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

Expat in China: 10 of My Favorite Blog Posts from 2008

I've only got three days left in Shanghai...the clock is a'ticking. The house is packed up and our things are (almost) on a boat headed for the United States. Life is changing, and as it does, I'm looking back over my time here in China.

Here are 10 of my favorite posts from 2008. (If you haven't read my favorites from 2006 and 2007, click here and here.)

• "Learning to Speak Chinese: The Totally Inappropriate But Hilarious Way I Learn to Say 'My Grampa's Dead'"

• "Dream: Magic and Invisible"

• "New Shoes...from my ayi" (Yep...these are the shoes...there in the picture!)

• "Saving Face in China (a story of my ayi, an orange-zesty dessert, and a trash can on Anfu Rd."

• "Title #1: My Driver Has Lost His Marbles; Title #2: A Breach in Driver Etiquette; Title #3: Yet Another Cultural Sideswipe?"

• "We're Adopting a Baby! Another Grand Adventure" (This was the first time I shared the news of our adoption.)

• "The Coffeecake Chronicles: Day 3: Vietnam, Friday, September 26, Before We Go to the Orphanage" (In the months leading up to our adoption...before we had decided on a name for her, we called Tully "Coffeecake." Thus, there's a whole series on the blog called "The Coffeecake Chronicles." I wrote this particular post on the morning before we went to the orphanage to be with our daughter for the first time. Pretty special day.)

• "Tulliver's Travels: In Wonder and Awe" (This is mushy, gushy, mumma-love post. 2008 was such a great year.)

• "Writing: On Process: Writing?" (After becoming a mom, when does the writing bug bite?)

• "Writing: On Process: BIG, BIG NEWS!" (Did I tell you what a great year 2008 was? I did. Oh, good.)

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.

_____

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.

_____

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.

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

Yep. Part III. (Haven't read Parts I and II? Click here and here respectively.)

Yesterday I was at a kid's birthday party with 2.5-year-old daughter in Shanghai and I met a woman from Eastern Europe. A seemingly smart woman who has lived in Shanghai for five years, is married to a guy from a different country than her own, is mom to a one-year-old daughter, and will give birth to her second in September.

Pretty savvy, right?

So we were chatting. The normal expat chatter: "How long have you lived here? Whose job brought you here?" Yadda, yadda, yadda. A few kids raced past. The woman said, "Which one is yours?"

I pointed to Tully as she screeched to a halt in front of me. "That one."

The woman jolted upright. "That one?" she said, pointing at Tully as if there was no way in hell that one could be my daughter.

"Yep, this one," I said, once again indicating Tully who was by then wrapped around my legs.

Because I'm very familiar with the "big-crap-is-about-to-come-out-of-this-person's-mouth-about-adoption" tone of voice, I knew I should have scooped Tully up in my arms and headed home...or at least hightailed it to a different room.

But before I could move or speak, the woman tossed back her head and laughed. Then she said, "Who is her father?"

"Excuse me?" I said. But then somehow instead of punching this obviously-not-so-smart woman in the face (which is what I really want to do), I ended up explaining that my husband was from Ireland and that we had adopted Tully from Vietnam.

All while Tully was standing there, looking up at me, hugging my legs, and listening.

Then the woman said, "Oh, my god, how did you feel when they plopped a one-year-old in your arms?"

I wanted to say, "In love. Peaceful. The happiest I've ever been in my life. Glowy. Thankful. Totally overwhelmed. Frightened. Just like every other mom in the world--birth or adoptive," but instead I sat there fighting back the tears because all I could think was "Tully is listening to this nincompoop."

Of course, the woman couldn't leave well enough alone. She studied us for a few minutes, then said, "You know, she kind of resembles you. Thin. Long face. She could almost be your daughter."

"Uh, dumb-ass," I should have said, "she is."

But instead...I sat frozen in my seat, confounded by this woman's brazen insensitivity. My face flaming with anger and mortification.

To be fair, the woman's husband looked a little embarrassed as she spoke, and I believe he actually sensed my discomfort. Maybe his wife is a nincompoop all the time. Maybe she's just one of those people who, no matter what the circumstance, sticks her big foot in her mouth.

Today?

I'm pissed at myself...because I didn't handle the conversation better...because I haven't yet gotten down a smooth response to people like this...because I feel like I didn't protect Tully properly.

But don't worry. I'll be fine. My hubs and I have an ongoing conversation about how best to respond to intrusive questions/comments about our family. It's a process...like everything else in life.

___

Photo by Salvatore Vuono / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Tully & Katie: A Long Friendship (and a lot of ice cream)

Way back in September 2008 when Andrew and I were in Vietnam bringing Tulliver home, we met our wonderful friends Becky and Brian (B&B) Stelmack who were also in Vietnam adopting their daughter Katie. Tully and Katie were in the same orphanage and had known each other for most of their young lives.

Vietnam, September 2008 (Kristin & Tully, Becky & Katie)

Each time we've returned to the U.S. to visit since our adoptions were finalized, we've met up with the Stelmacks, and Katie and Tully have been able to continue the friendship that began when they were wee babies. It's a sweet, loving connection, and when they're not together, Tully says things like, "I went to the beach with my friend Katie," and Katie says things like, "Tully's mumma is Kristin." They look at photos and videos of each other, and we parents talk a lot about the girls to them. It's an important connection.

