Kristin Bair O'Keeffe: Writer. Mom. Teacher. Traveler.

How (Not) to Talk to Adoptive Families: Part V

"How (Not) to Talk to Adoptive Families" is, unfortunately, an ongoing series. If you haven't read parts I-IV, click here, here, here & here.

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A few weeks ago, my husband, daughter, and I were eating lunch at my favorite diner in Newburyport, and things were going along nicely--great eggs and sausage, happy chatter with our almost-three-year-old, back in our old stomping ground, no major tantrums, etc. Then halfway through the meal, two women and an elevenish-year-old girl sat down at the table next to us, and almost immediately, the older, blondish woman initiated what I call the "inquisitive stare" stage of trying to make sense of our family dynamic.

First, she took a long look at Tully, our daughter from Vietnam, and then an even loooonnngggger look at me and my husband, two folks quite obviously not from Vietnam. After assessing things for about seven minutes (enough time for me to finish one-half of my most-delicious grilled English muffin), the woman started doing the thing that almost always annoys the piss out of me...trying to meet my eyes because now that she'd gathered enough information and assessed the situation, she had something to say or ask.

But I didn't want to hear it. I wanted to eat the other half of my most-delicious grilled English muffin, enjoy the time with my family, and do my best to keep Tully's chocolate milk from spilling all over the table.

Unfortunately, the woman would have none of that. Eventually she wedged her way into our meal with casual comments about Tully: "She's darling." (Thank you.) "She really likes pancakes." (Yep.) "Is she going to eat all that bacon?" (Yes, indeed she is.)

And so on.

Thankfully, the woman had enough smarts to keep her real question to herself until my husband and daughter headed for the door ahead of me, but as soon as they were, she swooped in like an osprey going after a trout...talons first.

"When did you get her?" she said.

"Excuse me?" I said, delaying the inevitable.

"When did you get her?" she repeated, this time wagging her thumb at the door through which my husband and daughter had thankfully disappeared.

When did I GET my daughter? GET her? Seriously?

As I took a deep breath, I silently asked myself how wrong it would be to pour what remained of my daughter's chocolate milk over this woman's head. Very wrong? A little bit wrong? Not so wrong at all?

"Our daughter," I said, modeling adoption-friendly language in the same way I model proper sentence construction for my daughter, "came home when she was eight months old."

Then I turned my back and left, deciding that very wrong was the right answer to the chocolate milk question.

I kept my answer to this woman's question short, but here's the long version for anyone who's wondering:

You do not GET a child.

 

You get bangs.

You get taller.

You get an appointment.

You get a dog.

You get laid.

You get lucky.

You get UGG boots.

You get a new job.

You get a "B" on a test.

You get thirsty.

You get hungry.

You get pepperoni on your pizza.

You get here.

You get there.

You get a pogo stick for your birthday.

You get paid.

You get on a plane.

You get on a train.

You get in a car.

You get a margarita.

You get a glass of wine.

You get calls from telemarketers.

You get an engagement ring.

You get a foot of snow.

You get email.

You get the flu.

You get the common cold.

You get mad.

 

But you do not GET a child.

 

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Photo by Liz Noffsinger / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

From China to the United States: A Repatriation Ramble

October 13 or so

The (very tired, jetlagged, wornout, but good, healthy, and happy) eagle (a.k.a. me) has landed. As of very, very late Monday night (which was actually very, very early in the morning on Tuesday), I'm back in the U.S.

Sorry it's been so long since my last post. Of course, I'd planned to blog during our 10 days in Ireland, but--ah-hem--it didn't happen. Too much life going on to pause for the written word. (Actually I just typed "written world," which is some type of perhaps-not-Freudian-but-maybe-Freudian slip.)

So I'm here. And the sky outside is that crispy blue that blesses New England on perfect days in the autumn. The leaves are deliciously crimsony-buttery-ochre and although I had to force myself out of bed this morning, I did & was rewarded with a perfect sunrise during my walk/run/walk/run/mostly walk with a little running.

Been thinking about tons of stuff while I haven't been writing:

• Stephen Elliott of The Rumpus...whose daily newslettery notes I've missed and am looking forward to catching up on. If you don't subscribe to his daily missives, you should. And once you do, it may take you a while to connect to them cause he's really honest and raw and open about stuff we humans usually like to hide and only share with people we go to bed with or break bread with or sit next to on a subway during an extra-long ride, but after a while, I'll bet you'll be as addicted to them as me.

• How many people write blogs. This fascinates me. How many people have all this stuff in their heads that they want to share with the world.

