim to the territory inside my stomach.

When I hugged my sister I was happy.  We both whispered in each other’s ear how long we had been looking for each other.  It was evident this was a coveted meeting from both sides.

We all sat down at the dining room table and began to share our lives with each other.  My wife, her daughter and my parents joined in the exchanging of information.

My sister showed me pictures of my birth mother.  My birth mother’s baby picture looked like my baby picture.  My sister shared stories of my birth mother and I was captivated.

Then my sister told me something that took me back a few steps.  She shared my birth mother never put on make up or did her hair after I was born.  Although my birth mother never spoke about me my sister said she could easily tell she thought about me.  Only once, in a quiet moment with my sister, my birth mother simply wondered out loud if the decision she made were the right decisions.  My sister knew exactly what she was talking about.

For years I assumed my birth mother gave me up and never looked back.  Now I learned that giving me away changed her; giving me up for adoption changed her daily routine and she worried about me.  This was heartbreaking and comforting at the same time.  The decision to give me up was not as casual as what I thought and that was great to know.

My sister also told me she was able to find a good friend of my birth mother.  This friend drove with my birth mother when they dropped me off at my foster home.  The friend explained to my sister that my birth mother cried and sobbed as they drove to my new home.  This friend actually held me before I was turned over to my foster mother.   I now had a physical connection with someone.  Even more comforting is the fact this friend is still alive and anxious to meet me.  The thought that someone who held me is around to help fill in some of the blanks was great news.

I shared with my sister a photo album that my wife and I put together the night before.  The album was full of pictures of me from three months old to the present with  pictures of all of the important moments in my life.   It also contained poems I had written when I started this search 21 years years.  We gave the album to my sister and then had to help her stand.  Her tears flowed and now she was standing on noodles.    The album shows the life I had and helped to reassure her that my life turned out alright.

Our sharing and laughing and talking and crying ate up time quicker than I would have liked.  My sister had to leave and I wished that she could have stayed.  She told me she would call  to let me know when we can visit my birth mother’s friend to find out what she knows.  My sister over the last two days was able to narrow down who my birth father may be and was able to provide a possible last name.  She assured me she has several people search through old address books of my mother hoping to find something.

Before she left we took several pictures together.  One picture we quickly printed out and added to the album.

After she left and the house was momentarily quiet , I exhaled.  Meeting my sister was a great experience and I look forward to building a relationship with her.

The nicest thing about yesterday was the healing that took place.

I was able to see the healing that took place inside my sister.  For many years she was the only one of the siblings that knew about me.   (Our three brothers, found out this week when my letters to them arrived.)   For many years she wondered if I was alright and for many years she shouldered the burden with my birth mother wondering if our mother made the right decision.  After meeting my parents and looking through her photo album she seemed at peace.

I saw the healing that took place in my parents.  For many years they’ve wondered if I would ever connect with my birth family and how that would play out.  We were able to share this meeting together and I saw the peace that came to them in this meeting.

My wife, who has been next to me in the front car of this roller coaster, was able to be a part of this meeting.  She was able to see her hopes and dreams for me met.  My wife, my biggest supporter, seemed at peace.

The answers I got today and the beginning of a relationship that will find more answers gave me peace.  Internally, I am still sorting out what goes where and still saddened by the fact that I can’t get these answers from my birth mother, but yesterday was a great start to my complete healing.

Finally, the thing I am most excited about is that I like my sister.  In the few days leading up to the meeting, a fearful thought struck me.  What if I finally meet her and  I just don’t like her?  Then what do I do.  After our meeting yesterday this is one less thing to worry about.

Thankful

My heart is bouncing off my rib cage as the phone rings.

 

Yesterday, I sent four certified letters to four siblings.  In my search for my birth family, I found the four siblings I have been looking for for the past 21 years.  I had confirmed my birth mother’s name and the names of my three brothers and one sister.  The addresses I had for the brothers were wrong and their letters were on their way back to me.  The letter for my sister was still alive.  My sister was not home when her letter was delivered so a card was left by the postal carrier letting her know they had my letter for her.

 

In the search for their addresses I also came across phone numbers for each sibling.  After thinking about it for most of Sunday, I decided to go in to my office with my wife and make the calls.