Last Sunday, almost two years later after our journey to Vietnam, we met the Stelmack family in Newburyport for a day at the beach, lunch, ice cream, and some good Tully/Katie time.

As predicted, these two precocious two-year-olds were a hoot together. It was terrific.

Katie (left) & Tully (right)

"I'll help you."

"This is my bucket. That's your bucket."

A bit of mountain climbing. (These girls are up for anything!)

Lots of hugging going on.

"Hey, Katie, come smell these flowers...the dirt smells good, too."

"I like ice cream. How 'bout you, Tully? You like ice cream?"

"Oh yeah, I LOVE ice cream."

"...especially when I'm running around a tree."

"Try some of mine?"

"Oh, that's delicious!"

Moms & daughters. Look how our girls have grown.

Whew...we're thirsty.

And yeah, maybe a little tired.

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

On July 27, 2009, I wrote Part I of "How (Not) to Talk to Adoptive Families."

Unfortunately, here's Part II:

A month or so ago I was visiting preschools in Shanghai, looking for a good fit for my two-year-old daughter Tully. I wanted what all moms and dads want for their child's first school: a warm, creative, loving atmosphere with fun, attentive, smart teachers and a safe environment in which to thrive.

At one particular school that I'll not name here, I met with the staffing director, a Shanghainese woman named Katrina*.

After a tour of the school, Katrina and I sat down in the office to fill out paperwork and talk. Because the toddler classroom was located on the second floor of the building and featured a balcony, I wasn't interested in the school. Big safety issues. But I filled out an information form anyway: protocol.

Next to the question "What is your child's nationality?"I wrote Vietnamese.

"Vietnamese?" Katrina said, reading over my shoulder.

"Yes," I said.

"You are...?"

"From the United States."

 "And your husband is from?" Katrina glanced at the form. "Ireland."

"Yes," I said.

Katrina waited for me to explain. I didn't. I tried to move the conversation to the necessary topic: whether or not I was interested in sending Tully to school there.

But Katrina? Nope, Katrina was not ready to let go of the question of Tully's nationality.

"I don't understand," she said. "How is your daughter Vietnamese if you are American and your husband is Irish?"

[Quick pause to explain that while Katrina is from Shanghai, her English is excellent. There wasn't a language problem going on.]

"We adopted Tully from Vietnam," I said after a long silence during which I tried to decide whether to answer or leave abruptly. In retrospect, I should have left abruptly.

Katrina and her husband, it turns out, had talked a lot about adopting a child themselves. Of course, in China, most couples are still only allowed to have one child (although this is changing a little). So in the end, adoption was not a possibility.

"Besides," Katrina went on to explain, "I don't believe you can love an adopted child as much as you love 'your own child.'"

See?

Should have left abruptly.

Without going into the details of every one of my responses, here's a quick list of the things Katrina said to me over the next (very long) 5 minutes:

• If you get very angry and beat your child, "your own" child will understand that you did it because you love him. Your adopted child will always think it's his fault.

• Does your daughter [pause] "look" Vietnamese?

• You can't love an adopted child as much as you love "your own child." (She said this a number of times.)

• I don't understand...why don't you have a child of "your own"?

There were a lot of issues buzzing around this conversation, including a wide cultural gap that I couldn't have narrowed no matter what I'd said. Adoption isn't common in China, and many people are bewildered by the concept. But Katrina? She's a pretty smart, educated woman with a lot of interaction with the expat community. Even if these thoughts were in her head, she should have known to keep her trap shut.

"I have a child of my own," I told her before I left the school.

"Oh," she said, getting visibly excited, "you have a child besides your daughter? A child of your own?"

[OMG]

"No, I have one child," I said, "I have my daughter."

"I don't understand," she said. "You just said you have a child of your own."

"Exactly," I said.

_______

*Katrina's name has been changed.

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.

Happy Birthday to You, Happy Birthday to Tully...

So my daughter Tulliver is two years old today. I'd ask where the heck time has gone, but that would sound cliche. (But really, where has time gone?)

Tully's a hoot. A lovely, sparkly, funny, chatty, climbing-like-crazy, creative hoot.

Currently, I'm trying to teach her not to touch other people's nostrils (figured starting with others' nostrils is best; we'll get to her own soon enough). She's now obsessed with the "nostril" game. It goes like this:

"Is this nostril?" she asks, pointing to my forehead.

"I don't know, is it?" I ask in response.

"No!" she shrieks, laughing. "That's forehead!"

"Is this nostril?" she asks, pointing to my ear.

"I don't know, is it?" I ask in response. (Clearly I know my role by now.)

"No!" she shrieks, laughing. "That's ear."

"Is this nostril?" she asks, pointing to my left nostril.

"I don't know, is it?" I ask in response.

"Yes!" she shrieks, laughing. Then she gets a very serious look on her face and says (as she sticks her finger up my nose), "No touch Mumma's nostril."

Oy.