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<title>Melissa Fay Greene's Occassional Blog</title>
<description>Musings and Stories about large family life from Melissa Fay Greene, author of There is No Me Without You.</description>
<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog/</link>
<item>
	<title>The Decision-Making Process</title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[My husband, Don Samuel, and I have seven children: Molly, 25; Seth, 22; Lee, 18; Lily, 14; Fisseha, 12; Jesse, 11; and Helen Samuel, 10. Four by birth, three by...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[My husband, Don Samuel, and I have seven children: Molly, 25; Seth, 22; Lee, 18; Lily, 14; Fisseha, 12; Jesse, 11; and Helen Samuel, 10. Four by birth, three by adoption: Jesse came at age four from Bulgaria, Helen at age five from Ethiopia, and Fisseha two years ago at age ten from Ethiopia.





Two children ago, in 2001, I wrote a cover article for the New York Times Magazine about enormous families. 

I felt strangely interested in "mega-families," families with 18, 20, 24 children, usually a mix of biological and adopted offspring.

I wrote: 

"I wanted to interview mothers of dozens because, the older I get, the more I feel weirdly inclined that way myself. "Since when did you become the Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe?" snapped a friend when I confided that we were thinking of adopting again, of adding a sixth child to our four by birth and one by way of Bulgaria. Even our fourth baby, nine years ago, provoked expressions of surprise from our family. When we adopted a fifth child, flabbergasted friends chalked it up to a mostly charitable impulse. But now, whispers of a sixth threatened to place me, in their minds, among the greats: the DeBolt family, Ethel Kennedy, Mia Farrow, Bobbi McCaughey, the von Trapp family singers and perhaps even Mrs. Feodor Vassilyev, who, according to the Guinness Book of World Records, gave birth to 69 children in 18th-century Russia."

This past spring, Lee, 18, having graduated early from high school, flew to Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, for three months, to volunteer in several orphanages, including the foster home of Haregewoin Teferra, the subject of my new book. 

Lee fell in love with many, many children in the course of his time in Addis: boys, girls, sibling groups, HIV-negative children, HIV-positive children. But the two he began lobbying seriously about were a pair of brothers, Daniel and Yosef Gizaw. They have waited for a family the longest of all the children at Haregewoin's foster home. As boys of 10 and 12, their chances of being adopted are minuscule. 

"You have to adopt these guys," he began to tell us in emails and phone calls.

"THey'd be perfect for our family," he pleaded.

"I feel like they're my brothers already."





We relayed this campaign to our children still living at home and to those far-away: Seth Samuel at the Oberlin Conservatory in Ohio and Molly Samuel, working for ForestEthics, in San Francisco.

"How old are they?" asked Seth.

"Ten and twelve," I said.

"We have those ages already," observed Seth. 

"Uh oh, wait," emailed Seth the next day. "I used to be the fastest in our family. Since Fisseha came, I'm the second-fastest. If we bring over two more Ethiopian boys, I'll be fourth and fourth doesn't medal."

"No," emailed Lee from Ethiopia. "I'm faster than you; you're already in third place; if we bring over even one more Ethiopian boy, you'll be in fourth place so we might as well bring these brothers."

I presented this debate question at dinner to the four children at home.

"No, Seth is THE fastest!" everyone yelled. Even Fisseha agreed.

I sent these results by email to our far-flung youth, Molly, Seth, and Lee, and now Molly emailed back, rather plaintively: "Aren't I good at anything?"

I presented THIS topic to those at home the following night and a lively discussion ensued. "She plays that big... that big... that big violin," offered Fisseha.

"An upright bass," I said. "OK, that's true. Anyone else?"

"She's the best reader," said Jesse.

But Helen carried the day with her nomination of Molly's niche: "She has the cutest car."

My husband, Don Samuel, and I meanwhile had crossed from "How could we possibly do this?" to "We can do this" in the course of a day. We were in complete agreement. Though it looked absurd from the vantage point of our handsome, tree-lined Atlanta neighborhood and our community of friends with reasonable numbers of children like one or two, from the perspective of Daniel and Yosef in Ethiopia, we knew we could make room. 

Lee offered not to go away to college next year if we brought home the boys. He was planning to spend a "gap year" in Israel starting this fall and offered to waive that.

"No, we're the parents," we said. "We'll be adopting them, not you."

Somehow it was settled.

Fisseha, who is a one-man Outward Bound Experience (having lived for most of his childhood as a goat-herd in Ethiopia), went out to the driveway, selected and peeled a branch of wood, took a magnifying glass, and burned — with the sun's rays — the updated roster: 





(This post first appeared at www.PowellsBooks.blog during my stint as guest blogger)
]]>
</content>
		<date>2006-11-07</date>
		<dc:date>2006-11-07</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview15</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview15</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>In London's BBC radio studio</title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[
In the U.K. for my book tour, I am invited into the London BBC studio. I am interviewed for the World Service Outlook Programme. A BBC reporter in Ethiopia ha...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[
In the U.K. for my book tour, I am invited into the London BBC studio. I am interviewed for the World Service Outlook Programme. A BBC reporter in Ethiopia has visited Mrs. Haregewoin Teferra already; that interview will be spliced into mine, for a 30-minute program.

The producer, Krisztina Glausius, asks if I'd like to hear the Ethiopia tape that will be included in my story.

I sit transfixed as I hear Haregewoin's voice and the voices of children in the background. "Here are the very very small ones," says Haregewoin in a whisper, and I can picture them, the sleeping babies in their rows of cribs. 

"And how do you feel about foreign adoption?" she is asked as they step back outside, for Madonna and her adoption of a Malawi toddler are in the news.

"Very sad, I feel very sad for them to leave," Haregewoin murmurs. It amuses me that no one has given her talking points; she will say, as always, precisely what she thinks.

"And will the children still be Ethiopian if they grow up in foreign countries?"

"No, they will not," she says firmly. "They will be like the people of that country."

(This I know first-hand, for she has criticized my own darling child, Helen, by saying, "You have ruined her. She is no longer Ethiopian.")

"Would it be better for the children to stay here?" the reporter is asking Mrs. Haregewoin.

"No, look around. What can I give them here? No, they are too many. They must go. No one person in Ethiopia will adopt them. We are a poor country and we have too too many orphaned children. Look at them. They need parents." 

All these children — 60 of them now, in two houses, half of them infected with HIV — have come to Mrs. Haregewoin unofficially. She gets no government support. She is just a neighborhood lady, a kind person who — through the tragedies of her own life — happened to open her door to orphans of AIDS. Soon the police, social workers from other cities, destitute grandparents and concerned neighbors headed for her modest tin-walled compound and small brick house, delivering orphaned children to her. Often she opens the door of her compound in the morning and finds a neatly-swaddled baby waiting on the ground nearby.

Now the BBC reporter and Mrs. Haregewoin have moved to a different scene. They stand on the sidelines of a soccer game. I have been to this soccer field. This team was organized by my son Lee Samuel, during his four months in Addis with Mrs. Haregewoin this past spring and summer. He formed Haregewoin's children into a boys team and a girls team, and organized children in two other orphanages to play against them.








Two boys are being waved off the field. They jog over, panting, to be introduced to the reporter.

It is Daniel and Yosef. 

(The first thing Lee [who speaks Amharic now] ever told us about the boys was from the soccer field: "Yosef is an amazing athlete. Daniel is good, but Yosef is incredible. But Yosef gets upset if he loses. Today, Yosef missed a goal and stormed off. Daniel followed him and I heard Daniel say, "Yosef, remember our history. Don't get upset about this. This is not what to get upset about.")

Now they are being interviewed for BBC: "Do you feel happy about going to America?" asks the reporter. A bystander translates the question for them and I hear the boys reply, "Ow, ow. [Yes, yes.]"

Why do you feel happy?

The question is translated; Daniel, the older, replies; and the bystander relays the translation:

"Now we live in an orphanage. That is rather a sad thing for us. In America we will have a family."

Everyone in the BBC studio in London looks at me.

The entire world suddenly feels no larger than about two city blocks. Down the street we have my house and family in Atlanta; here is the BBC London studio; and just over there — just around the corner — are these two handsome boys, panting and sweaty, eager to jog back into their game, who will be our sons.


(This post first appeared at www.PowellsBooks.blog during my stint as guest blogger)]]>
</content>
		<date>2006-11-09</date>
		<dc:date>2006-11-09</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview12</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview12</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>A Late-Night Conversation</title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[

A late-night internet conversation between The Author in Atlanta and her daughter, Molly Samuel, in San Francisco:
____________________

SUBJECT : check ...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[

A late-night internet conversation between The Author in Atlanta and her daughter, Molly Samuel, in San Francisco:
____________________

SUBJECT : check Powells bestsellers!!
11/1/06 10:04 pm EST / 7:04 PST 

you're number three right now
____________

10:15 pm EST
WHAT????? REALLY??? 
____________________

7:19 pm PST
SUBJ: selling better than Barack Obama
but behind richard dawkins
__________________________

10:25 pm EST
I'm ahead of Monty Python!!!
This is fantastic news!
But it says it changes hourly.
I don't want it to change.
_______________________

7:37 pm PST
If you have quick turnaround with your website guy, you could probably make it link to Powell's and help keep your numbers up there. 
__________________________

10:39 pm
I already link to Powells.
______________________________

7:40 pm
In solidarity with you and Powells, I just ordered four books for myself from their website. 
None of them was yours, I'm sorry.
___________________

10:40 pm
YOU BOUGHT SOMETHING OTHER THAN MY BOOK FROM POWELLS???
Not to worry, I just bought my own book from Powells.
But not for myself; for a silent auction in Laguna Beach, CA, to benefit medical services in Ethiopia. They've been asking for a book.
Really.
They have.
Asking and asking. 
___________________________

7:41 pm
None of the four I bought has a chance of competing with you as a bestseller.
____________________

10:42 pm
I'm still number three.
I don't think they ARE recounting every hour, do you?
I hope they NEVER recount.
Now I really have to go to bed. 
Adieu! Adieu! (I'm going to start saying "adieu" to my minions of fans.)
___________________

7:43 pm PST
I could buy your book from Powells. I'll buy one for a friend -- for Dean!
__________________

10:44 pm EST
I didn't go to bed yet. 
Why don't I treat your friend Dean to a book from Powells??? 
They're SIGNED.
I'm very excited.
This is my first (and perhaps last) bestselling moment. 
_________________

7:49 pm PST
OK, you can buy him one... Let me look up his address -- he lives in SF too... 

I'm also getting totally obsessed with this. I'm checking Powell's again and again instead of making dinner.
_________________

10:49 pm
On second thought, I don't want Powells to see that I keep buying my own book.
You buy it for him, from you, and I'll transfer $30 into your account.
______________

7:50 pm.
Right, they'll certainly think it's a scam. OK, I'll buy it right now. Do you want me to include a note from you or from me?
_____________

10:51 pm
from you!! 
and from Bank of America.
Do you think it's going to slip in 11 minutes, at the top of the hour?
Should I go to bed first?
_________________

10:51 pm
I'll check in 11 minutes. I bet it won't change since it's late and probably not that many people are buying anything right now.
_________________

10:52 pm
it's not late in Portland.
_________________

10:53 pm
yes, but it's dark there, and I'm sure everyone has gone to bed.
_________________

10:54 pm EST
hey, I'm outselling the hell out of Dave Eggers. You know his new book is about Africa? It's fiction, about Sudan.
Well, I'm outselling him THIS hour anyway.
_________________

10:55 pm PST
Yeah, take that, you simultaneous book about Africa.
_________________

10:56 pm EST
I am having a touch of difficulty transferring $30 from my account into yours inasmuch as my balance is $9.17.
Ah, the life of the bestselling author.
_________________

7:56 pm PST
Should I transfer $30 to your account so you can pay for the book you just ordered for the group in Laguna Beach? 
_________________

10:58 pm EST
No, I just transferred $50 to you.
$30 for Dean's book.
And $20 just because.
Not just because I'm a bestselling author.
Just because I transferred it from Daddy's account.
_________________

8:01 PST
I just bought your book for Dean. Take that, Dave Eggers and Barack Obama. 
Please thank Dad for the part he's (I'm sure unwittingly, since he's probably asleep) done to keep you there for one more hour.
_________________

11:01 EST  SUBJECT: AM I STILL A BEST-SELLING AUTHOR?
You check.
I can't stand it.
_________________

8:01 PST
8:01 here; you're still number three.
And it probably hasn't even processed my order for Dean yet!
_________________

11:03 PM EST
Or my order for the philanthropists of Laguna Beach.
NOW I'll go to bed.
But this is so much fun.
What if this is THE high point of the book???
.....
oh gosh, well, THAT wasn't such a happy thought.
But this is fun to share with you!!
_________________

8:05 pm
I know! Checking to see if you've written back is just as exciting as checking to see if you're still number 3.
_________________

11:11 EST
I AM going to bed now.
Which I will do, confident that you, my dear, will keep vigilant watch through the night, rousing your housemates, neighbors, and colleagues, if need be, in the small hours of the morning, to rush to their computers to make purchases, in case my book begins to slip.
What if people suddenly want to read someone's addiction memoir?
What if they wonder just what heaven is really like and whether a loved one can return for just one day?
Like a lonely lighthouse you stand, keeping watch, keeping watch.
_________________

8:22 pm PST
Goodnight Mom.
I'll kick Eggers in the shins if he gets near you. 
_________________

9:01 AM PST    
Subject: YOU'RE NUMBER 2 at 9:00
Survival of the fittest, Richard Dawkins!
_________________

2:01 AM EST/ 11:01 PM PST
Subject: still number 2 at 11
Mom, if I don't get any sleep tonight, it is all your fault.
_________________

11/2/06 7:15 a.m.
SUBJ: still number two
I just told Daddy and he said, "What about other online sellers?"
"I said I'm not TALKING about other online sellers. It's Powells! I love Powells. I'm going to buy all our books from Powells."
And he said: "Well, don't buy too many or you'll push your book out of second place."
I told Lily that I was number two on Powells.com and she said, "What's in first place?"
I told Jesse and he said, "What's number one?"
What is it with these people? I only want to talk to YOU about it. Powells.com. Our secret love. See you tonight.








1.	J. Poneson says: 
November 10th, 2006 at 12:37 pm 
Hilarious!
I always wondered if writers watch those lists all the time to see how their book is doing. Thanks for sharing Melissa!

2.	mark elliott says: 
November 10th, 2006 at 12:38 pm 
here's hoping you keep kickin dave egger's butt!

3.	Don Samuel says: 
November 11th, 2006 at 12:37 pm 
Is that why the dishes are always still in the dishwasher every morning? I always thought you were working on a new book when you stayed up late.
Love,
Don Samuel -- your husband.

4.	dean says: 
November 28th, 2006 at 11:45 am 
Where is my book Powell's??? Who do you think you are to rob me of this precious Samuel family blessing?? Are you listening Powell's? I will have my revenge! (p.s. thank you Melissa!)



(This post first appeared at www.PowellsBooks.blog during my stint as guest blogger)





]]>
</content>
		<date>2006-11-06</date>
		<dc:date>2006-11-06</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview11</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview11</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>Lee's letters from Addis Ababa, Spring 2006</title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[

Our son Lee Samuel graduated from Druid Hills High School in Atlanta in December 2005; in February 2006, he flew to Addis Ababa as a volunteer for World Wid...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[

Our son Lee Samuel graduated from Druid Hills High School in Atlanta in December 2005; in February 2006, he flew to Addis Ababa as a volunteer for World Wide Orphans (WWO).  His job was just to play with orphanage children, many of whom had just started receiving the life-saving anti-AIDS medications and who were feeling good for the first time in years.
Lee, a high school baseball player, who ran a neighborhood summer baseball clinic, had envisioned organizing the children into baseball teams.  This proposal was met with stupefaction and whining.  He organized "football" (soccer) teams instead, culminating in a little orphanage soccer league -- with coaches, rosters, and schedules -- which is still going. 





Here's his first letter home after a day with the children of AHOPE, an orphanage for HIV-positive children.







Hello there family.  Yesterday, my orphanage had a field trip to what I guess is the only amusement park in the country.  The 33 of us crammed into one van which is supposed to seat 8.  The ride was long, incredibly hot, and a few of the kids began throwing up on the bus (including one of the four kids perched on my lap), but otherwise, it was incredibly fun.  We discussed astronomy, European soccer, and the strengths and weaknesses of America’s and Ethiopia’s respective Olympic teams (“Why American runners get so tired after 10 seconds?”).  

On the bus ride, the kids gave me a full tour of Addis Ababa: “There is bank!”, “There is goats!”, “There is dying man with no legs!”  Also, the kids were always quick to point out every ferange to me (I can’t help but think that ferange really just means Crackah).  “LEE!!! FERANGE!” they would yell.  I think they wanted to assure me that I was not the only white person on the continent.  In response, I would point at any random person on the street and yell, “KIDS!!! ABESHA (which means Ethiopian)!!!”.  They didn’t think it was funny. 

When we got to the amusement park, the kids ecstatically took off in every direction.  There were swings, giant slides, a ferris wheel, and bumper cars.  Unfortunately, the bumper cars had no electricity so I had to run around pushing the children’s’ cars into each other.  I did this for about 30 minutes in 95 degree heat until I passed out from heat exhaustion.  They didn’t care.  They had a great time.  Those turkeys. Later, they forced me to go down the giant slides with them, despite the fact that about half of them are deathly afraid of heights.  I had to grab a child, place him/her in my lap, take off down the slide, sprint back up the slippery metal ramp, grab another kid, and repeat.  I went down the slide at least 75 times, always with 2-3 kids.  At American parks, they have attendants at the top of this type of attraction who tell the kids when to go.  Not here.  All of them would kind of just leap on to the slide at the same time and kind of tumble down in a heap.  One girl got halfway down and then wailed for me to rescue her.  I tried to climb down and get her, but i slipped and kicked her the rest of the way down.  Then we had lunch.  The food here is so delicious that I have gone through only a bottle and a half of Maximum Strength Pepto-Bismol in 8 days!

Lee






Dear Family:
Last night I slept at Haregewoin’s with all the kids.  We played dodgeball all afternoon, had a dinner of injera and kikwat, and then stayed up until 5AM playing Go Fish and watching Arab television.  

Thanks to dinners such as kikwat, I am quickly running out of my Maximum Strength Pepto-Bismol.  In addition to quickly following every meal, it has sort of become a staple of my diet: A Coke and some Pepto actually make for a delicious lunch.  My driver, Baby, is trying to convince me to try some of his favorite Ethiopian delicacy: raw meat.  He tells me that it gives you tapeworm about 15% of the time, but me contracting intestinal parasites is a risk he is willing to take.  

Speaking of raw meat, this morning I was witness to one of the most fantastic cultural clashes of all time.  Around 11AM, while I was still playing at the orphanage, a group of about 30 blonde blue-eyed religious Christian Norwegians came to see the kids.  They kind of stood on opposite sides of the compound staring at each other (believe it or not, Ethiopian orphans and Norwegian missionaries have little to chat about).  

The Norwegians broke the ice by lecturing on how much Jesus loves each and every one of us. A woman said: “Jesus died on the cross not just for white people, but for you all too.” Anyway, back to how this story is related to raw meat.  This week, a two-month fast (no meat, no dairy) begins in Ethiopia.  For the big, pre-fast feast, the compound had two sheep delivered earlier in the morning and I was excited to have some new playmates.  Sadly, halfway through the Norwegians’ rendition of “Jesus Loves You,” a man in the back began slaughtering the first sheep.  Unfortunately, it took 4 or 5 hacks to fully kill it, so it was loudly squealing/moaning right in the middle of the Christian hymns. It kind of sounded like this: “Jesus loves you this I know.  For the ERRRRRRGAAAACCCHHHHHHH . . . uhhh . . . bible tells me UMMMMMBLACCCCCHH . . . so.”  It only got worse as the sheep’s blood began trickling down and puddling at the feet of the horrified Norwegians.  They quickly said, “Thanks for having us,” and sprinted out of there while me while the kids jumped on me and all rolled around in the dirt/blood on the floor in hysterics.  I have sheep blood in my hair now.  I love Norway.

Love,
Lee 






Dearest family,

I slept at Haregewoin’s again last week and I brought my laptop along this time.  My grand plan was to show them the movie “The Sandlot” and then teach them baseball.  

The point of all this is for the kids to learn a sport in which I can beat them handily.  My already bottomed-out self esteem can’t take any more soccer game debacles.  

Unfortunately, they didn’t really take to the baseball scenes in the movie, but they liked when Squints kisses the lifeguard and when all of the boys throw-up at the carnival after taking chewing tobacco.  

When the movie ended, I asked if they wanted to learn baseball, but all they wanted to know was, “Why they no play football?”  

Later, I let Hailegebrial write an e-mail to the man in Lyons, France who is in the process of adopting him.  Here is an excerpt: “Thank you for sending me the CD player.  The CD player is very nice.  I like very much.  I practice my French every day.  Como Sa va?  i am sad because of celebrate Christmas without you.  But I am thinking of you always and it makes me happy.  I like very much the charger for the CD player.  It is very nice.” 

The following morning, I took Pinl, Hailegabriel, Betti, Mekdes, and Daniel (five of the kids from Haregewoin’s) on a field trip to the super-rich (and thus very un-Ethiopian) American private school for a small carnival they were having.  The place was so decidedly un-Ethiopian, in fact, that nobody there was able to communicate with the five Ethiopian children I had brought.  There was also no food there that the kids could eat during the Ethiopian fast months (no meat, no dairy) except cotton candy. However, there was a dunking booth, a video game room, a movie room, and a dodge ball playing area.  The kids instantly took to the dodge ball (which they learned from me) and beat the crap out of dozens of ambassadors’ kids.  Seeing the Swedish ambassadors’ son knocked out by Daniel and then running off crying was one of the proudest moments of my life.  

Later in the afternoon, I took Pinl (8-years-old) and Daniel (11-years-old) to one of the bathrooms on campus.  This was instantly the most magical and fantastic place the boys had ever seen.  First, they spent five minutes washing their hands in the miraculously hot water. Then, Pinl experimented with the box on the wall and discovered that it automatically dispensed soap when you put your hand under it.  This was the greatest thing both Pinl and Daniel had ever seen.  The two of them emptied two boxes getting so much soap, and then tried to run out the door to alert Hailegabrial of all of the fantastic things in the bathroom, but their hands were too slippery to open the door, so they had to run back and play with the hot water some more.  Then they saw the urinals and asked me what they were.  I told them that they were toilets, so Pinl quickly turned around and sat in one.  I quickly showed him how it is meant to be used, but he didn’t approve, so he went into a stall.  In there, the automatic flusher scared him and made him jump away.  Meanwhile, Daniel discovered the automatic hand dryer and was heating up his whole body with it, even taking off his shirt and pants to better feel the warmth.  After recovering from the shock of Auto-Flush, Pinl brightened up and joined Daniel, completely undressing under the hand dryer.  Finally, they both successfully used the bathroom, but then walked out without washing or drying their hands.  

From the toilet episode, I took the kids to the video game room which was too mind-blowing to even be comprehended.  They sat there gaping at the screens for ten minutes before they mustered up enough courage to try to play.  Daniel, Mekdes, and Pinl were very interested in the blood and gore of Mortal Combat, while Betti liked Lord of the Rings better.  After a few fights with me doing most of the controlling, Daniel got the hang of Mortal Combat and began beating some white people.  His strategy was to constantly walk his character forward and hit the triangle button over and over again, disabling his opponent from ever blocking or fighting back.  He actually won a number of matches that way and made the Swedish ambassador’s son cry again.  While we were in there, Betti wandered off and ended up getting dunked at the dunking booth, fully clothed.  After coming back to me, she seemed completely shocked and hurt from the whole experience.  Seeing how upset she was, Daniel walked over and grabbed her hand, talked to her in Amharic for a minute, and then led her away to the boys’ bathroom.  I went in there after him and saw that he was showing her to undress and dry herself off under the automatic hand washer.  Never again will I take our western bathrooms for granted.

Love,
Lee






]]>
</content>
		<date>2006-03-15</date>
		<dc:date>2006-03-15</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview9</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview9</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>Aging rapidly</title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[Upon arrival in the U.S. on June 10, Yosef (who, like many Ethiopian children, had no idea how old he is) learned that, on paper, according to his Ethiopian bir...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[Upon arrival in the U.S. on June 10, Yosef (who, like many Ethiopian children, had no idea how old he is) learned that, on paper, according to his Ethiopian birth certificate, he was TEN, that he had turned 10 on May 28.  He was still in the orphanage on that (invented) date, so there was no birthday party. 
 
On June 16, mere days after his arrival in the US, we had a tremendous water balloon birthday party for Helen and for Yosef, as Helen insisted on sharing her party with Yosef.  A mob of children screeched out Happy Birthday to You, Yosef blew out his candles and he opened gifts.  That night he announced: "Now I am eleven." 
 
Today a late birthday gift was presented to Yosef.  As he eagerly tore into the wrapping paper, Daniel said, "Uh oh.  Now Yosef 12."  

                      

]]>
</content>
		<date>2007-06-19</date>
		<dc:date>2007-06-19</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview6</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview6</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>Boxer Shorts</title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[In July, I flew back to Addis Ababa with our oldest son, Seth. We joined Lee, who was already there, and we brought Yosef and Daniel to our hotel. They learned ...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[In July, I flew back to Addis Ababa with our oldest son, Seth. We joined Lee, who was already there, and we brought Yosef and Daniel to our hotel. They learned that very afternoon that we would be their family. The Gizaw brothers, their friend from the orphanage, Hailegabriel, and Lee's friend Ezra Silk, had such an uproarious time together in two hotel rooms that a gentleman from Nigeria, a United Nations official occupying the room next door, was obliged to call the front desk more than once to plead for quiet.

One evening, after a long day of sightseeing and soccer and frisbee, Seth herded Yosef into the bathroom, turned on the shower, pantomimed what was required, and withdrew.

A few minutes later, Yosef came dancing out of the bathroom dripping wet and stark naked.

Seth shooed him back into the bathroom, took Yosef's boxer shorts, threw them in after him, and closed the door again.

Yosef danced back out into the room, dripping wet and with the boxer shorts on his head.

He had selected two from among the dozen words of English he knew. As he leapt wildly into the room, he asked, "YOU READY?"

Lee later said of the boys: "These are the two happiest human beings I've ever seen in my life."











(This post first appeared at www.PowellsBooks.blog during my stint as guest blogger)
]]>
</content>
		<date>2006-11-08</date>
		<dc:date>2006-11-08</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview13</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview13</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>Their short-lived upper-middle-class life</title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[Suitcases lie half-filled all over the house; we leave in a few hours for upstate New York, a vacation planned by our oldest daughter Molly.
 
"Mom, clothes, ...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[Suitcases lie half-filled all over the house; we leave in a few hours for upstate New York, a vacation planned by our oldest daughter Molly.
 
"Mom, clothes, where?" worriedly asked Daniel, after his new clothes vanished from his dresser into a suitcase. 
 
Hearing we were going by PLANE, after his zillion hours on the plane from Addis ONE WEEK AGO, Yosef groaned, "OH NO!  NO NO NO." 
 
(Waiting for departure from Addis, after three hours in the gate area, Yosef had asked Donny, "Are we there yet?")
 
I cannot relay to them what we're doing really, why we're going to leave this beautiful house, which has abundant food, air-conditioning, beds galore, new clothes, radios, televisions, computers, and bicycles, to go live in rustic cabins around a lake in the Adirondacks for a week, as the guests of the family of our oldest daughter's boyfriend.
 
I think they're going to understand it like this:  "Our new and oldest sister Molly has a boyfriend named Andy; and we are traveling to meet Andy's family, and they are poorer people, they live in a way more like poor Ethiopians, without appliances or indoor plumbing or many water balloons or a moonwalk; they live in simple cabins and they walk along mud paths and they must wash themselves in a lake and they must catch fish for their dinner.  Surely they must be very happy that their son has met a girl from a rich and house-owning family." 






]]>
</content>
		<date>2007-06-17</date>
		<dc:date>2007-06-17</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview5</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview5</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>Post-Adoption Depression article excerpted in Adoptive Families Magazine</title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[

The new issue of ADOPTIVE FAMILIES Magazine includes a condensed version of my "Post-Adoption Panic" article.  [Click RECENT ARTICLES on this website for th...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[

The new issue of ADOPTIVE FAMILIES Magazine includes a condensed version of my "Post-Adoption Panic" article.  [Click RECENT ARTICLES on this website for the fuller version.]

Post-adoption Depression ("PAD") is one of the rarely-discussed secrets in the adoption world. 

It's a not-uncommon malaise that tends to afflict parents who have brought home a child older than infancy, a child who is not their first. Research seems to indicate that first-time parents of babies are the least likely to suffer this bewildering let-down.  

PAD has remained rather hidden because sufferers blame themselves.  Sufferers are MORTIFIED, after months or years of planning for, saving for, preparing for, working towards, and finally realizing an adoption, to be less-than-thrilled.  Sufferers--no matter how chatty they've been on every relevant internet chat-list—suddenly log off.  If anyone asks, they bravely try to put a happy spin on the new family constellation, which in fact is making them reel in exhaustion and regret.  

Jan de Hartog, in his marvelous & funny & honest book, THE CHILDREN (NY: Atheneum, 1969) devotes Chapter 6 to “The First Panic.”

“Maybe you are so experienced, well balanced or just plain lucky that this will not apply to you,” he writes.  “The majority of us however are, within the first few days of the arrival of our new child from Asia, likely to go through a blind, witless panic. It will not last long, but it is an experience that none of us will ever forget.  The worst of it is… that it takes you completely unawares and that while it lasts you are convinced it will last forever..."

Later he describes being hit by despair on the very night his first little Korean daughter arrives, delivered to the de Hartogs out of a disrupting adoption. Jan is sent out the door by his wife and the social workers to buy milk and bread for the child:  “I went to the garage and pushed up the door;  that was the moment the panic hit me.  Suddenly, as I stood there in the darkness fumbling for my car keys, my knees gave way.  I leaned against the wall, overwhelmed by a sudden wave of despair that made me cover my face with my hands.  I saw my pleasant, well-organized life collapse in confusion… Everything I cherished and cared for—my peace, my middle-aged comfort, my serenity—was shattered by this stranger calling me ‘Daddy.’…"

Searching for milk at the grocery, he writes: “I roamed along the counters feeling old and hysterical, utterly unsuitable to be anybody’s father, let alone an Asian child’s.”

The good news—which is why it’s a shame to conceal the whole situation—is that, in time, all parties—parents and children—tend to find their places in the new-built family, and contentment is yours once again. 



]]>
</content>
		<date>2007-08-26</date>
		<dc:date>2007-08-26</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview18</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview18</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>And yet more confusion on space/time continuum </title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[

“What did you learn today?” I ask the gangly new 13-year-old in the house. I enunciate clearly, using hand and eye gestures to relay the question.

“Mom!”...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[

“What did you learn today?” I ask the gangly new 13-year-old in the house. I enunciate clearly, using hand and eye gestures to relay the question.

“Mom!” says Daniel in his emphatic voice.  “13 months.  Names.”

“You learned the names of the 13 months?”

“Yes.”

(“That IS advanced work,” observes my friend Sue later.)

“Daniel, we only have 12 months in America.”

“No, Mom.  13.  Teacher say.”

“I’m pretty sure about this one, kid.”

“Thirteen Mom.”

“Jesse,” I call to the sixth-grade resident Bulgarian. “How many months are there?”

“Four,” says Jesse.

“Um, Jess?  That would be the seasons.  What about the months?”

“Sixteen?”

“Thirteen Mom,” says Daniel.

This is going to be a long year. 




]]>
</content>
		<date>2007-09-03</date>
		<dc:date>2007-09-03</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview20</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview20</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>Yohannes</title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[The remarkable thing about a book tour is that the publicity reaches into wider territory than my usual neighborhood, telephone, or even internet contacts. Surp...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[The remarkable thing about a book tour is that the publicity reaches into wider territory than my usual neighborhood, telephone, or even internet contacts. Surprising connections and reunions occur. 

A year ago, in November 2005, my 24-year-old daughter, Molly Samuel, accompanied me to Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, to visit Mrs. Haregewoin Teferra (the subject of my book) and her two foster homes. 



A small silent boy of two, named Yohannes, attached himself to my daughter.