 

The letters were much safer.  If they didn’t want to respond to the letters they could just not respond.  The phone call is very scary.  I risk the chance of having to hear someone say, “leave us alone,” or “don’t call us again.”  This response would be devastating.

 

My desire to finally get an answer outweighed my fear of the ultimate rejection and I picked up the phone.  The first number was a wrong number, so was the second, third and fourth.  It took me hours to summon the courage to dial the four numbers and they were all wrong.  Relief and frustration met in the middle of my chest.

 

There was a phone number I had for several days that I had decided I would not use.  I had the phone number of my birth mother’s husband.  The man that went with my birth mother to turn me over to the state when they found out I was biracial and obviously not his child.  His was the number I ignored because he had every right to hang up on me.  His reception I thought would be cold at best.

 

Again, my desire to get some kind of resolution squashed the growing fear I had.  At my desk, I picked up the phone and I dialed his number.  My heart was beating so quickly I can hardly breathe.  I took in a big deep breath trying to slow down my heart so I could breathe.  The phone rang once and then twice and the ringing stopped.  A woman on the other end of the line said hello.

 

No turning back now.  I asked for him.  “Just a minute,” was her response.

 

My heart was a thundering mess and it was stealing all my oxygen.  I swallowed two deep breaths and hoped I could talk when he came to the phone.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Hi, my name is Kevin Hofmann and I have been looking for my birth mother and my investigation has led me to you.  It appears your wife is my birth mother.  Do you know anything about that?”

 

My question was met with silence and it felt like my pounding heart had suddenly stopped.

“Would you happen to be of another race?” He respectfully asked.

 

Relief flows through my veins.  He is talking and not hanging up.  He did not deny it.

 

“Yes, I am biracial; black and white.”  I quickly responded.  The conversation needed to keep going I told myself.

 

“Ohhhhh yeah, I remember that.”  He acknowledged me in those five words.  My presence was not denied as I expected.

 

“She had this stretch…”  His voiced and that path of the conversation dies out.

 

“She went to a party and got knocked up by a black fellow.”  In his honest reply, I was thankful.  There was someone who knew something about me.

 

Pushing the conversation forward, I resolved to digest this later.  I needed him to stay on the phone and tell me what he knew.

 

“Do you happen to know who my birth father is?”  I quickly asked, trying to fill up the silence after his answer.

 

“No, No, I don’t.”  Immediately, I saw the familiar view of another road block.  As I was trying to think of another question to ask he continued.

 

“She used to hang around a gal and if anyone would know it would be her.  She was with my wife at that party.  I can’t think of her name.  What is that gal’s name?  I am sure once I hung up the phone I will remember her name.  Why don’t you give me your number and if I think of anything I will call you.”

 

Again in his honest reply, I was thankful.  He owes me nothing and I am sure this was a painful experience for him but he was helping me. He told me to give my number to his wife. (It appears he has remarried.)  The woman who answered the phone got back on the phone to take my number.

 

I explain the conversation I just had with her husband and tell her I am looking for my birth father.  Her voice is filled with compassion when she responds.

 

“Oh I understand.  If I were you I would want to know too.  The person who would know about this more than anyone would be his daughter.  She has been wondering what ever happened to you.”

 

This stranger has said what I have waited 42 years to hear.  Casually, she told me my sister has been wondering about me.  The sister I was convinced knew nothing about me was wondering about me.  The fact that the step mother knew that my sister was thinking about me meant someone was talking about me.  Someone cared.

 

Before that one sentence, I was sure I was the dirty secret no one knew about.

 

The kind woman took my number and assured me she would pass it on to my sister and she would have her call me.

 

I asked her to thank her husband for me.  I thanked her and let her know I was fortunate to have been adopted by a great family and things turned out great.  She told me she was relieved to hear that everything worked out for me.

 

 

We ended the call.  I put down the phone and the adrenaline in my body immediately left.  My wife and I looked at each other and were amazed at the call that took place. (I had put the speaker phone on so my wife could the conversation.)  We were excited about the connection we made and the possibility that my sister would be calling soon.

