Mrs. G and i have adopted one another. We make a rather remarkable pair, she and I, mostly because if there was a world population inclusive list of who we might choose to adopt or be adopted by, I don't think either one of us would rank in the other's top 100...or 1,000, frankly. I know I should not be so overcome by our differences, yet I cannot help feeling that our backgrounds are not only dissimilar, but often at odds with one another.
Mrs. G often tells me of her granddaughter, though not nearly as often as she raves about her vocabulary savvy, biological grandson. But she does mention the girl every now and again. She'll revel in her daughter-in-law's generous nature, validated by their "adopted chinese daughter". I'm not sure if I'm acutely aware of this little girl's ethnic claim because I made note of it the first time it was mentioned or because I've made note of the fact that it is always mentioned. Regardless, the praise for her "true, you know, biological family" as she puts it, ends there and she moves on to the 'brave' adoptee. "She does well...considering," I am told by Mrs. G. At this point I generally ponder, behind my smiles and nods, whether what should be considered is the fact that she is adopted, the fact that she is chinese, or the fact that she is missing a few fingers on her left hand. I'd like to believe it's the lack of digits that Mrs. G is referring to, but it's more likely something else.
It's not that I believe Mrs. G is a card carrying KKK member who lunches with the grand wizard and refuses to eat neopolitan ice cream on general principle. She doesn't have to be Hitler disguised as a kindly elderly lady who lavishes strangers with stories and chocolate covered pretzels to evoke feeling of....discomfort. She only has to be exactly what she it: aware of race. I certainly do not believe in 'color blindness', yet there is something incredibly wrong with wearing your race like a definitive adjective. Beyond anything I will ever do or be, I will always just exist as 'black' to her....maybe even 'colored'. In her eyes, my actions, my words, every step I take are all products of my race, because it is my defining attribute. How can you befriend one who sees not your soul, but the case in which you carry it?
Still, one can never discount the power of a common thread in the quilt of our humanity. Mrs. G is a woman abandoned. While she nurtured the world with her strange brand of love, it was plotting against her. And now, when she has not the time or strength to turn back to the beginning of her life and choose a path with a different destination, she finds herself bound to a lonely fate. It would be entirely too depressing to admit that all living creatures, from birth to death, are in some sense alone, regardless of such a claims validity. And, anyway, her solitude is not what draws me to her. It is her karmic battle. She is fighting her destiny with unwaning determination. I watch her pound against the steel of her cage, pulling back bloody fists from dintless walls and know exactly how she feels. I too bare the scars of fruitless fights, from which I will never back down. Are we not all marred in that way? Carrying with us arms that hang limply from swimming against the currents of current thought? Withstanding the burn of a throat hoarse from shouting through the din of conformity? Are we all not fighting to be our individual selves in a world that prizes homogeny above all else?
Mrs. G and I rarely talk of things of consequence. I flip through photos of her irreverent family and she poses questions I've answered for her so many times before. We repeatedly comment on the size of our meals, the chill of the room, the length of the summer evening. Our conversations are forgotten before we complete them. The silence is what connects us. In those shared quiet moments, we reflect upon why it is we are here together. I see in her my struggle and she sees in me hers. Such thoughts are only rarely realized and never spoken. And when the brief silence passes, she passes to me another picture of her 'chinese granddaughter' who is 'doing well, considering' and I smile. And nod.
posted by that girl at 10:28 AM
Mrs. G and i have adopted one another. We make a rather remarkable pair, she and I, mostly because if there was a world population inclusive list of who we might choose to adopt or be adopted by, I don't think either one of us would rank in the other's top 100...or 1,000, frankly. I know I should not be so overcome by our differences, yet I cannot help feeling that our backgrounds are not only dissimilar, but often at odds with one another.
Mrs. G often tells me of her granddaughter, though not nearly as often as she raves about her vocabulary savvy, biological grandson. But she does mention the girl every now and again. She'll revel in her daughter-in-law's generous nature, validated by their "adopted chinese daughter". I'm not sure if I'm acutely aware of this little girl's ethnic claim because I made note of it the first time it was mentioned or because I've made note of the fact that it is always mentioned. Regardless, the praise for her "true, you know, biological family" as she puts it, ends there and she moves on to the 'brave' adoptee. "She does well...considering," I am told by Mrs. G. At this point I generally ponder, behind my smiles and nods, whether what should be considered is the fact that she is adopted, the fact that she is chinese, or the fact that she is missing a few fingers on her left hand. I'd like to believe it's the lack of digits that Mrs. G is referring to, but it's more likely something else.
It's not that I believe Mrs. G is a card carrying KKK member who lunches with the grand wizard and refuses to eat neopolitan ice cream on general principle. She doesn't have to be Hitler disguised as a kindly elderly lady who lavishes strangers with stories and chocolate covered pretzels to evoke feeling of....discomfort. She only has to be exactly what she it: aware of race. I certainly do not believe in 'color blindness', yet there is something incredibly wrong with wearing your race like a definitive adjective. Beyond anything I will ever do or be, I will always just exist as 'black' to her....maybe even 'colored'. In her eyes, my actions, my words, every step I take are all products of my race, because it is my defining attribute. How can you befriend one who sees not your soul, but the case in which you carry it?
Still, one can never discount the power of a common thread in the quilt of our humanity. Mrs. G is a woman abandoned. While she nurtured the world with her strange brand of love, it was plotting against her. And now, when she has not the time or strength to turn back to the beginning of her life and choose a path with a different destination, she finds herself bound to a lonely fate. It would be entirely too depressing to admit that all living creatures, from birth to death, are in some sense alone, regardless of such a claims validity. And, anyway, her solitude is not what draws me to her. It is her karmic battle. She is fighting her destiny with unwaning determination. I watch her pound against the steel of her cage, pulling back bloody fists from dintless walls and know exactly how she feels. I too bare the scars of fruitless fights, from which I will never back down. Are we not all marred in that way? Carrying with us arms that hang limply from swimming against the currents of current thought? Withstanding the burn of a throat hoarse from shouting through the din of conformity? Are we all not fighting to be our individual selves in a world that prizes homogeny above all else?
Mrs. G and I rarely talk of things of consequence. I flip through photos of her irreverent family and she poses questions I've answered for her so many times before. We repeatedly comment on the size of our meals, the chill of the room, the length of the summer evening. Our conversations are forgotten before we complete them. The silence is what connects us. In those shared quiet moments, we reflect upon why it is we are here together. I see in her my struggle and she sees in me hers. Such thoughts are only rarely realized and never spoken. And when the brief silence passes, she passes to me another picture of her 'chinese granddaughter' who is 'doing well, considering' and I smile. And nod.
posted by that girl at 10:28 AM
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