An orphan of the HIV/AIDS pandemic devastating his country, his continent, Yohannes - like many small children - barely knew what he had lost. Under the supervision of kind caregivers, he had enough to eat, clothes to wear, rubber flip-flops on his feet, a bed. He moved from hour to hour obediently, asking nothing of anyone, not feeling himself especially loved, not missing it. 

But Molly's arrival in the compound triggered something in Yohannes; an inchoate memory perhaps; a longing. He put up his arms. He needed her to hold him. He needed her never to put him down.



Molly, on the staff of ForestEthics in San Francisco, is not a wild fan of small children. She humors her six younger brothers and sisters, but has been known to protest, "For the love of God, will you stop with the noise?"

But Yohannes, sidling near her, closing his eyes, lifting his arms, needed her, and she complied. Every day that week, whenever Molly was in Haregewoin's compound, Yohannes was on her. From the clasp of Molly's arms, he laid his cheek on her shoulder. 

Did he fantasize that she would be his mother? He was too young to elucidate such a thought; but if she had carried him out of the compound in her arms, ridden with him in a taxi to the modern airport, and flown home with him to her San Francisco apartment, he wouldn't have protested. He would have awakened to the happy reality that once, long ago, he had had a mother, then he had lost that mother, and now he had a mother again. He would be a good boy, you could see it; he occasionally pulled back from Molly's shoulder to gaze up at her. He snuggled closer when other children romped nearby; he was claiming her.

It is hard to say goodbye to these children. None of them has a mother. Whenever I visit Mrs. Haregewoin's houses, a couple of times a year, the orphaned children pile around me boisterously; they call my name, cover me with kisses, twiddle my hair, sit beside me and on top of me. The older ones know I am not their mother and will not be their mother; but, when we are together, we act as if it is kind of true. I love these children; I've known many of them for years. On my day of departure, many of them feel sad. They pull away from me, refuse to make eye contact.

So Molly and I said goodbye to all the children at the end of our visit, and Molly had to ask a caregiver to pry Yohannes from her neck. He didn't cry. This was what happened with mothers. They went away. When we left, Yohannes was sitting on his little chair at the child-size table. He wasn't doing anything. He was just sitting. He had re-entered the rather blank state of existence that is the lot of an institutionalized orphan.

On my original author website, www.melissafaygreene.com, I posted a photo of Molly at Mrs. Haregewoin's house, holding Yohannes. 

Now it is the fall of 2006.

I receive an email from Calgary, Alberta: 

"Hello Melissa Fay Greene and family," it begins.

"In April of 2006 we traveled to Ethiopia to adopt our son, Yohannes, who was for a time at the Atetegeh Worku Memorial Orphanage in Addis Ababa. 

"Today, my step-daughter Kristin sent me an e-mail about your book release as she recognized Haregewoin's picture from our visit to the orphanage. 

"I checked as many of the links as I possibly could - a sponge for information about those who have been on a similar journey and any information that would be pertinent for Yohannes later in life. I found lots of both. I checked out your family pictures and, being a methodical person, I started with what looked like the oldest first - your daughter Molly. And there it was, a picture of Yohannes on Molly's knee. I called my husband with such fervour that I think he thought something terrible had happened to me. My skin was alive with goose-bumps!! 

"Anyone who has traveled to Ethiopia is permanently touched by the experience, and I thought that Molly might like to know that that little boy is now in Calgary, Canada as the youngest member of our family of six. He is thriving and probably wouldn't be recognizable without this sequence of pictures: 









Please share these pictures with Molly."

I forward these photos immediately to my daughter and she phones from San Francisco within the hour, shouting, incredulous and joyful.




(This post first appeared at www.PowellsBooks.blog during my stint as guest blogger)
]]>
</content>
		<date>2006-11-07</date>
		<dc:date>2006-11-07</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview10</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview10</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>If Obama could stop by....</title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[

[My essay is reprinted with permission from THE AMERICAN JOURNEY OF BARACK OBAMA, by the Editors of Life Magazine (Little, Brown and Company, October 7, 200...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[

[My essay is reprinted with permission from THE AMERICAN JOURNEY OF BARACK OBAMA, by the Editors of Life Magazine (Little, Brown and Company, October 7, 2008). The coffee table anthology is now available through independent, chain, and online booksellers.]



	My husband and I have nine children (four by birth, five by adoption), ages 10 to 26, white, Roma (Gypsy), and Ethiopian, which makes Thanksgivings really, really complicated, but does allow easy access to polling data without leaving the house.  Regarding the several generations and ethnic groups within our immediate family, I can say I have not seen everyone so united around a single purpose since the rush to get midnight tickets for the opening day of Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest. The children’s purpose this time is to see Senator Barack Obama elected president.

	The day before Super Tuesday, I got a phone call from Molly, our oldest, who works in radio in San Francisco. “There was an Obama supporter yelling on the street right outside my window at work today,” she said. “I’m for Obama, but this started to get a little annoying.” I asked how long he was yelling and Molly said: “Three hours.”

	Just as I hung up, a cell-phone text message came in from Seth, our second-oldest, who is in graduate school in New York City.  “Volunteered for Obama today,” he texted.

	“What did you do?” I wrote back.

	“Stood on street corner yelling for Obama.”

	“For how long?” I asked, feeling I already knew.

	 “Three hours.” 

	Only Daniel, 13, did not immediately leap to the bandwagon last winter.  He’d recently joined our family from Ethiopia and, in his experience, presidential campaigns tend to end in gunfire.  “Look, Daniel!” I said, pointing out Senator Obama in the row of podiums at a candidates’ debate.  “He could be the first black American president!”

	“Where, Mom!” barked Daniel. He is lanky, black-skinned, and—wearing a younger brother’s small t-shirt, tightly-belted jeans stopping short at his ankles, and neon-green Crocs—clueless about American urban fashion. 

	“There, Daniel, right there,” I said, gesturing again towards the Illinois senator.

	“Where, Mom?” he repeated, with the Ethiopian roll of the R.

	“Daniel, right there,” I said, having walked to the TV screen and placed my finger on Obama’s head.

	In Daniel’s experience, presidential campaigns tend to involve black candidates.  But this didn’t look like one of them.  “No, Mom,” he said sadly.  “Not black, Mom.  He not black.” 

	But the rest of the kids caught fire—the words, the call for global justice, the elegance, the books (for the oldest three), the promise to end the war, and the overturning of the Bush White House. And also because—no matter how often pundits warn that American voters don’t get who Obama is, that they fear that he’s an outsider, a foreigner, who doesn’t understand them—my kids and their friends get exactly who Obama is.  I’m sure they feel that, if he could stop by for a couple of hours, they’d instantly have him in gym shorts and t-shirt in the driveway shooting hoops, then in the front yard chasing a soccer ball, then getting soaked as the game devolved into a water gun fight, then perhaps lured to the kitchen table to help with homework, which includes, on any given night, assignments in Spanish, French, Hebrew, and Latin.

				*

	We live in Atlanta, not far from downtown. When I was a child—growing up in Macon, Georgia—Atlanta was like Macon, but more so: state flags, with their slashing Confederate emblems like crossed swords, flew everywhere; segregation was unassailably deep and wide. This was the Heart of Dixie. Every restaurant served barbeque, and many offered knick-knacks—like salt-and-pepper shakers resembling a mammy and a sharecropper—in the display cases under the cash registers. Black people were expected to say ‘ma’am’ and ‘sir’ to white people.  In the 1950s, a large African-American woman was paid to dress up like Aunt Jemima and sit on a bale of hay at the Atlanta airport, welcoming visitors to the Deep South. The Klan, reborn in Stone Mountain, Georgia, in 1913, was ever-present. But Atlanta took a sharp turn in the late 1950s when Mayor Bill Hartsfield denounced the domestic terrorism of the white supremacists. He called Atlanta, “The City too Busy to Hate,” which was more wishful thinking than fact at that time, but did steer Atlanta in a different direction than its sister cities around the South.  

	The 1996 Olympics fulfilled the late Mayor’s hopes; and, to look around Atlanta today, you might wonder if most of the world’s people who came here for the Olympics simply lingered, driving taxis, opening restaurants, enrolling in graduate school, and starting medical practices. A more diverse city is hard to imagine. In the entire sum of my public school education—in Georgia and later in Ohio—I may have met a total of four black children. Other than Jewish families, including my own, I can’t recall being exposed to any ethnic group other than the Simopoulos family of Dayton, Ohio. When Helen arrived in Atlanta from Ethiopia in 2004, speaking both English and Amharic, and started public school kindergarten, her four best friends were an African-American girl, a white American girl, a bilingual French-American girl and a bilingual Korean-American girl. When school let out, the five girls came tearing down the sidewalk to our house, grabbed seats at our kitchen table, and tore with their fingers into the bland Ethiopian bread to dip it into the spicy Ethiopian stews awaiting them. While others remarked that the children looked like a UNICEF ad, this was the world they knew. When they all went to the Korean family’s house, they slipped off their shoes at the door and they ate kimchi.  When they went to the French family’s house, they ate Rwandan egg fritters, but that’s another story.

	Our older children grew up in this integrated world, too.  My son, Lee, began his college application essay two years ago with these words:  

	When I made the varsity cross-country team, I knew (and the coach knew) I would 	
                     never finish a county-wide meet better than 27th.  After all, no ferange [white person, Amharic] 	ever does.  No, those top spots are strictly reserved for my friends, Abdighani, Abdifata, 	
                     Abbukar, and Abdi (Somalian, Eritrean, Ethiopian, and Sudanese) and their countrymen.  At my 	urban public high school, where white, American-born students are the minority, the best I can 	
                     do -- other than finish 45th -- is, as newspaper editor-in-chief, to cover their phenomenal performances.

	Though I never won a race, I did have the good fortune to pick up some key phrases from my teammates. 
                     I can compliment a girl from East Africa on her hairstyle and I can ask her on a date.  I can say, 
                    "Wow, Ethiopians sure are faster than Americans" in four different languages; and I can, of course, 
                    since we are teenage males, say, "Screw you," which I would never sincerely say to an East African 
                    except   to draw a laugh…" 
	
	My friends, the stars of the school soccer team, come from Japan, Mexico, Afghanistan, 	
                     South Africa, Somalia, Ghana, and Ethiopia; statewide sportswriters nicknamed the team, "The 	United Nations." The rest of our crowd of friends—black and white Americans - rode around the 	state cheering them on and waving the flags of their respective homelands all the way to the 	state semifinals…


	A couple of weekends ago, I canvassed for Obama with my sons, Lee, 20, and Seth, 23, in the Kirkwood neighborhood of Atlanta. We were equipped to register unregistered voters.  Black, white, straight, gay, working class, and affluent families, with flea-bitten hound dogs or with poodles in studded collars, all lived side-by-side in shotgun houses and multistory villas. We never knew what sort of person would open the door.  One man said, “Yeah I’m for Obama, I’m black, ain’t I?”

	“Well, let’s see,” I said.  “We just met your neighbor, the black Republican.”

	“Yeah,” he said.  “You can look at the car he drive and know what he stand for.” 

	Mansion for Obama, Shack for Obama, Elderly White Woman for Obama, Black Male Octogenarian for Obama, Lesbian-Feminist for Hillary, and a Libertarian who said, “No Soliciting means No Soliciting,” after I asked, “Is it soliciting if I’m not asking you for any money?” 

	“Who do you like for president?” I asked Swann Lee, a Korean-American dancer and my hair stylist.

	Mid-cut, she bent down and whispered in my ear, “I like Obama. Don’t tell!”

	Israeli carpet cleaners arrived at my house.  “Who do you like for president?” I asked.

	“Well,” said a young man, a veteran of the Israeli army.  “Is it true what they say, Obama is a Muslim?”

	“No, not true,” I say.  “Not that it should matter, but Obama’s a Christian.”

	“I get many emails about this.”

	“They’re lies.”

	 “Okay,” he said.  “If this is true, I like.”

	Out for brunch with a crowd of old friends, all of us active in Jewish affairs, including an Israeli woman and a Mexican-American Jewish woman, I ask, “Who are we voting for, for president?” I’ve read in the New York Times about Jewish voters’ reluctance to vote for Obama. I haven’t personally met any such voter, but I thought maybe there was one among us.

	“Melissa, are you crazy?” said one friend.  “Why, do you think we trust McCain on foreign policy?!” Everyone laughed.  At the end of our meal, one of the women offered me a Barack Obama bumper sticker in Hebrew.    

	“You like Obama?” I asked a Nigerian taxi driver on a ride home from the airport.

	“Yes, but, do you think they will let him win?”

	“Yes, I think they will,” I said. 
	
  			*	

	“Mom, Obama is win?” asks Daniel.

	Daniel’s English is coming along nicely, but verb tenses are so difficult!  I loved the day he sadly held up his crushed water bottle, which he’d found on a chair under his younger brother Yosef.  “Mom,” he said, regarding it with regret.  “Yosef is sit.”

	So when he asks, “Obama is win?” I don’t know if he’s asking, “Is Obaba winning?” or “Did Obama win?”  or “Will Obama win?”  When I press him on this, he smiles and grows shy.

	Later he asks, “Dad like Obama?”

	“Yes.”	

	“Molly vote Obama?”  

	“Yes.”

	“Seth like Obama?”

	“Yes.”

	“Lee vote Obama?”

	“Yes.”

	“Lily like Obama?”

	“Lily’s 16, too young to vote.”

	“You?”

	“Yes.”

	“Molly’s friends, Seth’s friends, Lee’s friends?”

	“Yes.”

	“All?”

	I hesitate, thinking about Seth’s Bulgarian-American friend, formerly a college Young Republican, now on Wall Street.  I ask Seth.  The answer is: Venci likes Obama.
	
                    “Yes, all.”

	“Obama is win,” Daniel concludes.

	Based on this scientific polling data, I have reached the same conclusion.
	

					#

]]>
</content>
		<date>2008-10-06</date>
		<dc:date>2008-10-06</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview57</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview57</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>ETHIOPIAN ADOPTION: An Informal and Unofficial Guide</title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[

They are like children everywhere.  Those who have been loved and nurtured since birth --and cared for in decent orphanages--typically adjust very well to t...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[

They are like children everywhere.  Those who have been loved and nurtured since birth --and cared for in decent orphanages--typically adjust very well to their new families.  My husband and I have four children by birth (Molly, 28, Seth, 25, Lee, 22, and Lily, 17) and we have adopted five children (in order of arrival:  Jesse, 15, came from Bulgaria at 4 1/2. Helen, 13, came from Ethiopia at 5 1/2. Fisseha, 16, came from Ethiopia at 10;  and brothers Yosef and Daniel Gizaw, 12 and 15, came from Ethiopia in June 2007.) 

(Yes, we’re finished.)

(No, I know I’ve said that before, but this time we really are.)

(Look, we ran out of bedrooms about four children ago. And no one has invited our whole family to dinner since about 1998.)



I have written elsewhere about our children’s adjustment (much of that material is on this website.)  In general, despite traumatic ups-and-downs at the start of each adoption (leading, in Jesse’s case, to my brief but full-blown case of post-adoption depression) (and leading, a couple of weeks after Yosef and Daniel’s arrival, to my bursting into tears in the neighborhood swimming pool and fleeing for the parking lot) -- and despite seemingly insurmountable trauma in our children’s early lives -- all five of them have become our wonderful, ridiculous, gorgeous, sporty, and noisy very own children who will go to great lengths to avoid cleaning the kitchen after dinner. 

But, like children everywhere, Ethiopian children who have suffered neglect or abuse, before or during their orphanage stays, can be much more challenging.   Adoption of severely traumatized or attachment-disordered children should be undertaken by adults who know what they are doing. Ethical agencies should alert parents to concerns about children's behavior in the orphanage; although attachment issues are sometimes camouflaged by insitutional settings. 

Like adults everywhere, Ethiopians love children.  I have met scores of devoted and generous caregivers in Ethiopian orphanages.  I have seen orphanages that operate like jumbo families:  the big kids rush out the door to school in the morning, run home for lunch, do their homework in the afternoons, play football  (soccer) endlessly in the compound, carry about the babies and toddlers.  I have seen Ethiopian caregivers wearing the orphaned babies in shawls on their backs.  I have seen orphaned babies and toddlers included in the life of an orphanage compound, in ways unknown to the Eastern European orphanages I have visited.  All of this is good news for the Ethiopian children, and for prospective adoptive parents.  



Everyone remembers the brutal Romanian orphanages exposed to the world in 1989 and 1990.  Everyone recalls vividly the news footage of these child concentration camps.  In particular your extended family members and close friends remember the Romanian orphanages of 1989 and they are eager, now, to tell you about them, to warn you away from adopting an older child.

You have to do your homework; you have to proceed cautiously. In general, generalities do not work: it does not make sense to say that adopted children from China are like this, adopted children from Guatemala are like that.  Every child is a special case, a unique story. 

Still I will make this generaliztion:  Ethiopian orphanages are not the equivalent of the orphanages of Nicolae Ceausescu’s Romania.



I have heard experts -- in the field of international adoption medicine -- bitterly lament how little homework some parents do.  “People spend more time researching their next car than their next child,” an international adoption doctor told me. 

There is a place for love and faith, dreams and hope, horoscopes and coincidences on your adoption journey, but those magic signs should not be your guiding lights.

"Any child does best in a situation where the family's expectations and the child's abilities are in sync," says Dr. Dana Johnson, one of the pioneers of the pediatric specialty of International Adoption Medicine. "A child with low potential in an environment with high expectations is a recipe for disaster." 

He continues: "Unlike adoptions from the American foster care system, which are tightly regulated, international adoption remains a free-for-all. Established agencies prepare families for the risks and urge them to seek adoption screening. But unlicensed "facilitators" abound, matching unsuspecting parents with sickly children. 

"Compounding the inconsistent preparation are an array of vigorous marketing techniques used to find homes for children who are older or in ill health. They include photo listings on the Internet and programs that place children briefly with host families, for summer vacations or the holidays. Both can promote impulsive decisions, and experts worry that they may cloud the judgment of adoptive families who fall in love first and ask questions later." 

Access this article, "Seeking Doctors' Advice on Adoptions from Afar" by Jane Gross at: 
http://www.nytimes.com/2006/01/03/national/03adopt.html?_r=1&scp=1&sq=Dr.+Dana+Johnson&st=nyt&oref=slogin

Then, read this book: 



It’s not as peppy or upbeat as many guides to international adoption; there are no cherubs, hearts, or rainbows in the illustrations as you’ll see on many adoption websites. This book does not pretend that your child is floating on a sun-kissed cloud amongst the angels while waiting for you to complete your homestudy; it’s not a guide for Dummies or for Idiots, and it doesn’t promise a baby in your arms by Christmas. It also does not specifically address Ethiopian adoption;  anecdotally, it does seem that fewer adopted Ethiopian children face many of the issues described in this book, such as Fetal Alcohol Spectrum Disorder. BUT you should know what's out there in the world of international adoption.  This book will arm you with something more powerful than hearts, rainbows, promises, and precious photos of wide-eyed babies: facts. 

There are facts here about neglect; there are facts here about sexual abuse occurring in orphanages; there are facts here about tuberculosis, HIV/AIDS, and Reactive Attachment Disorder (RAD.)  This is not bedtime reading.  But it’s essential reading.  It may scare you away from inter-country adoption permanently.  But if you are still standing when you’ve finished this book, you’ll be stronger. 



Incorrect.  Even an adorable baby girl can have suffered less-than-optimum development prior to her adoption.  She may have been malnourished in utero or post-natally; she may have been born into a family in crisis., to parents who were ill, hungry, or dying.  She may not have received blue-ribbon treatment on every stop along her journey from relinquishment to adoption.  She may have the potential to be the most marvelous little person on the planet, but she could require major assistance to get there.  Do your homework.

Meanwhile it’s possible, actually, to know a LOT about older “waiting” children in orphanages, so don’t shy away from considering them.

Five times now, I have been calmed (during the normal period of bone-rattling pre-adoption panic) by contact with and knowledge of our older waiting child.  After being matched (through Adoption Advocates International) with Helen, we started getting MAIL from her.  I got a glue-and-glitter-encrusted Mother’s Day card.  With Fisseha (also adopted through AAI), we got his report card!  “He has very smiling face,” a teacher wrote.  “I have very much love to him.” 

Don’t rule out an older child during your search for a baby girl.  Many wonderful families have been created because there were long waiting-lists for baby girls.  Baby boys are also very cute. 







Two steps:

(A) If you thought Bascom was dry reading, try this website:  http://adoption.state.gov/
(I'm having trouble getting this link to work, but that IS the correct web address!) 

Here are the regulations, as laid out by the U.S. Department of State, governing inter-country adoption.  This will be your introduction to the marathon paper-chase that lies ahead.  You will need to meet the requirements set out by the Ethiopian government and by the American government.

Within the State Department website, you can look for country-specific information.  A click on ETHIOPIA will take you to this body of knowledge:  http://travel.state.gov/family/adoption/intercountry/intercountry_473.html 

But don’t despair after perusing the long, long list of requirements;  you are going to find an adoption agency to walk you through all of them.

The adoption of Ethiopian orphans by Americans is growing by leaps and bounds, especially as the ease and straightforwardness of adoption from other countries (China, Korea, Guatemala, to name a few) diminish.
The most recent data for Ethiopia looks like this:

Fiscal Year       Number of Immigrant Visas Issued
2009                                 2277
2008                                 1724
2007                                 1254
2006                                   731
2005                                   440
2004                                   289
2003                                   135
2002                                   105




[http://adoption.state.gov/country/ethiopia.html#statistics]

Because Ethiopia’s popularity is growing among American and European adoptive parents, the Ethiopian government is under pressure to standardize and manage the numbers of children in flux.  The courts are growing more strict; adoption personnel are growing more rigorous. Anyone who thinks that adoption is an easier route to family-building that pregnancy and childbirth has NOT looked at these regulations.

These fast-growing numbers have begun to generate some resentment in the Ethiopian public. It used to seem like a marvelous and special thing for local citizens to see an Ethiopian child led down the street by a pair of excited European or North American parents, to see a dozing Ethiopian infant in a baby sling on the chest of a proud new mother or father.  But the continued poverty of the population, and the sense that money is changing hands in the export of children, has led to some heartfelt misgivings and resentments.  Ask your adoption agency what the mood on the ground is and how the agency advises new parents to handle it. None of this means that a child is better off in an orphanage than in a loving family, but it does mean that, naturally, a country is sad to see its children depart and regretful that it cannot provide for all its children.

(B).  Choose an adoption agency.  This deserves an answer all its own.




You will need two agencies (other than in the rare case that you live in the same city as your internationally-licensed agency.) 

You will need a local adoption agency licensed to complete a homestudy for an international adoption.  This is not the agency that will lead you to your child.

And you will need an international adoption agency licensed to practice in Ethiopia. This agency does not have to be local. 

Here is a great chance for you to do thorough and ferocious research.

This may be the single most important choice of the entire process, as it will determine the shape and outcome of your adoption journey.

All adoption agencies are not equal.

The cuteness of the magazine ad, the animation features of the agency’s website, and the frequency with which the word “angel” is applied to orphaned children, does not translate directly into an ethical, transparent, affordable, and legal process for your family.

As the popularity of Ethiopian adoptions grows, so do the numbers of agencies and facilitators operating there.  This means you must choose carefully.

One wide-ranging source of information about agencies is the EthiopiaAdopt list found at www.Yahoogroups.com.  Register with the list-owner and pose your question to the group:  “I’m thinking about using such-and-such an agency – can anyone tell me about first-hand experiences with that agency?”

Then stand back and watch the chips fly. Of course you’ll want to sift through the feedback you receive.  But it will be a prodigious start to gathering information. 

The U.S. State Department lists licensed agencies working in Ethiopia. And you may check with the Better Business Bureau in an agency’s home city. 

It is reasonable to peruse the agency materials and to ask for answers to questions like these:
   1. Are you currently licensed to handle adoptions from Ethiopia?  Since when?
   2.  Have you ever had your license suspended?  Why?
   3. How many Ethiopian adoptions have you completed? 
   4. Do you run an agency list-serv – a forum for pre- and post-adoptive families to converse online?  If not, is there a way for your families to communicate with one another?
   5. Can I have a hand in choosing my child, or will I be “matched” with a child by you? 
   6. What kind of information is available about children you place?  Will I see medical reports, photos, videos?  Will I learn about the child’s history prior to placement at the orphanage?
   7. Have you, the director, met the children?  Will you have met my prospective child personally?  If not, on whose word are we relying about the condition of the child?
   8. What is a typical time-line from the time I accept a child to completion of the process?
   9. How does the timeline for baby-adoption compare to the timeline for older child adoption?
  10. May I travel to meet my child before the process is complete?
  11. May I travel to pick up my child or do I have the child escorted?  Which do you recommend?
  12. Is it possible to adopt two or more unrelated children, or do you discourage it?
  13. Is it possible to meet my child’s birth-relatives?  Does my child have a living parent?  (Adoption is legal after the loss of one parent.)
  14. What is the cost for an adoption of one or more children?  Are there hidden costs?  Will I be charged for foster care while my child awaits completion of the process?
  15. What kind of post-adoption support does your agency offer?  If we have a difficult transition, will you be able to help me through it?  

Not all these questions have right or wrong answers.

You may prefer to have an agency "match" you with a child; this is also called  "waiting for a referral."

OR you may prefer to do as my family has done, which is to receive newsletters and updates from our agency with photographs of older "waiting" children, asking for more information about a specific child, then deciding to enter the adoption process for that child. 

Virtually all adoptions of babies come through referral, through being "matched."

But many older child adoptions empower you with some degree of choice:  photos, medical history, a bit of video.  

Some agencies may prefer that you stay home; they will deliver your child to you.

Most agencies encourage your making the journey to Ethiopia to get a glimpse of your child's country and history.

Meeting birth-parents and birth-relatives sounds daunting, for sure;  and IS daunting; but it can be one of the most powerful experiences of your life and a phenomanal gift to your child. (Ethiopian regulations are in flux currently about the legality of adoptive parents meeting biological parents, so such a meeting may not be possible during the adoption trip.) 




Don't do it.  It's a terrible idea.  

The kind of "child-shopping" that goes on in countries where parents fly in and visit orphanages has to be damaging to children examined and then left behind, and it places parents at huge risk of getting into legal and medical situations far over their heads.  Ethical agencies will tell you horror stories of the parents they've tried to bail out of failed 'indepdent adoptions,' where the facilitators turned out to be shady middlemen and the children turn out to be not exactly orphans, not exactly abandoned.  

"I am not opposed to independent adoptions," writes Dr. Jeri Jenista, a prominent pediatric infectious diseases expert specializing in adopted and immigrant children. "For certain parents - those with special medical expertise, who speak the language, who have lived in the country for many years, who have relatives or other close personal ties in the country – the independent process may provide a wonderful opportunity for an adoption meeting the family’s needs. However, most families do not have those special resources needed to accomplish an independent adoption. Indeed, even many prospective parents with those skills need help in other aspects of the adoption."

Read more comments by Dr. Jenista about independent adoption at: http://www.pnpic.org/jcics.htm 

Several years ago, I saw a bargain-hunting child-shopping couple drive up to Mrs. Haregewoin's foster home by taxi, and I've not yet quite recovered from it. They selected a sibling group of three, brought them into the livingroom, gave them gifts, murmured sweet nothings to them. They are wonderful children, those three -- a big brother of about nine  looking after a little brother and tiny sister; they'd been the children of doting middle-class parents.   "Do you like them?" the American dad asked his young teenage son, and the boy, obviously moved, nodded vigorously. The dad had tears in his eyes. "These are the ones," he said to his wife after the 30-minute visit. She tentatively agreed, but didn't want to commit without visiting the other orphanages on her list. They kissed the children goodbye, promised to return, and zoomed off in their taxi, leaving the three children a little bewildered.  They returned the next day, ready to claim the three children, BUT a cute pair of twin boys had arrived at Atetegeb in their absence.  On their way across the courtyard, the mom got distracted by the oval-faced freckled pair. "Are THEY available?" she asked.  They were.  Mrs. Haregewoin felt obliged to cater to the American couple, as all their paperwork was complete, including an approval from the Ministry of Children's Affairs.  This time the adults brought the twins into the livingroom and murmured sweet nothings to THEM."  "These are the ones," said the dad.  "You like them?" he asked his son.  They drove off with the twins.  The sibling set of three lingered in the courtyard for a long time after the parents left.  They were confused.  For a long time, they thought the American pair was still planning to return.

(The two brothers and sister later found a WONDERFUL home, by the way, with parents who used an adoption agency.)

The Ethiopian government already has its hands full trying to regulate international agencies setting up shop all over the country.  Don't add to the burden by peeling off on your own.  There may or may not be a child for you at the end of such a risky process.  There may or may not be bruised hearts left in your wake. 



Well, you may not know this.

You may not feel anything in particular, other than a soft stirring of curiosity.  You may feel – upon seeing a photo or film – “now THAT is one cute kid.”  

Is he or she the “right” child for you, the one destined by heaven to be yours?

Hard to say.

You’d hate to wish that anyone’s “destiny” included becoming an orphan. The child’s history is tragic; the child’s luck is about to change in a big way, beginning with your appearance on the scene.

You will, in adopting this boy or girl, make the child your own.  Your own life will swerve to meet the child’s; the two of you will begin to develop in tandem, becoming different people than you would have been without each other.  

Like many adoptive parents, I chafe at the term “biological” to designate only my birth children.  First because all children, of course, are the products of biology.  Second because aren’t my children by adoption also mine biologically?  We breathe each other’s air, prepare and share each other’s food, borrow each other’s combs and socks and pencils;  Helen sometimes falls asleep on my bed twirling her fingers through my hair.  Aren’t these somehow biological processes?  Aren’t our cells intermixing?  Haven’t the years of Berenstain Bears books I’ve inflicted on these children been immortalized as brain cells? 

In parenting your new child, you will make the child the right child for you.  Even if the relationship doesn't feel perfect or magical or pre-destined for the first few weeks (or months), just pretend that all is unfolding according to plan, according to a higher intelligence than your own.

The child will simultaneously create in you the right mother or the right father, the one who knows where to tickle, what to cook, which bedtime story to read, and which flavor ice cream flavor is the best, the ice cream flavor ordained by heaven to be the one you both happen to love. 






You’ve studied his or her photo for most of a year;  you’ve worn out the disc replaying the nanoseconds of footage.  In the film provided by the adoption agency, your child has not screamed or thrown food; he has not stomped his foot and made an angry face; the baby has not twisted away from you to avoid eye contact.  In the realm of photo and film and fantasy, the child is clean and polite.  The child is tall and strikingly handsome and academically gifted and developmentally on target. Regardless of age, you can tell this child is going to come straight home and begin by tidying up the kitchen and taking out the trash, before going on a bike ride wearing a helmet and observing all traffic laws and hand signals. This child is easily going to make Eagle Scout by 12.  

In real life, children are sometimes not so clean and polite.  They sometimes are quite short and dusty, they may have giardia or head-lice, and and it may be a few years before that academic brilliance presents itself.  The child will not know how to ride a bike and, after he learns, he will zig-zag in and out of traffic while you run down the sidewalk screaming and waving your arms.

Reactions upon first meeting range from “This is the child of my heart, thank you God,” to (my typical reaction) “If I run away right now and deny everything, can they still make me bring this child to my hotel?”  

Reactions vary from “That’s her!  I’d know her anywhere!  That’s really her!!” to “Has there been a mistake?  This child is really not as cute as the photo tacked to my refrigerator.”  

In my book, I describe this marvelous first contact with their daughter as experienced by Rob Cohen and Claudia Cooper:

           “On a morning of dazzling heat and brightness—denim sky sparkling with sunlight; dirt roads teeming with people,   donkeys, goats, and sheep; flags snapping in the wind; hundreds of tin shops and wooden kiosks displaying their wares—they rode by taxi to Layla House and honked outside the steel door. A guard pulled it open.  Kids spied them in the taxi’s backseat and scattered, sprinting in every direction and yelling Meskerem’s name.
&#8195;         
           "Claudia hadn’t met Meskerem on her first visit to Layla House. Now she shakily got out of the taxi and tried to acknowledge greetings from children who remembered her. Rob stood beside her in an agony of thrilling overstimulation,  trepidation, and excitement. It was all about to happen. It began.