 

I stood up to walk out of the office and my legs struggled to support me.  My body was exhausted.

 

The next day, while I was home alone my phone rang.  I answered it and on the other end I heard, “This is your sister.  I’ve been looking for you for the last 15 years.”

 

Wow!

 

The conversation flowed easily as we both tried to get as much information out of the other as we could.  I learned she has a step son who lives ten minutes from me.    On Thursday, a day of thanks, my sister is coming to see me on her way to her step son’s house.

Raped

My birth mother had been raped by an unknown black man.  This is what she and her husband told the adoption agency.  In September of 1967 they were referred to the agency by the Department of Social Services and they were looking to place “a child who appeared to be racially mixed.”

Yesterday after several calls to the adoption agency who handles my file I finally received the indentifying information I was looking for about my mother.  Since she passed away six years ago, I was able to get a copy of her information from my file.

I spoke to the agency at about 10:30 am and I was advised they would copy my file and fax to me as soon as they could.  By 4:00 my fax machine was still quiet and I was filled with frustration up to the tops of my ears.

My information from my file was not priority to someone who has other responsibilites and more pressing things to do.  My information is priority to me and I felt some compassion was expected and should be a part of this person’s job.  Unfortunately my feelings had no authority.

At 4:03 pm I placed a call back to the agency.  At this point, the person handling my file was so sick of hearing from me she wouldn’t come to the phone.  Instead, when I called the secretary relayed to the woman responsible for my file I was on the phone and the women handling my file passed a message to me through the secretary.  I am advised they are typing up the cover letter and have just finished copying my information.  They tell me they will be faxing to me shortly.

At this point, I am thinking this must be some file.  It took them five and a half hours to put it together.  I hoped I had enough paper in my fax machine.

At 4:37 pm I received my information.  Four sheets came through my fax machine.  One sheetwas a cover letter, one sheet told me who to contact if I want the court records of my adoption, one sheet appeared to be a legal order or request for my adoption, and one sheet told me my birth mother was raped.

Confusion, despair, and finality surround me as I read the words that my birth mother “could not describe the AF(father) stating she was raped by an unknown negro man.”  I sat on my bed and wondered why I never thought of this scenario.  For 30 minutes I sat still not knowing what to say or what to do.  I now hafto digest that the siblings I was going to contact would have no reason to interact with me.  I realized bringing up this painful topic really wouldn’t  be fair to them and there is a strong chance  they know nothing about it.

My search ends here, is what I thought.

The confusion clouds my memory of what I know.  For 30 minutes I was stunned and didn’t remember the information I received 21 years ago from the same agency.  Slowly,  I came out of this fog.

The reason why I never thought of this scenario was because 21 years ago the agency sent me my non-indentifying information which told me my birth father worked with my birth mother, he was married and had children of his own and he was 40 years old when  I was born.

What story was true? Did the person who was in charge of my file 21 years ago make this up to “protect” my feelings? I was clear headed and I was angry.  It was 5:07 pm and I placed a call to the agency.  I considered giving a false name to the secretary in fear that once they heard it is me they would avoid me.  I gave them my name and the woman who has my file gets on the phone.

I explained to her the information I was just given totally contradicts the information I have had for the last 20 years and I need to know which is the right story.  She gets my file and she can’t find where the initial file handler came up with the information on my birth father.  She states it might have been in the court records which I will have to get from the court.  This is another leg of a trip that seems will never end.  It seems that the court system and theirs records will be a circus that I am not in the mood to attend; the typical bureaucratic paper tornado.

On the other end of the phone she stated she had found a report in my file.  The report described a home visit that the agency had at my birth mother’s home.  The report states that my birth mother was questioned about the facts surrounding my birth and finally she  admitted the rape story was not true.  She confessed to having an affair with a black co-worker.  She provided information on my birth father to the agency.

The gravity of what just happened is not picked up by the woman on the other end of the phone.  We ended our conversation and I realize that if I hadn’t called 21 years ago, I would be left with the rape story.  My journey would have ended in a tragic way.  Being conceived out of an affair isn’t the best legacy but it would have to be higher on the scale than the alternative.

