Adoption and "Real" Families

I was adopted as an infant, brought home when I was nine weeks old on a day full of vivid images—my mom’s nervousness, the drive down to Los Angeles, their first impressions of me—not my own memories, of course, but the story as it was told to me many times.  As a child, I thought the adoption agency was like a big grocery store, where my parents walked down the aisles, looking for just the right baby.  It never made me feel anything but special and this is entirely to their credit. 

November, aside from being National Novel Writing Month (go fellow nanowrimos! and yes, I’ve got my word count done for the day), is also National Adoption Month.  Here’s the official proclamation from the president.  I think it’s beautifully stated.

It’s an issue near and dear to my heart, and I thought I’d give some helpful advice as you navigate through the month. 

First, although it is indeed a special process, children procured through adoption aren’t, eventually, any different from any others.  They don’t have to be referred to at parties as “the Smith’s adopted daughter.”  If the Smiths have shown up with a previously unknown twelve-year-old, maybe some introductions are in order but really, otherwise it doesn’t matter.  And this applies, I would think, especially to cases where the child in question is obviously not a dropping from the family apple tree, genetically speaking.  If you are genuinely curious about the adoption, by all means—ask.  But after some time, not as an introduction. 

Another item:  someone’s “real” mother is the one who provided the clothing and food, the hugs and encouragement, the punishment and direction.  You know, the one who loves you no matter what an ass you can be at times.  If you have a relationship with your other mom, the one who was brave enough to offer you a better life than what she could offer at the time…well, that person is the “biological” mother.

These are just my opinions.  After all, it’s my blog.  Adoption has been an important aspect of my life.  I wrote my first novel based on my experiences of finding my biological family, and being chosen in this special way has given me an appreciation for all real families, built however people choose to build them.  If you’re an adoptee and curious, you can start here, as I did.  But there are countless online resources available now.  On the political side, you can learn about the efforts to unseal adoption records in California here. 

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Immortality

"A book is the only immortality." --Rufus Choate

"I don't believe in personal immortality; the only way I expect to have some version of such a thing is through my books." --Isaac Asimov

"I don't want to achieve immortality through my work. I want to achieve it through not dying." --Woody Allen 

It occurs to me that somewhere, far away perhaps, a thought flutters through a mind, one scrap of paper in a confetti-like shower, a memory, a vision of me, something I did, the way I looked one time.  Across the world, another singular downpour, like a handful of rice, one grain the combination of words from a book that once struck a raw and tender chord.  Down the street, during a heated conversation in a warm house, a hand raises in the exact manner of a lost great-grandfather.  On another continent, in a café, in a church, on the crowded sidewalk where people jostle, elbow to elbow, musical notes rain over one head, an adagio that always makes the load lighter.  These scraps, rising and falling in random minds at random times, in random places:  immortality.

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Precocious Kids

I’m currently reading and enjoying immensely The History of Love by Nicole Krauss.  The book is written from several viewpoints, all connected in some way to a fictional out-of-print book called, well, The History of Love.  As the mystery behind the book’s history unravels, so do the stories of the narrators.  One of the voices in the book is that of a 14 or 15-year-old girl, Alma Singer, and she is what I’d call a PRECOCIOUS KID.  You know the ones in books…kids with adult-like stores of patience, a breadth of understanding, a biting sense of humor, interest in sundry and complex topics.  In other words, unlike any kids you’ve ever met.  Don’t get me wrong—my children are brilliant.  Any one who knows them knows that, right?  At times, they become interested in topics and want to expand their learning and understanding and yes, they can store certain facts.  The sheer number of EPL and MLB players and stats within recall of my three boys is amazing.  Getting them to remember to wash their hair in the shower, another matter entirely.