&#8195;         "Meskerem came out the doorway of a far building and turned in their direction. They both registered instantly, “She’s  as beautiful as her pictures.” Thick, curly hair gathered back into a ponytail, tall, slender child, elegant face, the thick arched eyebrows and shy smile. She walked toward them sweetly, alternately looking at them and looking down at the ground; she carried herself gracefully all the way across the compound straight to them (they were paralyzed); she put her arms (she was nearly as tall as Claudia) around Claudia’s neck and delivered the great hug of Claudia’s lifetime: an unrelentingly hard, grateful, and loving hug, a hug that went on so long that Rob (towering over both of them) bent to be included. They held on to each other for a long time. The white sun edged an inch across the sky, changing the angles of silver light bending from car bumpers and wristwatches and window hardware around the compound; they hugged as classes changed and children danced around them and skipped away; they hugged for so long that, by the time they let go, they’d leapt across the oceans and continents, they’d reassured one another, they’d found one another.”




But here’s the thing:  even if your first moments are nothing like that, your life can still turn out fine.  

All my children have been shy upon first meeting, head down, refusing eye contact.  

They’ve all turned into boisterous and normal children eager to make eye contact, especially when it is way past their bedtime, finding 11 p.m. a wonderful moment to snuggle and to look up and to ask, trustingly, hopefully, about a little something glimpsed in the Limited Too catalogue. 



 
You’ll be exhausted beyond human endurance.  

After months of paperwork and anxiety, you’ll have flown 20 or more hours to Addis Ababa to meet your new child;  you’ll have taken charge of the child, whose language you don’t speak, whose daily habits and schedule you don’t know, and who may or may not be thrilled to spend time with you;  you’ll have flown with this child back across North Africa, the Mediterranean Sea, Europe, and the Atlantic Ocean; you’ll have changed planes, had layovers, and endured long lines.  You’ll be dead on your feet before you enter your own foyer, lugging the suitcases filled with colorful Ethiopian baskets, ready to begin your new family life. 

Behaviors that have been displayed by newly-adopted children traveling 20 hours by air have included energetic screaming and kicking and fleeing up and down the aisle, throwing up, throwing food, throwing tantrums, marathon sleeping, entering a trance-like state of sheer panic, and/or excellent dinner manners and calm movie-watching. .

Our ten-year-old son Fisseha was thrilled beyond words to be given airplane head-phones;  he donned them instantly and enjoyed them greatly for three-quarters of an hour.  Then I discovered that the head-phones were not plugged into anything.  He was simply enjoying the new head-wear.  When I plugged him in, a look of astonishment crossed his face, and the music and static distracted him for a good three hours.

Jesse, crossing the ocean by air at age four-and-a-half from Bulgaria, came to believe (we surmised) about two hours into the flight:  “This is it.  This is America.  This is my new life.  I have got to get out of here.”  He was fleeing up and down the aisles in search of an exit and a fast boat back to Bulgaria.  He sat down in the middle of the aisle and rocked back and forth, the orphanage self-soothing scary-looking rock;  in my arms, he flailed and screamed and kicked.  He kicked the seat in front of us so hard and frequently I feared we’d injure the man.  Late in the flight I suddenly remembered:  “Benedryl!  We were supposed to have given him Benedryl to help him sleep!”  As he writhed and flailed and screamed, I got a cap-full of Benedryl between his lips and waited, my arms and back aching, for it to kick in.  It kicked in as we were in descent towards Atlanta.  We carried his sleeping body off the plane and into immigration, where he slept on the carpet during our wait, and he slept in luggage claim and he slept on the car-ride home and straight into his new life. 

The good news:  you’ll likely not be the only new parents bringing home a terrified Ethiopian child on your international flight.  Worst case scenario:  you make rueful eye contact across the cabin.  Best case scenario:  the kids find each other and laugh and whisper and play the card game UNO until the movie starts.  

Helen, age five, was divine;  Yosef & Daniel, 10 and 12, were delighted and well-behaved and took these photos mid-air.  








 

Things can get really hard.  The demands of a baby, young child, or older child may far outweigh your earlier estimate of what you could handle.  You may find yourself blinded by fatigue, bleary-eyed with regret and confusion.  You may hear the word “Mom” more often than human ears can withstand. There’s a sort of “buyer’s remorse” that can kick in, after you bring this precious and long-awaited child home.  You wouldn’t be the first to wonder, “WHAT was I THINKING?”  

I’ve written elsewhere about post-adoption panic (see RECENT ARTICLES), which hit me hard after Jesse’s adoption in 1999.

Part of what was hard about it, for me, was that I’d never heard of it.  I didn’t know what was wrong with me.  I reached the conclusion that what was wrong with me was that I had ruined my life and the life of my family permanently, and there was no escape, and it was all my fault, and it would never get better.  

It’s really hard to think rationally when you’re in this state.

In TWO LITTLE GIRLS: A Memoir of Adoption, [NY: Berkley Books, 2006],  Theresa Reid writes of despair after the adoption of a second daughter, Lana, a three-year-old from Ukraine:

“I have no patience for this new child, who gets up two or three times during the night, and never sleeps past five-thirty A.M., who is hungry and desperately needs to eat, who asks for food, and then, when I hopefully, lovingly put food before her—even specially prepared food she has eaten happily before—cries and whines and angrily pushes it away.  “Nyet!” she shrieks.  “Nyyyyyyyeeeettt!” as she shoves it off her tray, kicking and flailing, then slumps in her seat with her head down and cries.” 
Reid phones her adoption agency for help (I did the same in 1999), expecting to be offered support.  Instead (as I was), she is met with confusion and bewilderment.  

“I may be at my wits’ end,” Reid writes of her thoughts after ending that phone conversation, “but I think I can objectively say that this is NOT okay, to put together extremely challenging family constellations and then walk away.  I hang up, abandoned, angry…”  

The good news is that, in most cases, these can be the disharmonious opening notes of a love story. An out-of-synch beginning is not predictive of the parent/child relationship. 

My tips for getting through a rocky and nauseating depression after the arrival of your child:

(1)	Take really good care of yourself;  do whatever it takes to get enough sleep, including spending the night at a friend’s or arranging a time and place for napping.  NOTHING WILL WORK OUT IF YOU ARE SLEEP DEPRIVED. 

(2)	Make yourself eat and shower and exercise.  

(3)	Get help.  HIRE help if you need to, even if you think you can't afford it.  If you feel yourself spiraling into depression, you can't get out of it alone.  While a babysitter is there, sleep or exercise or read or eat or go the library or do anything refreshing and pleasant other than caring for this darn child. 

(4)	Put Feelings on a back-burner.  This is not the time for Feelings.  If you could express your feelings right now, you’d be saying things like, “Oh my God, I must have lost my mind to think that I can handle this, to think that I wanted a child like this.  I’ll never manage to raise this child;  I’m way way way way over my head.  I’ll never spend time with my spouse or friends again; my older children are going to waste away in profound neglect; my career is finished. I am completely and utterly trapped.”   You see?  What’s the point of expressing all that right now?  Put Feelings in the deep freeze. Live a material life instead: wake, dress, eat, walk.  Let your hands and words mother the new child, don't pause to look back, to reflect, or to experience emotions. "Shut up, Emotions," you'll say. "I'll check back with you in six months to see if you've pulled yourselves together.  But no whining meanwhile!"  

(5)	Pick up something to read that carries you away.  I’ve found that reading about Paleolithic art engenders deep calm and a sense of remove.  There’s something about studying 40,000 year old cave painting that makes you feel you can survive the sound of your new child’s voice the next morning.

(6)	Let yourself off the hook.  This is not your fault.  You’ve done a grand thing—you’ve gone out into the world in search of a child and, despite every obstacle over tens of thousands of miles, you’ve brought the child home.  It's all going to work out in time.  Meanwhile, you’re exhausted.  This is all really hard.  If it were easy, everyone would do it.  You’re doing fine.  Just rest up, find something to laugh about, and give Feelings the month off. 




Yes!  There is a wonderful adoption literature.  Prospective adoptive parents have a special hunger for information and for stories, and, later, a special need to write about what they’ve been through.

My all-time favorite adoption book is THE CHILDREN by Jan de Hartog (NY: Atheneum, 1969), a Dutch Naval writer, a WWII hero. Living in the U.S., the father of grown children, he became unexpectedly the middle-aged father of two little Korean sisters.  Though many recent books cover similar ground, full of modern and post-modern psychiatric jargon, there’s little missed by old Jan de Hartog, who turns a wry phrase.  You can find this out-of-print book through online booksellers. 

In Chapter 12 -- "Clinging" -- he writes of an experience with which many adoptive parents identify – the ferocious attachment to one or the other parent.  Addressing you, the mother, he writes: [after clearing the hurdle of the child's coldness to you, the mother] 

"... you will suddenly find yourself confronted with a hunger on his part for physical closeness, so ravenous and insatiable that chances are you may end by being sincerely worried whether there isn't something psychologically wrong with him.  Even to the most extrovert and sensual among us there comes a point beyond which the need for being hugged, caressed, kissed and snuggled turns from an uninhibited desire for affection into a obsession that soon makes us do the opposite of what we are so breathlessly urged to do:  we draw away in alarm and confusion...
       “... All children from Korea or Vietnam are literally starved for affection;  once they surrender themselves to you, there is no moderation or restraint until their desperate craving is satisfied...
       "Those few months are likely to be trying.  In the beginning you may enjoy his total and unrelenting claim on your full and constant attention.  But the desperate tightness with which especially the very young child will clasp your leg, clutch your arm, cling to your neck until you have to carry him with you from morning to night may well alarm you.  The thing is to try and relax.  Let yourself be kissed, hugged, nuzzled, nibbled and beset by frenzied embraces like any simian mother, whom you can observe in any zoo.  Your colleague among the gorillas goes about her monkey business totally oblivious of the huge-eyed, frantic young clinging to her breast, waist or even tail with all the sumptoms of utter terror.
       ... You will have to resign yourself to the circumstance that, for the next few months, you will be carrying a small shivering body attached like a leech to some part of your person during most of your waking hours and, once he has overcome his initial exhaustion, your sleeping hours as well.  But I assure you that this is normal..."  

It is normal to feel panicky after you’ve committed to a child.  Here are a few books from which I took great courage and comfort, if only to find myself in a community of mothers and fathers also experiencing longing for a child.  

, edited by Susan Alpert—tidbits & excerpts, paragraphs gleaned from here and there over a half-century of adoption writing, like a Readers Digest’s Quotable Quotes dedicated to the world of adoption.  I read this book to pieces.  During the waiting period, when you wonder whether you’ve lost your mind or are going to lose it, why not see what Harpo Marx and Jack Benny once said about the adoption of their children? 
, edited by Susan Wadia-Ells (Seal Press, 1995)  
by Patty Dann  (NY: Hyperion, 1998) Poignant longing for and search for a baby.
, edited by Jill Bialosky & Helen Schulman (NY: Farrar, Straus and Giroux,1998)  Some of these essays are the best pieces on adoption anywhere.  You just don’t want to miss Tama Janowitz on “Bringing Home Baby” from China, one chapter of which reads only, “The horror.  The horror.”  
by Joyce Maguire Pavao (Boston: Beacon Press, 2005)  Not to be missed!  Valuable insights into truth-telling within an adoptive family.
, edited by Pamela Kruger & Jill Smolowe (NY: Riverhead Books, 2005)  I’d like this book even if it didn’t include an essay of mine.
by Beth Nonte Russell (NY: Touchstone, 2007)  A fantastic portrait of falling in love with a baby; and one of the most real and engaging babies to appear anywhere in adoption literature.  I could do without the dreams of a past life and of destiny, and I feel that the adoptive mother the author accompanied to China was deserving of greater empathy, as she was clearly in the grip of post-adoption panic.  But I could not have done without this baby.
 by Jana Wolff: honest misgivings about transracial adoption.
, edited by Amy Klatzkin (Yeong & Yeong Book Company)  Wonderful medley of how-to essays (my least favorites) and idiosyncratic truthful memoirs (my favorites.)
 by Janis Cooke Newman (NY: St. Martin's Press, 2001), honest, lyrical, reflective, about a couple's longing for a child and the fears that beset them in the face of many rational reasons to turn back. DISREGARD the cranky comments on Amazon about this book; I don't know what book those people read, but it wasn't this one. 




Yes!  But they're not mine, they are famous words from the German philosopher, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749- 1832). 



In lines that have come to be known as "Where commitment leads, providence follows," he writes: 

"Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back, always ineffectiveness. Concerning all acts of initiative and creation, there is one elementary truth, the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then providence moves too. All sorts of things occur to help one that would never otherwise have occurred. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one’s favor all manner of unforeseen incidents and meetings and material assistance, which no man could have dreamed would have come his way. Whatever you do, or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius, power and magic in it. Begin it now."






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</content>
		<date>2012-01-01</date>
		<dc:date>2012-01-01</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview4</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview4</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>Lee & Maya in Ethiopia</title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[

My son Lee Samuel, 21, and his friend Maya Selber are spending the two weeks of their Spring (Passover) Break from their Israeli university in Ethiopia.  It...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[

My son Lee Samuel, 21, and his friend Maya Selber are spending the two weeks of their Spring (Passover) Break from their Israeli university in Ethiopia.  It's Maya's first trip and Lee's sixth.  I'm starting to upload their photos to a new gallery here.  They visited "Big Atetegeb" (now under the leadership of Haregewoin's daughter Sosina Worku); they visited WWO Academy (www.wwo.org) where the 42 positive children formerly living at "Little Atetegeb" are living with their teachers and caregivers. And they visited AHOPE, a home for HIV-positive children. They also had great adventures involving waterfalls, cows, and an Ethiopian Passover seder. 



In a turnabout (since Lee often asks me when I'll post a new blog), I'll copy here parts of his emails from Addis: 

He writes:

"Today, we spent the whole day at the three different orphanages... At the WWO primary school where the 42 HIV-positive kids that used to be under Haregewoin's care now live, we got there just as they were finishing up with lunch so we joined them for their post-lunch nap time which consisted of playing the always exciting game of "Let's see how many kids we can fit on TOP of the white people."  Maya's team won... We went from the WWO school to AHOPE where we engaged in a two-hour knock-down, drag-out dodge ball game.  The variation of dodge ball that we play in Ethiopia is every man for himself and necessitates kids flinging, with surprising velocity, a soccer ball at each others' heads.  I've always felt that dodge ball is the perfect thing for these kids who are otherwise competely passive aggressive, as are most Ethiopians.  The older kids don't hold back as they launch the tiny ball at 5-year-olds who spread themselves out on the floor in an ill-fated attempt for mercy.  I wouldn't say that Maya held her own, but she was certainly not the worst kid in the game."



Maya writes: 

"After we had the crazy intense 2-hour long dodged ball game, we went to our last orphanage of the day, Atetegeb.  I spent the whole time being attacked and fought over by my favorite little kids (Kuliche- age 4, Radiat-2, Aster-7, Biniyam-5, Betty-2, Mekdes-9)  while we watched Lee and the bigger kids play soccer and cheered them on from the sidelines by singing the ABCs and counting to 100 in both English and Amharic.  After the soccer game Lee and some of the older kids joined us on the porch for a broken record type sing-a-long of "If you're happy and you know it clap your hands". they really enjoyed that. (I might have enjoyed it a little more though). Oh and then Radiat peed on me which was hilarious because she couldn't stop crying afteward, i think from guilt, and she just looked soooooo cute and sad. then she changed into the most adorable little red dress and i forgave her. Later we were watching TV and the song "I like to move it move it, I like to move it move it" came on, and Kuliche spent the remainder of the night singing "I like to Leeeee Leeee, I like to Leeee Leee!!" which made us laugh very hard." All that was only one day, sorry we're too lazy to write about yesterday and the day before that and the day before that, but I'm sure you can all use your imaginations and figure out that we went orphanage-hopping and played with amazingly adorable, beautiful, fun little kids!!
 
Bye!  Lee & Maya" 






]]>
</content>
		<date>2009-04-16</date>
		<dc:date>2009-04-16</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview65</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview65</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>But No Ferrets</title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[


"How can it be possible," my children are asking, "that all these years, whenever we ask if we can have a ferret, you say, 'No, they're too much trouble,'...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[


"How can it be possible," my children are asking, "that all these years, whenever we ask if we can have a ferret, you say, 'No, they're too much trouble,' but when Lee calls from Ethiopia to ask if we can have two more brothers, you say 'OK'!?"

"That is odd," I have to agree.

"And they?re really coming, Daniel and Yosef?"

"Yes, they're coming."

"So, can we have a ferret?" 

"No." 

"Why?" 

"They're too much trouble."



















(first posted at www.PowellsBooks.blog during my stint as guest blogger) 






]]>
</content>
		<date>2006-11-08</date>
		<dc:date>2006-11-08</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview14</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview14</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>Book Tour:  First Night Out</title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[Politics & Prose Bookstore, Washington, D.C.
 
“Two people stopped by the desk on the way in,” says famous bookseller Carla Cohen in her warm-hearted and gene...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[Politics & Prose Bookstore, Washington, D.C.
 
“Two people stopped by the desk on the way in,” says famous bookseller Carla Cohen in her warm-hearted and generous introduction, “to tell me that Melissa Fay Greene is their favorite author.”
 
She sits down, crosses her arms, and beams at me and at the audience as I get up to speak. 
 
So I begin:  “I’d like to thank my mother-in-law, Ruth Samuel and my brother-in-law, Bill Samuel, for telling Carla Cohen on the way in that I’m their favorite author.”
 
The audience includes, I later learn, a woman who knew my grandmother (Mary Pollock, 1890-1981) in Macon, Georgia in the 1950s and '60s.

It includes a man whose late mother was a close friend of my late mother; their gravesites lie near one another in the Jewish cemetery in Dayton, Ohio.

It includes my friend Tema’s mother, sister, and brother-in-law; and my mother-in-law’s close friends; and my brother-in-law’s mother-in-law; and a close colleague of the man whose mother is buried near my mother.

It includes a woman named Judith who is the first-cousin of my friend in Atlanta named Judith, and a woman known to one of the Judiths, I forget which. 
 
The woman who knew my grandmother in Macon, Georgia, in the 1950s and 60s doesn’t seem to have brought anyone.
 
The audience includes a man (he tells me after the event) whose wife’s cousin was necking in a convertible in the parking lot of The Temple in Atlanta on the night of October 23, 1958. Later that night, in one of the first salvos of the massive white resistance to desegregation, The Temple was bombed. In 1996, I published a book about it, called, predictably, THE TEMPLE BOMBING. 

The man’s wife’s cousin never told her parents and never told the police that she had been necking in the parking lot a few hours before the clandestine visit by domestic terrorists. Now elderly, she had confided in these younger relatives only recently. 

“He wasn’t Jewish?” I ask, "the man she was with?"

“No, he was Jewish all right,” says the wife, “but he was a lot older than she was and her parents wouldn’t have approved.”
 
Other than the mothers-in-law and the brothers-in-law and the relatives of friends and the friends of relatives and people who come from or have been to Ethiopia and people whose relatives were almost eye-witnesses to dramatic historic events about which I have written major works of nonfiction, there were also... there must have been... if I counted correctly.... somewhere, the two people who told Carla Cohen that I was their favorite author.
 
]]>
</content>
		<date>2006-09-27</date>
		<dc:date>2006-09-27</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview16</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview16</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>More confusion on the time/space continuum</title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[When our daughter Helen came to our family from Ethiopia six years ago, she was delighted to learn about her birthday. She learned that it was on June 16 and th...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[When our daughter Helen came to our family from Ethiopia six years ago, she was delighted to learn about her birthday. She learned that it was on June 16 and that she was going to turn six.
 
June 16, 2002, arrived, a party was staged, thereafter she was six.
 
A few weeks later, in a happy reverie, she asked, "When will my birthday be next year?"
 
"June 16," I reminded her.  "Your birthday is on June 16."
 
But she reacted with shock and disappointment:  "June 16???  AGAIN??  I DID June 16 already."
 

                                                             




 
Our new son Daniel's birthday (according to his birth certificate) is July 14.
 
The birth certificate said he turned 12 on July 14.  But that seems impossible. If he was 11 when he arrived in America this past June, he instantly became the tallest 11-year-old in North America.
 
Surely he turned 13 on July 14. (Or sometime this past year.)
 
We didn't have a party for him on July 14 because (a) the birthdate had fallen into disrepute with us and we are trying to sort it out; and (b) many family members were at sleepaway camp or out of town.
 
So we arbitrarily made a birthday party for him yesterday, so he wouldn't feel left out.
 
I didn't understand what he meant, the night before last, when he asked me, "14?  Mom tomorrow 14? 14?"
 
"No," I said, you'll be...  well, let's just say you're 13, even though your birth certificate says you're 12. We'll try to correct the birth certificate to reflect your understanding that you are 13."
 
This was not a reasonable explanation to a non-English-speaking person.
 
He tried again:  "Tomorrow 14 Mom?"
 
"13, we can say you're 13 rather than 12."
 
He wanted to try another tack. 
 
But he didn't have any other tacks, other than reversing word-order. "14 Mom tomorrow?"
 
"I don't think you're 14.  Let's stick with 13, OK?"
 
"Oh my God," he said.
 
Daniel often says this, slapping himself in the forehead, when our conversations hit the wall like this. Which they do several times a day. "Oh my God" signals a throwing up of hands, a complete abandonment of the attempt.  He walked off in his gangly stork-like way, his shoulders prematurely hunched.
 
It just hit me:  "14" referred to July 14.  He was asking me if yesterday, August 1, was July 14, since we told him his birthday is on July 14.
 
These poor children are lost in time and space. 





Daniel came home from his first day of American seventh-grade with some remarkable reports.
 
Of his ESOL classes: "Friend me yes," he told Donny.  "Many friend me, one French he speak Malaki; one Mexican he speak French, two African." 
 
"What do they speak?"
 
"Mexican."

A few days later he had more happy news from ESOL:  "New friend Mom me good friend."

"Where is he from?"

"China."

"Nice," I said.  Then, unable to resist, I asked, "And what does he speak?"

"Korean." 

I burst out laughing.

"Oh my God," said Daniel.









]]>
</content>
		<date>2007-08-01</date>
		<dc:date>2007-08-01</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview7</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview7</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>Emotional Rollercoaster </title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[


Let it never be said that I mislead people to believe that older-child adoption is easy.

I flew home this past Thursday afternoon, after helping Lee mo...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[


Let it never be said that I mislead people to believe that older-child adoption is easy.

I flew home this past Thursday afternoon, after helping Lee move to Oberlin College, to discover that Yosef was not speaking to Helen and that Fisseha was not speaking to Jesse.  The former was due to some perceived insult;  the latter was due to the borrowing of shoes without permission.  Kids passing in the hall were deliberately bumping meanly into each other. Fisseha took his dinner plate into the livingroom to avoid sitting at the same table with Jesse the Evil Shoe-Borrower. Helen and I took a long look at each other, excused ourselves, went upstairs to my bedroom, fell into each other’s arms, and cried very hard.

“I’m not saying Yosef and Daniel should go back,” she sobbed, “but I just don’t feel close to anyone in the family anymore.”

The next day, the sight of sweet potatoes in a kitchen drawer brought me to tears, because they were there for LEE, and the appearance of SETH'S Crocs on DANIEL's feet made me weepy. (Seth moved to New York City last month for work & graduate school.) (Seth hates those Crocs.) 

The departures of the hilarious and playful and sweet older brothers have left all of us bereft.  This seems especially unfair since Donny's and my THEORY was that we would AVOID the pain of empty-nest by continuing to FILL the nest.

“This isn’t really working,” I told Donny that night.  “We get the pain of watching the older ones leave anyway…”

“And we don’t get to go to Paris,” he finished.

The next morning I typed “HELP” to my across-the-street pal Andrea Sarvady.  (I had ridiculed Andy the first time she ever emailed me: “You could open your window and SHOUT and get the news here faster,” I had replied. Now we email constantly, though if I lean back, I can see her house through a window.) 

Andy ran over.  I wildly gestured and cried to express all that was going wrong.  “The older three,” I gasped, “Molly, Seth, Lee, so wonderful, such wonderful people…Lily, Helen, wonderful…”  

“Got it,” said Andy, “but right now, the boys are a train-wreck.”

I nodded, couldn’t answer.

“Can I do something here?”

I nodded again.  Andy is a middle school teacher and counselor and a nationally-syndicated newspaper columnist ( http://www.ajc.com/blogs/content/shared-blogs/ajc/woman/entries/2007/09/01/are_americans_t.html )  I hoped the help she was offering was not going to include having my family described in “Woman to Woman.” I hoped our household warfare would not figure prominently in the column she was composing about Iraq.. But I was humbly willing to accept anything.

“I’m going to meet with the boys this afternoon,” she said.  “I need two things from you. Get a poster-board ready for me. And send me a list of the issues here. We do this at school all the time.  Let me take this one.” 

I wrote out this list for Andy:

___________________________________________________________

"Unpleasant behaviors include:

--Getting mad at each other over small things

--STAYING mad at each other – bearing grudges for days and days

--Giving each other the silent treatment

--Giving Mom or Dad the silent treatment (this is called “sulking”)

--Eating dinner elsewhere to avoid someone in the family

--Hitting;  hurting each other in play, accidentally; hurting each other deliberately.

--Acting annoyed when asked to help clean up, to take the garbage cans out, etc. 

--Borrowing something from a sibling -- or taking something from a sibling -- without permission;  failing to give it back when it's asked for. 
 
--Refusing to share something for no reason.  This is a family; we should share.

--Acting entitled to all the good things – new clothes, bikes, cell phones for the 3 older ones, computers, TVs – without earning it through good citizenship at home.

What we want is:

A house where everyone feels safe.

A house where everyone feels valuable.  

A house with a happy and playful mood, not an angry grudging mood.  

This is not a playground, it is a house.  This is not a free-for-all, it is a family."
__________________________________________________________

At five p.m., Andy breezed back across the street with the erect posture and vigor of a successful woman who has only three children.  

“Okay, guys!” she called without preface.  “Come on, let’s go!” Bewildered (the new guys barely know her), Fisseha, Jesse, Daniel and Yosef obediently followed Andy downstairs to the rec room. Lily, Helen, and I were banished upstairs.  Azeb, our Ethiopian babysitter, joined Andy as translator.

Andy, a master of plain-speaking with middle schoolers, said:  “Guys, Team Samuel sucks right now, you know what I mean?  If you all are a team, you’re losing.  A team of babies could beat Team Samuel right now.  You’re not pulling together.”

(She’d told me earlier she wasn’t planning to go near touchy-feely stuff.  “I don’t care about their feelings!” she’d laughed.  “They don’t love each other--I don’t care!  They have to behave.  This is strictly behavioral.”)

“Now I’m your mom’s friend,” she said, “and your mom has told me what’s going on here, and I don’t like it.  Here’s a list I got from your mom about some of the things happening at home.”  Then she read my list.

They slumped back into the sofas, she said, but they didn’t disagree.  

“I’m not saying it’s YOU or it’s YOU,” Andy said, pointing at them. “I’m not interested in who is doing what.  I’m just saying that THIS is all happening in YOUR FAMILY right now and it doesn’t feel good.”

(Azeb, translating, was less discreet.  As she translated my list into Amharic, she added helpful hints like, “Yosef this means you" and "Yosef you know you did this one" and "Yosef, listen closely to Andy."

“Now,” said Andy, pulling out the poster board.  “I want some suggestions on how to make Team Samuel work better."

The boys raised their hands!  Each had a suggestion.  The poster board reads:  

_______________________________
       TEAM SAMUEL
1.	No fighting
2.	Don’t do the things on Mom’s list.
3.	Talk—don’t just act mad.
4.	Don’t be annoying.
__________________________________

I would have loved to see the boys raising their hands.

“I want you all to be GREAT tonight and tomorrow,” Andy said.  “I don’t want to hear, ‘But it wasn’t on the list that I couldn’t get up at 4 in the morning and watch TV.’  Just be great – you know what great is.  IF you’re great, your mom will take you to the movies tomorrow night.  Whoever is not great gets to stay home.”

The boys ran up the basement stairs.  Daniel found me first and said, “I’m sorry, Mom.”  Jesse said:  “I’m sorry, Mom.”  Fisseha said:  “I’m sorry, Mom.”  Yosef said:  “I hate Azeb.”

Then they and Helen went outside and played basketball together for an hour until dinner.

They all came running in, sweaty and happy, and Yosef yelled, “Team Samuel!”

After dinner, first Daniel, then Yosef, hugged and kissed me and thanked me for dinner.

The next morning we took children to the Atlanta Ethiopian community soccer practice;  Daniel, Fisseha and Yosef were foolishly placed on the same team.  That team won 14 to 1.  “Team Samuel!” they laughed as we drove home.

They were all great and that night I took them all, plus so many of their friends it required two cars, to the stupidest movie I’ve ever seen in my life:  “Balls of Fury.”  Idiotic. 

They were still great the next day.

By the end of Labor Day weekend last night, there was a bit of chafing.  Jesse and Yosef had a bad run-in during a front-yard soccer game, so Yosef acted sad and slept by himself on the sofa last night.  But after so many hours of greatness, I was inclined to be lenient.

I’ve learned a few things:

1.	The children at home also are missing Seth and Lee and the fun of summer with them.
2.	Even without all the younger ones at home, it still would not be appropriate for me to move into the dorm room next-door to Lee at Oberlin, nor the apartment downstairs from Molly in San Francisco, nor the apartment down the hall from Seth in Queens.
3.	I miss Molly, Seth, and Lee every day, every hour.  Twenty children underfoot at home would not change that. 
4.	Andy says that the children’s vastly-improved behaviors won’t last.  
5.	That seminar called “Letting Go” offered to parents during Oberlin’s orientation?  that seminar I made fun of?  I should have gone to it.  







]]>
</content>
		<date>2007-09-04</date>
		<dc:date>2007-09-04</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview21</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview21</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>Dancing moments</title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[I came home last night from a PTA meeting and found Lily, 15, and Helen, 11, and Yosef, 10, dancing in the kitchen.  Lily & Helen were showing Yosef the trottin...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[I came home last night from a PTA meeting and found Lily, 15, and Helen, 11, and Yosef, 10, dancing in the kitchen.  Lily & Helen were showing Yosef the trotting hand-clapping knee-slapping country dance for Cotton-Eyed Joe, singing aloud, and Yosef was dancing a traditional dance from his Guragge ethnic group, arms extended, hands clasped, legs galloping.

I left the kitchen to greet others. When I returned, Lily and Helen were doing the Guragge dance and Yosef was dancing Cotton-Eyed Joe.  





Later I confided in 13-year-old Daniel:  “I'm feeling homesick for the big kids.”

“Mom!” he barked.  “You sick?!”

“No, not ‘sick.’ ‘Homesick’ – it’s a feeling inside, of missing people. You know, like Lee just left to go to college?”

“I know this!” he said.  “Me this.  Family gone.  Trip gone.  Oh my God I say, this family.”

He was talking about his feelings after our spring break trip to Addis during which he met Donny, Lily, Fisseha, Jesse, and Helen for the first time.  He felt homesick for our family after we left.

Later we overheard Daniel phoning Lee at school.  “Lee!” he barked.  “You sick?”  
]]>
</content>
		<date>2007-09-05</date>
		<dc:date>2007-09-05</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview22</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview22</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>New sons have arrived, birthdays are celebrated </title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[

Yosef and Daniel Gizaw, brothers of about 10 and 13, arrived in Atlanta this past Sunday, June 10.  My husband Don Samuel flew to Addis to file the I-600 an...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[

Yosef and Daniel Gizaw, brothers of about 10 and 13, arrived in Atlanta this past Sunday, June 10.  My husband Don Samuel flew to Addis to file the I-600 and to bring them home. Of course now I get to say: "Of our nine children, you delivered two."
 
I've known the boys for years, as they lived at Mrs. Haregewoin's house;  in fact, the boys' photos are in my book.  At the time we prepared it for publication, I did not know they were going to be my sons.  It took our son Lee, then 18, living in Addis last spring and visiting Haregewoin's every day, to fall in love with them & phone us often to say, "Please, we have to adopt them." Lee, who spent the past year in Israel, flew to Addis last week to join his dad in bringing home the new brothers.
 
