Gotcha Day

Ani, Rosa, Juan, Aryanna (Juan’s girlfriend)

“We missed Juan’s Coming Home Day,” Jody said. Jody and I were doing our usual morning routine with her sitting on the dog bed, her back to the furnace. Buddy and Sadie next to her. Jody and the dogs love the furnace heat in the early morning hours. I reclined with a blanket on the couch. Her memory was jogged by reading a Facebook post about a family celebrating their child’s Gotcha day.   

“I don’t mind,” I said. “I’m not sure that it’s important to them. Maybe it just brings up trauma.”

Jody nodded. An unspoken agreement that we weren’t going to raise the issue.

Coming Home Day, as we have termed it, was the day that Juan and Crystel came home to us from Guatemala. Born six weeks apart, they came home within weeks of each other.

When they were young, we celebrated as if it were another birthday. Cakes, presents, MOA visits, concerts, and waterparks.

It was a day to recognize us coming together as a family and to acknowledge their birth moms.

“Oh, your kids are so lucky,” people often say to us. Even Jody will say, “When I come back, I want to come back as your child.” The last time she said it, which wasn’t that long ago, I said, “You do realize that you’re not saying that you want to come back as my partner.” She laughed and laughed at the truth of it.

It would be so easy to not complicate Juan and Crystel’s adoption and rest with the belief that they are so fortunate.

Recently, I had a dream where I was at a large extended family gathering. Aunts and uncles. Cousins. I was in my twenties. I chatted with relatives, played with the youngsters. I kept an eye out for my birth family. They were late. Delayed. Then, I realized they weren’t coming. There was always so much going on in my home that plans often got waylaid. Or it just wasn’t important for them to come even though the celebration was for me.

I felt this void. This loss. This emptiness. A hole where blood family should be.

I woke up wondering about this empty space for Juan and Crystel. Do they have a dream where their birth family doesn’t make it to their celebration?

Crystel’s birth family

There is trauma in being abandoned. Given up. Relinquished.

Jody and I have done what we could to make them whole with travels to Guatemala, birth family meetings, and name changes.

At five-years-old, they asked, “Whose belly did I come from, yours or Mama Jody’s?” Jody and I explained that there was a third mama in Guatemala. The kids persisted, “No! Mama Bef or Mama Jody!?!”

A hole where blood family should be.

From the First Time We Held Her

Sitting across from Crystel who was with her ‘squad’ as she would come to call her eleven nieces and nephews, Jody and I watched her draw the children to her. A magician she was. Instead of pulling scarves one by one out of a hat she charmed each child and tenderly tucked them around her heart. The children, enchanted and mesmerized, enveloped her, this aunt from the United States. This aunt they were meeting for the first time.

Where was Juan?  Alarmed, I stood up and quickly scanned the dining room. Eight tables had been strung together to accommodate Crystel’s twenty-five Guatemalan relatives. Fried chicken, burgers, and pizza permeated the air. Chatter of families, scraping chairs, little kids running.

Of course. He was sitting directly across from Crystel. Silent, strong, and loyal he was smiling broadly at her playfulness. That morning Crystel insisted that Juan sit next to her in the van on the way to meet her birth family. Since both are adopted, only he could understand the anxiety of meeting strangers connected by blood and the intense three-hour reunion that would occur.

Adopted together at seven and eight months old, they were only six weeks apart in age. Now, both 21, they have had a lifetime of knowing each other. Juan would remain nearby, available. Crystel would do the same for him one week later when it was his birth family reunion.

“Jody, I’m going to ask Mayra if she wants to sit closer to Crystel,” I said. Mayra, Crystel’s birth mom, was sitting quietly next to Juan. Mayra shook her head, no. She encircled her arm in front of her. “This.” Her eyes brimming, “I love watching all this.”

I understood. I, too, have given up an infant in adoption. I imagine meeting my birth son. Sitting across from him, looking closely for resemblance in the eyes, face, and mannerisms. I’d want to intimate who this child is. Ask, Did you have a good life?