This morning, I called the court just to see what, if anything, they could provide.  I could not have been more wrong about the court system.  The woman I talked to showed the compassion I needed to see.  She listened to me tell my story.  She didn’t hear my words,  she listened.  Being in this system, she told me very often she hears similar stories.  It was very common back then for woman to say they were raped if a child was conceived as a result of an affair.  Especially, in the late 60’s with a white woman and black man, rape was often used to explain what happened.  The words from this experienced professional comforted me.

Soon after, I sat down and wrote a letter to my three brothers and one sister.  I included in the letters all the information that I have, and the letter I received yesterday which names each one of them as the children of my birth mother.  In this letter it plainly states she is my mother too.

Today four letters went to four people requesting they share with me information, stories, and pictures of my birth mother.   The letter also asks them to see if someone may know the last name of my birth father.  In the information I received yesterday on the adoption request form it gave me a first name of my father.  His last name was blacked out to protect his privacy.

I sent the letters express and they will arrive tomorrow.  Again, more waiting.

The Trade Has Been Made

The confirmation of who my birth mother was is moments away from coming through my fax machine.

Last week I contacted the adoption agency.  In my conversation with the director I explained I had found out who my birth mother was and had also learned she died six years ago.  I explained that I had obtained my birth mother’s death certificate and it was my understanding that with the death certificate I could get my birth mother’s part of my adoption records.  The director confirmed that I was correct but that I would have to wait while they requested my file from an off site location.  The turn around time is typically five days so I would have to wait again.  In the mean time, I faxed over a copy of the death certificate to save time and requested they fax back my information to me as soon as possible.  The director was in agreement.

After eight days and no call my patience was sick of waiting.  I called the agency today and was told my file had been delivered.  I emotions wanted to scream, “well, then how come no one called me.”

Experience knows to ignore the desires of my emotions in situations like this one.  The director has total control over when and how I get this information and it doesn’t serve me to upset her.  Experience knows I am powerless in this struggle.

I ask what the next step in the process is and I am told they just need to get a copy of the death certificate.

“The one faxed eight days ago right after I got off the phone with you?”  Again my emotions are screaming.  Again I ignore them.

“Can I have that fax number again.” I wisely reply.

I re-fax over the death certificate and on the cover letter I request they call me back as soon as they get the fax.

Thirty minutes evaporates and no one calls.  Patience is in the corner and is now violently ill.  I call the agency back and they advise they have received my fax and will compile all my birth mother’s information from my file and put it in the mail no later than tomorrow.

In the back of my head, I hear yelling again.

“Can you fax it to me?”  I ask.

They will fax it over once they black out my birth father’s information.

I sit two feet from my fax machine waiting for the first noise that something is coming through.

Nothing yet.

What I am waiting for them to confirm has already been confirmed.  The woman who I think is my birth mother is my birth mother.  If I got it wrong and the name on the death certificate didn’t match the name in my file they would have told me by now.  I found the right woman.

To see that in writing is what my eyes crave.  After 21 years of searching off and on for my birth mother, I want to see proof, on the agency’s letterhead, of what I already know.

As I write I am anxious, excited, nervous, and leary about what my next step is post fax.

Once the fax is received I will sit in front of my computer again and write a letter to the four siblings that probably don’t know I exist.  I will graciously write a letter that shows them a mother they probably didn’t know.  In this letter I will request information about a mother they know and I don’t and I will again wait.  The waiting will begin again as they decide what to do, how to respond, or if they will respond.  Again the struggle is out of my hands.

Although this is my information that I have a right to; I have no control over how or if I get it.  The hope is at least one of the four siblings will look beyond their feelings and understand that I had nothing to do with how I was created.  From that understanding will spring compassion.  The hope is this compassion will cause them to see my side and share their mother, share my birth mother, with me.

My fax machine is still quiet and my emotions are still screaming.

Trade

In front of me, on my desk, is a certified copy of my birth mother’s death certificate.  I learn more and more about her and me and have mixed feelings about it.  Part of me feels like I am invading someone’s privacy and part of me keeps reminding myself this is the woman who gave birth to me.  My emotions are twisted and swirling like a tornado.