Daniel is tall and very thin and gangly.  All the clothes I had for him reached only his ankles and his wrists.  "Nice," he said, so earnestly.  "Nice, I like."
"No," we all said, "too small, too short."
"No," he insisted.  "NICE."
 
I swept new pants from the racks of Target yesterday, handed them over, shooed him into the bathroom to change.  He emerged shyly, in pants that actually covered his ankles.  "Too big?" he asked.
 
He is cautious, quiet, and watchful like a young deer, as if he's about to dart away.  Mostly he's watchful over Yosef, for whom he assumed chief responsibility after their mother died four years ago (their father had died a couple of years earlier.) They have the happiest memories of their parents, their house, their animals in Woliso, but they have been sad a long time.  Daniel, I think, will always be acutely, in some way, Ethiopian; clearly he stared down the long road to nowhere, to lousy education and joblessness and hunger. Yet he seems to have protected Yosef, who gleams with pure joy and love of life.  Donny had emailed me from Addis: "Daniel chuckles over Yosef like an amused grandfather."
 
He also emailed, from Addis last week: "Last night we went to the Italian restaurant near the Yilma Hotel. On the way back on the pitch black 'street' (i.e., dirt and rock road), we bought a very heavy six-pack of water. Yosef lamented (sarcastically) that he was not very strong, and couldn't possibly take his turn carrying it. At that moment, he fell into a pot-hole up to his waist and Daniel said, "And not very smart either." 
 
Yosef is like a young seal, with a smooth shining face and smile, packing incredible speed and agility in a small package.  He is a comedian.  This we knew.  "When Yosef speaks, everyone around him, even adults, laugh," Lee had told us last year.
 
Today is Helen's 11th birthday (she arrived in the US five years ago); we had a tremendous birthday party yesterday afternoon and evening.  It started, really, at 3:00, when she got home with three girlfriends from art camp; and all afternoon more & more friends arrived, boys and girls, black and white Americans, one other Ethiopian girl.  Since Yosef, on paper, turned 10 recently,  Helen shared her party.  We had two cakes with soccer decorations, and Helen's friends brought gifts for Yosef, too.  A rented moonwalk was pumped up in our driveway;  and Seth, 22, a recent graduate of the Oberlin Conservatory of Music, headed for the NYU Steinhardt School of Music this fall, spent HOURS standing at the kitchen sink filling up water balloons and storing them in laundry baskets.  I'd gathered probably 18 water guns; and a knock-down drag-out water-gun water-balloon fight began that lasted for HOURS.  Water smashed against the windows and front glass door of the house; the floors turned to pools; the back porch ran with gullies.  I ran about taking pictures and throwing down towels until a blast of water hit my head or back and sent me running for cover, huddled over the camera.   I made phone calls in search of more water balloons and mothers arrived with bags of them. Seth and Lee, 19,  were in the thick of it, as were a few little kids who'd lingered long past the dropping-off hour. Neighbors stood in their yards and watched.  "Why," I wondered, "did I spend a hundred dollars on the moonwalk when this much fun can be had with balloons?" Late in the day, I noticed children running through the house from the kitchen with cooking pots filled with water, which they dumped off the deck onto the heads of water-ballooners in the thick of battle.  THAT I had to put a stop to, for purposes of water conservation.  "See?" I told visiting mothers.  "I have standards."
 









We've had many grand water battles over the years, but this may have topped them all.  I got blurred glimpses of Yosef and Daniel running past, armed to the teeth with balloons and water-guns.  I saw them playing wild soccer inside the moonwalk.  I saw them jumping on the trampoline in a tangle of kids.  I saw a six-year-old girl threatening a pack of older kids with her plump water-filled pink balloon and warning, in a high but firm little voice:  "I am NOT afraid to use this."
 
Later HORDES of dripping kids piled into the kitchen for the cakes, and sang first to Helen, then to Yosef.  Yosef followed Helen's lead in blowing out the candles.  When one remained lit, he plucked it from the cake, held it to his lips, and gave it a delicate puff. But my favorite scene of the day was the look on Daniel's face as the mob of children sang Happy Birthday to Yosef.  Such a kind, poignant, open look, such bewildered happiness.  "YOUR birthday NEXT month," I told him, but he waved that away.  THIS, he showed me, was all he really wanted.
 
So now I must go pack, and bend a hundred times to pick up balloon fragments sprinkling front yard back yard deck porch driveway and sidewalk as if from a ticker-tape parade.


















]]>
</content>
		<date>2007-06-16</date>
		<dc:date>2007-06-16</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview2</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview2</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>At the dentist</title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[Neither Yosef nor Daniel had ever been to a dentist before.  The backs of their teeth were black.  Each sat a long time in the dentist's chair while I flipped t...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[Neither Yosef nor Daniel had ever been to a dentist before.  The backs of their teeth were black.  Each sat a long time in the dentist's chair while I flipped through magazines in the waiting room.  I visited each boy occasionally, giving feeble pats on the arm in encouragement.  Neither had cavities.  "But their teeth are very worn down; they have no ridges; their teeth are like middle-aged people's teeth," the dentist said.  "It must be from eating something very hard."

"Did you eat something very hard in Ethiopia?" we asked Daniel, after Yosef had skipped outside to play with his prize, a bouncy-ball.

"Yes. Hard," he agreed in his sing-song voice.

"What did you eat that was hard?" she asked.

"Ice," he told the dentist.  "Ice very hard."

"You ate ice in rural Ethiopia?"

"Yes, very hard, ice."  He demonstrated how hard you have to bite to chew ice. 

"Ice? you grew up chewing on ICE in your VILLAGE?" I tried to confirm. (These boys had lived in a house of mud and grass, 50 miles from electricity.)

"Very hard, Ethiopia ice," he said, then went outside to try his bouncy-ball. 




No wonder they've been hit so hard by Atlanta's heat wave this summer -- they're Eskimos!

By mid-July, day after day of 100-plus temperatures, I think both boys were wishing they'd read the fine print on the adoption paperwork. Perhaps they should have waited for a nice family from Minnesota or Saskatchewan to come along.  One day Yosef simply refused to go outside.  He had HAD it.  "In Ethiopia," mused Daniel, squinting into the distance to remember, "INSIDE hot.  OUTSIDE cool.  

"In America: OUTSIDE hot, INSIDE cool." 

If only I'd known their true history:  I should have been giving them very hard ice to chew on all summer. 
]]>
</content>
		<date>2007-09-09</date>
		<dc:date>2007-09-09</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview25</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview25</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>Parenting Skills</title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[




Unhappiness again.  Yosef, age 10 (and very cute), provoked Fisseha, age 13 (and very strong), who slugged him.  And threatened to hit him again if he...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[




Unhappiness again.  Yosef, age 10 (and very cute), provoked Fisseha, age 13 (and very strong), who slugged him.  And threatened to hit him again if he kept being a pest. Yosef came weeping and whining to me, and made a great point of showing he feared for his life. All this happened at a lovely Erev Rosh Hashonah dinner at our friends’ elegant and art-filled house. What cranky children. We made it home that night, and everyone dressed up the next morning for synagogue, but rifts deepened. There were any number of people now to whom Yosef was not talking, including Helen, which hurt her feelings.  Fisseha & Daniel became jolly pals, by comparison, yukking it up. After services, we went to our traditional First Day Rosh Hashonah lunch at the home of other close friends, trailed by a crew of well-dressed sourpusses. Yosef managed to shake some hands, then descended to the basement rec room to observe ping-pong games.  Helen ran upstairs to report that Yosef was hiding, afraid Fisseha was going to hit him again.  I drifted upstairs in my friend’s house to visit the bedrooms of her three sons. All young adults now, none was home for the holiday; their bedrooms were immaculate and vacuumed, the beds tightly made. The sports posters and books dated from an earlier era in their lives.  I missed these boys, friends of my older sons. I missed the years they were all taping up baseball posters in their bedrooms. I remembered thinking one day, as I dropped off Lee at the Little League park, that baseball must exist because baseball-playing little boys were so adorable to their mothers, and the clackety-clack of their cleats across the parking lot such an endearing noise.  

Back home after lunch, hostilities worsened, with Yosef screaming in the backyard that Fisseha was throwing rocks at him.

I was near screaming myself now.  I took Fisseha aside and commiserated.  “I know it’s hard to have new brothers…”

“Not Daniel,” he said.  “Daniel’s not hard.”

“OK, I know Yosef can be a pest, but I need you to stay calm, to be a team-player.”  Etc.

He seemed unmoved.

“You don’t have to go to syngagogue tomorrow,” I suddenly told him.

“WHAT??” He was shocked.  I felt terrible. We always observe two days of Rosh Hashonah in synagogue.  

“I didn’t see you enjoy any part of the holiday,” I said.  “You were mad last night at dinner, this thing with Yosef is ruining it for me, you were indifferent today.”

Now I’d hurt his feelings.

I tried to fix it. “I didn’t say you HAD to go to school;  I said you COULD go to school.”

He shrugged.  “I’ll go to school,” he said.

Azeb, a gentle and kind middle-aged Ethiopian woman who has babysat for us for five years, was giving Yosef a talking-to in the kitchen in Amharic. 

I went on a walk.  I lingered, stayed away most of an hour, considered how unnecessarily difficult we’d made our lives.  What if our older children’s rooms were immaculate and empty, like the bedrooms of our friends’ three sons?  What if?   Instead, they were crammed and doubly-jammed with extra beds and World Cup soccer posters. 

I ran home in a cloudburst. The landscape was suddenly drenched, the trees bending, the gutters flooding.  I heard shouts in the backyard.  Four of my children—Yosef, Helen, Daniel, and Fisseha—wearing raincoats, were jumping on the trampoline and sliding across its slick surface, crashing into each other with great hilarity.  I ran into the house, put apple slices and cookies on a plate, and carried the snacks outside under an umbrella.  “Watch!” they yelled, showing me how the rain allowed them to slalom across the trampoline.  They devoured the apples and cookies.  They were all happy.  What wonderful children!  How cute and funny!  I really must be doing something right after all.  They ran in later, dried off, and had a lovely evening.  Lily, 15, extraordinarily tolerant and funny, organized board games.   This morning they all got up nicely, and got dressed up, and went to synagogue.  Such handsome children!  So well-dressed and polite!  Life is a breeze, when you’re such great parents as Don and I are. 

After synagogue, I had a chance to tell Azeb what a lovely surprise I had yesterday afternoon, coming home to find the children peaceful and playful. I tried to relay what wonderful children they really are, how they mended their ways, cheered me up, saved the holiday, and all on their own. I implied that my own kind parenting style had inspired them.

“I told them,” she said.  “I told Daniel and Yosef.”

“What did you tell them?”

“I told them they need to behave," said Azeb.  "I told Yosef, 'Five years I work here, I never saw behavior like this.'  I asked Yosef, ‘What happened at the foster home, if you acted like this?’  ‘I got hit,’ he said.  ‘I know that,’ I said.  ‘Your new mother won’t hit you.  But I will hit you, just like in Ethiopia, if you don’t behave. Do you want it to be like Ethiopia?  Do you want me to hit you?’” 

Next thing you knew, the children were all the best of friends, hopping together on their trampoline. 

No hitting of children, needless to say, will take place in our family.  But I enjoyed the sound of laughter in the backyard far more than the sound of whimpering around the holiday table. 
]]>
</content>
		<date>2007-09-14</date>
		<dc:date>2007-09-14</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview26</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview26</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>Daniel Discovers Text-Messaging with Lee</title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[Lee, at Oberlin College, was startled to get a text-message from Daniel at 1 a.m. on a SCHOOL NIGHT.
I was in Milwaukee on the book tour and heard from Lee the...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[Lee, at Oberlin College, was startled to get a text-message from Daniel at 1 a.m. on a SCHOOL NIGHT.
I was in Milwaukee on the book tour and heard from Lee the next day that the children's hours, back at home with Daddy, might not be everything I'd hoped.

Daniel (12:58 AM) allolee

Lee (12:59AM): How are you Daniel? 
Daniel (1:00AM): Iamfaynehawareyou 
 
Lee (1:01AM): Pretty good. I'm going to visit some friends tomorrow. Why are you not asleep now? 
Daniel (1:03AM): Okbay 
 
Lee (1:04AM): Hahaha. Ok. I was just asking though. I'll see you in 30 days. 
Daniel (1:09AM): Iseeyouto30DAYSOKBAY 
 
Lee  (1:10AM): Bye Daniel. I miss you. 
Daniel (1:12AM): Imisstobye ]]>
</content>
		<date>2007-09-26</date>
		<dc:date>2007-09-26</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview27</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview27</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>The Songs of a Summer Evening</title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[

Last night a friend and I took five of the children  (Helen, Yosef, Jesse, Daniel & Fisseha) to the neighborhood Ethiopian restaurant, Moya. 

The waiter,...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[

Last night a friend and I took five of the children  (Helen, Yosef, Jesse, Daniel & Fisseha) to the neighborhood Ethiopian restaurant, Moya. 

The waiter, besieged by excited voices, lost in the un-ending order, finally asked me, “Are you ordering the entire menu?”

“I think we are,” I said.

Helen and Fisseha surfaced from behind their menus to say, “And take-home, too."  

And everything should be served with the maximum quantity of flaming red-hot pepper heat, the children specified. 

Platters arrived, and arrived, and arrived.  There was Doro Key Wat (chicken stewed in berbere (red pepper) paste and served with hard-boiled eggs), Sik Sik Wat (beef stewed in berbere), Yemiser Selatta (lentils with jalapeno peppers) Timatim Fitfit (diced tomatoes, onions, garlic, jalapeno peppers) , Tibs Wat (cubed beef simmered in berbere), Gomen (fresh collard greens simmered in spices) Miser Wat (hot spicy lentils), Shiro (spicy pureed split peas), and – above all – three orders of Kitfo (beer tartar, served raw.) 

I could barely SIT near the steaming platters; I hid behind my glass of pineapple juice, occasionally nibbling humbly on a dry roll of injera.  Even the cold diced tomatoes had been mixed with chili peppers and brought tears to my eyes.  “Mom, try this!” the children offered.  “Not hot, Mom.”

They weren’t trying to trick me.  I tasted, then wept, as I have the pepper-processing ability of an infant.  

Children ate until they could eat no more.  

Then they ate more.

Then they pushed back from the table with their hands over their stomachs and groaned with happiness.

Then they pulled back to the table and ate more.  They ate it all. 

Exuberant, fueled by injera, super-charged by jalapenos, the five children, ages 10 to 13, excused themselves, thanked the owner, and hurried out the door. In the parking lot, they carried each other piggy-back and began playing chase. Then they ran piggy-back races. Then they ran walking races.  Then they ran backward races.  Then they ran bend-over-like-this-with-your-arms-hanging-down-like-a-monkey races.  Then they ran let’s-slam-full-tilt-into-Mom’s-parked-car races.  Then they ran stick-out-your-butt-and-waddle-like-this races. I waited at our table on the patio for the bill and for the carry-out order, thinking, “Worse case scenario?  Anyone who objects to the behavior of four Ethiopian children and one brown-skinned Bulgarian Roma child in the parking lot will NEVER link them to ME.”

I was wrong.  “Your children are very excited,” said entering customers.  

On the car ride home, it began.  

First a gigantic long drawn-out belch from Jesse in the far back seat.  It sounded like the roar of a lion.  The others laughed appreciatively and felt inspired.  My calling, “Jesse! Say ‘Excuse me,’” did not inspire.  Yosef followed with a high-pitched yelp of a burp.  Daniel and Fisseha shared enormous guttural noises like yawning hippos and Jesse roared back from so deep in his gut it sounded like he was about to throw up. “Stop!” I cried.  “This is gross!” I cried.  “Enough already!” I cried. Helen—petite and graceful Helen—then out-did them all with a belch that seemed to emerge from the center of the earth.  I kept my eyes on the road.  The belches and burps were constant now, overlapping, obscene, high-pitched and low.  It was a thunderstorm of laryngeal gas. I lowered all four windows and opened the sun roof.  I dared not look at the friend in the passenger seat beside me as I was completely helpless to stop the chorus.  Cool air blew in from the dark streets, a needed counterpoint to the windiness inside the car.  

The non-stop yawp and yurk and urrrp, and the fetid air, began to remind me of a still pond I once visited in Vermont. After sunset, the Spring Peepers (Yosef) and the Wood Frogs, Green Frogs, and American Toads (Fisseha, Daniel, Jesse) launched into song; and, most thrilling, the American Bullfrog (Helen) sounded bass notes so powerful they seemed to ripple the surface of the pond.  Blat.  Skirrr-up.  RRRRRups.  Unable to silence the children, who grew more delighted with each ear-splitting digestive pronouncement,  I tried to appreciate the rough song and gassiness of the belches as a natural phenomenon.  As I held onto the steering wheel with both hands, I told myself:  “Vermont.  Think of Vermont.”

At home, I ordered all the children to stay in the front yard to finish.  

“We’ll stop, we’ll stop!”  they cried, eager to come inside.

“No, I’m sure if you were capable of stopping, you’d have stopped in the car when I asked you 20 times.” 

“No, we can stop!” they said with big smiles.  

By which I gleaned that the orchestral concert of burp music had been staged, in large part, for my benefit.  

There were small lapses and peeps all through the evening, but I never could catch the transgressors, as they somehow managed to stay both out of sight and within earshot of me. 












]]>
</content>
		<date>2007-10-08</date>
		<dc:date>2007-10-08</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview30</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview30</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>Landscaping</title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[We live in a very pretty neighborhood of tree-lined hilly streets, upon which acorns fall and bikers coast and squirrels do double-takes. Children in back-packs...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[We live in a very pretty neighborhood of tree-lined hilly streets, upon which acorns fall and bikers coast and squirrels do double-takes. Children in back-packs hike up and down the sidewalks crunching through the leaves; and people of all ages tend their flower gardens and fill bird-feeders and prepare jack-o-lanterns amongst tasteful arrangements of cornstalks and hay bales.  

My family has, by far, the most hideous front yard in the neighborhood.

At any moment I expect to hear a brisk knock on the door from representatives of the neighborhood improvement association, giving us 48 hours to pack up and leave town. “We don’t want trouble,” they will say.  “We just need you to go.” 

For many years, my husband Donny struggled to raise—and did raise—pleasant crops of grass.  The grass was never abundant, as the shade from the massive Tulip Poplar tree screened out the sunlight, but the yard was green and soft and shiny.  I remember this.  You could, like, sit on the grass in the front yard.  You could lie back on the grass and look at the sky.  Bald spots got filled in with clover and wild greenery and it grew long enough that a lawn-mower left nice back-and-forth stripes. It looked like the other yards:  grass, hedges, brick walk-way. A light game of badminton left plastic birdies dangling on the grass.

Sometime this summer, after the arrival of Child Number Eight and Child Number Nine, the yard took a bad turn.  The new boys brought the soccer-playing cohort to at least seven children on a slow day.  Someone dragged the portable soccer goals up the driveway and nailed them into the front yard.  The stampede of cleated feet ground out the clover. Over a period of about three weeks, the lawn surrendered and died. Georgia has been parched by an historic drought this year, so the soccer players raised dust like broncos kicking up dirt at a rodeo. Finally only thin sideburns of old dusty grass stood at the far sides of the yard, as if someone were sketching a rectangle using green crayon.  The solid middle of the rectangle was brown. We had created, in our very own midtown Atlanta neighborhood, a Third World soccer field.
   
I didn’t realize how far we’d declined from neighborhood standards until my son Lee arrived home a few days ago for fall break.  Lee’s not a big lover of landscaping.  He’s probably never even noticed landscaping before.  But he got out of the car from the airport, glanced left, and said, “Oh my God.”

Then, finally, a long-prayed-for rain arrived.  It rained yesterday, really rained.  Long grey hard rain.  A thrill ran through the house.  It used to rain nearly every afternoon of every summer day.  Atlanta used to have a rainy season.  Then the heavens dried up.  The sky was as hot and dry this past summer as my front yard. So yesterday’s rain—and running to roll up the car windows, and running to park the bikes under the porch, and realizing that team soccer practice was cancelled, and turning on lamps in the livingroom—felt new.  Rain!  Children tore out of the house to look at it, to look straight up and feel it.  The children ran out, skidded across the new slick mud of the front yard, and fell down.  This was funny.  This had to be repeated.  Look!  If you took a running start, you could slide sideways in the mud and leave a trail.  Better barefoot.  Better, for boys, without shirts.  Better barefoot, no shirts, and wearing too-small raincoats.  Better playing soccer in the mud, in the pouring rain.  Better yet:  dodgeball.  Dodgeball with a dripping mud-covered soccer ball that hit the victim with a momentous whomp.  Better still:  hold umbrellas, tap-dance barefoot in the mud, dodge the mud-ball, then pick it up and hurl the dripping thing.  Rain and mud coated the children.  I flew about inside gathering towels. “What is this like?” I thought happily.  “Oh!  It’s like a snow day!”  Years ago, when my oldest kids were little, we could expect at least one school-cancelling Snow Day a year.  The snow usually melted by mid-afternoon, with temperatures returning to the 50s, but for a few uncanny morning hours every year, we were transported to a different world, a Northern world of frozen branches and white yards.

Here, finally, after a season of drought, we had a Rain Day.













The kids now were whooping, screaming, dancing, and melting with mud. They were one with the mud.  They WERE  the mud. Then, abruptly,  they wanted to take showers. “Whoa!  Whoa!  Wait!” I yelled, trying to block them from stampeding through the house.  “You come in through the BASEMENT door, take off your clothes at the DOOR, and use the BASEMENT shower.”   Despite these helpful tips, many waited till my back was turn to squeeze past the front door and up the stairs, leaving footprints unique in their size and depth. 












The front yard today, in the lingering drizzle, looks like a drenched sheet of paper upon which a preschooler finger-painted, smearing all the colors together into one sickening yellowish-brown.  The yard is streaked and curlicued. A blown umbrella sits inside-out in the puddles.  The yard is beyond hideous.

And yet—this is true—when I just went outside to survey the damage to our reputation and to the neighborhood’s appeal, I spotted, rejuvenated by the rain, stirred up in the mud-stew, a few pale-green hopeful tendrils of new grass. 
]]>
</content>
		<date>2007-10-24</date>
		<dc:date>2007-10-24</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview32</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview32</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>Halloween Horrors</title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[How do you explain Halloween to newly-arrived Ethiopian boys?  They nodded with polite interest every time we tried to prepare them.  Daniel formed the impressi...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[How do you explain Halloween to newly-arrived Ethiopian boys?  They nodded with polite interest every time we tried to prepare them.  Daniel formed the impression that it was necessary to badly scare the people answering their doorbells, in order to get candy from them.  Consequently he changed his mind about the nice Spiderman costume I’d brought home for him from Target.. He wanted something worse-looking.  A friend spared me the dreaded pre-Halloween visit to Party City and took Daniel herself.  



He arrived home from the strangest shopping trip of his life, hurried into the bathroom, and emerged looking like Something from the Crypt: tattered clothes, protruding ribs, and three-dimensional dabs of  blood everywhere.  The mask was a scrunched leering bony bloody half-skinless skull under wild matted grey hair.  I screamed appropriately.  He was ecstatic.  “I do Dad now!” he said and tore upstairs.  His earnest awkward gait was evident under the layers of ugliness.  There was a shout upstairs.  Then Daniel reappeared. “I do Dad.  Now I do Lily,” he cried, and dashed off again in his loping gait.  

After these successes, he spent a long time in front of the bathroom mirror.  He came out with his costume neatly folded under his arm.  Suppressing a smile, he predicted: “Many candy me.”

But his Halloween was not a success!  Donny and I wanted to walk with him, and Jesse offered to escort him, but Daniel said, “Go my friends,” which meant he would tag along with Fisseha to join crowds of other seventh-grade boys and girls. The first unhappy surprise for Daniel was that Fisseha strolled out at dusk in jeans and a t-shirt, while Daniel was dressed as Death Warmed-Over.  He panicked and ran back into the house to change.  “At least take your costume!” I said, hating to see him disappointed.  So he wore the bloody black costume pants and a t-shirt.  Fisseha and his friends were not really planning to trick-or-treat;  as seventh-graders, they’ve nearly aged out of that activity, but I’d wanted Daniel to have one shot at it. 

He hurried behind Fisseha and followed him to the most popular and crowded Halloween neighborhood, one in which families cover their yards, rooftops, mailboxes, and bushes with out-size spiders and inflatable black cats and blinking lights and flickering jack-o-lanterns.  There is a Haunted Trail in this neighborhood, where witch’s cauldrons steam with smoke and live severed heads rest smilingly on a picnic table and middle-school boys dressed as ghouls leap out from behind gravestones.  What happened next is a subject of dispute. 

“He leave me,” Daniel accuses Fisseha.  “I new.  He know.  But he leave me.”

Fisseha is indifferent to this charge.  “I know!” he says, about the fact that Daniel disappeared.  “I looked around and I didn’t see him.”  Fisseha had spotted two eighth-grade boys from his soccer team who invited him to join them, and he’d peeled off from the seventh-grade group for a while.

“Why didn’t you just call Fisseha?” I asked, as everyone that night used cell-phones like walkie-talkies to find one another.  

“No my phone,” he said.  “Costume no pocket.” 

Daniel found himself alone amidst hundreds and hundreds of bizarrely-dressed white people, while manufactured fog leached into the streets and taped screams bleated from speakers. Surely there were kids all around him whom he knew, who would have helped him, but make-up and masks disguised them.  He panicked.  He managed to fight his way out of the neighborhood, find the right direction, and stride home.  Both Helen and Lily, out with their friends, saw him coming down the hill towards our house and they called to him. Head down and silent, he angrily waved them away. He loped into the house, ran down the stairs to his bedroom, locked the door, and got into bed.  He responded to none of our entreaties, over the next several hours, to come out and try again. When I finally got into the room, he pulled the blankets over his head and rolled over to face the wall.  

He was darkly furious the next day, boycotting Fisseha.  I brought home a bag of candy from CVS to give to Daniel after school, and he said, eyes lowered, voice low, “No Mom. No candy me.” 

“Daniel,” I said, sitting beside him on the porch. “Listen, Fisseha did not mean to lose you.”

“Yes Mom.  He leave me.”

“Daniel, there were a million people there, he was running around with many friends…”

“No Mom,” he said, which meant:  end of discussion.

But my friend Kathryn Legan offered the good advice to keep telling Daniel the rational information that Fisseha had not lost him on purpose. “People do hear you,” she says, “even if they appear to be completely opposed to the information.  They do take it in.”

So I kept it up.  “Daniel, Fisseha asked you to come with him.  Why would he have done that if he meant to ditch you?  He didn’t lose you on purpose.  He couldn’t find you and you didn’t have your phone.”

And so forth.

He tilted into a depression of loneliness.  He interpreted the events like this:  “You have no friends and you are not wanted here.”  

Yosef, the 10-year-old, is an ebullient, cute, out-going, athletic boy, and he is picking up English lickety-split.  He trick-or-treated with two of his new best friends and he had a blast. He’s the one often asking to use the phone to call his friends in Ethiopia.

Daniel, 13, is less athletic, much shyer, still clumsy in English, often confused, fearing the worse. Probably even if his life had not been overthrown by the deaths of his parents and two brothers and his landing in an orphanage, Daniel would have been the out-lier, the odd man out, watchful, harboring misgivings, and a few steps behind. 

The four boys—Yosef and Daniel, Fisseha and Jesse—choose to sleep in a single bedroom every night, in Daniel & Fisseha’s basement bedroom with two queen beds.  An autumn litter of crumpled brown candy-wrappers soon covered the bedspreads and carpet; a rich chocolaty smell fills the air.  Gobstoppers fell onto the floor like hail.  “We’re going to get mice,” I told them 200 times.  And: "It’s not good for your teeth to fall asleep sucking on caramels.”  The riches were shared.  Most of the candy was Jesse’s, who trick-or-treated the night away, reveling in the wildness of the night.  “I went to one house 12 times!” he announced.  A good portion of the candy came Daniel’s way.  My calm words, sweetened by 10 miniature Milky Ways, softened Daniel towards Fisseha.

Now all is forgiven, their teeth are yellow, and we’ve got mice.













]]>
</content>
		<date>2007-11-10</date>
		<dc:date>2007-11-10</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview33</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview33</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>Home from book tour, back in the trenches</title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[I am reduced to taking comfort from cliches.  This morning within a ten-minute period Jesse needed his basketball form filled out, Daniel needed lunch money, Fi...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[I am reduced to taking comfort from cliches.  This morning within a ten-minute period Jesse needed his basketball form filled out, Daniel needed lunch money, Fisseha needed an insurance card copied front and back for an upcoming overnight trip, Helen felt sick, it was my day to drive Lily's carpool, neither Daniel nor Yosef could find a jacket they liked, Daniel discovered he liked Fisseha's jacket, Fisseha protested, Daniel grew sad, Fisseha changed his mind, and Donny is out of town.  All this and more I handled, till the cat jumped onto the diningroom table in order to make eye-contact with me and then let out the meeow from hell. She was demanding food, and not kibble either, but an expensive small can of gourmet cat food of a particular recipe we are out of.  At this moment I remembered:  "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger."  Do I even have that correct?  Could one be killed by an assertive cat?  Could an assertive cat plus a printer jamming its paper rather than copying an insurance card lead to an early death? Am I stronger for having survived them? 

Yesterday the expression "A rolling stone gathers no moss" occured to me. I interpreted it to mean:  "Those who don't have many children won't, in middle and old age, have had many children."  Then I attempted to derive a bit of strength from that content.  Am I losing my mind?  Is there a cliche to cover this situation? ]]>
</content>
		<date>2007-10-02</date>
		<dc:date>2007-10-02</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview28</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview28</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>Thanksgiving 2007</title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[







This was the second time Donny and I had all nine of our children in one place.  And it felt like 15 children.  And it was 15 children, as Donny...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[







This was the second time Donny and I had all nine of our children in one place.  And it felt like 15 children.  And it was 15 children, as Donny’s mom and his two brothers and their children and one of their children’s friends joined us at three beach condos on Amelia Island, Florida. The laughter!  The mayhem!  Daniel did not get lost on this holiday, and Seth taught him to drive a rented golf-cart (the only golfing skill any of us has is steering the golf-cart to and from the grocery and gym).  And Yosef drove the golf-cart, and Helen drove the golf-cart, and Jesse drove the golf-cart, and, at each trip, an older sibling or cousin good-naturedly hung onto the front seat and screamed in terror. 

We played beach volleyball like this:  nearly everyone was on one side of the net playing regular volleyball.  Yosef, Daniel, Fisseha, and a friend faced them as soccer-players, serving and returning the volleyball by kicking or heading it. The soccer players defeated the regular volleyball players seven games out of seven. I played for about three minutes until I attempted to return a ball delivered by a brisk soccer-playing kick from Yosef;  I jammed my fingers so badly they hurt for two days.  After the game we rested at the edge of the dunes watching Daniel pursue the volleyball down the beach; he’d kick it high into the wind coming off the waves and then tear after it like a little kid.  We laughed partly because he looked so goofy and partly at the pleasure of seeing Daniel PLAY.  

The kids (and I) played a pell-mell game of Sardines (like Hide-or-Seek but you squeeze in and hide WITH the hiding person) back and forth between two of the houses.  Jesse scrunched into an under-the-sink bathroom cabinet.  Yosef stood flat behind curtains.  









We all played Charades (in which Helen saved her team by guessing “Francisco Pizzaro” but no one on that team recognized clues for “Twas Brillig and the Slithy Tove…”) and we played a drawing game and board games. Lily won the late-night game of Spades. I made caramel apples.  When no golfers were in sight, the kids ran to the green to throw a football and tackle each other; and, when golfers rounded the bend in a golf-cart, the kids dove for cover on the patio.  There was much wrestling on couches and piggy-back-riding on the beach and splashing in the pool and hot-tub and everyone was completely exhausted every night.  The boys actually put themselves to bed, in the house they shared with Uncle Billy and Aunt Tracy.  It seemed the perfect, perfect Thanksgiving (although, after we’d cooked for most of the day on Thursday and finally set out the banquet, Daniel sat alone in the livingroom looking into the distance.  “What’s wrong?” I asked, and he said, “I no like this food.”)  

How, I wonder, can I replicate such joy at home?  