Mayra had met Crystel twice before. When she was nine years old and again at eleven. Jody and I had initiated the birth family search and made the reunions possible. After the second visit we were notified by Mayra that Crystel’s birth father had threatened to kidnap her and return her to Guatemala. Crystel was the 8th child in a family of 9 children from the same biological father. She was the only child given up for adoption. Every time Mayra was pregnant, the father said the child was not his. After learning about Crystel from our visit, he threatened he would claim her back because he didn’t want any of his children to grow up apart. He was going to claim her as his own. Jody and I knew this threat to be real. Her estranged birthfather was living illegally in Chicago. A drive of 6 hours and 3 minutes separated us from him. Or was he right down the street, waiting to grab our daughter?

Boxes of Pollo Campero and cheese pizza materialized on the tables. A whirl of activity, Crystel’s brothers and sisters, ranging in ages from 18-34, sprang into action, doling out plates of fried chicken and small bags of fries. Hands reached for slices of pizza. Bottles of soda were poured into smaller cups. Our voices filled the space as we sang “Feliz Cumpleanos” to Juan’s girlfriend, Aryanna. Celebrating her 19^th birthday, she blushed, and accepted tres leches, a sponge cake soaked in a sweet milk mixture, and topped with fresh whip cream and a cherry.

Mayra approached Jody and me. Standing next to her, waiting to interpret, was Freddy, Crystel’s eighteen-year-old brother’s boyfriend. He was the only person in their party that was bilingual. Mayra reached down for our hands, brought them together and cupped them in her palms, cradling us. “I can see that my daughter is happy. That you took great care of her,” she said in a burst of Spanish. Tears fell onto her cheeks. “I’m glad that you … you … were the ones that adopted her.” Jody and I teared up. Our eyes were steady on Mayra’s soft round face. Mayra made no attempt to stop crying or to wipe her tears away. Her hands tightened around ours. She continued in her emotion-rich voice, “You … you …  brought her back.” She placed her hands to her heart.

I looked over at Crystel. Sisters, brothers, nieces, and nephews gathered around her. Loud animated laughter. She wasn’t ever ours to keep, I thought. Ever since we adopted her our goal was to bring her back, to her birth country, her birth family. Everything Jody and I have done has been to that end.

She came home to us at seven months old, underweight, and developmentally delayed. The doctors could treat her feeding issues, scabies, and the viral infection. What she needed most of all was the will to live. Jody and I nurtured and loved her, and she found that will within herself. Speech therapy for an articulation disorder addressed her inability to correctly produce speech sounds. Until she didn’t need it or wouldn’t allow it, Juan interpreted for her. They both attended Spanish dual language school in elementary, middle, and high school.

I turned to face Mayra and took a sharp breath. I wasn’t sure if it was the appropriate time to ask but I wanted to know. “What about her birth father?” She brandished the air in front of her. “Don’t worry about him. Erase him from your thoughts.”

Crystel was 18 when she asked Jody and I about her birth father. I showed her his Facebook page. “Why does he have pictures of me on there?” she asked. “He’s been stalking you,” I said. “When you were in fifth grade, he threatened to kidnap you.” She pondered. “I always wondered why my name on class rosters had a note saying I wasn’t to have any visitors.” I explained further, “Schools, law enforcement, friends, neighbors, aunts and uncles all knew. It’s what we did to keep you safe.”

Jody and I have noticed how Crystel has taken responsibility for her own wellbeing. She completed her college sophomore year in Hawaii as a national exchange student, successfully navigating school, friendships, surfing, and a job. At the end of the school year, she traveled independently to Vietnam and Korea. She and I had just completed a month-long homestay in the mountains of Guatemala to take Spanish classes. After school, Crystel climbed volcanoes and managed other excursions without me. She is an accomplished adult. The threat is no longer viable.

Voices became spirited, higher pitched around the tables. Talk of rollercoasters. Mundo Petapa Irtra amusement park where we were was the perfect place for this reunion. Rides, entertainment, playgrounds, restaurants, and a walking zoo were spread over the grounds. Chairs were pushed back. Cleanup started. A trail of children to the bathroom.

Mayra took this moment to walk around the dining area to sit next to Crystel. Both shifted in their chairs to greet each other.  Mayra laid her hand on Crystel’s arm resting on the table. Though Jody and I couldn’t hear the conversation, I imagine Mayra telling Crystel that it had been a difficult time in her life when she surrendered her in adoption. That she missed her every single day. How she carried her in her heart. What a beautiful woman she was. Both had a ready smile and bubbly laugh that leaned toward boisterous. One could easily discern that they were mother and daughter. The same high forehead, cheekbones, distinctive eyebrows, narrow chin, and small lips.