• How weird it is that I don't have a return ticket to China. First time in five years. We're back in the U.S. to stay and I have to figure a way to (re)create a writing life...and a life-life...here.

• The five-year cycle in my life. Every five years I change my life drastically--geographically and relationship-wise. Always have. This major move back to my home country with a husband and daughter in tow is no exception. It's huge and significant. We're talking about buying a house, which I've never done, and I've been thinking about how permanent that feels to me and how permanence might scare the beejeebies out of me just a wee bit. Of course, I know permanence is a thing of the imagination and that nothing is ever really permanent, but still...

A Few Days Later

I'm thinking about China a lot. As expected. Today, Andrew, Tully, and I took a mile-long marsh walk in the woods. It was symbolic of everything I missed so much when I was in China. Trees and grass and sky and clean air and quiet and crunch-under-foot and the smear of colors and THAT smell and so on. I hugged trees, said hello to rocks, introduced Tully to various bugs, and waved to the ocean.

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One thing I did manage to do during the past few weeks was read Jonathan Franzen's FREEDOM, and although I was bored and annoyed for the first 100 pages or so, by the halfway mark, I was hooked. And gobsmacked. It's pretty darn good. One of the first comments I started making early on in the book was "It is SO American." And that feeling got stronger and stronger as I read...the characters are SOOOOOO American. Perhaps this stood out so much to me since I'm in the process of repatriating to the United States after almost five years in China (or perhaps other readers were aware of it as much?).

During my time in China, I became acutely aware of what others think of Americans...how we're viewed...the positives and negatives. This is a complicated topic of which I'm barely scratching the surface...so bear with me. One of the things that hit me hard while reading FREEDOM is that in the U.S. we have the privilege of passion. In other words, we get to be passionate about any damn tiny thing we want to be passionate about (like Walter and his token bird) and we're allowed (for the most part) to act like nutcases about it. (more later)

And A Few Days Later Than A Few Days Later

Earlier this week, I got sick. Really sick. Like with a fever and everything. I felt like the stuff buried under the filthiest sludge in the world. I was in a daze and could barely function. I'm surprised and not surprised that this happened in the midst of this repatriation. Physically and emotionally, I'm spent.

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A week ago (pre-fever), I got ambitious and attempted to do a bit of rewriting on the novel. That surge of creative energy lasted all of 35 seconds, but I tell you what, in that 35 seconds I finally rewrote a sentence that has been bugging me for months. And all it took was one word. One simple word: windy. So even though the surge was shortlived, it was successful. (At this rate, I could finish writing the novel by 2083.)

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OMG...I love crispy green seedless grapes. F'in awesome. I missed them.

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Signing off now. This surge is subsiding too.

How (Not) to Talk to Adoptive Families: Part IV

Setting: the small gym in our apartment building in Shanghai

Setup: I’m on the elliptical machine with the Black-Eyed Peas blasting in my ears when this 10ish-year-old kid named Frederick (name changed) whom I’ve known for over three years hops onto the elliptical next to me. Most of the time, I like Frederick. He’s smart, boisterous, friendly, and funny. But he’s also got a bit of a dark side, and when his folks aren’t looking, he often taunts younger kids, gets physical (swings bookbags at unsuspecting heads, etc.), and looks for ways to irritate adults.

Here's how it went:

Frederick: "So...did you adopt Tully?" (This was his opening line.)

Me: (pauses music) "I couldn't hear you, Frederick. What did you say?" (even though I'd heard him perfectly)

Frederick: "Did you adopt Tully?"

Me: (takes off headphones) "Yes, we did. Tully's dad and I adopted her from Vietnam."

Frederick: "Oooohhhhhh, THAT'S why she doesn't look like you."

Me: "That's why she doesn't look like me." (Hoping to leave it at that, I turn to look for Frederick's mom who often follows him into the gym at this time of day for Frederick's 30-minute workout, but alas, she's nowhere to be seen.)

Frederick: (obviously not planning to leave it at that) "Because if Tully were your REAL daughter, she would look like you."

Me: (I take a very deep breath so I don't tell this 10ish-year-old kid to *#@&% off as I consider how Tully would feel if she were standing within earshot and heard this kid say that she's not my REAL daughter. I think about the many ways she does look like me and her dad--gestures, facial expressions, voice inflections--the many beautiful ways she probably looks very much like her birth parents, and the miraculous ways she looks like her own gorgeous self. I also think about the word "real" and its implications.) "Frederick, what I think you mean is that if I'd given birth to Tully, she would look more like me physically. But birth or not, Tully is my real daughter."

