One Single Mother's Journal of a transracial life made all the better through adoption, birth, and chaos with consistency
Saturday, April 18, 2009
If you ask me..
A week on vacation means: more sleep for me (and mom) more words to learn like thegasses on my face and more BUSses to announce balls and tantrums that need throwing and so many more opportunities to wrap my arms around mama's up-pee, up-pee legs and whine- Sounds like a fine fine time to me.
We are a family of three. We came together through domestic infant adoption, when Sam, my oldest was one day old, nearly five years ago. We have an open adoption with his birth mother, who I do not refer to by name here. She is African American. So is he. I am white.
We also came together through donor assisted conception. The donor I chose was African American- he looked like Sam as a child. Marcel is biracial and was conceived on the first try.
Soon after I gave birth I remember thinking how proud the birth mother would be of how much weight Marcel was gaining. Then I remembered that I was the birth mother.
I chose to bring both of my children into my life as a single parent. Our family and friendship support network is invincible and omni-present. My oldest brother, referred to here as Uncle, lives in our basement apartment.
This blog is devoted to issues of transracial adoptive parenting, racial awareness, story telling, and self observation.
I write about our bravos and our blunders believing that they might serve some greater purpose then just me banging my head against the wall saying, what were you thinking?! Comments welcome here or at mamacandtheboys@gmail.com
I can't wait to tell you Sam, that when you were just two one of my very black students asked me why I went all the way to North Carolina to have you.
I can't wait to describe to you the look on that student's face when I told him that I didn't have you like his mom had him, but that your birthmother placed you in my arms in the hospital in North Carolina on Christmas Eve as she smiled bravely and kissed you.
Oh. What? He asked. And then, It's not that I thought you were black black he proclaimed. But I thought you were black enough to have him.
Black Enough. Black enough? True I wondered if I was black enough to walk through the door of Cordell's barber shop that first time six months ago to get your black and curly hair cut properly, what would they think of me?
And I can tell you that I am just black enough to keep walking in that door, where all the men in that barber shop, who have never asked me my name Call you by yours- Hey Sammy my man- and What's up boss? They ask you as you strut right up to Cordell's chair to demand a lol-i-pop for a line-it-up and black enough to notice as they stare at me and stare at me as if by looking just a little longer I might become black enough to them too.
Black enough to notice that now I own many more brown and black sweaters and shirts and brown corduroys too because I must want you to think I am a little more black and a little more like you
Black enough Sam to know that I'll never be black enough and because of that I must never forget that you are.
I am a Single Mother by Choice of a transracial family, a writer, a poet, a Salon Hostess, an educator, a reader, a very fortunate woman with great friends and a loving family
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