Observing Crystel and Mayra, my eyes glistened. I swiped at my tears. My tendency is to cry when I am moved by the expression of love. I wasn’t raised with love or safety. I was sexually abused and neglected on a constant basis. There was violence. What I wanted for myself, Jody, and our children, was to see what continuous love would look like in a child. I saw the answer in Crystel. She was full, meeting with her birth mom, siblings, nieces, and nephews. She knew where she came from. She knew love was abundant. Jody and I had only gained by this reunion. We had Crystel for 21 years and all her firsts. She’d be ours for the rest of our lives. She’d also have her birth mom, siblings, and her squad.

Daughter, did you have a good life? Mayra knew the answer.

Announcing the Publication of House of Fire – an Inspiring Memoir by Elizabeth di Grazia

“In it together—from inspiration to publication” is the WordSisters theme, and today I want to congratulate Elizabeth on the publication of her memoir, House of Fire (North Star Press, 2016).

House of Fire is the realization of a writing dream begun 13 years ago when Elizabeth entered the MFA program at Hamline University. The book is also the culmination of a personal journey that began when she was a little girl growing up on a farm in Western Wisconsin.

From the time she was 4 until she moved away from her family of origin at 19, she was sexually abused. Incest caused two pregnancies, which resulted in one abortion and one adoption. Although the memoir documents those soul-sapping experiences, the book focuses on healing and the transformative experience of creating a healthy family. 

The path to parenthood was bumpy sometimes, but Elizabeth and her partner Jody were determined and persistent. In 2003, they adopted two infants from Guatemala. Today, their created family is happy and healthy—wonderful in itself—and also a testament to people’s incredible capacity to heal and move from pain and loss to joy. Elizabeth would be quick to tell you that sexual abuse doesn’t have to define a person. She is surviving and thriving.

Although it springs from harsh realities, House of Fire is joyful and inspiring. It’s available in paperback and as an ebook.

 

Juan Jose and a Guatemalan Revolution

In Guatemala today, there is an uprising.

“We don’t have medicine in the hospitals. The children don’t have books in their schools. And throughout society there aren’t any jobs and the president hasn’t done anything to help. They’ve just stolen from the people,” said Maria Elena Aquino Gomez, 38, as she sold flags in the plaza. “Guatemala is alive. We’re not dead. And we’ll continue fighting for our liberty.”

The parents of many of the organizers warned them not to get involved. “They grew up in the ’80s in Guatemala, when going out to protest meant death,” said Gabriel Wer, a 33-year-old organizer.

They hoped a few people would show up. Thirty thousand came.

I watch safely from afar, read bits and pieces, and know enough to know that I don’t understand.

Juan Jose had a history before he met Jody and me.

Antonio (9), Rosa, and his sister, Ani.

His grandfather died in 1982 during the civil war and his grandmother was left to raise seven children on her own. She couldn’t provide for all, so when his mother was five years old, she was given to an aunt. The aunt treated his mother very badly so she ran back to her mother’s house. The economic situation hadn’t changed, so his mother had to get a job cleaning houses in Rabinal at age 9.

Antonio was 9 when he met his mother, Rosa, for the first time.

“Did you name Antonio,” was one of my first questions. I so much wanted to show her that we honored her by keeping his name.

“No. The adoption people named him Antonio. I wanted to name him Juan Jose. Juan to honor my father and Jose to honor my grandfather.”

Ever since then when Antonio and I meet someone whose name is Juan or Juan Jose we look at each other knowingly.

During our first meeting with Rosa, Jody and I asked her if we could help her with monthly groceries. She said, “No. I don’t want Antonio to think I sold him.”

 

Antonio (11) and Rosa

It was then that I knew the strength and heart of Guatemalans.

Rosa is indigenous and belongs to the Mayan Achi ethnia. She is from Aldea Concul, approximately 10 miles southwest from Rabinal on the Sierra de Chuacus, 5,500 feet above sea level.