Frederick: (churns away on his elliptical) "But if you didn't give birth to her, she's not your REAL daughter. You know what I mean?"

Me: (I attempt to minimize the steam puffing out of my ears and remember that this is a 10ish-year-old kid and that this is an opportunity to educate him about adoption, but OMG, it's so hard. This half-Indian, half-Chinese very privileged kid lives in China, attends an international school, and has savvy, world-smart parents who've lived all over the world; two of this kid's close friends are Chinese sisters who were adopted by an American couple...does he talk to them like this?) "I know exactly what you mean, Frederick, but you are wrong. Tully is my daughter. No, I did not give birth to her, but she is my real daughter."

Denouement: With that, I turn up my music. Frederick's mouth keeps moving but the Black-Eyed Peas drown out his words. I'm not in the mood to explain or defend my family. After a few minutes, his mom comes in, tells him to stop bothering me with his chatter, and puts him on the exercise bike in front of "Xi Yang Yang," a wildly popular Chinese cartoon show about a happy sheep.

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Note: This, unfortunately, is Part IV in my ongoing series "How (Not) to Talk to Adoptive Families." If you're interested, you can read Parts I, II, and III here, here, and here.

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Photo Credit: graur codrin / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Big, Sad, Happy, Crazy News...We're Leaving China

Okay, folks, here's the scoop.

After spending 4 1/2 years in Shanghai, China, we are repatriating. We'll be moving back to the United States at the beginning of October.

Wow...did I just say that out loud? Cause you know, saying it out loud makes it real.

Let's listen again.

After spending 4 1/2 years in Shanghai, China, we are repatriating. We'll be moving back to the United States at the beginning of October.

Holy cannoli.

I said it out loud. It must be true.

How do I feel?

Damn good question with no easy answers. To help clarify the three main emotions I've been experiencing since making this life-changing, boom-da-da-boom-da-da-boom-da-da-boom decision, I drew a few pictures. Let's see if this helps us sort it out:

I'm happy. Very happy. I can't wait to have family and U.S. pals within hugging distance. Get ready...I'll be hugging BIG!

I'm so so sad. I'm gonna miss many things like Mr. Chen (our driver), the Chicken Man, my writing pals, my writing students, lots of very special friends, Out Loud! (the reading series I run), kick-ass jiaozi (dumplings), an incredibly diverse multi-cultural life, easy access to tropical paradises (i.e., Borneo), having an ayi to clean up every single mess my two-year-old makes, my daughter's bilingual school, the monks at the Longhua Temple, the view of the Pearl Tower from my 23rd floor apt, and...and...and...

Oh me gosh. Y'all know that moving is crazy even if you're only moving a few blocks down the street, but moving to the other side of the world is even crazier. It's a completely insane journey that (as you can see) is already making me just a wee bit loony. And guess what? I'm only going to get loonier. 

Sooooo...anyway...I imagine I'll be doing a lot of writing in the next 6 or so weeks about China and change and all the crazy stuff that happens during this process. Pop in often to witness the happy-sad-loony tales (a.k.a. the yippee-boohoo-OMG tales) of my next around-the-world move.

Writing The Far-Flung Life: The Life and Times of Expat Writers

Here's the truth. We expat writers have some pretty hilarious, tres bizarro, mega-heart-breaking, uber-adventurous, heads-bowed enlightening, truth-revealing, "no effing way" stories to tell.

We could begin right at this exact moment telling those stories and not be finished until...well, until never. And the entire time we were telling them, you (our audience) would be bent over double with laughter, sobbing like babies, or saying "No effing way" over and over again.

After all, we brave, crazy, passionate expat writers not only travel to exotic locales for spits-and-spots of experience. We actually pack up our homes, our families, our hearts, our underwear, and our bottles of Imodium and MOVE to these exotic locales. We say, "Yeah, bring it on! I want to live in this place...as uncomfortable and confused as I am right now...and I want to...I want to..."

"You want to what?" you ask.

"I want to figure out who I am in relation to this new place. Because I was pretty damn clear about who I was in my home country, but here? Here? This place where I stand out like a sore thumb? I don't have a clue who I am or how I fit in."

"Anything else?" you ask.

"Yeah, I want to KNOW this place. Not just a little, but a lot. As much as an outsider can, I guess."

"That's a mighty tall order," you say in a John Wayne drawl because maybe you are an American.

"Yeah, but I've got a while."