I think I know. We need to live in two houses—about three doors apart—rather than in one, and we need a beach and a pool and a hot-tub and two golf-carts.  Above all, we need the gregarious cousins and siblings willing to hop onto bikes and golf-carts for wild rides rather than a dreary pair of parents who are constantly telling people to brush their teeth, take out the garbage, and/or  go to bed.

























]]>
</content>
		<date>2007-11-27</date>
		<dc:date>2007-11-27</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview34</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview34</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>Daniel writes a story</title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[ Daniel Samuel 
    
Water and ice fiends one day
 the water said I am  good you 
are not good because you 
don’t move but I can move. 
The ice said oh yo...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[ Daniel Samuel 
    
Water and ice fiends one day
 the water said I am  good you 
are not good because you 
don’t move but I can move. 
The ice said oh you are not
 strong I am better than you. 
The water said I can go 
anywhere but you can’t go. I 
can help people if they are 
thirsty. The ice said I can help 
people for skating games. The 
water said all life think they 
need me but they don’t need 
you. The water said you can’t 
hot but I can get cold and hot. 
The ice said I can make a 
snowman. They can hold me 
but they can’t hold you. The 
water said we are very good 
friends we don’t have to talk 
about bad things lets go play 
games.
]]>
</content>
		<date>2007-12-06</date>
		<dc:date>2007-12-06</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview36</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview36</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>English fun</title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[Of course 7th-grade Daniel won't always speak English like this, but it's so much fun while he does. 

"Mom!" he ordered enthusiastically in the car as I drov...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[Of course 7th-grade Daniel won't always speak English like this, but it's so much fun while he does. 

"Mom!" he ordered enthusiastically in the car as I drove him to soccer practice.  "Body all now I can.  ALL. Ask."  

He was relaying some good news from his English as a Second Language (ESL) class, but the news seemed hard to classify. I thought he was saying, "Body oil now I can.  OIL. Ask." 

I could not WAIT to ask.  "Okay!" I shouted.

"Ask."

"All body oil?"

"All," he repeated. "Teacher say 100!" 

"Oil?"

"Yes."

"Uh huh."

"Ask," he said.  He looked so happy, absolutely beaming with expectation.

I... I hardly knew where to begin.

"Oil?"

"Oh my God," said Daniel.  He pointed to my shoulder and enquired. "This one?"

"This one?"

"Shoulder!" he shouted.

"Oh!" I said.  "You learned the parts of the body!"

"All body me!  Ask!"

I held up my hand.

"Hand!" said Daniel.  

I pointed to my chin.

"Chin!" said Daniel.

I outlined my lips.

"Mouth!" said Daniel.  

I wiggled my fingers.

"Fingers!" said Daniel.

I held up my thumb.

"Moth-ball," said Daniel. 

I burst out laughing.

"Oh my God," said Daniel.  "T -- H -- I do not like this T - H."

"Thumb," I said.

"Tumb," said Daniel. "I knew there was T - H.  No good T - H."

I love talking to Daniel.  With or without oil.  ]]>
</content>
		<date>2007-09-06</date>
		<dc:date>2007-09-06</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview23</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview23</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>Something Big and Not Good   (finished!) </title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[Fisseha & Daniel got in a fist-fight. 

A real fight, a violent fight.  Like something from a movie I wouldn’t be watching since I don’t like to see fights.  ...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[Fisseha & Daniel got in a fist-fight. 

A real fight, a violent fight.  Like something from a movie I wouldn’t be watching since I don’t like to see fights.  Swinging, punching, scratching, strangling, the two came like a tornado out of their bedroom and banged against the door and wall. Helen screamed for me and I tried to intervene, then backed away, yelling at the boys to stop.  Swing! Punch!  Slam!  Choke!  Lily, Jesse, and I somehow separated them; Daniel stormed back into the bedroom and slammed the door hard. Fisseha’s neck had red scratches from Daniel’s fingernails. We led Fisseha up two flights of stairs and seated him on Jesse’s lower bunk bed. He was panting HARD, his eyes wide, panting, panting, not from fatigue but from fury.  “I’m going to kill him,” he panted. Helen and I put first-aid cream and bandages on his neck.  

My sympathy flew entirely to Fisseha since this was the third fist-fight we’ve ever had in our family, all three since June, all three involving Daniel. The first two were aimed at Jesse.  

Jesse hovered here, amazed;  amazed, I think, that something Big and Not Good had just happened in the family and It Wasn’t His Fault.  

I was too mad at Daniel to go downstairs for an hour; then went down and told him, briefly, Good night; then I trudged upstairs wearied in advance by the psychological repair work that must lie ahead.

I had no idea how much work.

Fisseha slept in Jesse’s room that night;  Daniel slept downstairs, in the bedroom he shares with Fisseha.

The next day the air was frigid between the two seventh-graders, as I expected.  Instead of waiting for each other and crossing the street together to the school bus stop, they went separately.  On the steep sidewalk perpendicular to our street, they stood as far apart as possible; they boarded the bus and took seats far apart.  I recalled Brother and Sister Bear doing the same in “Berenstein Bears Get In A Fight.” 

The boys came off the bus that afternoon and found separate paths to our front door.  Both came in and greeted me and got a snack and acted as if the other were invisible.  But this was only Day 1, so it was expected. 

At bedtime, Daniel didn’t know where to sleep for Fisseha clearly had reclaimed the bedroom that had been his first.  Daniel took a blanket and lay down on a sofa in the livingroom.  “Take Seth’s room for now,” I told him, as Seth is in graduate school in New York City, and he did.  

I had to wake up Daniel the next morning for the first time, for Fisseha, who bounds out of bed at dawn every day, always wakes Daniel to get ready for school.  Again, the frigid air, the tense mood.  Again, they walked separately to the bus stop.

But this was only Day 2.

“Guys, enough,” I said on Day 3.  “Stop this.  Let’s get back to normal.”

They didn’t.

“What were you even fighting about?” I asked Fisseha.

“I don’t know!” he said.  “He went crazy.”

“I sleep,” Daniel told me later.  “Yosef come in, wake me.  Fisseha come in, put CD on loud.  ‘I sleep!’ I tell them.  Loud CD, no stop.”

“OK, you tried to kill each other because Yosef and Fisseha woke you up and put on loud music?”

He shrugged.

On Seth’s bed one night (Day 4 of The Silence), I sat beside Daniel to talk about anger management.  “It’s a strong force inside you,” I said.  “You’re a very strong young man.  But if the anger controls YOU, that’s no good, that doesn’t make you strong. YOU have to be the boss of your anger.”  That kind of thing.  In pidgin English.  “The anger is like a wild horse.  You have to ride it, to reign it in.”

When I finished, he stood up, came close to me, hugged and kissed me, and said, “Thank you, Mom.”

But the silence continued.  Daniel withdrew from social life.  When seventh-grade boys came over to hang out, Daniel stayed in the house, asked to watch TV, asked to play on the computer.  When I said no (“It’s a beautiful day!” I always reply), he simply sulked.  He turned down outings.  He became even more of a loner than before.  

I asked my friend Andrea Sarvady to come over and intervene again, as she’d done so successfully in September.  “I’m not optimistic about this one,” she said.  

She led the two boys back to the bedroom they once shared, but they wouldn’t utter more than monosyllables and they wouldn’t look at each other.  I lingered upstairs.  When Daniel suddenly re-appeared in the kitchen, I was angry, thinking he’d walked out of the session.  But Andy told me later:  “I let Daniel go.  Daniel suddenly said ‘Sorry’ to Fisseha, though I wasn’t asking them to apologize, but Fisseha could barely respond or look at him. After Daniel left, I told Fisseha, “I’m not keeping you longer because you’re in more trouble.  I’m keeping you because you’re angrier.’”

Day 8.  Day 9.  Day 10.

I tried to over-psychologize Fisseha.  “There’s deep anger inside you,” I told him, as he lounged on the sofa one afternoon.  “It’s like this big thing you can’t get around.  You should be able to move beyond this fight and you can’t.”  He listened unemotionally. “I’m going to get help for you,” I said.  “I’m going to find a professional for you to talk to.”  He groaned.

I hate silence.  I hate what we used to call “the silent treatment.”  My father, when angry, used to use the silent treatment on me and my brother.

Donny thought I was over-reacting. “At least they’re not hitting each other,” he said.

I tried to be content with this.  “At least they’re not hitting each other,” I told myself on Days 11, 12, 13.   But I still felt terrible.  

“It’s because we did that wrong thing,” I told myself, “that thing in the adoption world I’ve advised others to avoid. ‘Virtual twinning.’  We’ve got two strong tough 13-year-old seventh-grade boys.  They’re having a power struggle.”

“Fisseha is the Alpha with the younger kids,” I thought.  “But Daniel refuses to defer to his authority.  So Fisseha’s really mad at having his power challenged.  But it’s not a bad thing, to have his authority challenged,” I told myself.  “Donny and I should hold the power in the family, not a seventh-grader.” 

Day 13.  

Hanukah was coming.

I sat them down.  “Guys, listen, we can’t go on like this.  It’s not good for the family.  Hanukah’s coming.  I’m not going to have this during Hanukah.  So stop it.”

I shopped differently than in the past.  I went to a sports store and got advice on punching bags and boxing gloves.  “Will this help them get the aggression out?” I wondered.  “Or will it make their muscles stronger so they’ll do more damage next time?”  My indecision led to my purchasing only the ceiling hook for the punching bag, but no bag or gloves.  

Hanukah arrived!  There was shopping, gift-wrapping, cleaning menorahs, secrets, getting out the paper decorations, playing some favorite cassette tapes.  There was the inevitable Hebrew school performance, this year featuring Jesse beat-boxing on the stage as his class sang Mi Yimalel.  At home, the kids got longed-for presents.  Some gave gifts to each other.  Some gave gifts they had made. Yosef and Daniel learned to chant the blessings over the candle-lighting. 






It was all pretty fun.  It wasn’t magically fun.  We missed Molly, Seth, and Lee very much.  We “saved” a night of Hanukah to celebrate with them once they flew in from San Francisco, New York, and Oberlin later in December.  But it was pretty fun.  “It’s boring this year,” Lily and Helen told me.  The girls retreated upstairs to Lily’s room every evening after the candles burned down.  It was nice, but it wasn’t a once-in-a-lifetime-type laughter-filled religious family event. 





On the next-to-last day of Hanukah, I happened to see Fisseha and Daniel step off the middle school bus and they walked their very separate paths to our front door.  

“What?” I cried to Lily.  “Are they still not talking??”

“Duh,” said Lily.

“This whole time?  All through Hanukah?  They never made up??”

“No, Mom.”

“Helen, did you know??” I cried.

“No, Mommy, I didn’t know either.”

“How did I miss this?” I yelled.  “I’m an idiot.  They tricked me.  I’m such a sucker. I can’t believe they weren’t talking all through Hanukah.”

I ran upstairs to my bedroom, slammed the door, and got into bed.  I turned on the electric blanket. “THIS is why it hasn’t been a wonderful Hanukah!” I thought, enraged to the point of tears. I got up again to lower the window shades, then got back into bed.  It was one of the shortest days of the year; the night came on fast.  I couldn’t believe I’d missed the continued silence.  I was blinded by the Hanukah lights, the potato pancakes, the gift wrap. I was blinded by my own efforts to give everyone a wonderful holiday.  I got up again and grabbed the phone, got back into bed, and called Andy, my across-the-street pal. “I’m so mad,” I whispered, “I don’t think I can do the last night of Hanukah.  I don’t think I can leave my bedroom.  I’m going to stay in bed.” I got out of bed again, holding the phone, and locked my door.

She urged me not to punish all the children in this way.

“The boys may want to start talking again, but they just can’t do it,” she said.

I called another friend, Barbara McClure, who knows both Fisseha (“Sol”) and Daniel very well. She tutored them both in math all summer, for free, out of kindness.  “Remember how incredibly generous Sol was when Daniel came?” she said.  “He stayed home from camp for him. He translated for him.  He took him everywhere, introduced him to everyone. He even translated for him so I could teach him math.  He may be feeling, ‘I did all that for him and what do I get? He punches me.’” 

I got out of bed.  I gave it my all one last time.  I created a treasure hunt, like I used to do when the kids were little.  I hid clues all over the house, and one in the mailbox, and one in the backyard, and one inside the pool table, and one by the cat food.  I explained the game to Fisseha and Daniel, said the treasure hunt was for them only, said a present for them was the prize but they had to do it together.

They enjoyed their treasure hunt.  They ran upstairs and downstairs smiling.  Helen and Yosef and Jesse and Lily cheered them on. But there was no talking between the two participants. They did the treasure hunt, they got the prize, then they went their separate ways.  

“Did you give me a Hanukah present?” I asked Fisseha before dinner.

“Yes, Mom!” he said, startled.  “The picture frame—you know? I painted it for you?”

“Oh, right, I love it,” I said.  “Will you give me another Hanukah present?”

He looked concerned.

“This one is free,” I prompted.

“Oh,” he said.

“Just try, little by little, OK?”

“OK,” he said, and I kissed him. 

But Hanukah ended and they weren’t speaking.

I’d failed to detect the silence for a week; now I knew to watch for it.  We all sat around the dinner table one night and Fisseha had made his Ethiopian specialty:  grilled, nearly burnt, corn on the cob in the husk from the outside grill.  He offered everyone at the table an ear of corn, except Daniel.  

Sometimes it was incredibly subtle.  All the kids crowded together, kicking a soccer ball in the yard or serving their dinner plates in the kitchen;  you had to watch closely to see—in the tangle of relationships and voices—that one circuit had gone silent.  

“Did I get my Hanukah gift?” I asked Fisseha after school one day.

He raised his hand, both palms facing in, several inches apart, and moved them back and forth to relay ‘little-by-little,’ like ‘I’m working on it.’

“OK,” I sighed.

But it didn’t seem he was working on it.  It seemed like everyone in the family had adjusted to this new, lower, less joyful level of family life.

Then Fisseha accidentally laundered his cell phone, to its demise. It was covered by insurance, so I ordered a replacement phone for him, which, they told me, was a newer and much cooler model. 

For several days he bounded in from school, asking if his new phone had arrived.

The day it arrived, I hid the box on a bookshelf in my office.

“Is my phone here?” he asked that day.

“I’m not sure,” I said.  “Did I get my Hanukah present yet?”

He moved his hands back and forth to relay, “Working on it.”

“Same!” I said, moving my hands back and forth like that.  “Working on it.”

We had the same communication the next day, except that I added, “Fisseha, whenever you’re ready, your phone is ready.”

The next day he didn’t ask for his phone, nor the next.

“You’d rather not have your phone than have to speak to Daniel,” I said to him, and he shrugged.

“Daniel, please,” I said one night.

“Mom!” he exploded, the first time he’s ever shown anger at me.  “Not me!  You want to see? Look!  You want me talk?  Look!”  He stormed downstairs from Seth's bedroom to his former bedroom, where Fisseha was getting into bed.  “Good night, Fisseha,” he said.

Fisseha said nothing.

Daniel turned and went back upstairs.

“Fisseha!” I cried.  “Daniel just told you goodnight.”

“I didn’t hear him,” said Fisseha.

Time For Dad To Get Involved.  “This can’t go on,” I told my amiable husband.

“They’re still not talking?”

Now it was my turn to give Lily’s reply: “Duh.”

“It’s Fisseha, not Daniel, I’m sure,” I said. “I need you to tell Fisseha that it has to stop. I need you to be clear about it, not tousling his hair, rolling your eyes.”

Later that night he said, “Fisseha, this is idiotic.  You need to start talking again.”

"What about Daniel?" he said in protest.

"I'll tell Daniel, too," said Donny.

Lee came home from Oberlin for winter break and I told him.  He was sad, but unsure what to do other than shower his affection on both boys.

On that Sunday, Molly & Seth were flying in together from New York, where Molly had visited friends, played in her band, stayed with Seth.  “I hate to have to tell Seth and Molly,” I told Fisseha.

Then Jesse helped.  Mr. Jesse “Some-People-Are-In-Trouble-In-The-Family-But-Not-Me” Samuel.  

“I asked Fisseha why he wasn’t talking to Daniel,” Jesse said, “and he said, ‘After I get in a fight with somebody, it’s hard to start talking again.’”

I melted.  I rushed to tell Daniel, “The moment Fisseha tries, even a little bit, to talk to you, be open to him, OK?’

“Yes, Mom,” he said, annoyed.  His take on the situation was, I fear, something along the lines of:  “Family good, Fisseha no good.”

Sometime between Saturday afternoon and the Sunday of Molly’s and Seth’s arrival, the boys started talking.  I noticed they were not only jumping with the others on the trampoline, but playing with each other.

The communications increased, quite civilly.

Little by little, over several days, it came along.  I didn’t hover, but I noticed.  The once-dead circuit was dimly lit by a current of syllables.

By the end of winter break, they were completely conversant; and, on their first school morning of 2008, they walked together to the bus stop.

Now, two weeks later, I notice that the full-hearted and kind friendship is back.  Fisseha, especially, is generous again.  If he’s at a friend’s house, he’ll phone home to invite Daniel to join them.  Today, in an incredibly rare snowstorm, he and other guys were heading out to sled and have snowball fights, and Daniel stood in the front hall, in pants, t-shirt, and socks, baffled by what to wear.  Fisseha jogged back into the house and gathered winter outerwear for Daniel. He calls him Dani (pronounced like Donny) again.

What did the trick?
Donny’s intervention?
Lee’s?
Molly’s and Seth’s imminent arrival?
The treasure hunt?
My kind and helpful and semi-psychological approaches?  

Was anything resolved?  A power struggle?  Who’s stronger?  Who’s the Alpha?  At what volume bedtime hip-hop or Ethiopian CDs should be played?  

I Have No Idea.
]]>
</content>
		<date>2008-01-19</date>
		<dc:date>2008-01-19</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview37</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview37</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>Molly on NPR</title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[Molly works fulltime for the San Francisco-based www.ForestEthics.com, an environmental nonprofit, and she itnerns part-time for NPR affiliate station KQED.  Sh...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[Molly works fulltime for the San Francisco-based www.ForestEthics.com, an environmental nonprofit, and she itnerns part-time for NPR affiliate station KQED.  She just sold her first story to NPR.  I heard it Friday morning as I drove home after dropping Lily off at high school.  After hearing the lead-in, "Molly Samuel of member station KQED reports..." I began screaming and could barely stay on the road.

You can hear Molly HERE, reporting on baseball's steriod scandal: 


http://www.everyzing.com/viewMedia.jsp?index=1&start=0&mc=en-aud&il=en&col=en-aud-public-ep&q=molly+samuel&res=133321851&num=10&filter=1&expand=true&match=query,channel&dedupe=1&y=0&x=0&e=15451182                                                                                                                                                                                                                      

Lee is our in-house varsity baseball player and baseball historian. He was pleased for Molly, of course, but had to wonder:  "MOLLY?  NPR asked MOLLY?  Like I wasn't available?"]]>
</content>
		<date>2007-12-14</date>
		<dc:date>2007-12-14</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview38</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview38</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>PARADE Magazine</title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[Many of you may have seen my article about returning with Helen to Ethiopia that appeared in the 1/13/08 issue of PARADE.
I've posted a much longer version of ...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[Many of you may have seen my article about returning with Helen to Ethiopia that appeared in the 1/13/08 issue of PARADE.
I've posted a much longer version of the article here on the website, under Recent Articles.
The photos here are of children in Ethiopia rather than of Angelina & Madonna who were not, actually, with us on the trip.]]>
</content>
		<date>2008-02-01</date>
		<dc:date>2008-02-01</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview40</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview40</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>We're for Obama</title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[Molly called from San Francisco and mentioned, "There was a guy standing outside my office window for three hours today shouting for Obama.  I'm for Obama, but ...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[Molly called from San Francisco and mentioned, "There was a guy standing outside my office window for three hours today shouting for Obama.  I'm for Obama, but this got a tiny bit annoying."

The moment I clicked off, a text message came in on my cell-phone from Seth in New York City.  "I just finished a volunteer shift for Obama," he wrote.

"Wonderful!" I texted back.  "What did you do?"

"I stood on a busy street corner and shouted at people."

"For how long?"

"Three hours."]]>
</content>
		<date>2008-02-07</date>
		<dc:date>2008-02-07</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview39</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview39</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>Pleasant days</title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[We’ve had a great few days.  I may be starting to get the hang of having six children in the house, including four boys who like to overturn livingroom chairs a...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[We’ve had a great few days.  I may be starting to get the hang of having six children in the house, including four boys who like to overturn livingroom chairs and set them up at opposite ends of the room and play soccer with the nice upholstery as goals despite the fact that we have a completely bald front yard for that. 

Last night, at bedtime, I found Yosef and Fisseha on all fours on the carpet facing each other across a wide arched doorway from which they’d hung a small heavy rubber ball on an elastic string. Their game, they explained, was half-Ethiopian and half-invented. You had to bat the ball back and forth using only your head or your feet, the latter requiring you to roll onto your back and kick.  Amazed, I said what any mother would say at this moment:  “Fantastic!  I love it!  Now go to bed.” 

Last night Daniel shyly came to me in the laundry room holding up a fairly new pair of jeans and sadly saying, “Too short, Mom.”

“Really?” I said.  “Your new jeans?”

“Yes Mom.  See.”

They were too short.

“Daniel, good grief!”  These were the 32/30s.  “Was your father a very tall man, Daniel?” 

“Yes Mom, very tall.  Anybody need something reach very high they ask.”

“How tall?  As tall as Lee?”

“More tall.” 

“As tall as Seth?”

“More tall, Mom.”

“As tall as Ralph?” (Our six foot-five inch cousin.)

“Same same, or maybe big.”

“Daniel, you’re going to be really tall!” I said in amazement.

He dropped his head shyly, surveyed his front.  “Body no grow.  Only legs grow.  Shirt good.  Pants no good.”

“Daniel, you really should learn to play basketball.”

“No Mom.  Soccer.  Tall good soccer.”  

I’m glad Daniel’s going to be very tall.  Height will make him more of a force in the world.  And soon he will be able to replace the burnt-out recessed kitchen light bulbs without standing on a chair.

]]>
</content>
		<date>2007-12-03</date>
		<dc:date>2007-12-03</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview35</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview35</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>Hanukah</title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[Hanukah is coming.  I tell the children the story of tiny ancient Israel vanquishing the Hellenized Syrians.

Yosef and Daniel understand it like this:  Again...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[Hanukah is coming.  I tell the children the story of tiny ancient Israel vanquishing the Hellenized Syrians.

Yosef and Daniel understand it like this:  Against all odds, Ethiopia defeated Italy in the immortal Battle of Adwa of 1896, the first military victory of an African nation against a European one in modern times.  Ethiopia, alone among African nations, remained uncolonized during the “Scramble for Africa.” Similarly, against all odds, the Jews of Ancient Israel resisted the Empire of Alexander the Great and saw victory, after years of guerilla warfare, in 164 B.C.E., after which they reclaimed Jerusalem and re-sanctified The Temple.

In short: a small country fighting for freedom succeeded against a more heavily armed European colonizer.  

This is clearly something to celebrate!

BUT: why the Maccabean Revolt against Syrian Emperor Antiochus Epiphanes more than 2,000 years ago inspired me to drop off the children at the Dollar Store at North DeKalb Mall yesterday afternoon to buy gifts for each other and their siblings is beyond my ability to explain. 

And what any of this has to do with potato pancakes will have to remain one of the great mysteries of modern religion. 

The immediate result was that Jesse, Daniel, and Fisseha took a moment, while heading out for school this morning, to jam mud (from the bald front yard) into new tiny plastic rifles and shoot mud pellets at each other.  

I knew without having to ask:  what they brought home in their bags from the Dollar Store, instead of Hanukah gifts for their siblings, were tiny cheap air rifles for themselves.

In case we’re attacked.

By Italy or Syria or Ancient Greece or whoever the hell will be after us next. 
]]>
</content>
		<date>2007-12-04</date>
		<dc:date>2007-12-04</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview41</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview41</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>"Saving Itai"</title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[At a recent conference of Jewish community activists, at which I spoke, I met Amos Kamil, a recent American-Jewish immigrant from Israel, who told me about his ...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[At a recent conference of Jewish community activists, at which I spoke, I met Amos Kamil, a recent American-Jewish immigrant from Israel, who told me about his Ethiopian baby son Itai.  Here's the dramatic story of the Kamil family's meeting Itai for the first time, written by Amos's wife Madeline Till. It appeared in New Jesey Jewish News Online.

(And here's the link, at which you can see photos, as well; the text of the story is pasted below.) 
http://www.njjewishnews.com/njjn.com/011107/njSavingItai.html 


Saving Itai
The Ethiopian boy they had adopted was fading. That’s when a voice from their New Jersey past came to the rescue

by Madeline Till


After two years of living in Jerusalem our family was leaving Israel. My husband, two daughters, and I were moving back to our home in Montclair. We would not be coming back empty-handed. Aside from all we gained emotionally and spiritually, we were bringing home an infant Ethiopian boy. 

Our decision to adopt a child from Ethiopia was reinforced by our daily contact with many of the Ethiopians who had immigrated to Israel. It was a culture that, although suffering economically, stood out as intensely warm and loving. On Yom Hazikaron, Israel’s Memorial Day, Adoption Advocates International, our American adoption agency, sent us an e-mail saying they had a baby boy for our consideration. After mounds of paperwork and almost nine months of anticipation, we saw a picture of our son. We decided to name him Itai, after a non-Jewish soldier in King David’s army. On July 11, one day before the outbreak of Israel’s war with Lebanon, we began our journey, stopping first in Africa and then home.

After a four-hour flight from Tel Aviv, all four of us arrived in Addis Ababa. Once in a taxi and out on the street, it was clear that there was here a level of poverty and chaotic desperation none of us had ever encountered. Beggars, many of them the age of our children, swarmed our car, crying out for food and money. We quickly began opening our bags, emptying our pockets, handing out all we had — shekels, dollars, gum, anything. But there was no way to keep up, no way to help all of them. By the time the first taxi ride ended, we had learned to turn our heads and harden our eyes, just like the locals.

We went to sleep exhausted and overwhelmed and awoke to the news that the war in Lebanon had begun. As the first photos of missile strikes were shown on CNN, we got ready to meet our child. Driving past shacks, down unpaved roads, we reached the orphanage. The primitive nature of the complex was shocking. Lines of laundry hung drying in the sun. Tall, smiling women sat behind buckets of water, washing. I looked around quickly, not sure what our baby actually looked like. One of the caretakers lifted a bewildered-looking boy to us. The pictures we had stared at for so many weeks were misleading. This little one, with the large eyes typical of Ethiopians, was small and frail. As soon as he was placed in my arms, he started crying and flapping his arms like an injured bird.

Back at the hotel we watched as another adoptive parent proudly smiled as her happy, vibrant baby girl lifted herself up onto her arms and showed us her first teeth. Meanwhile, our baby cried constantly for the comfort of a bottle. Within seconds we were drenched with the food or liquids he couldn’t keep down.

By the third day, with mounds of dirty laundry as evidence, we knew there was something seriously wrong with Itai, and we would have to bring him to a hospital. After we waited for hours with hundreds of sick and dying patients, the doctor quickly assessed our baby, telling us he had the flu. He gave us some antibiotics and advised us to keep him warm. On the way out, he suggested we find Jesus. 

The antibiotics proved useless, Itai’s health became worse, and we were now in a full-blown panic. As the war in Lebanon raged on TV, we made countless calls to the airlines, asking if we could depart to America sooner than planned. No one seemed willing or able to help. Meanwhile, we got word that several of our close Israeli friends were called up for reserve duty. “Do you think they will die?”, our daughters asked us.

‘It’s Ben’

Finally, the day of our departure arrived. Itai was completely listless. He slept most of the time in a semiconscious state and awoke only to cry for the bottle that offered him no nourishment. I aimlessly wandered the hotel lobby.

It was then that I heard someone call my name. I turned to see a smiling Ethiopian man who could have been any number of people I had met in our time there.

“It’s Ben,” he said.

I reviewed all the Ben’s I had met — Benjamin, Binyamin — but no Ben.

“Ben. Ben! From Solomon Schechter in West Orange.”

After two years, the Solomon Schechter Day School in West Orange was a distant memory. It was the school my older daughter, Maia, had attended before we left for Israel and where both girls would return in the fall. Beniam Bekele was the janitor at the school whom we had befriended years before. He had learned about our adoption and happened to be in Addis Ababa visiting his family.

I was quickly introduced to Ben’s brother and cousin, and we went off in search of the rest of my family. After only a few minutes, Ben and his relatives confirmed that the child needed immediate medical care. Though we had less than five hours before our flight, the three men began calling their friends and family to find out where the best clinic in Addis was located.

Moments later, Itai and I were whisked into a cab along with our Ethiopian companions, heading for another hospital. It took almost an hour to battle our way through the city congestion. The clinic, from the outside, looked like a slapped-together shack with an iron gate around it. Clearly, from the stares that greeted me as I entered, these people were not used to treating white patients.

Ben took control, speaking in Amharic to the receptionist. He pulled out his wallet and paid for the visit. Ben’s cousin cradled Itai in his arms as we waited our turn. Finally we were led into a windowless room where a distinguished-looking doctor greeted us. I asked him if he spoke English and he replied with annoyance, “I’m a doctor, aren’t I?”

The doctor examined Itai and within moments determined he was severely dehydrated, malnourished, with a variety of other health issues. The main concern was the dehydration, and he informed us that Itai would have to be hooked up to an IV and stay overnight. With panic rising in my voice, I explained that our flight was leaving that day. The doctor didn’t budge. The baby had to be hydrated or else he would die. This was nothing new to him. People died here every day.

As I began to cry, the doctor offered a slight concession. “I suppose if you hydrate him for four hours, then again once you arrive at your destination, this will be sufficient.” With great relief, I imagined handing the baby over to a staff of capable nurses who would care for him while I went back to the hotel to collect my family. The doctor immediately let me know that if I left the baby here alone, it would be considered abandonment. This too happened here every day. No exception was made for a white woman.

Our plane was leaving in four-and-a-half hours, we had mounds of laundry at a small laundromat waiting to be picked up, and there were 12 bags of luggage to pack. My husband, Amos, and two girls were on the other side of the city. Ben took hold of my shoulder. “We will stay here with the baby. You go back to the hotel. Take your time. Don’t worry.”

I left Ben, his brother, and cousin holding my dying little bird hooked up to an IV in a room the size of a broom closet. 

It was nearly four hours later by the time the airport van pulled up to the clinic gates. Amos, the girls, and I rushed inside, where it was immediately clear our baby had been transformed. After only four hours of hydration he was completely revitalized. His eyes were open and for the first time in a week he wasn’t whimpering. Ben and his relatives were laughing, munching on chips, and drinking soda. Beside them were freshly bought diapers and formula. Watching the loving way they held our little boy, it seemed as though they were the “real” family and we were only onlookers. They proudly handed Itai to us. “Look at him now. This is what a good-looking Ethiopian should look like.”

As our van left the hospital parking lot heading in the direction of the airport, I glanced back at my Ethiopian rescuers. They were standing with their arms around each other, smiling widely. They were happy to be with each other, satisfied by what they had just accomplished, seemingly unaware of the sprawling shanty town of corrugated iron shacks that rose behind them. 

At the next light, a girl with one blind eye begged us for food as a BBC radio reporter announced there had been another bombing in Haifa. Itai, who was looking around at us, alert and curious, began to babble. We laughed at hearing his voice for the first time.

Comment | Print | Subscribe | Webmaster

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
 
©2006 New Jersey Jewish News 
All rights reserved 
]]>
</content>
		<date>2008-03-04</date>
		<dc:date>2008-03-04</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview42</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview42</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>Seth's website</title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[

Our son Seth Greene Samuel has created a website that allows us to hear his music.  He graduated in May 07 from the Oberlin Conservatory with a degree in co...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[

Our son Seth Greene Samuel has created a website that allows us to hear his music.  He graduated in May 07 from the Oberlin Conservatory with a degree in composition, and he's now pursuing a Masters in Music in film composition at NYU's Steinhardt School of Music.

I recently saw (while trapped alone in a hotel room during a sub-zero winter day in Canada) a cheesey and anti-adoption movie called AUGUST RUSH,  in which a musical prodigy in an orphanage declines adoption and resolves to search for his birth parents through his brilliant musical compositions, certain his birth-parents will hear his music someday and find him, which, of course, they do.