So as much as I like this book, at times I am slightly annoyed with Alma and her clichéd existence.  In a short reading session the other day, Alma waxed on about Jewish history, the method of determining which plants are edible in the wild and the exploratory mission wherein the ecosystem at the bottom of the ocean was discovered.  It was a Saturday, so we were rushing from one soccer game to the next and between, picking up my daughter at her Musical Theater class, where she’d be singing "9 to 5" for the hundredth time (isn’t there a more modern number they can try, I thought—but that’s another topic for another post, older people revering culture from their own era).  My two nine-year-old boys (pictured above) were in the backseat.  I was contemplating Alma and her considerable knowledge and decided to observe my own geniuses.  They were just finishing up a session of silly talk, where they pretend to be one stuffed animal or another, and I tuned in just in time to hear a thoughtful discussion about how it feels when you bite your tongue (stings for ten minutes, like a bee sting, then burns).  Once in the dance studio, they spent ten minutes punching holes in a bulletin board,

or one punched holes while the other punched the first in the arm, all the while making unintelligible noises.  I wondered where we had gone wrong, why they weren’t talking about tectonic plates under the ocean, the Warsaw ghetto or hydrogen sulfide.  Unable to resolve the matter with so much going on (and apparently, my own limited brain), I thought it best to return to my reading.

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Book News: Big Announcement

I'm very excited to announce that my novel, The Qualities of Wood, will be published in 2012 by HarperCollins!  I posted the book on HC's website for writers, authonomy.com, and earlier this year, the book was awarded a review.  The rest is a blur but somehow has led to this point.  Thanks to the community there, all the fabulous writers and readers, and to HC for taking a shot with me.  If you'd like to see the announcement in its entirety, click here.

But first...WAIT!  This is just the beginning.  To stay updated with all the latest news on the book's publication, visit my website at maryvenselwhite.com and sign up on the Contact page for email updates.  You can read an excerpt of the book on the site and see what others have had to say so far.  And/or, visit me on Facebook and "Like" my author page!

Stay tuned...

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Hitchhiking, Part 2

Strangely enough, after writing the post about the absence of hitchhiking from our current literal and figurative landscape… three of my kids and I were driving to the baseball game of the fourth on Sunday when we passed—you guessed it—a hitchhiker.  A middle-aged woman with longish gray hair, dressed simply in shorts and a blue tank top, standing by a bus stop, perhaps hoping for a quicker way.

Me:  “There’s a hitchhiker!”

Kid (I’ll denote the combined comments of all three as "kid"):  “A what?”

Me:  “A hitchhiker.  Do you know what that is?”

Kid:  “No.”

Me:  “When you want to get a ride somewhere, you stand at the side of the road, put your thumb up like this, and hope someone will pick you up.”

Blank Stares

Me:  “Not that you’re allowed to do that.”

Kid:  “Why doesn’t she just drive?”

Me:  “Maybe she doesn’t have a car.”

Kid:  “But she was so fat.”

Me:  “What does that have to do with it?”

Kid:  “Because she’s not poor.”  (Apparently, his reference being literary:  rotund kings in fairy tales; thin, shivering, poor townsfolk dressed in rags.  Sidenote:  this is the same kid who uses the word “hobo” to refer to modern homeless.)

Me:  “Who said you have to be poor to hitchhike?  Maybe her car broke down.”

Kid:  “She should get it fixed.”

Me:  “Maybe she doesn’t have the money, or can’t get to the shop until Monday.”

Pause, little brows furrowed

Kid:  “Where does she need to go?”

Me:  “I don’t know. The grocery store?  The library?”  (Here, I admit, adding the last thing to improve their impression of her.)

Kid:  “That’s not safe.”

Me:  “Maybe not.”

Kid:  “Why doesn’t she just walk?”

Me:  “Maybe it’s far.”

Etc., etc.

I should add that all of the “Kid” portions were spoken with what I can only call a general tone of intolerance, even mild irritation.  It made me feel guilty for the sheltered life we’re obviously offering them.  Later, however, their judgmental tone softened a bit and became more curious. 

Kid:  “How often did you see hitchhikers when you were a kid?”

Me:  “I don’t know, pretty often I guess.”

Kid:  “Every day?”

Me:  “No, maybe once a week.” (Knowing I will be forced to quantify eventually.)

Kid:  “I’m going to tell all of my friends I saw a hitchhiker!” (Almost like seeing a dinosaur, or some other ancient thing from when I was young.)

In conclusion, I can only reiterate what I said before:  hitchhiking is gone, and all the romantic notions one might want to attach to it.  The kids couldn't get their minds around the fact that someone might not be able to get wherever they wanted, whenever they wanted.  Are they spoiled or practical?  I'm not sure...

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