Then we expat writers live in these locales for...one, two, three, four, even ten years...witnessing cultural clashes, cultural enlightenments, medicine-resistant illnesses, language conundrums, awe-inspiring kindnesses, life-changing revelations, strange fish-stomping deaths, unfamiliar burial rites, and perhaps most importantly, everyday life. We eat funky foods and compare this to that. We stare, get stared at, drop chopsticks, make friends, make mistakes, and finally, let the old shift as the new seeps in.

And of course we write about it. Because that's what we do. Because like all writers, we are obsessed with getting our stories onto the page...with working life out in pen and ink (or via the clickety-click).

But something else happens as well.

We start to change. We look in the mirror and say, "Who the hell are you?" We thumb through the myriad of stamps in our passports and say, "Who the hell am I?" We study the addresses on our mail and say, "Home?"

Because at some point...some critical point...we stop feeling like citizens of a single country...and instead feel like citizens of...well...the world.

How effing corny and wonderful and confusing and unlikely is that? There's no precedent for being a "citizen of the world." As far as I know, there's no "citizen of the world" anthem. No "citizen of the world" constitution. No "citizen of the world" rule book. No "citizen of the world" flag. There aren't any traditional "citizen of the world" costumes or sports clubs to cheer for.

Just what holidays does a citizen of the world celebrate? Tet? Chinese New Year? Passover? Christmas? And if Christmas, Santa Claus or Sinterklaas?

So once we feel this way, what do we do?

Well, you know, we're writers--expat writers-- so we do what we always do. We keep telling stories. And we find ways of sharing those stories with you (our audience)...wherever you are...back in our "home" countries...here in our adopted countries...or in the countries we touch down in along the way.

And hopefully, you (our beloved audience) read them.

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Thanks to Francesco Marino and djcodrin for the digital artwork.

St. Patrick's Day in Shangai: Parades, Pints, & Irish Poets

And so goes another Paddy's Day in Shanghai...complete with the wonderful, weird, cross-cultural parade that is half-Irish/half-Chinese and (thanks to the Shanghai International Literary Festival) a couple of terrific Irish poets straight from Cork.

It was grand.

I'm often more entranced by the folks watching the parade in Shanghai than the parade itself. Take this pajama-clad attendee, for instance, much more interesting than the green dragon.

And this woman in the window...obviously wondering, just what the heck is going on out there on Yandong Lu?

 

Love this picture with the Irish flag.

And Tully's shamrock...  Billy Ramsell...kick-ass Irish poet.

Alan Titley reading at the Glamour Bar.

  And poet Liz O'Donoghue singing a beautiful Irish tune.

Project Kindle, Post #6 (The FINAL Episode)

This...is...it. 

Do I love my Kindle? Can I read books on my Kindle?

Watch and see.

Travel Tuesday: Writing the Far-Flung Life (Me + New Place = ?)

Okay, all you far-flung writers, need a jumping off point for a new essay? Here goes:

When you:

• are transplanted in a new country
• are launched out of your comfort zone
• are separated from those you love by expansive oceans and thousands of miles
• are incapable of communicating with those around you because you don't speak the language
• spend minutes/hours/days pantomiming even the simplest nouns (and feel like a cross between an intrepid explorer and a complete ass every time you do it)
• struggle to interpret new cultural cues

you inevitably ask the question...

Me + (New Place) = ?

You can't help it. It's human nature. We're driven to define ourselves in relation to our surroundings. Especially those of us who are writers.

The first time I asked myself this question was back in October 2006, about six months after I'd moved from the United States to Shanghai, China. I was back in the U.S. on my first trip home and was feeling completely overwhelmed by the number of choices I faced in the cereal aisle at the grocery store and a number of other things. I wrote about it here (at my old blog).

Since then, I've mulled over this very question again and again...verbally and in my head...but I haven't yet (re-)tackled it on the page. It's time...I feel it coming. The distillation of who I am in China.

And you? Have you tackled this question in your writing?

Me + (New Place) = ?

If not, give it a shot. It has all the makings of a great essay.

If so, what was your answer?

Travel Tuesday: Writing the Far-Flung Life (Shoe Leather Express)

Whenever I asked my mom for a ride when I was growing up and she couldn't (or wouldn't) swing it, I always followed my initial question "Can you take me to _________?" with the inevitable "Well, how am I going to get there?" (often accompanied by a whine and a preteen foot stomp).

To which my mom always gave the same answer: "Shoe leather express" (in other words, start walking).