Five minutes in, I knew I wouldn't encourage our five adopted children to see this movie. It presents, as a real possibility, the cliche orphan fantasy of, "Somewhere my two gorgeous, highly intelligent, talented, and emotionally stable birthparents are searching for me."  By the time the moviet was over, I knew I'd forbid Seth to see it, too, lest he conclude that Don and I are not his birth-parents (in his case, we are) and lest he begin roaming the world in search of people who have a shred of musical talent and must thus be closer genetically to him than we are. 

WWW.SETHGSAMUEL.COM]]>
</content>
		<date>2008-03-04</date>
		<dc:date>2008-03-04</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview43</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview43</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>Bullying</title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[


WONDERTIME Magazine has published an article of mine about a new approach to bullying.  

Click here to read:  

http://wondertime.go.com/learning/art...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[


WONDERTIME Magazine has published an article of mine about a new approach to bullying.  

Click here to read:  

http://wondertime.go.com/learning/article/bullyproof-your-child.html]]>
</content>
		<date>2008-09-02</date>
		<dc:date>2008-09-02</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview56</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview56</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>A Quadruple Bar & Bat Mitzvah</title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[        




         On the weekend of May 16-18, we celebrated the collective b’nai mitzvah of four of our children: Helen, Jesse, Fisseha (“Sol”), and D...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[        




         On the weekend of May 16-18, we celebrated the collective b’nai mitzvah of four of our children: Helen, Jesse, Fisseha (“Sol”), and Daniel. The Friday-afternoon-to-Sunday event was held at Camp Barney Medintz, the Jewish sleepaway camp in North Georgia beloved by our children for many years.  Out-of-town guests and religiously observant friends spent two nights in the bunks and cabins and little plywood apartments with us; on Saturday morning, more friends drove up from Atlanta, bringing the number seated on wood benches and folding chairs in Zaban Chapel in the North Georgia woods to more than 200.  



          The weekly Torah portion [Parashat B’har, Leviticus 25:1 – 26:2] describes the Jubilee Year, a year of freedom and redistribution of wealth to be proclaimed in the land after seven cycles of seven years. That morning, in the rustic sun-lit chapel, surrounded by favorite friends and relatives, with our handsome dressed-up children leading the service, felt as rare and sweet as a Jubilee Year.

           We had caravanned up to Barney, outside Cleveland, Georgia, on Friday afternoon in a dozen cars and vans, some from our house, some leaving from the airport. The Friday night service was led by guitar-strumming Rabbi Hillel Norry of our Atlanta congregation, Shearith Israel, in the chapel that overlooked a sparkling lake until about a week ago Wednesday, at which time, during a heavy storm, a sink-hole opened up at the foot of the dam and the entire lake emptied out downstream, leaving a vast empty crater.  A few off-season camp staffers had scrambled across the lake floor with buckets and nets, rescuing fish and turtles and transferring them to a second, surviving lake.  

          So, on a cold mountain spring Friday night, in a chapel overlooking a bizarre, streaked, vast crater of mud, we welcomed Shabbat, then walked on the foot-path across the (defunct) dam to the dining hall for Shabos dinner on the deck.  All nine of our children were there; and all three of our brothers and their wives; and Grammy, the children’s sole grandparent; and three of Donny’s first cousins; and three of the children’s second cousins; and two of the children’s second-cousins-once removed, who filled up the vacuum left by the many first cousins unable to be there. The family members who made the trip shared our joyful sense of a once-in-a-lifetime event and deep family connection.



         On Saturday morning, the bus arrived and disgorged 50-some children, wearing synagogue clothes, with towels and swimsuits under their arms, and they charged towards the chapel, as I reached an advanced stage of panic because we couldn’t find the 150 siddurim, the prayerbooks, which had been stacked in boxes in our diningroom. No one remembered driving them up to camp. I was ordering people left and right to run to distantly-parked cars to open trunks. Rabbi Norry started the service from memory, as I missed the beginning of this so-long-awaited moment.  I spotted Azeb, our Ethiopian babysitter, arriving with her family.  “Azeb, were there boxes of prayerbooks in the diningroom?” I cried. 

             Yes, there were. End of search. “We found them: they’re in our diningroom in Atlanta,” I told the rabbi; so he and his wife (we’re Conservative Jews) and other prayer-leaders and friends carried on by heart.  “You could now turn to page 122 in prayerbook,” the rabbi announced, “if you had prayerbooks!”  Memory and habit stood us well: the entire morning service was chanted by heart by everyone, while led by our children whose prayerbooks I had NOT left behind. 



              Each of the four children davened (prayed) so beautifully and tenderly; Helen’s high pure voice stilled us all. One heard only her clear sweet voice, and the birds in the woods besides the chapel. She looked beautiful, her intelligence and hard preparation shining through the shyness, even though she was too scared to look up.  “I thought about looking up,” she would tell me later, “but I decided not to.”  Helen chanted both her Torah portion and the Haftorah portion and led much of the service. My close friend Ursula Spitzer, a choral singer, later would email:  “Helen's beautiful soprano voice just soared in the air! “  And our old friend Dr. Melvin Konner, Emory University Professor of Anthropology, Neuroscience and Behavioral Biology, and Jewish Studies, would later write a blog about the day, including these words about Helen:

              “As the boys would freely tell you, diminutive, lovely, brilliant Helen, just shy of twelve, 
               carried the largest liturgical burden. In impeccable Hebrew she read from 	
               the Torah about the Jubilee year---”Proclaim liberty throughout the land, to all the 	
               inhabitants thereof!” which is carved on our Liberty Bell, is in this portion--the 	
               Haftorah (a linked long excerpt from Jeremiah chanted in a different mode), and the 	
               entire service following the Torah reading. 
	
	“When we first came to Atlanta we rejected this congregation because our
 	daughters would not be treated equally. Now, under a new, liberal, young rabbi, not 
	only a girl but a former African orphan whose mother died of AIDS was standing on 
	the bima leading two hundred people in Jewish prayer, doing more at her Bat 
	Mitzvah than most boys born Jewish in America ever do. So the Jewish Liberty Bell 
	might have rung for Helen.” 

http://www.jewsandothers.com/Jews_and_Others/Blog/Entries/2008/5/22_Children_of_the_Commandment.html 

	Remarkable as she was, Helen was no surprise.  Of all this and more, we knew she’d be capable. 

                    Bigger surprises were the boys, like Jesse, who studied long and hard and chanted his Torah portion in a clear baritone, carried the Torah, chanted part of the Torah service, and shared the bimah with Helen in a back-and-forth discussion of the morning’s portion, which included these words:

“HELEN:
The Torah says, “If your brother becomes impoverished, and his means falter in your proximity, you shall strengthen him so that he can live with you.”

JESSE 
“If your brother becomes impoverished” means if your brother runs out of money.  
“If his means falter”  refers to him losing his job.
 “In your proximity” means he’s near enough for you to help.

…Wait a minute – is Moses saying that if I lose my job…

HELEN:
You?

JESSE:
And it happens in your neighborhood, you have to let me move into your house? 

HELEN:  
Wait, let me look at this again. 

JESSE:  
OK, this is great.  So this applies to ME, right?

HELEN: 
What do you mean?

JESSE:
It says “If your BROTHER becomes impoverished.”  
And I’M your brother. 
This is great stuff!   
And there’s more!  (reading):  
“Do not give him your money for interest, and do not give your food for increase.”  
What does that mean? 

HELEN:
Moses is saying that if you loan your brother money, you should not charge interest on it. 
And you must share your food with him without making a profit.

JESSE: 
I love this!  All right, so if I lose my job… 

HELEN:
Everything isn’t about YOU.

JESSE:
Oh, you’re right…  I’m not your only brother. 
So if I lose my job, and if Seth loses his job, 
and Lee and Sol lose their jobs 
and Daniel and Yosef lose their jobs, 
we can ALL move in with you.  
…..  I hope you’re going to have a really big house.

HELEN:
Molly?  Lily?  A little help here? 

JESSE:
Good idea! 
We can put two impoverished brothers 
with each successful and rich sister. 
This is going to be GREAT!”



HELEN:
Oh no, there’s more. (Reading:) 
“If your brother becomes impoverished and is sold to you, 
you shall not work him with slave labor.  
Like a laborer or a resident shall he be with you; 
until the Jubilee Year shall he work with you.  
Then he shall leave you -- he and his children with him -- he shall return to 
his family, and to his ancestral heritage shall he return.”

JESSE:
So if I move into your house, you can’t use me like slave labor.  
I get to relax and enjoy until the Jubilee Year.  
… When is that again?

HELEN:  
The Jubilee Year is the special year of freedom 
that comes after seven cycles of seven years.

JESSE:
Seven cycles?  Of seven years?  After 49 years?  

And no slave labor all that time?  This just gets better and better.  

HELEN (looking around):
Who gave us this Torah portion? 

JESSE: 
Will you have a flat-screen TV, do you think?  Can I have my own room? 
Lee, you’ll want cable so you can watch ESPN, right?  
Seth, you will need a piano.  
Sol, Daniel and Yosef will need a soccer field. 
Can you put in a basketball court?  
Can we have a trampoline?  

HELEN: 
I do NOT think that God was telling Moses 
to tell Jesse Samuel 
in the 21st century 
that if he loses his job, he can move in with ME for 49 years. 

JESSE:
And not do slave labor. 

HELEN:
And not do slave labor.

JESSE:
Like cooking or laundry or mowing the lawn. 

HELEN:
So I’m looking at 49 years of you occasionally emptying the dishwasher. 

JESSE:
This is too good to be true!...  “


	And on it went, towards an understanding of tzedekah, the commandment, the mitzvah, to be charitable. Though Helen was admittedly too shy to look up, handsome Jesse played the crowd for laughs, thrilled as always to be on-stage.  Everyone later praised his remarkable poise. 

	Sol, from the first mention of “bar mitzvah” a year or more ago, had said, “I’m not reading in English.” He hates reading aloud in English in any class, ashamed of still stumbling over words.  (He was illiterate until he came to the US at age ten; he BEGAN learning to read in English, a language he didn’t speak, at TEN.  But he refuses to take shelter in this explanation and feels bad about his reading-aloud skills.)  He, too, devoted himself to the Hebrew studies, sitting over his notebook with a tape recorder and cassette tape, learning the ancient words and the ancient melodies.  But no speech!
I composed a few words for him.  “This is not a speech,” I told him.  “You’re just going to introduce Daniel.”

	“I’m not doing a speech.”

	“I know!  This is just an introduction.”

	On Jesse’s and Helen’s notebooks, I wrote SPEECH, to help us not lose the precious notebooks.  On Sol’s I wrote: INTRODUCTION.  

	He stood tall and proud for his Hebrew reading; he too carried the Torah through the congregation, chanted part of the Torah service.  Then it was time to introduce Daniel.  He came up, draped in the woven black tallit he had chosen, under a halo of his tremendous curly Afro, stopped short of the podium, and leaned far into the microphone.  His bass voice was thick and shy, but we could hear him.  He talked about the Haftorah portion and introduced Daniel:  

“Good Shabos.
My brothers Daniel and Yosef were converted to Judaism last month by Rabbi Norry. 
For our bar mitzvah, Daniel will read today’s Haftorah portion in Amharic. Amharic is a Semitic language related to Arabic and Hebrew.  
Amharic is the official language of Ethiopia, but there are 89 languages in Ethiopia. 
I was born in the Oromo region and I grew up speaking Oromo and Amharic.  
Helen grew up in Addis Ababa speaking Amharic.
Daniel and Yosef grew up in the Guragge region and spoke Guragge until they moved to Addis Ababa, where they learned Amharic.  
Today’s Haftorah portion is a story from 15 hundred years ago in Jerusalem. 
It was the year 587 and the prophet Jeremiah was in prison.  
The city was under attack by the Babylonians.  
Jeremiah told the people that they had brought this evil on themselves by not following God’s laws.
Then he heard the voice of God while he was in prison. God was telling him to 	buy a field that belonged to his uncle  
Jeremiah thought this was a strange thing to worry about at such a terrible moment, when he was in prison and the city was about to fall.  
But God was telling him that there was always reason to hope.”


	He did it!  And sat back down with a huge smile of relief.  Sunday night, when we were home and finished and most guests had departed, I was in my bed, completely immobilized by fatigue and a horrific cold that roared up out of nowhere.  Sol, in an unprecedented move, came to sit on my bed for a visit.  Lily and Helen do this nearly every night; Lee & Seth often pay a call when they’re in town; and Jesse sometimes throws himself onto our bed, asking to sleep there.  But this was the first time Sol had arrived for an evening chat.  “You were amazing yesterday,” I said.  “We are so, so proud of you.  I hope you’re proud of yourself.  Are you?” He was.  He was overflowing with smiles.  He visited our bedroom several more times that week, and he rode in the car with me one day on a pointless errand, and I believe it was because he wanted to hear again the fact that he had done it, he had beautifully read aloud in Hebrew and in English to more than 200 people, and he had handsomely become a Bar Mitzvah, a son of the commandment. Though Helen and Jesse and Daniel attracted the most attention that day, I know what it cost Sol to be up there, and that HIS poise was a far greater personal stretch than Jesse’s.

	And Daniel.  A year ago this exceedingly tall and thin and quiet young man was still living in Haregewoin’s orphanage.  He didn’t know kosher from sushi. The day at the foster home when when I told Daniel, with Selamneh Techane translating, that we wanted to adopt him and Yosef, I also told him that our family was Jewish, “Beta Israel.”  He nodded yes, that this was acceptable. We were sitting in Selamneh’s taxi outside the gates. I explained that, like the Ethiopian Orthodox, we read the Bible, we believe in God, and this was enough for him. He wanted a family very much. He ran inside to tell Yosef. Since he’s nearly 13 and in seventh grade with Sol, we decided, at the eleventh-hour, to add him to the roster of bar and bat mitzvah children.  

	But he wasn’t even Jewish yet.

	So a few weeks ago, Donny and I took Daniel and 10-year-old Yosef to be converted to Judaism.  We’d only partly told them what to expect.  As Ethiopian Orthodox boys, they were already circumcised, but Jewish conversion requires a symbolic re-circumcision, with the drawing of a pin-prick of blood from the side of a certain portion of the male anatomy.  I’d told the boys about the mikveh—the hot-tub-like ritual bath in which they would completely submerge themselves three times, in the nude, emerging to recite Hebrew blessings.  This news alone had sent them running.  Daniel ran downstairs and got on a sofa under a bed-spread and refused to come out.  I sent Azeb after him to discuss in Amharic.  It was the idea of this semi-public (only Dad and the rabbi) nudity that had terribly alarmed him and Yosef; it seemed not an opportune moment to mention the pin-prick drawing of blood.  Donny, jokingly, said, “Let Rabbi Norry tell them,” and that is what happened,IN the doctor’s office, when it was too late to turn back and there was no bedspread to get under. The boys and Donny and Hillel Norry followed the urologist/moyel into the examination room while I frantically turned the pages of an out-dated Sports Illustrated in the waiting room.

	They came out, laughing amongst themselves, with many pats on the back and words of praise, and we headed for the synagogue with the mikveh to complete the conversion. 

	Later, driving them home, I praised their courage and composure.  “Was it OK?  Did you do OK?” I asked, as I hadn’t been permitted to witness anything.  “Mom, the doctor, oh my God,” said Daniel in his Ethiopian accent and deep voice.  “Oh my God, very dangerous, Mom, very dangerous.” 

	Now it was Daniel’s turn to face the congregation of 200-plus worshippers. In a low quiet voice and deep accent, he began in English, offering a glossary of the Amharic words he was about to read in today’s Haftorah portion: “Good Shabos,” he said, “these are some of the Amharic words you will hear. God is IGZEE’ABIHIE; King is NEGUS.  Jeremiah is ERMIAS. Love is FIKIR…” and so on. I’d told Rabbi Norry that it was important for people to understand, so that they could enjoy hearing the Amharic. When Daniel finished, the Rabbi asked, “Did you all get that?” and the congregation chuckled appreciatively. Later I learned that they laughed because most people thought he was already reading in Amharic.  Then he read the Haftorah in Amharic—his low fluent voice, the sing-song of it, the strange syllables, had the congregation transfixed. Some people wept.  Unlike Sol, who came from non-literate people, Daniel came from literate people; he remembers his late father reading the Bible in Amharic, though Guragge was their own language.  Draped in his new tallit, prayershawl, he looked and sounded distinguished.  When the rabbi later faced all four children, and said, “You all have followed very different journeys to get to this moment,” it was Daniel’s low voice, and the thick rich syllables of Hebrew’s ancient cousin Amharic, that brought home the truth of those words.  What great distances each of the children had traveled! How sweet and beautiful they were on this great morning. 

]]>
</content>
		<date>2008-06-15</date>
		<dc:date>2008-06-15</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview47</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview47</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>shocking news from Ethiopia</title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[

I have learned this morning that our dear friend Mrs. Haregewoin Teferra has died.  She felt sick, called for a friend, and died in her bed. I have no more ...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[

I have learned this morning that our dear friend Mrs. Haregewoin Teferra has died.  She felt sick, called for a friend, and died in her bed. I have no more details at this time.  I will post here as I learn more.  ]]>
</content>
		<date>2009-03-17</date>
		<dc:date>2009-03-17</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview64</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview64</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>Mother's Day                                                </title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[(written in pencil on my business stationary, with hearts and other designs, and delivered to me in privacy.) 
 
 
FroM Daniel
 
Dear MOM
 
ThanK YOu for...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[(written in pencil on my business stationary, with hearts and other designs, and delivered to me in privacy.) 
 
 
FroM Daniel
 
Dear MOM
 
ThanK YOu for eVery things.
 
I aM veary happy to be one of your
 
son and some times you help me
 
school projects like science.
 
I really enjoy doing that with you.
 
Thank you Mom I LOVE YOU For 
 
ever.
 
Love
 
Daniel
 
Samuel
 
 
I LOVE YOU MOM
 
 
If there aniy things I can do please
 
told me.  because I really whant to make you happy.







]]>
</content>
		<date>2009-05-26</date>
		<dc:date>2009-05-26</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview67</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview67</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>Camp Letters</title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[One of the great joys of sending off five children to camp, equipped with duffle bags, sleeping bags, flashlights, bug spray, swimsuits, and stationary, is that...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[One of the great joys of sending off five children to camp, equipped with duffle bags, sleeping bags, flashlights, bug spray, swimsuits, and stationary, is that you get a lot of MAIL.
Keeping in mind that Yosef & Daniel arrived one year ago and are now at Jewish sleepaway camp for a month; that Sol came four years ago, Helen, six years ago, and Jesse nine years ago, here is a sampling of their delightful letters home. (It is obviously a first camp experience for Yosef and Daniel; the other three are returning campers.)  Daniel was particularly anxious, understandably, before departure; Yosef surely was scared, too, but concealed it.  The others were hugely enthusiastic and promised to keep an eye on Yosef & Daniel.  


FROM DANIEL:
Hi Mom how are you/they?
I am good I like it her.
Thank you very muth.
Love DANIEL
Seth Lee DAD Mom love.
Bye.


FROM JESSE
Dear family,
I’m having a great time so many people think I’M a lot! Better at Beatboxing. Theirs this counselor that BeatBoxes! Me and him BeatBoxed everyone said I was so much better I thought he was good. Daniel is really happy!  I don’t know about Yosef and I’ve already bin asked out! I’m thinking about.
Love Jesse


FROM SOL
Hey People its Sol  
How are yall 
I am doing great I have nice people in my room. And Mom you forgot to put sandal to me.
BYE Sol.





FROM YOSEF
Hey Mom 
Camp Barney is Good.
Thank You for the iPod Charther.
Can you Buy me a FlipFlips Size 6.5?
I don’t have.
Can you Plese


FROM SOL
Hello People
How ae yall. Today I did the rave it’s the Jumping thing in the water. Have Lily got back yet if she is say Hi! to her.


FROM JESSE:
Dear Mom,
I’m having a great time!  I’ve gotten really strong.  I beat a counselor in a armrestle.  Daniel is so Happy I’ve never seen him so happy. He’s always smiling and being involved and holy **** every Body loves me. They are constantly asking me to Beatbox. We did a counsert with my friend Jack who playes Base guitar. And this girl named Haley who sang she vary nice and really good at singing and a amazing Drummer! Their was a Duel with me and the Drummer Beat Box against Drummer and I won!


FROM YOSEF
Dear Mom
iam having a good time.
Her we did a lot fun thing My Best day 
was Wansday we had a lot of fun so that was
My best day.
I LOVE YOU MOM





FROM HELEN:
Hey Mom & Dad,
I’m having a great time at camp, but it feels like it’s already been a month.  I got the four books here but I haven’t had time to start any of them. I LOVE U SOOOOOOOOOOOO much.
Love U!
PS You know I really underpacked.  I’m already through all my clothes.  But luckily laundry is today.
LOVE,
Helen


FROM HELEN:

!!!WARNING!!!!
I DON’T HINK YOU WILL LIKE THIS LETTER
Mom, I NEED Jean Shorts Size 1 from Target. If it’s from somewhere else then a Zero.
THANKS LUV U!


FROM HELEN:
Hey everybody,
Camp is awesome. All the boys are having a great time. This Saturday we have a talent show and I bet Jesse will beatbox in it.  Maybe dance too. I’m not going to be in it, though, because I don’t know what to do. Oh, and yesterday Jesse got a heat rash. (Jesse is the only one who tells me anything.)
I LOVE U so so so so much. 
Helen


FROM SOL
Dear family
How are you
I’m Doing great today We Played soccer it was fun.
Sol
I need more sope Mom.


FROM HELEN
Dear Mom and Dad (and Seth and Lee)
Hey! We went scuba diving today. I don’t think I was good at it but it was really fun. It might be hard to believe but I’m already running out of clothes, but luckily today is laundry day.  I miss everyone so much.  Today was Daniel’s birthday.  He looked so happy.  I made him a green, yellow, and red bracelet for a present.  Did you send him a birthday package? Both Daniel and Yosef seem really happy.  And Yosef is making friends like crazy.  All my friends call him Yosifer. It’s so funny.  I LOVE camp and I LOVE U. love, Helen





FROM DANIEL
Hi Lee Mom Seth DAD Molly
Hi Geys
I Miss You Geys.
I hope I will see you After 2 Weeks.
I have Good Friends.
Hi DAD I know
You don’t like hike.
How is hiking.
It is OK for 3 days hiking. Don’t run to mucht.
I love you DAD.
I Fun.
HI Lee DAD MOM Seth Molly
I love you Geys.
Love, 
DANIEL


FROM YOSEF:
Dear Lee,
Hey Lee How is San Francico? 
Camp Barney is really great.
Ever oneknows me Because I am good at every sports.
It relly cool. I have alos of Frains.
Saiy Hellow For Mom, dad, Seth and Molly. 
Love, 
Yosef

FROM HELEN:
Hey! I got the gel pens!  Yay! Oh, and about a million times a day older kids come up to me and ask me if Im' Yosef's or Jesse's or Daniel's or Sol's sister.  And Yosef goes to sit with the boys after every meal and makes friends with everyone he meets.  This is random but I learned how to draw a new flower.  Look...! 
XOXOXOXOXO LOVE YOU SOOOO MUCH!
PS
MOMMY could you PLEEEAAASSSE send the newest Seventeen Magazines?  At least like 3, 4, or 5? 
 


FROM DANIEL:
Hi Mom Lee Seth DAD
I miss home. I miss you gus to.
I am abot to go Happy for 3 days.  [We think he means "camping"]
I like the camp like 65 % or 70%. I have good friends. I like camp because horse bake my favert theing. I like horse very much. My horse name Jake. I play soccer every time. OK bye SQmuel Famile. Have a nice Time. I love you Gus. love, Daniel. 


 
FROM YOSEF:
Dear Lee,
Hey Lee How is San Francico? 
Camp Barney is really great.
Ever oneknows me Because I am good at every sports.
It relly cool. I have alos of Frains.
Saiy Hellow For Mom, dad, Seth and Molly. 
Love, 
Yosef
 
 
 
FROM DANIEL:
Hi Mom Lee Seth DAD
I miss home. I miss you gus to.
I am abot to go Happy for 3 days. 
I like the camp like 65 % or 70%. I have good friends. I like camp because horse bake my favert theing. 
I like horse bake very much. My horse name Jake. I play soccer every time. OK bye SQmuel Famile. Have a nice Time. I love you gus. love, Daniel. 
 

 
FROM YOSEF TO LEE:
Dear Lee-Loo
How are you?
I am doing great.
I love camp it really fun.
We had a los of fun.
Buy I Miss you
love, Yosef. 
 
 
FROM DANIEL:
Dear L.M.S.D.Molly.
HOW are YOU?
I MISS YOU GUYTS.
HOW is hikeing?
I am Good.  I like the Camp.
Mom Thank You For All things I love you Mom.
I love you all.
Bye have nice hikeing
DANIEL loves you ALL.
love DANIEL for LMSMD.


]]>
</content>
		<date>2008-07-23</date>
		<dc:date>2008-07-23</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview55</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview55</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>a blog from Molly</title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[

Check out Molly's beautiful blog at www.californiasislands.com  

This is her photographic, sound, and written blog of her research into the beauty and fr...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[

Check out Molly's beautiful blog at www.californiasislands.com  

This is her photographic, sound, and written blog of her research into the beauty and fragility of a few of California's islands, including, most recently, a visit to a mountaintop community of pikas. ]]>
</content>
		<date>2009-08-23</date>
		<dc:date>2009-08-23</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview70</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview70</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>Mother's Day</title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[Mother’s Day May 11, 2008

Before I could really enjoy it, it seems I had to fall apart.

So I fell apart last Thursday afternoon, May 8, around three in th...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[Mother’s Day May 11, 2008

Before I could really enjoy it, it seems I had to fall apart.

So I fell apart last Thursday afternoon, May 8, around three in the afternoon. 

I’ve been preparing relentlessly for the weekend of May 16, the much-discussed and long-awaited quadruple bar and bat mitzvah of Helen, Jesse, Fisseha & Daniel.  Over 200 guests will join us on Friday night and Saturday at the kids’ Jewish summer camp in North Georgia.  A bus will carry their school friends up from Atlanta.  Close friends and family will stay at the camp all weekend.  I’ve been planning this, increasingly obsessively and with panic, for many weeks, until now it’s impossible for me to do anything else.  (At this very moment, hospitality bags are arrayed around my desk chair, and dress clothes with plastic protectors hang from the office closet.)  (And I just stopped writing in order to confirm bus arrangements.)  Everything else in my life has fallen to the rear as I prepare for this once-in-a-lifetime event, the JumboMitzvah. 

The run-up to Mother’s Day began last Thursday morning, May 8.  Helen phoned from school to ask that I run $7 up to the school for “a Mother’s Day surprise.”  This I did.  

Thursday afternoon at three o’clock I arrived home from bar & bat mitzvah errands to discover (a) that the Mother’s Day surprise was a heart-shaped cake that Helen had decorated with plenty of red and pink curlicues, and (b) that she had eaten about a fourth of it, and had invited Yosef to join her, and that only half the cake remained, looking particularly savaged.  

I was shocked.

I suggest that if I’d not been running myself into the ground trying to make sure that all out-of-town visitors’ flights would be met the following week and that everyone would have sheets or sleeping bags and that there were Shabos candles up at the camp and that we could borrow 150 prayerbooks and that four children had been learning and practicing their parts, I might have laughed, sat down, and had a piece of used cake.

Instead, I was so staggered by the sight that I left the kitchen in utter confusion. I couldn’t even look at Helen. I thought, heartbroken: “My Mother’s Day surprise!”  

I drove to pick up Lily from school and tried to tell Lily on the way home what had happened. “Something hurt my feelings,” I began, but I got too choked up to finish. Helen was supposed to go shopping for dress shoes that afternoon, for the bat mitzvah.  Back home, looking away from her, I asked if she still wanted to go.  She said no. A bit later I heard Helen tell Lily, “I feel too guilty to go shoe-shopping.”  That made me feel horrible, too.  I felt:  “She doesn’t feel SAD.  She feels that I’m making her feel guilty.”  In the kitchen I picked up the remaining section of cake and hurled it into the garbage. I spotted the faux-elegant Mother’s Day card provided by Publix Grocery along with the cake, and I tore it in half. Then I went upstairs to my bedroom and lay down, paralyzed with disappointment.  I sank into a stillness such as I had not enjoyed for many weeks.  I couldn’t move.  

“Helen’s love has been one of the purest elements in my life, and now it’s over,” I thought hysterically. I lay there on my bed, squeezed between a laundry basket and an open suitcase, as I’d already begun packing for the b’nai mitzvah weekend.  I knew that I was being utterly self-pitying and pathetic and ridiculous, but I couldn’t help it. I lay there immobilized, not even reading, for an hour and a half. My inner lament included, naturally, the concept:  “They don’t even miss me downstairs.”

Lily intervened.  “Mother!” she scolded.  “What on earth is going on between you and Helen?  She’s been lying on the sofa crying for two hours and everyone is miserable.”

I told Lily about my cake.

“Mom!” she cried.  “That’s not your real cake.  She’s going to bake you a real cake.  She already had plans to bake you a big beautiful cake.”

“I know that’s not true,” I sniffed, continuing to act like a three-year-old.  

I got up and walked downstairs.  Helen was flat out on the sofa, buried under the cushions.  I went out to the back deck and sat.  Again Lily:  “Are you pulling yourself together?” 

“A little,” I sniffed.  “Can you ask Helen to come outside?”

Helen came out, looking red-eyed and tousled and sweaty.  She sat across from me.  “I guess I got a little carried away,” I said.  Her eyes teared up.  “Come here,” I said, and she came reluctantly and we hugged. 

At dinner that night, the kids were particularly loud and boisterous, even more than usual – great hilarity.  I was buoyed by it, realizing that their tremendous happiness was a rebound from the gloom I’d unwittingly imposed on the household by sulking.  

Saturday night:  Don took many kids to Target, including Seth, who’d arrived home from NYC for the summer.  Donny waited at check-out for the children to do Mother’s Day shopping.  “Don’t spend any money!” I’d protested, and had meant it, but he clearly had gotten the message that Melissa Has Worked Her Fingers to the Bone for the B’nai Mitzvah, and This Is a Mother’s Day Not To Be Ignored.

“I’m waiting at check-out,” he told me later, “and Daniel was the first to return.  He handed me very carefully a sim card” (a portable memory chip for a cell phone) and seemed very pleased with his choice.

“Then Yosef came, with a DVD of ‘Alvin and the Chipmunks’ in a format we don’t own the technology for.”

Fisseha strolled, in his soccer uniform, across the vast store carrying a gigantic blender. He carried it as if it were the weight of an envelope.  He set it in Donny’s basket, then strolled on.

Donny and Jesse picked out a humongous sunflower-yellow house-dress. 

Seth and Lily, surveying the goods at check-out, vetoed everything and ordered that it all be put back.

Insulted, Jesse protested:  “It’s the count that thoughts!” and even the recent arrivals to America got that there was something not quite right about that. 

Everything was put back on the shelves, and Seth took off for the nearby Borders, where he chose a book I really wanted and a heavy-duty pair of wonderful book-ends featuring bronzed books and frogs. 

Sunday morning I was sent back upstairs to bed, so that children could parade up with flowers, coffee, juice, and a bagel; and they all piled on the bed watching me eat; and a magnificent two-layer home-baked and decorated cake awaited me downstairs, on a silver platter.

It was a wonderful Mother’s Day, inspiring Yosef to ask, “Is there a day for the youngest child in family?” 

"Why did Fisseha pick out a gigantic blender?" I wondered later.  "We have a blender."

"Maybe it was part of a display that said, 'Mother's Day Special!' someone suggested. That's probably true. But I also think he was trying to find the biggest, most complicated, and shiniest motherly-looking appliance in all of Target, and that was the thing he found. 

]]>
</content>
		<date>2008-05-14</date>
		<dc:date>2008-05-14</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview46</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview46</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>Making up for lost time in the blogosphere</title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[          I must sadly acknowledge that the title, "Occasonal Blog," barely even applies anymore.  It should be called the "Rarely if Ever Blog."  It should be ...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[          I must sadly acknowledge that the title, "Occasonal Blog," barely even applies anymore.  It should be called the "Rarely if Ever Blog."  It should be called the "That Was A Fine Idea But I Never Find Time to Write It" blog.  It should be, "Melissa Had A Really Great Idea for this Blog while Making Dinner last night but Now She's Forgotten so You'll never Hear it" blog.  