Today, she lives in the poorest section of Guatemala City. Taxis won’t drive there. Still, she didn’t want to receive help. More than anything, she wanted Juan Jose’s forgiveness for letting him go.

The Guatemalan uprising resulted in Pérez Molina no longer being President of Guatemala. Perez Molina was a former general who led the most feared branch of a military that routinely massacred citizens during nearly four decades of Civil War. About 200,000 civilians died, one of them being Juan Jose’s grandfather.

I can picture Juan Jose a.k.a. Antonio running the mountain trails in Guatemala. He has the heart of Rosa.

We will be visiting Rosa next year. She’ll be able to see for herself the man Juan Jose is becoming.

Try And Make Me!

I still have my book. It has di Grazia scrawled in black magic marker on the front cover.

It is my guidebook, rules to live by. I have no intention of ever purging the book or giving it away as I have many parenting books.

Today, I leaf through try and make me!, pages stiff from absorbing moisture in the bathroom. “I’ve seen that book,” Crystel says as I carry it upstairs to write this blog. Indeed she has. For kids from 2 to 12 it says on the front cover. Antonio has just turned 12 and she’ll be 12 in six weeks. She most likely saw me reading on the couch when she was little. I also recall many times when I slipped away from the two toddlers to read a chapter that was happening RIGHT NOW. That’s what I liked about the book. I could relate.

Crystel and Antonio on our visit to see Antonio at Boy Scout Camp

Defiant kids are born or made. Because Antonio and Crystel are adopted, I was constantly trying to determine where their behavior stemmed from. In the end it didn’t matter. It wasn’t a question that was on my mind when my three-year old was jumping up and down in Super Target yelling, “No, no, no.” Instead, I glanced around for a place to sit. Then said, “Let me know when you’re done.” (Thank you to the mothers who acknowledged me and asked if I needed help).

Once, I did ask for help. I asked a security guard at the Mall of America if he would escort me and my child out of the store. He looked like a policeman to the five-year old who immediately glommed on to my legs when he realized what was transpiring. “Do you see what is happening here?” I said. “I can’t walk you to the car alone.”

12-years old

Page 6. Never, Ever Give Up. That was the child’s last fit. It took years of constantly disengaging from his behavior and letting his problem stay his problem.

Four characteristics of defiant children are: control-craving, socially exploitive, blind to their role in a problem, and able to tolerate a great deal of negativity. Beyond these characteristics there is another difficulty that can make a child seem defiant: inflexibility.

To combat these Jody and I keep to a schedule, have rules for the children, and when they don’t follow them there are consequences. Because we have been doing this since they were young, few words need to be spoken. “Dude, you just lost your electronics,” is sufficient. Sometimes, I just purse my lips (so I don’t respond in anger), shake my head back and forth, and say, “You can continue–but there will be a consequence.”

Crystel, Jody, Antonio, Beth

When the children were young I often looked for the root cause of a fit. In reviewing the Mall of America incident, I came to realize that I had broken my promise to my child to take him to the Lego Store. It had gotten late and I could see that he was over-tired (problem). I thought it was more important to eat than to go to the store because all of us were hungry (problem), which led to the broken promise (big problem).

If I had been proactive, I wouldn’t have been at MOA with a screaming flailing kid at my feet, concerned that I was going to be asked for identification. In the days to come, I apologized to my child and told him that we would go on a date to the Lego Store. “We won’t buy anything. We’ll spend up to 45 minutes looking at everything.” And that is what we did.

It was my child’s 12th birthday when I realized how far we’ve come. He was on his fifth day of a weeklong Boy Scout camping trip at Many Point. I promised him that we’d come see him on his birthday even though it was a 10-hour round trip.

Lots to be proud of.

He saw us drive into the parking lot, and ran hollering, “Mama Beth, Mama Jody, Crystel.” Before his long strides reached us I thought of the bugs, the night, and the uncertainty of tent camping and a group of boys cooking outdoors. All those ‘thing’s’ that bothered him as a child. When he was young, to reduce his anxiety we bought a tent trailer, cooked food HE liked (and didn’t let it touch other food on his plate), and I accompanied him on all Cub Scout camping trips. This time he was alone to manage for himself.

I started crying before he even reached me. This child had grown up and was doing just fine. I hugged him hard with the knowing of how far we both had come.