Back then, that often meant that I walked to my best friend's house via the trolley tracks, the mall via the road that went past our church, and the swimming pool along one of the most commercial streets in our town. Along the way, I learned a lot. I always knew who was getting ready to have a yard sale, where the best wild blackberries grew, and how to avoid the biggest potholes. The long, solitary walks also helped me learn to pay attention...to the little things...to the aspects of a place that helped to tell its story.

So while my mom had no idea that one day I'd be living on the other side of the world writing about my far-flung life and helping others learn how to do the same, her solution to my travel woes--Shoe Leather Express--has become an important part of my writing process.

Whether I land in a new place or a place I've been many times before, I always put on my most favored, mostest comfortable walking shoes (in my case, Keens...those are my "winter" Keens [above] and my "summer" Keens [below]) and start walking.

During my first two years in China, I estimate I walked 1.75 million miles (give or take a few). In Shanghai, I walked on major thoroughfares, down old lanes, and through funky neighborhoods. I walked through the panda reserve in Chengdu, wandered about the Muslim quarter in Xian, and hiked on the Great Wall. Along every step, I paid attention to smells, colors, sounds, and the old woman selling knobs of ginger on the corner. I noted what I saw up close and what I noticed in the distance. I noted facial expressions and gestures. I gathered bits and pieces for the stories I would tell.

Sure, sometimes walking is not the easiest mode of transportation. (In Bali, I ran into so many not-so-friendly dogs, I ended up toting a big stick, and in Vietnam, dodging the scooters is not always fun.) But walking gets you up close and personal to people, food, language--the essence of a place.

So my advice to far-flung writers?

Next time you're deciding how to get from your hotel to a museum or your B&B to the beach, skip the taxi or the shuttle. Take my mom's advice and go for the Shoe Leather Express.

Kindle: Fire It Up!

Today I got a Kindle. It was delivered to me by a wonderful elf (a fellow American expat who bought it for me in the U.S. and hand-carried it all the way to Shanghai). As you can imagine, I am wildly grateful because while we do have a number of bookstores that carry books in English, the books are not necessarily the ones I want to read.

So…

Minutes after my friend the elf handed me my new toy and went home to nurse her jet lag, I met another friend for coffee. “I got my Kindle!” I said.

This friend (who had been away for a month or so) was confused. For a long time, I had been vehemently anti-Kindle (well, not really anti-Kindle, but anti-reading device). “A Kindle? I thought you hated those things,” she said.

“I did,” I said, “but I’ve changed my mind.”

Then I started to think about why. After all, I’m a writer and a voracious reader. I love books. I love paper. I love bookstores. I love libraries (to see just how much, click “Because of a Book”). In fact, an important part of my writing process happens while I’m reading. Believe it or not, I actually write IN books…my own stuff in books...hardback and paperback…whenever I get inspired by what I’m reading. (Shock…horror…I know…but I write all over my books. In the margins. Between sections. On the title page. On the covers. Heck, I write right over text if I’m on a roll.) Without the ability to write by hand while I read, what will happen to my writing process?

Great question.

And how will I “browse” for new books…the way I do at a library or in a bookstore?

Another great question

AND...if I have such concerns, why am I suddenly so gung-ho about my Kindle?

Because…

1. The publishing world is changing and I’m choosing to change with it. While I love books and hope they stick around for a long, long time, I have big doubts. Besides, I’m good at change (heck, I got married and moved to China in fewer than six weeks)...change is my middle name.
2. I want to give reading devices a chance. Sure, they are in their Jurassic Period, and sure, they are guaranteed to change a great deal in the coming years (probably in the coming months), but so what? It’s cool to be starting out with an (somewhat) early version of a device that will inevitably alter how we take in stories. (And how we write them…)
3. Since moving to China, I haven’t done a whole lot of traditional bookstore browsing…and I’ve been fine. I choose most of the books I read via referrals from my husband’s cousin Mary in Ireland, Twitter, friends, Goodreads, various email newsletters from publishers, and other sources.
4. I’m desperate for books in China.
5. I believe words have possibilities we still know nothing about, and if we limit ourselves to a traditional book, we’ll never discover those possibilities. I’m an explorer. I want to explore.
6. I’m just gosh-darn curious.

So as we enter 2010, picture me here in Shanghai, powering up my Kindle, deciding which book I’ll download first. And second. And third. And 1,336th.

And guess what?

I’m not the only one talking about this. Seth Godin (the Godfather of What Comes Next) and The Christian Science Monitor are talking, too. See what they have to say.