        I'm following the presidential election closely, even obsessively, clicking on interactive maps, rewinding news shows to catch the dropped words, asking everyone if he or she knows what a "hedge fund" is or knows anyone who does, and increasingly suspecting that "hedge fund" has absolutely nothing to do with landscaping.  In late-night visits to journalism sites and political sites, I've discovered that real bloggers blog incessantly. I've discovered that, when reading real bloggers, when you finish the latest entry, you can click the "refresh" button on your computer and a new entry sometimes appears immediately. So I see that I'm doing my readers, all 12 of you (nine if I don't count my oldest three children) ( perhaps four if I don't count my oldest three children and several of their close friends) a disservice in posing as a blog-writer yet so often writing other things, like magazine articles, instead. 

     Hence, a blog entry:

     This past summer was vastly improved over last summer in every way.  Yosef and Daniel arrived in June 2007 and I see now how precarious our balance was last summer, how often this or that child, this or that mother, was breaking down, blowing up, storming away, and sulking.  So many people in the family were boycotting so many other people on any given day that trying to seat everyone around the kitchen table for dinner took on the power-sharing implications of Yalta.  Yosef tried to take his dinner plate into the dining room (who would ever eat dinner THERE?  in the DINING ROOM??  Bizarre!) in order not to cross paths with or accidentally make eye contact with Helen, if that's the person he was avoiding, or Jesse, or me.  Daniel tried to carry his dinner plate into the den.  Bedtimes were complicated, as you didn't want to sleep near this or that brother.  Didn't we make it through seven nights of Hanukah before I realized that half the children weren't speaking to the other half of the children?  (I'm lucky that Jews have such long holidays.  If we'd had only a one-day Christmas to work with, we'd have blown the entire holiday.)  

       Well, enough looking back. This past summer, these falll days, are a different story entirely.  Everyone's talking to everyone else nearly all the time.  Sol calls to Daniel and waits for him at the front door every morning, to make sure Daniel doesn't miss the school bus again (Daniel's our slowest child.)  Jesse and Helen sat cackling over some nonsense at the dinner table last night.  Most remarkably, this past week, was a mid-afternoon moment in the diningroom:

          Daniel, now 13 or 14, growing half-an-inch a month, on target to be the tallest Samuel child (he helped me change a few ceiling light-bulbs the other day without standing on a stool) has been the most physically stand-offish--not used to hugs, to playful caresses, not used to GIRLS.  Helen's giggling irritated him terribly; and if Helen, 12, and Lily, 16, laughed together, he thought he would go out of his mind.  "Oh my God, Mom," he'd say, leaving the kitchen to sit alone in the den, head in hands, all that soprano light-heartedness unsettling.  Lily and Helen often tried to hug him.  "I need a hug!" one or the other would playfully say to him, trying to pen him in with her arms.  He'd escape, running away, waving his hands, with a look of urgency or terror on his face. 

      (Seth is built along the same tall, thin, and angular lines as Daniel.  One day we heard Helen protesting: "I can't hug you, Seth. You're too FLAT.")

        So, a few days ago, I saw Daniel coming in from school, crossing through the diningroom as Helen was heading past him in the opposite direction.  And Daniel Gizaw Samuel stopped and said to Helen Rose Samuel: "Need a hug?" Then he hugged her.  She hugged back, laughing, her head barely reaching his chest, then she skipped along her way. Apparently she didn't even realize what a strange fierce solitary being she and Lily had finally tamed.






]]>
</content>
		<date>2008-10-06</date>
		<dc:date>2008-10-06</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview58</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview58</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>CBS: CWA </title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[CBS Evening News may have a report tonight about the American adoption agency, Christian World Adoptions, working less-than-ethically in Ethiopia. This agency h...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[CBS Evening News may have a report tonight about the American adoption agency, Christian World Adoptions, working less-than-ethically in Ethiopia. This agency has been a blight on many lives on both sides of the Atlantic. It will be interesting to learn whether CBS was able to confirm, or not, the charges brought against CWA by parents and by Australian TV journalists. ]]>
</content>
		<date>2010-02-15</date>
		<dc:date>2010-02-15</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview79</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview79</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>Letters from Readers: Trans-racial Adoption, or Is Love Enough? </title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[I get dozens of wonderful emails and letters every week.  I keep thinking I should post some.  Some ask key questions about adoption.
Here's one, followed by m...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[I get dozens of wonderful emails and letters every week.  I keep thinking I should post some.  Some ask key questions about adoption.
Here's one, followed by my reply:

Dear Melissa:
> I am greatly touched by your experiences.  My husband, my six year-old
> daughter and I would love to adopt from Ethiopia, but our social worker thinks 
>that a child from Africa would not feel comfortable in our Southern California 
>home because there are not enough black children in the neighborhood 
>although I know of at least five families with adopted children from Africa...beautiful, 
>warm, well-adjusted children.  Is love not enough?

>Thank you for your time and consideration,
SG (who gave permission to publish) 

My reply (at greater length here): 

I think love gets you most of the way there, but connections with other people of color, especially with Ethiopians, are vital.  

Picture an over-turned world, your six-year-old daughter orphaned, all extended family gone, a kind couple with one child from central Ethiopia adopting her.  There are no Americans, no white people at all in the village, but they are a kind and loving couple that says color doesn't matter to them.  "We're color-blind," they say.

What would you want for your daughter?

You'd want her to be adopted by these people, rather than grow up alone in a California orphanage.  But perhaps you'd be grateful if the couple would search out Americans in the vicinity; hire an American babysitter to speak to your daughter in English and prepare Pop Tarts and macaroni-and-cheese and bring over Sesame Street videos. You'd like to see her enrolled in a school with kids from all over the world, including perhaps British, Russian, and Greek children. You'd hope her new parents would create a lifestyle that wouldn't make your daughter stick out as exotic transplant on every walk to the market or the river.  You'd want the nice parents to fit so nicely into the new diverse world they create with your daughter that they are not congratulated, every where they turn, on the grand thing they've done by bringing in a poor little white girl. You know your daughter would overhear such remarks and may begin to wonder if her presence is the result of a humanitarian action more than because she was a much-wanted little girl.  

The new child you adopt will be your very own child, with no other parents to fend for her or him.  Think about what will make the child feel welcome and not strange.  He or she doesn't want to be an ambassador of color at every religious gathering and school event; he or she does not want to be the one human being that makes an all-white assembly "diverse," your child doesn't want to be so-and-so's little African child, not even so-and-so's cute, athletic, and well-adjusted little African child. Your child just wants to be your great and gorgeous son or daughter, while YOU take care of the net-working that allows the child plenty of access to Ethiopians, Africans, other people of color. 

We're lucky to live in Atlanta:  we're in majority-black schools for middle and high school;  all school principals and many teachers are African-American; we have a middle-aged Ethiopian babysitter; and we have afternoon babysitters from Morehouse College, the historically black men's college in Atlanta.  Thanks to our regular sitter, the kids always have Ethiopian stews simmering on the stove for them, and a bag of fresh injera on the counter.  Thanks to the Morehouse guys, the boys absorb African-American styles of basketball, dress, speech, and the young men's attention to academics. (For urban black music, especially hip-hop, they need look no further than their white older brother Lee.)  

In Atlanta, there are Ethiopians, and Ethiopian markets and restaurants and shops and festivals everywhere we turn.  There's an Ethiopian soccer club that the kids occasionally join for a scrimmage. There are Ethiopian kids in Ethiopian families in the school district.  We've NOT been able to do all this -- we've not been able to do ANY of this -- for our Bulgarian-Roma (Gypsy) son, Jesse, and he notices, and he feels the vacuum.  But I believe our Ethiopian children--especially since there are now four of them in our family--feel secure in the knowledge that they are part of the Ethiopian diaspora.  The three boys speak to each other and to the sitter in Amharic.  (Helen lost her Amharic, despite the sitter's presence in the household.  It took adopting a pair of brothers to bring Amharic down to the everyday kid level.) 

One of our kids' favorite places to eat is at a Chinese restaurant at the food court of North DeKalb Mall, a mall which is a popular destination for Ethiopian-Atlantans. Why?  (It can't be the food I don't think!) They enjoy it because a young Ethiopian woman works there, and she has taught her Chinese co-workers conversational Amharic, so the Chinese servers greet my Ethiopian children in Amharic, and in Amharic they order their fried rice and their egg-rolls.  An American scene.
 

]]>
</content>
		<date>2008-04-21</date>
		<dc:date>2008-04-21</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview45</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview45</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY</title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[

We were delighted to see Entertainment Weekly's Special Double Issue -- "Our 1000th issue" -- for June/July 2008. 
CELEBRATING THE NEW CLASSICS:  The 1000 ...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[

We were delighted to see Entertainment Weekly's Special Double Issue -- "Our 1000th issue" -- for June/July 2008. 
CELEBRATING THE NEW CLASSICS:  The 1000 Best Movies, TV Shows, Albums, Books, and More of the Last 25 years

You can see the lists online at: http://www.ew.com/ew/article/0,,20207076_20207387_20207349,00.html 

We especially appreciated this category:



THE NEW CLASSICS:  BOOKS

And we felt particularly fond of Classic No. 44. Especially since there are only about 15 or 16 nonfiction titles on the list.  In the print edition of the magazine, each of the top 50 books is accompanied by a short blurb.  I don't have time to type out all 50, but... hmmm, let's see... I may be able to squeeze out a minute here to type out the text for No. 44. 

ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY'S 100 BEST BOOKS OF THE LAST 25 YEARS. 

  1.  The Road by Cormac McCarthy (2006)

  2.  Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire by J.K. Rowling (2000)

  3.  Beloved by Toni Morrison (1987)

  4.  The Liar's Club by Mary Karr (1995)

  5.  American Pastoral by Philip Roth (1997)

  6.  Mystic River by Dennis Lehane (2001)

  7.  Maus by Art Spiegelman (1986/1991)

  8.  Selected Stories by Alice Munro (1996)

  9.  Cold Mountain by Charles Frazier (1997)

 10.  The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle by Haruki Murakami (1997)

 11.  Into Thin Air by Jon Krakauer (1997)

 12.  Blindness by Jose Saramago (1998)

 13.  Watchmen by Alan Moore (1986-87)

 14.  Black Water by Joyce Carol Oates (1992)

 15.  A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius by Dave Eggers (2000)

 16.  The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood (1986)

 17.  Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel Garcia Marquez (1988)

 18.  Rabbit at Rest by John Updike (1990)

 19.  On Beauty by Zadie Smith (2005)

 20.  Bridget Jones's Diary by Helen Fielding (1998)

 21.  On Writing by Stephen King (2000)

 22.  The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Diaz (2007)

 23.  The Ghost Road by Pat Barker (1996)

 24.  Lonesome Dove by Larry McMurtry (1985)

 25.  The Joy Luck Club by Amy Tan (1989)

 26.  Neuromancer by William Gibson (1984)

 27.  Possession by A.S. Byatt (1990)

 28.  Naked by David Sedaris (1997)

 29.  Bel Canto by Ann Patchett (2001)

 30.  Case Histories by Kate Atkinson (2004)

 31.  The Things They Carried by Tim O'Brien (1990)

 32.  Parting the Waters by Taylor Branch (1988)

 33.  The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion (2005)

 34.  The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold (2002)

 35.  The Line of Beauty by Alan Hollinghurst (2004)

 36.  Angela's Ashes by Frank McCourt (1996)

 37.  Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi (2003)

 38.  Birds of America by Lorrie Moore (1998)

 39.  Interpreter of Maladies by Jhumpa Lahiri (2000)

 40.  His Dark Materials (The Golden Compass) by Phillip Pullman (1995-2000)

 41.  The House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros (1984)

 42.  LaBrava by Elmore Leonard (1983)

 43.  Borrowed Time by Paul Monette (1988)

 44.  Praying for Sheetrock by Melissa Fay Greene (1991)
A Faulknerian nonfiction portrait of the racial complexities of the South, focusing on one Georgia county in the 1970s and '80s. 

 45.  Eva Luna by Isabel Allende (1988)

 46.  The Sandman by Neil Gaiman (1988-1996)

 47.  World's Fair by E.L. Doctorow (1985)

 48.  The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver (1998)

 49.  Clockers by Richard Price (1992)

 50.  The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen (2001)



 51.  The Journalist and the Murderer by Janet Malcolm (1990)

 52.  Waiting to Exhale by Terry McMillan (1992)

 53.  The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay by Michael Chabon (2000)

 54.  Jimmy Corrigan by Chris Ware (2000)

 55.  The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls (2006)

 56.  The Night Manager by John Le Carre (1993)

 57.  The Bonfire of the Vanities by Thomas Wolfe (1987)

 58.  Drop City by T. Coraghessan Boyle (2003)

 59.  Krik? Krak! by Edwidge Danticat (1995)

 60.  Nickel and Dimed by Barbara Ehrenreich (2001)

 61.  Money by Martin Amis (1985)

 62.  Last Train to Memphis by Peter Guralnick (1994)

 63.  Pastoralia by George Saunders (2000)

 64.  Underworld by Don DeLillo (1997)

 65.  The Giver by Lois Lowry (1993)

 66.  A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again by David Foster Wallace (1997)

 67.  The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini (2003)

 68.  Fun Home by Alison Bechdel (2006)

 69.  The Secret History by Donna Tartt (1992)

 70.  Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell (2004)

 71.  The Spirit Catches You and You Fall Down by Anne Fadiman (1997)

 72.  The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time by Mark Haddon (2003)

 73.  A Prayer of Owen Meany by John Irving (1989)

 74.  Friday Night Lights by H.G. Bissinger (1990)

 75.  Cathedral by Raymond Carver (1983)

 76.  A Sight for Sore Eyes by Ruth Rendell (1998)

 77.  The Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro (1989)

 78.  Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert (2006)

 79.  The Tipping Point by Malcolm Gladwell (2000)

 80.  Bright Lights, Big City by Jay McInerney (1984)

 81.  Backlash by Susan Faludi (1991)

 82.  Atonement by Ian McEwan (2002)

 83.  The Stone Diaries by Carol Shields (1994)

 84.  Holes by Louis Sachar (1998)

 85.  Gilead by Marilynne Robinson (2004)

 86.  And the Band Played On by Randy Shilts (1987)

 87.  The Ruins by Scott Smith (2006)

 88.  High Fidelity by Nick Hornby (1995)

 89.  Close Range by E. Annie Proulx (1999)

 90.  Comfort Me with Apples by Ruth Reichl (2001)

 91.  Random Family by Adrian Nicole LeBlanc (2003)

 92.  Presumed Innocent by Scott Turow (1987)

 93.  A Thousand Acres by Jane Smiley (1991)

 94.  Fast Food Nation by Eric Schlosser (2001)

 95.  Kaaterskill Falls by Allegra Goodman (1998)

 96.  The Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown (2003)

 97.  Jesus' Son by Denis Johnson  (1992)

 98.  The Predators' Ball by Connie Bruck (1988)

 99.  Practical Magic by Alice Hoffman (1995)

100.  America (The Book) by Jon Stewart (2004)


]]>
</content>
		<date>2008-07-22</date>
		<dc:date>2008-07-22</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview54</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview54</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>Doing Well, All Things Considered </title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[

Life becomes a bit easier, day by day.  Sod has been laid down over the dust bowl that was the front yard;  the dachshund, Theo, was the first to treat it l...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[

Life becomes a bit easier, day by day.  Sod has been laid down over the dust bowl that was the front yard;  the dachshund, Theo, was the first to treat it like a fluffy carpet, sunning himself and rolling on his back to kick his feet. Children soon followed.  Lily and Helen spread blankets on the grass and read their books in the sun, inspiring Franny, the Rat Terrier, to take it out for a spin.  Boys violently pursue soccer balls and each other.  Donny yells for everyone to be careful with his flowers. 







Orphanage behaviors did reappear last Friday. Helen mentioned that Daniel wasn’t speaking to her, that he hadn’t spoken to her for many weeks.  I drew Daniel outside to sit on the royal blue and spring-green Adirondack chairs. I angled mine in order to enjoy a view of the handsome front lawn, and I asked him what was the problem.
“Helen very bad, Mom.”
I laughed.
He was not laughing.  “You think she good, but she is very bad to me.”
“You think she’s bad to you on purpose, to make you unhappy?” I asked.
“My life, oh my God,” he said, putting his head in his hands. 



Perhaps a point should be mentioned here about adopted children.  Adopted children are no more likely than any other children to feel grateful, to consider the alternative to life with you, to imagine where they might have been.  Daniel, who would have been on the streets, on his own, in Addis Ababa, within a year or two, now sits in the royal-blue Adirondack chair under the blossoming wisteria, cradles his head in his long fingers, and moans, “My life, oh my God.”

“You’re having a rough life, are you?” I asked.  
“Yes, Mom.”
“What’s Helen doing to you?”
“Last night, she at the computer very late.”
“She was doing homework.”
“It does not matter.”
“Daniel,” I said, peeved, “I’ll worry about that.  That’s not for you to worry about.”
“Is not equal,” he said.
Which was a revealing statement from Daniel and helped me remember that he has a sore and deep sense of injustice, of being deprived of his rights, of being the victim of favoritism.
“Also whenever we play, she cry.  We play soccer, she cry.  Jump on jumpoleem, she cry.”
“I agree, Daniel,” I said.  “If she cries too easily when you play, then you’re right to avoid physical play.  But that doesn’t mean you can’t talk to her.  You can talk to her.”
He listened.  
“We just can’t run a family this way, by not speaking to each other,” I said, not for the first time.
I offered him an extra half-hour of playing computer over the weekend, and this enabled him to summon up a few monosyllables for Helen.

Meanwhile Yosef was coming to me crying about once an hour, to say that someone (Daniel, Sol, or Jesse) had hit him. His implied message is, “Do something.”  His implied message is, “If you loved me, you’d do something. You’d punish them.” I see this as an orphanage behavior, too;  I wonder if he didn’t feign grievous injury in order to win sympathy from Waizero Haregewoin or other caregivers. I suspect he bugs Daniel, Sol, and/or Jesse beyond endurance, gets slugged, then comes crying.  I KNOW from experience that intervening in minor sibling fights will escalate them to major sibling fights.  So I hug him, pet him, express regret.  

I felt sad on Friday, realized how intensely I was missing Molly, Seth and Lee.  When the younger kids generate strife, I feel trapped.  I feel, “Is this what I’m supposed to be doing at this point in my life?” I imagine, ‘If they weren’t all here slugging each other, killing the grass, whining for computer time, and not speaking to each other, I could pack my bag and zip off to London, New York, or San Francisco to see my older three.”  

I comforted myself by looking at photos just sent from London of Seth’s visit to Lee, and by having a long telephone chat with Molly, and by making plans to join Molly at a family wedding in May, and by remembering that I’ll see Seth in New York next month.  “I can still see my older children!” I remembered.  This cheered me greatly.  



Meanwhile, there are also many pleasures in raising the children.  At Lily’s high school soccer game last week, I sat in my folding chair in my sunglasses and hat—a new hat, a brimmed straw hat. I do not look good in a hat, I know this.  But the sun was very bright and blinding.  And I thought the compromise between straw hat and baseball cap would be passable.  Lily sat on the bench with her team-mates on the far side of the field. My phone buzzed, announcing a text message.  I reached into my purse opened the phone.  The message was from Lily.  It said, “Mother!  Take off that hat RIGHT NOW.”  

Without a word, I handed the phone to the mother sitting nearest me, and she passed it to the next mother, and all the way down the row, mothers of teenage daughters laughed and laughed and sympathized.

The sun went behind a cloud.  I took off the hat.  
]]>
</content>
		<date>2008-03-26</date>
		<dc:date>2008-03-26</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview44</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview44</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>the children</title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[

Dear Friends,

By now you may have learned the shocking news that Mrs. Haregewoin Teferra has died suddenly after a short illness. We don't know what caus...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[

Dear Friends,

By now you may have learned the shocking news that Mrs. Haregewoin Teferra has died suddenly after a short illness. We don't know what caused her death; she felt sick for a couple of days, went to the doctor, came home without a diagnosis, felt sick again, laid down, and that was the end. 

Soon I will post a blog containing beautiful, loving, compassionate messages pouring in in tribute. 

Many of you kindly are asking what you could do in her memory. 

Let me tell you what I will do, and each of you can follow your hearts.

Haregewoin's adult daughter, Sosina Worku, has stepped up, with the help of the Atetegeb board and caregivers, to assume responsibility as the foster mother at "Big Atetegeb," the house for the HIV-negative children.  She is warm and loving and the children's caregivers have stayed on to reduce disruption for the children.  The board is looking at ways to receive online contributions, which would be a great benefit.  It is also possible to send donations through Western Union, Thank you for your good wishes and prayers for the continued operation of Haregewoin's flagship foster home. 



A few weeks ago, Worldwide Orphans--the New York-based organization that has provided pediatric care to Haregewoin's children for many years--assumed responsibility and custody of her 42 HIV-positive kids and has committed to cover their food, healthcare and medicine, education, clothing, and caregivers. I plan to do what I can to support these children, too; they are precious, bright, full of fun and hope. With continued state-of-the-art medical care and excellent nutrition and nurturing, they can have bright futures.  They can grow up healthy, go to college, have careers. 

online contributions can be made at 
https://salsa.democracyinaction.org/o/2669/shop/custom.jsp?donate_page_KEY=2749


     Checks may be sent to: 
WWO
511 Valley Street
Maplewood, New Jersey 07040



Haregewoin lived with these children seven days a week, 24 hours a day, for ten years.  She is irreplaceable.  The youngest children, of course, have no idea what has just happened. Please let us work together to act as foster parents in absentia for them and to provide financial sustenance to the adults on the ground in Addis during this transitional time. 

Thank you in advance for any amount you can give. 

Sincerely,  
Melissa 






]]>
</content>
		<date>2009-03-19</date>
		<dc:date>2009-03-19</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview63</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview63</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>Afternoon Blow-Out</title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[Last week wasn't a time of high academic achievement for Jesse.  He failed a test and had three missing pieces of homework.  On Friday afternoon I broke the new...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[Last week wasn't a time of high academic achievement for Jesse.  He failed a test and had three missing pieces of homework.  On Friday afternoon I broke the news to him--having invited him to sit with me on the colorful Adirondack chairs in the front brick patio as he came home from school--that he was grounded for part of the weekend, at least until he got all his make-up work finished.

"WHAT???"  he screamed.  "WHAT???  NO WAY!!!  EVERYBODY has missing homework.  My school is too hard!  Nobody's parents act like this!!!  Why do you act like this?'' He went increasingly beserk as the cruel reality of being pursued by his missing homework straight into the safe haven of his weekend dawned on him.  He dropped his backpack and kicked it. Then he picked it up again with a homicidal grab, got out a notebook, and slammed the notebook onto a chair.  Then he screamed and kicked his way into the house.  From the front patio I could hear him banging his shoes, shoving furniture, and throwing things.  "Try not to break anything!" I called helpfully.  "DAMN IT!" he was screaming.  "I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS!!"  He stormed through all the rooms, startling everyone.

I went to the kitchen to cook.  He stormed in, slamming chairs out of his way. He sat furiously down at the kitchen table and raged on.  "WHY?'  JUST TELL ME ONE THING:  WHY????"  

I browned the onions.

He went to the front hall for his backpack and drop-kicked it most of the way towards the kitchen.  Sighing mightily he opened it and slammed his books onto the kitchen table.

I added some spices.  

"MY WHOLE WEEKEND???" he screamed.  "GOD!!!!!"  He tore at his hair.  "You think missing homework is such a big deal.  EVERYBODY has missing homework!!!"

I poured myself a glass of sweet iced tea and peered into a cookbook.

He dragged some crumpled papers out of the backpack, smoothed them out, and started writing.  He settled in and wrote some more.  He picked up a book and flipped through some pages, then wrote some more. I left to go get the mail.  When I came back into the kitchen, he was still writing.  He looked up at me with a terrific smile and said, "Mom, I think I'm handling this really well, don't you?" 

]]>
</content>
		<date>2008-10-15</date>
		<dc:date>2008-10-15</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview59</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview59</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>Response to adoption "harvesting" post</title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[Huffington Post's guest blogger, Alemayehu G. Mariam, a California professor of political science, warns against child "harvesting" in Ethiopia.  
http://www.h...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[Huffington Post's guest blogger, Alemayehu G. Mariam, a California professor of political science, warns against child "harvesting" in Ethiopia.  
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/alemayehu-g-mariam/ethiopia-the-hand-that-ro_b_471068.html
I replied the following:


Professor Alemayehu,
While I agree with much of what you say here, especially about the Ethiopian dictatorship and about adoption agencies acting outside the realm of law and morality, I want to respectfully raise a few other points. (Forgive me for taking a few posts to do so.) 

1. News organizations, like adoption agencies, have been known to keep their eyes on the bottom line. The Australian reporters, in their documentary "Fly Away Children," introduced the word "harvesting." As far as I know, it was not a word ever used in the adoption world, but was a deliberately inflammatory word used to incite hysteria (and win strong ratings). The CBS News broadcast, you might have noticed, did NOT repeat that word, having judged it to be deliberately provocative. "Harvesting" echoes the suspicions that crop up all over the world when wealthy white foreigners fly into poor countries and adopt unwanted children, especially (in Eastern Europe and Central and South America) children of color or low ethnic status. Locals can't believe that wealthy white Westerners intend to love and raise these children; it must be that they plan to enslave the children or to "harvest" their organs. To use the word "harvesting" when speaking of adoption is a loaded choice and one that rings all kinds of bells of scandal and urban myth.

2. Millions of destitute children languish in orphanages and on the streets all over the world. Adoption --when arranged ethically and legally and with the focus on "the best interest of the child"--can be a miracle for children. Increasingly, especially in Ethiopia, there are "open adoptions," almost unique in the world of international adoption. American adoptive parents have shown themselves eager to learn about, meet, and stay in touch with their children's Ethiopian families. This is a sign of great respect and deference. In the U.S., open adoption is an excellent road to emotional health for birth-parents, adoptive parents, and children. It's a spectacular development to see this unfold in Ethiopia! Meanwhile, American adoptive parents of Ethiopian children often go to great lengths to preserve their children's languages, sense of pride in Ethiopia, and contact with the Ethiopian diaspora. This would make a terrific news story, but it lacks titillating words like "harvesting." 

3. Most adoptions in the world--including domestic U.S. adoptions--involve not "true orphans" with two deceased parents--but children with living parents forced to abandon, relinquish, or (in current parlance) "make an adoption plan" for them. There is nothing evil here. It's as old as humankind. The immorality enters with deception, with agencies telling Ethiopian parents that adoption is a kind of student exchange program and telling American parents that their future children are true orphans on the verge of starvation. Fragile parents on both sides of the Atlantic are easy to manipulate, and that is an evil thing.

4. There are still many ethical adoption agencies operating in Ethiopia. A key marker for people considering Ethiopian adoption is: there should be no contact between the agency and the children's family of origin. The agency must be a neutral placement site NOT involved in recruitment or contact. 

5. The Ethiopian adoption program grew too fast for ethical authorities to monitor completely. This was foretold by concerned people many years ago, as the government began opening its doors to absolutely anyone who wanted to set up shop in Addis as an adoption facilitator. The program scaled up far too quickly; and the crimes of a very few, of a tiny percentage, injure everyone touched by Ethiopian adoption. 

Sincerely,
Melissa Fay Greene
Atlanta




]]>
</content>
		<date>2010-03-01</date>
		<dc:date>2010-03-01</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview80</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview80</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>Happy Election Day!</title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[Last night I sat gazing out Helen's window into the woods behind the house, feeling a roving sense of anticipation and excitement.  It was like the rare night, ...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[Last night I sat gazing out Helen's window into the woods behind the house, feeling a roving sense of anticipation and excitement.  It was like the rare night, once every few years, when snow is forecast for Georgia. Something new was being carried towards us on the wind. My friend Jana emailed from South Dakota that it felt like Christmas Eve. "What in the name of heaven is going on in NORTH Dakota?" I emailed back, as North Dakota, like Georgia, appears on a few electoral maps as "in play." 

Today, half-savoring, half-fearing the passing of the hours, a last bit of silliness is zipping about by email among far-flung Democrats, strangers to each other and yet intimately connected in the dream of an Obama White House.   

My friend Judith forwarded it to me. It's funny, an operatic-like song, "Don't Speak for Me, Sarah Palin." The pianist wears moose ears.  Click here or paste this into your browser to see it: 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bh9BmNuqeiQ


  I sent it to my friend Tema in Connecticut and she just emailed back, "I'm really going to miss all of this stuff. Aren't you?" 

I will miss it!  I'll miss clicking on those maps and watching the colors of states like Virginia and North Carolina mysteriously fade from red to pink, to pale blue.  I'll miss reading The Huffington Post first thing every morning, to see my own concerns and beliefs plastered across the screen in their headlines. I'll miss getting the political Cartoon of the Day from my cousin Max in North Carolina. 

But those losses will be more than replaced if dignity, intelligence, and common decency are restored to the White House and to America's image abroad by a President Barack Obama picking up the reins of government. 

I voted last Thursday.  I stood in line for an hour-and-a-half in surprisingly bitter cold (for Atlanta), my fingers and toes turning numb, as we all joshed and shuffled forward, Obama supporters easily outnumbering McCain supporters--if there were any--ten to one.  Today Yosef and I will serve coffee and doughnuts to voters in line at the elementary school.

I can't even relay to my Ethiopian children how game-changing, how historic, how earth-shaking this election could turn out to be.  I think it's because they're used to black presidents. 

Go vote, everyone!  Vote for Obama!]]>
</content>
		<date>2008-11-04</date>
		<dc:date>2008-11-04</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview60</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview60</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>Ethiopian Passover</title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[Friends have asked about Lee & Maya's experience with a Passover Seder at a small Beta Israel house of worship. Here are the kids' photos:









...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[Friends have asked about Lee & Maya's experience with a Passover Seder at a small Beta Israel house of worship. Here are the kids' photos:















]]>
</content>
		<date>2009-04-17</date>
		<dc:date>2009-04-17</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview66</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview66</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>The 3 Branches of Government</title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[Helping 6th-grade Yosef prepare for a civics quiz, I asked:  "What are the three branches of government?"
"The Legislative," he began.
"Good." 
"The Exclusiv...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[Helping 6th-grade Yosef prepare for a civics quiz, I asked:  "What are the three branches of government?"
"The Legislative," he began.
"Good." 
"The Exclusive..."
"Wait... what?"
"And... the... Jud....Judaism!" he finished proudly. ]]>
</content>
		<date>2010-03-01</date>
		<dc:date>2010-03-01</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview81</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview81</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>Hanukah 08, so far</title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[For a fun Hanukah outing after candle-lighting and dinner last night, I forced the children to come with me to a violent depressing R-rated movie.  That was a f...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[For a fun Hanukah outing after candle-lighting and dinner last night, I forced the children to come with me to a violent depressing R-rated movie.  That was a first for me!  "SLUMDOG MILLIONAIRE" had been greeted with glowing four-star reviews; I'd remembered words like, "life-affirming," "joyful," "hopeful." I'd sensed it was the family holiday treat of the season. I completely missed the "R" rating. The opening scene, of a nice-looking young man being tortured in a prison cell, lacked completely the life-affirming and joyful mood I'd anticipated, settling in amongst the children with a jumbo bin of popcorn. 

It WAS a good movie.  For ADULTS.  On a non-holiday night.  

We all left the theater feeling a bit chastened.  "That was sad when his brother died," was about the most anyone could summon. And, "Why did the mean man blind that boy?"  We drove home in relative silence.

From Israel, Lee writes: "When you walk around at night, the Herzliya main street is draped with lights and there are menorahs in many windows.  It's not on par with American streets full of Christmas lights, but it's pleasantly festive.  Jelly doughnuts abound."  