There are times when I think about all the answers that died with my birth mother.  The thought that I will never hear from her what she was thinking over the years makes me really sad.  In the same thought, my emotions are not tied to her.  Logically,  I should be sad or show some emotion because she passed away but my emotions are unattached.  My mourning is more for the answers than the person.

This may be because I have had a relationship with those answers.  My fantasy was always to get all the answers to all my questions.  My mind has scripted a three act play where everything I ever wanted to know was answered.  The play was consumed with answers and not relationships.

I never scripted a relationship with my birth mother.  The fantasy of us calling each other on my birthday or holidays was never entertained and I really don’t know why.

My fear is that through this process, the more answers I get, the more real she becomes.  Maybe our relationship will work in reverse.  Maybe I will get to know her after her death and then once I know her better I will then mourn the loss of her.

At this point, that is not guaranteed, but I am hopeful.  The letter I sent my birth sister has still gone unanswered.  This leads me to believe I will have to prove my place in the family.  The fantasy of the family finding out I am here and our emotion filled reunion seems less likely.

As each day passes, the fantasy turns more towards the thought of  me kicking in the door fighting for my place in this household.  What place I will have or want to have I am not sure, but I can’t accept being ignored.

Their acknowledgement of my existence monopolizes my fantasy now.

The small hope that my birth mother shared the identity of my birth father with someone still beats quietly.  It is this hope that will save the door from being kicked in.  This hope births a fantasy about my father and his family.  Maybe he will be the one to welcome me in and answer the questions that cry out from deep inside of me.

Tomorrow, I contact the adoption agency to see what information I can get in exchange for my birth mother’s death certificate.

Ana’s Miracle

Below is a guest video blog from fellow adoptee, Nelson De  Witt.   Please enjoy his video and his amazing story.   I asked Nelson just to share his story and explain his experience reuniting with his birth family.   After hearing Nelson’s story, I was inspired to begin my search again for my birth mother.

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Click the link below to watch the video

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k5NfEF63Gfw

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Hello everyone! My Name is Nelson De Witt and write a blog called Ana’s Miracle. Its the story of how my family was torn apart during the war in El Salvador and our journey to reunite. I’m super excited to be doing this guest post for my friend Kevin who I met over at adoptionvoices.com.

In this video I try to answer some questions about looking for and reuniting with my birth family. While my experiences are very unusual I think there are a lot of common feelings between adoptees.

What made you want to look for your birth parents?

Even though I did not go looking for my birth parents, they were looking for me, I still had a desire to do a search. I remember freshman year of high school wanting to do my senior year project on begining my search. I had a strong feeling that I wanted to find the people who “looked like me.”

How did your adoptive parents respond to your desire to find your birth parents?

 

This is where my story is a little different. I never actually had this conversation with my adoptive parents. However when the news of my birth family arrived they were very supportive of me and the process.

How did you find them? Where did you start? How long did it take?

 

Again I can’t really speak to this because my Grandmother was the one who went looking for me. With the help of an organization in El Salvador it took them about four to five years to find me.

What was the response when you initially contacted your birth parents?

Since I had been separated from my family as a child, my birth family was just happy to see me a ive and well. For my adoptive family it was much harder.   They were really scared of loosing me to this new family. For me it was really about finding out about my past and where I came from. I never  thought about leaving my adoptive family.

 

What was the reunion like and what is your relationship with them like now?

The reunion was amazing! It was so emotional that I can’t even really put it into words.

My relationship with them now is great. We are truly one big family. I go down there to visit and they come up here. It took many years of hard work but we got to become very close.

 

How do you feel about finding them? It the void that I lot of people talk about now filled?

Yes. Finding my family did fill the void.  However, it didn’t turn out exactly like I had hoped. Growing up I had always wanted to meet my birth mother.  She died in the war and I will never get to meet her. I was very disappointed and it took a long time to get over it.  If you decided to look, it may not turn out the way you want but once you know, you can start to deal with it and move on.

Thank you Kevin so much for having me do this. If you would like to learn more about my story my site is http://anasmiracle.com. If you have an questions feel free to send me an email at dewittn@anasmiracle.com.

Be sure to visit Nelson’s blog  to get the complete amazing story at Anasmiracle.com