Like most parents this time of year, this year especially, I'm scrambling to piece together a festive but gift-lite holiday.  An electric menorah with colorful bulbs sits in the kitchen window.  A plastic tablecloth covers the coffee table in the den, where menorahs totter and lean and balance their candles like waiters with trays of tall drinks.  I like singing the blessings and songs with the kids.  I like forcing them to listen to my reading of childhood Hanukah stories, books that half of them didn't hear in childhood because they weren't with us. (I posptone reading our favorite, "Herschel and the Hanukah Goblins," because I'm afraid that a few of the Ethiopian boys will  believe that Herschel is more central to Hanukah than Judah Maccabbee.) I like putting the time-worn Hanukah cassette tapes into the last tape-player in North America, which happens to sit on my kitchen counter. I like the fact that Lee has helped me shop for the children from afar: from the aisles of Target, I text his Israel phone, and he texts back, directing me to buy the correct Playstation soccer game and the biggest soccer goal.  I like that Seth texted Lily from New York: "I just bought you a present." And Lily, wanting to one-up him, texted back: "I made you a present." Then she had to make one. 

I like peeking with Molly into all the little shops of Decatur, Georgia, draped with Chrismas lights, open late, jostling with customers. I like standing in the check-out line in Target behind a man buying a child's bike, bending over to steer it gently towards the cashier. In this era of scarcity, anxiety, and war, it's still possible to rush about with a few shopping bags as dusk falls, believing that when the tissue paper falls away, someone's face will light up with pleasure.  I KNOW that all this silly busy American gift-giving has nothing to do with religious history and faith; but it IS related to family history and to the faith that spending hard-earned dollars on frivolous and needless suprises will generate hours that sparkle with fun. 

]]>
</content>
		<date>2008-12-24</date>
		<dc:date>2008-12-24</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview61</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview61</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>Molly & Island Biogeography</title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[Our daughter Molly, a freelance radio producer & reporter in San Francisco, has been named a recipient of a Middlebury Fellowship in Environmental Journalism: ...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[Our daughter Molly, a freelance radio producer & reporter in San Francisco, has been named a recipient of a Middlebury Fellowship in Environmental Journalism: 


http://www.middlebury.edu/administration/enviro/fellowship/ 
"The Middlebury Fellowships in Environmental Journalism each year take 10 journalists near the start of their careers and help them work through an ambitious reporting project in print, web-based, or radio journalism, from the beginning through publication or broadcast."  The fellows will be working independently under the guidance of Middlebury Scholar-in-Residence and author Bill McKibben.



We are thrilled for Molly as it allows her to combine her three great loves--radio, science journalism, and the environment--into a single year-long project.  Of the ten international 2009-2010 fellows, Molly's submission was the only winner in radio journalism.

Her project is "island biogeography in California, and how climate change, urban development, and agriculture affect endangered and endemic species around the state, from the Sierra Nevada to Davidson Seamount."

Her guiding light is the modern classic, SONG OF THE DODO, by David Quammen; like Quammen, Molly will be focusing not just on islands in the sea, but islands among us--islands created by development (like butterflies in two parks in San Francisco) or landlocked natural islands--like mountain peaks inhabited by pikas. 

Here's the introduction to Molly's proposal: 

       "Islands are, biogeographically speaking, a little weird.  Hobbits, the 17,000-year-old big-footed, short-statured Indonesian hominids that have been in the news lately, lived on an island.  So did tiny elephants.  And colossal reptiles.  But islands are more than spots of dry land surrounded by ocean.  Desert oases are also islands: habitable places surrounded by an inhospitable environment.  Isolated shallow areas in the ocean are islands, as are mountaintops and wildlife preserves.  

       "Islands are incubators for evolution.  It’s no coincidence that Charles Darwin first observed evolution (though he didn’t know it yet) on an island.  But islands are also incubators for extinction.  Animals on islands can’t migrate north when the climate heats up, or head off in search of a new reef when the coral dies off, or just propagate somewhere else when the temperature rises.   

        "California’s unique island habitats stretch from the Pacific islands that provide havens for sea birds and ocean-going mammals; to the Sierra Nevada Mountains that are home to the most massive trees on the planet and to small, cute, heat-intolerant pikas; to the landlocked urban islands of San Francisco where native butterflies eke out a living between highways and housing developments and where concerned citizens plant flowers to guide the butterflies to safe haven.
California’s Islands will tell the stories of species on the edge, forced either to adapt or to disappear.  Of course, habitat destruction and climate change are happening everywhere.  But the unusual spectrum of breathtakingly beautiful, delicate, and unique islands in California offers the chance to tell stories unknown elsewhere and to peer into the future of our mainland.  As always, islands lead the way."
]]>
</content>
		<date>2009-06-20</date>
		<dc:date>2009-06-20</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview69</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview69</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>Recent publications</title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[I published a book review this week in the New York Times: 

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/12/23/books/23gree.html?_r=1&ref=books 

And I have an essay in the...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[I published a book review this week in the New York Times: 

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/12/23/books/23gree.html?_r=1&ref=books 

And I have an essay in the new (January) issue of GOOD HOUSEKEEPING.]]>
</content>
		<date>2008-12-24</date>
		<dc:date>2008-12-24</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview62</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview62</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>Rainy night in Georgia</title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[


Rainswept Georgia, rainswept front yard.  We were lucky: the only flooding we experienced resulted from a mis-hap Yosef had with a bathroom sink. The alre...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[


Rainswept Georgia, rainswept front yard.  We were lucky: the only flooding we experienced resulted from a mis-hap Yosef had with a bathroom sink. The already defeated soccer-battered front yard turned dark brown, swam with puddles, its few grasses beaten down in the storm. We'd gone a week without sun. Kids listlessly milled around inside, their soccer practices canceled. Bored, they put Yosef in various head-locks, then wandered on.  Suddenly, an incredible announcement:  schools all over the metropolitan area were cancelled tomorrow, due to RAIN!!  Including the DeKalb County Schools!  My heart sank at the very moment theirs soared with joy.  No school!  Because of rain!  Yosef, Fisseha, and Daniel tore into the front yard, slippery as an iced-over pond. They yelled for Lily to join them, and she did.  They called for Helen to join them and she snuggled deeper under her covers in bed with a good book and pretended not to hear them. Jesse was at the YMCA and Lee was in San Francisco visiting Seth & Molly.

So the celebration was the responsibility of Yosef, Fisseha, Daniel and Lily (and Lily's school wasn't even canceled.)  They ran and slid across the mud; they dragged out the slip-and-slide and slid across that. When the rain slowed momentarily, they turned on the slip-and-slide sprinkler, which allowed them to get the mud out of their eyes. They played football in the mud.  The boys threw themselves with glee into the mud, as if jumping into a swimming pool; then, ever the considerate young gentlemen, they helped (forced) Lily lower towards the ground. Fisseha lay on his back and did snow-angels in the mud.  Concerned that Lily wasn't enjoying the full benefit of the mud bath, they turned their attention to her again, with Daniel lovingly adding gobs of mud to her hair and Yosef giving mud highlights to her face. "There goes the yard again," I thought, not for the first time. But the explosion of joy inspired by the mud-wallowing was not to be tampered with. So I took pictures of it instead. 



































]]>
</content>
		<date>2009-09-22</date>
		<dc:date>2009-09-22</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview71</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview71</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>I am concerned about adoption corruption</title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[Alarmed by the documentary, "Fly Away Children" (which you can view at http://www.ethiotube.net/video/5801/Fly-Away-Children--Commercialization-of-Children, or ...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[Alarmed by the documentary, "Fly Away Children" (which you can view at http://www.ethiotube.net/video/5801/Fly-Away-Children--Commercialization-of-Children, or do a google search for "Fly Away Children") and by confidential reports I'm getting from clients of Christian World Adoption (CWA) and of a few other agencies with similar practices, I sent this letter this morning to CWA: 

Dear CWA director and staff:

I'm now getting one to two inquiries a week about whether Ethiopian adoption is still an ethical option for families or whether the corruption and the so-called "child-harvesting"--the deliberate separation of children from intact families--have become so pervasive as to poison the entire program. EVERY ONE OF THESE PROSPECTIVE FAMILIES MENTIONS CWA AS THE OUTSTANDING EXAMPLE OF QUESTIONABLE PRACTICES. Word is spreading that you are recruiting birth-families to relinquish their children. Your new development, "Acacia Village," seems designed to find children for adoption, rather than to sustain families in crisis and help them to keep their children. 

You must know that the documentary, "Fly Away Children," is being watched everywhere. I can assure you that it is being watched at the highest levels of the Ethiopian government. 

As the author of THERE IS NO ME WITHOUT YOU, I've become an informal advisor to families all over the country wishing to adopt from Ethiopia.  

Is there anything in particular you'd like me to tell them?  Has CWA been misrepresented by journalists, American families, and Ethiopian families?  Are you planning to continue with methods which, if proven, are becoming the scandal of the international adoption world?  Are you prepared to accept the consequences if, as a result of CWA's allegedly unethical and possibly illegal work, adoption from Ethiopia is slowed down or halted by either the American or the Ethiopian governments? 

If somehow people have this all wrong, I'd be delighted to hear your defense and your explanations. If your reputation is being unfairly tarnished, please share with me the true story, which I will share with my readers, with prospective parents, and with my contacts in the Ethiopian government. 

Sincerely,

Melissa Fay Greene
Atlanta, Georgia
www.ThereIsNoMeWithoutYou.com  

]]>
</content>
		<date>2009-10-08</date>
		<dc:date>2009-10-08</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview72</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview72</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>We can now donate to Atetegeb online!</title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[
As many of you know, Mrs. Haregewoin's surviving daughter, Sosina Worku, has stepped into her mother's shoes and now runs the foster home, Atetegeb Worku.
...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[
As many of you know, Mrs. Haregewoin's surviving daughter, Sosina Worku, has stepped into her mother's shoes and now runs the foster home, Atetegeb Worku.

We've been hampered in getting donations to Sosina by the lack of an umbrella organization.  Now, thanks to the generosity of a few American volunteers, we have an umbrella organization!

Please visit www.hopeforchildrenus.org .

It's a terrific organization in its own right, as you'll see; and there are donation buttons on each page. Givers can specify that their gifts go to "Atetegeb" or to "Haregewoin's children," and there will be a straight pass-through.

Atetegeb, without Haregewoin, is struggling; Sosina is caring for 18 babies and children.  Please, please give, if you are able.

The website soon will offer more information about Atetegeb; but, trust me, it's the real thing.  Thank you all. 

To make an on-line donation, folks just need to go to Hope for Children's website.  The address is www.hopeforchildrenus.org.  There are donation buttons on each page and they can indicate that they would like their donation to go to Atetegeb.  I will get a specific Atetegeb page up on the website as soon as I can.]]>
</content>
		<date>2009-10-13</date>
		<dc:date>2009-10-13</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview73</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview73</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>Important new findings by Donaldson Adoption Institute</title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[I have been informed my entire adoptive-parenting life by the writings of the cohort of Korean-American adoptees who began arriving in the 1950s. Their vital in...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[I have been informed my entire adoptive-parenting life by the writings of the cohort of Korean-American adoptees who began arriving in the 1950s. Their vital insights on identity formation, and the failure of well-intended "color blindness" by white parents and communities, has guided my decisions with my transracially-adopted children.
The NEW YORK TIMES reports today on the conclusion of a new study about identity in transracially adopted adults.

The only "news" for me personally here is that this is "news."  This is vitally important material for every parent considering or engaged in adoption from Ethiopia. 

Here is the TIMES article: 

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/11/09/us/09adopt.html?_r=1&sq=Adam%20Pertman&st=cse&adxnnl=1&scp=1&adxnnlx=1257771637-3fJSHmvTwx9M9vPfFFOmcg

November 9, 2009
ADOPTED FROM KOREA AND IN SEARCH OF IDENTITY 
By Ron Nixon


As a child, Kim Eun Mi Young hated being different.

When her father brought home toys, a record and a picture book on South Korea, the country from which she was adopted in 1961, she ignored them.

Growing up in Georgia, Kansas and Hawaii, in a military family, she would date only white teenagers, even when Asian boys were around.

“At no time did I consider myself anything other than white,” said Ms. Young, 48, who lives in San Antonio. “I had no sense of any identity as a Korean woman. Dating an Asian man would have forced me to accept who I was.”

It was not until she was in her 30s that she began to explore her Korean heritage. One night, after going out to celebrate with her husband at the time, she says she broke down and began crying uncontrollably.

“I remember sitting there thinking, where is my mother? Why did she leave me? Why couldn’t she struggle to keep me?” she said. “That was the beginning of my journey to find out who I am.”

The experiences of Ms. Young are common among adopted children from Korea, according to one of the largest studies of transracial adoptions, which is to be released on Monday. The report, which focuses on the first generation of children adopted from South Korea, found that 78 percent of those who responded had considered themselves to be white or had wanted to be white when they were children. Sixty percent indicated their racial identity had become important by the time they were in middle school, and, as adults, nearly 61 percent said they had traveled to Korea both to learn more about the culture and to find their birth parents.

Like Ms. Young, most Korean adoptees were raised in predominantly white neighborhoods and saw few, if any, people who looked like them. The report also found that the children were teased and experienced racial discrimination, often from teachers. And only a minority of the respondents said they felt welcomed by members of their own ethnic group.

As a result, many of them have had trouble coming to terms with their racial and ethnic identities.

The report was issued by the Evan B. Donaldson Adoption Institute, a nonprofit adoption research and policy group based in New York. Since 1953, parents in the United States have adopted more than a half-million children from other countries, the vast majority of them from orphanages in Asia, South America and, most recently, Africa. Yet the impact of such adoptions on identity has been only sporadically studied. The authors of the Donaldson Adoption Institute study said they hoped their work would guide policymakers, parents and adoption agencies in helping the current generation of children adopted from Asian countries to form healthy identities.

“So much of the research on transracial adoption has been done from the perspective of adoptive parents or adolescent children,” said Adam Pertman, executive director of the institute. “We wanted to be able to draw on the knowledge and life experience of a group of individuals who can provide insight into what we need to do better.”

The study recommends several changes in adoption practices that the institute said are important, including better support for adoptive parents and recognition that adoption grows in significance for their children from young adulthood on, and throughout adulthood.

South Korea was the first country from which Americans adopted in significant numbers. From 1953 to 2007, an estimated 160,000 South Korean children were adopted by people from other countries, most of them in the United States. They make up the largest group of transracial adoptees in the United States and, by some estimates, are 10 percent of the nation’s Korean population.

The report says that significant changes have occurred since the first generation of adopted children were brought to the United States, a time when parents were told to assimilate the children into their families without regard for their native culture.

Yet even adoptees who are exposed to their culture and have parents who discuss issues of race and discrimination say they found it difficult growing up.
Heidi Weitzman, who was adopted from Korea when she was 7 months old and who grew up in ethnically mixed neighborhoods in St. Paul, said her parents were in touch with other parents with Korean children and even offered to send her to a “culture camp” where she could learn about her heritage.

“But I hated it,” said Ms. Weitzman, a mental health therapist in St. Paul. “I didn’t want to do anything that made me stand out as being Korean. Being surrounded by people who were blonds and brunets, I just thought that I was white.” It was not until she moved to New York after college that she began to become comfortable with being Korean.

“I was 21 before I could look in the mirror and not be surprised by what I saw staring back at me,” she said. “The process of discovering who I am has been a long process, and I’m still on it.”

Ms. Weitzman’s road to self-discovery was fairly typical of the 179 Korean adoptees with two Caucasian parents who responded to the Donaldson Adoption Institute survey. Most said they began to think of themselves more as Korean when they attended college or moved to ethnically diverse neighborhoods as adults.

For Joel Ballantyne, a high school teacher in Fort Lauderdale, Fla., who was adopted by white parents in 1977, the study confirms many of the feelings that he and other adoptees have tried to explain for years.

“This offers proof that we’re not crazy or just being ungrateful to our adoptive parents when we talk about our experiences,” said Mr. Ballantyne, 35, who was adopted at age 3 and who grew up in Alabama, Texas and, finally, California.

Jennifer Town, 33, agreed.

“A lot of adoptees have problems talking about these issues with their adoptive families,” she said. “They take it as some kind of rejection of them when we’re just trying to figure out who we are.”

Ms. Towns, who was adopted in 1979 and raised in a small town in Minnesota, recalled that during college, when she announced that she was going to Korea to find out more about her past, her parents “freaked out.”

“They saw it as a rejection,” she said. “My adoptive mother is really into genealogy, tracing her family to Sweden, and she was upset with me because I wanted to find out who I was.”

Mr. Ballantyne said he received a similar reaction when he told his parents of plans to travel to Korea.

The Donaldson Adoption Institute’s study concludes that such trips are among the many ways that parents and adoption agencies could help adoptees deal with their struggle with identity and race. But both Ms. Towns and Mr. Ballantyne said that while traveling to South Korea was an eye-opening experience in many ways, it was also disheartening.

Many Koreans, they said, did not consider them to be “real Koreans” because they did not speak the language or seem to understand the culture.

Mr. Ballantyne tracked down his maternal grandmother, but when he met her, he said, she scolded him for not learning Korean before he came.

“She was the one who had put me up for adoption,” he said. “So that just created tension between us. Even as I was leaving, she continued to say I needed to learn Korean before I came by again.”

Sonya Wilson, adopted in 1976 by a white family in Clarissa, Minn., says that although she shares many of the experiences of those interviewed in the study — she grew up as the only Asian in a town of 600 — policy changes must address why children are put up for adoption, and should do more to help single women in South Korea keep their children. “This study does not address any of these issues,” Ms. Wilson said.

Ms. Young said the study was helpful, but that it came too late to help people like her.

“I wish someone had done something like this when I was growing up,” she said.

_________________________________________________________________________

and here is the summary by Adam Pertman of the Evan B. Donaldson Adoption Institute:  

GROUNDBREAKING STUDY PROVIDES IMPORTANT NEW INSIGHTS ON IDENTITY ISSUES IN ADOPTION


NEW YORK, Nov. 9, 2009 – The Evan B. Donaldson Adoption Institute today released a major study on identity formation for adopted persons, a groundbreaking work that provides significant new information and insights that can be used to improve laws, policies and practices – as well as public understanding – on a range of issues relating to adoption, particularly across racial lines.
The study, launched with funding from the Kellogg Foundation, is the centerpiece of a 112-page report entitled “Beyond Culture Camp: Promoting Positive Identity Formation in Adoption.” It is the broadest, most extensive examination of adult adoptive identity to date, based on input from the primary experts on the subject: adults who were adopted as children. Central findings include:
Ø  Adoption becomes an increasingly significant aspect of identity for most adopted people – and race/ethnicity grows in importance for adoptees of color – throughout childhood and into adulthood. These findings raise questions about some current attitudes, practices and policies predicated on the notion that these factors diminish in importance after adolescence.

Ø  Adoption-related teasing and bias are a reality for many adoptees, but more so for Whites – who experienced the most negative behavior and comments from extended family and childhood friends. Race trumped adoption for adopted persons of color; i.e., a large majority experienced race-based discrimination rather than (or in addition to) adoption-related negativity.

Ø  A significant majority of transracially adopted adults reported considering themselves to be or wanting to be White as children – a stark message to parents and professionals, though most eventually grew to identify themselves as members of their racial/ethnic group (in this case, Korean Americans). Even as adults, a minority have not reconciled their racial identity.

Ø  The most effective strategies for achieving positive identity formation are “lived experiences” – in particular, travel to native country and attending racially diverse schools for the transracial adoptees, and contact with birth relatives for Whites adopted domestically. A majority of adopted adults in both categories said they had searched for their roots in some way.

Among the key recommendations, based on this research, are:
Ø  Expand preparation and post-placement support for parents adopting across race and culture.

Ø  Develop empirically based practices and resources to prepare transracially and transculturally adopted youth to cope with racial bias.

Ø Promote laws, policies and practices that facilitate access to information for adopted individuals.

Ø  Educate parents, teachers, practitioners and the media about adoption’s realities to erase stigmas and stereotypes, minimize adoption-related bias, and improve children’s experiences.

“Tens of millions of people in our country are already directly connected to adoption, and tens of thousands of additional children are waiting for permanent families,” said Adam Pertman, the Adoption Institute’s Executive Director. “Our goal for this research is ambitious: to improve all their lives in practical ways today – even as we utilize the new information and insights from the findings to make adoption itself an increasingly knowledge-based, healthy and ethical institution into the future.”

The survey at the core of this research was completed by 468 adult adoptees (making it, to our knowledge, the largest study of adoption identity in adults to date in the U.S.). For comparison purposes, we focused on the two largest, most homogenous cohorts within the total group: 179 Korean-born respondents and 156 American-born Caucasian respondents, all adopted by two White parents. It is noteworthy that 1 in 10 of all Korean American citizens came to this country by adoption.

While one cohort of transracial adoptees (Korean Americans) is at the heart of the study, it is important to note that an extensive Adoption Institute review of decades of relevant literature (Appendix I), as well as the Institute’s examination of transracial adoption from foster care (see “Finding Homes for African American Children” at http://adoptioninstitute.org/research/2008_05_mepa.php), make clear that many of the findings and recommendations in this new report apply to other domestically and internationally adopted persons and families as well.

The Evan B. Donaldson Adoption Institute is an independent, nonpartisan, national nonprofit that is the pre-eminent research, policy and education organization in its field. Its mission is “to provide leadership and support to improve laws, policies, and practices – through sound research, education and advocacy – to enhance the lives of everyone touched by adoption.”

__________________


For more information about “Beyond Culture Camp” or to schedule an interview with Executive Director Adam Pertman, email apertman@adoptioninstitute.org or call 617-763-0134. The Executive Summary of the study is attached to this email; to read or download a copy of the full report, go to www.adoptioninstitute.org.

 

 











]]>
</content>
		<date>2009-11-09</date>
		<dc:date>2009-11-09</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview74</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview74</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>Concerned about corruption (2)</title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[I heard back from the Christian World Adoption (CWA) director, Mr. Bob Harding; we spoke by phone.  He has many explanations about how the Australian-made docum...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[I heard back from the Christian World Adoption (CWA) director, Mr. Bob Harding; we spoke by phone.  He has many explanations about how the Australian-made documentary put his agency in an unfair light and I could understand how that might happen. Some of the footage was several years old and taken out of context, Mr. Harding explained.  The inflamatory word,  "harvesting," was the invention of the reporter; no sane conversation can be held when viewers are being deliberately enflamed.

Do I believe that "Fly Away Children" is a work of top-drawer trustworthy journalism?
No, not really.  Powerful, definitely. But would I make important life decisions based on its revelations?  No.  I'd need better proof than spliced-together footage and tearful interviews.

Would I thus recommend that prospective parents use Christian World Adoption?
No, I would not.  
Until the video's charges are countered in an open forum and proven false, until the scores of unhappy and bitter past-CWA parents see their situations corrected or remedied, there are clouds over this agency that should scare away any thinking person.

Do I think all Ethiopian adoptions are tarnished by corruption?
No, I do not.
Millions of children remain in dire need of help.
A large percentage can be helped by our charitable gifts to organizations on the front-lines, working with families and with orphans impacted by hunger, violence, and disease.
A tiny percentage can be helped by the match-making miracle of intercountry adoption.

How can a person try to pursue an ethical adoption, steering clear of the crooks and the profit-making middlemen?

I have a few suggestions:

1. Be open to the "waiting children," the ones languishing in orphanages, including older children and children with some degree of special need. Try not to turn in a "wish list" to your agency.  If most adopting parents continue to ask for healthy baby girls, then a black market will form for healthy baby girls, as prices for them rise and destitute people try to supply the foreign demand. Recall that adoption is supposed to be about finding families for children, not vice-versa. 

2. Check out the agency you're considering with the big online groups of adoptive parents.  No agency will be 100 percent complaint-free;  adoption is fraught with tension and fears and disappointments, some of which will be the fault of an agency and some of which will be blamed on an agency. But, beyond a few complaints, agencies should get generally positive reviews.  If there's an undertow of unhappiness at the sound of an agency's name; if adoptive parents--current or past clients of an agency--have been barred from the agency's online group; if secret online groups have sprung up to discuss confidentially the crimes and mis-haps happening with that agency's adoptions; if an agency is threatening to sue its past clients for libel, then run in the other direction as fast as you can.

3.  A good general rule of thumb:  there should be no contact between an American adoption agency and a birth-mother or other birth relatives.  It may still be legal but it's not appropriate and the best agencies aren't doing it.  Contact with a frightened or desperate birth-mother may pressure her to relinquish her child.  There should be NO CONTACT.
The Australian video about CWA showed vividly what inappropriate contact looks like.  CWA has not been alone in "beating the bushes," telling poor families--even intact families--about the wonders of America and about the great educations their children will get.  Agencies should NOT be getting their children directly from families. The imbalance of power is too great;  the chance for misunderstanding (like the belief that the child, educated in America, will then return to support her family) is huge. There are appropriate, legal, government channels for orphaned, relinquished, or abandoned children; the Government of Ethiopia must handle the placement of children for overseas adoption.  Let the agencies tend to the children within their gates; let them NOT comb the countryside to take in more. Sometimes, to my mind, the founding of a rural children's hospital or care center (see, for example, CWA's plans) is a thinly-disguised recruiting center.  ASK your agency where its children come from, and confirm that answer to the best of your ability. 

Do continue along this journey!  

Our family has been enriched beyond measure by the arrivals of Helen in 2002, Fisseha in 2004, and Yosef & Daniel in 2007.  The children were ages 5, 10, and 10 & 13 at the time of adoption. There's just no black market, as far as I'm aware, in middle-school-age African brothers; in any case, the boys remember vividly the deaths of their parents, their impoverishment, and their years in an orphanage.  They are all marvelous happy healthy and sometimes goofy children now. 
]]>
</content>
		<date>2009-12-17</date>
		<dc:date>2009-12-17</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview75</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview75</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>Facebook </title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[I'm on Facebook. Please feel free to "friend" me.  
I'm back in touch with almost the entire 8th-grade graduating class of Shiloh School, Dayton, Ohio, circa 1...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[I'm on Facebook. Please feel free to "friend" me.  
I'm back in touch with almost the entire 8th-grade graduating class of Shiloh School, Dayton, Ohio, circa 1960-something, so come on over. ]]>
</content>
		<date>2010-02-03</date>
		<dc:date>2010-02-03</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview78</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview78</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>Sleepover friends</title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[      On Sunday morning I tried to wake up a strange boy for a bar mitzvah lesson.  I thought it was Yosef (12, adopted from Ethiopia at 10) since the boy was A...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[      On Sunday morning I tried to wake up a strange boy for a bar mitzvah lesson.  I thought it was Yosef (12, adopted from Ethiopia at 10) since the boy was African or African-American and was sleeping in Yosef’s bed. It was early, and dark, the shades drawn, so I couldn’t be certain.  Several times I reached out, then hesitated. The boy’s Afro gave me pause, since Yosef’s hair was close-shaved the last time I checked.  I made a quick circuit of the many dens and bedrooms where children can be found on weekend mornings.  Daniel, 15, (adopted from Ethiopia at 13) was in his own bed; Sol, 16, (adopted from Ethiopia at 10) was in his own bed.  Camped out in Sol’s room were Austin, a white boy; Josiah, a Liberian boy; and Grace, from Congo.  Jesse (14, adopted from Bulgaria at 5) was in Lee’s bed and two of Jesse’s friends (two white, one African-American) slept on sofas nearby.  On the main floor of the house, I found Helen (13, adopted from Ethiopia at 5)  snuggled in a sleeping bag on a sofa, where she’d fallen asleep watching the movie, How To Lose A Guy in Ten Days. This gave me an important clue!  Upstairs, in Helen’s bed, I found Yosef!  I woke him up for his bar mitzvah lesson.   
      But whom had I disturbed downstairs? Later that day in the kitchen, I met Sammy, a Tigraynia-speaking boy from Eritrea, enjoying a bowl of Froot Loops.  
      “Did I try to wake you up for a bar mitzvah lesson this morning?” I asked him.
      "Yes ma’am,” he said softly. 
      "Sorry," I said.
      "That's okay, I did not mind," he said politely. ]]>
</content>
		<date>2010-02-03</date>
		<dc:date>2010-02-03</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview76</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview76</guid>
</item>
<item>
	<title>Adopted boy sent back to Russia by his mother</title>
	<description>
		<![CDATA[Here's, strangely, what Torry Hansen's situation reminds me of:
NOT my early weeks of panic with Jesse (when, if I could have sent him back to Eastern Europe w...]]>
</description>
	<content>
		<![CDATA[Here's, strangely, what Torry Hansen's situation reminds me of:
NOT my early weeks of panic with Jesse (when, if I could have sent him back to Eastern Europe without anyone knowing,I might have considered it). (And it wasn't his fault at all; I was in the grip of a fear I'd never known before.) 
No, Hanson's putting her son, Artyom Savelyev, on a plane to Russia reminds me of an afternoon about 25 years ago when Molly was a little girl and Seth was about seven months old.  Donny was working long hours, and I was a zombie.  Completely exhausted, sleep-deprived, with eyes too tired to wear contacts and mis-buttoned shirt smelling of diapers... I was giving Seth an early dinner in his high-chair in the kitchen and he was splashing merrily and noisily, shooting wads of sweet potato and spinach all over the kitchen and himself, grinning at me through a face drenched with those foods and hair dripping with applesauce.  
And suddenly I had HAD it.  I couldn't go on.  If I couldn't go upstairs and sleep, I thought I would die.  My patience and good humor were at an end.  Fortunately Molly was at a friend's house playing, but Seth was pounding, spattering, and shrieking in happiness.
I hauled the toddler out of his high chair and staggered zombie-like down the street with him, holding him, dripping, at arms' length. 
I rang the doorbell of my good friend who lived a few doors away and who had a daughter the same age. 
"Here," I said, the moment she answered the door. "Take him. Or I'm going to HURT the child."
Enough said.  Laughing, she took him.  
She knew I would never hurt my little son, whom I adored; but she also saw that I was at the end of my rope. 
I trudged home and took a nap.  
Not the 17-hour nap I needed, but the one-hour nap that enabled me to go on. When I returned to my friend's house, Seth had been given a bath, a shampoo, a fresh diaper, and clean clothes, and was playing joyously with my friend's small daughter.  All was well. 

I think--about this ex-adoptive mother in Tennessee--that she hit a wall.  Already she'd given up the boy to HER mother, and the grandmother also seems to have run out of ideas.  Exhausted, isolated, alone, panicking, they felt they needed urgently to act but they couldn't think clearly.  

The mystery questions include these:
Did they do their homework before the adoption?  did they have a sense of the challenges implicit in adopting the older post-institutionalized son of an alcoholic mother?
If not, why not?  why did they not acquire for themselves this indispensable education?  did their agency fail to provide the information (which in any case is available online) that children coming from dire straits do not typically arrive unscathed?  or did the agency tell the truth and the mother opted to believe in the old saw, "love conquers all"? 
Why, once they realized they had NOT brought home from Russia a well-nurtured cognitively-unimpaired English-speaking well-adjusted child-- did they fail to turn to available resources--the social worker, the adoption agency, the local welfare department, the well-known adoption medical center in Nashville?  
Did they try to make contact with any of those services and feel, somehow, intimidated, rebuffed, or too ashamed to tell the truth?

Because shame attaches (unfairly) to a mother in the grip of post-adoption depression, which I must presume afflicted this woman. 
When I was in the depth of post-adoption depression after Jesse came home, I called my agency; but, when the receptionist pretended to be amazed that I was having a rough time, I hung up on her, then bent over and held my stomach and wailed.
Torry Hansen's mortification, now that the whole world is mad at her and knows of her failure as a mother, must be infinite.
I hope she's not criminally prosecuted.
Because (unless terrible and criminal information comes out about her mothering attempts, unless she turns out to be an abuser) my sense is that--in desperate shape herself, in the clutches of blinding fear and despair--she did what she did to get the boy out of harm's way.  She couldn't handle him.  She was drowning in regret and panic.  She couldn't think straight.  She didn't have a close friend a few doors away. Her mother was panicking too rather than acting as a voice of reason.  They needed to say to a close friend: "Take him, or I'm going to HURT the child."
In their self-made isolation and in the narrow thinking of depression, they couldn't come up with anyone to whom to say these words other than the Russian authorities. ]]>
</content>
		<date>2010-04-14</date>
		<dc:date>2010-04-14</dc:date>
		<link>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview82</link>
		<guid>http://www.thereisnomewithoutyou.com/blog?op=dview82</guid>
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