His First Capoeira Lesson

He's a natural, don't you think?

Melkam Gena

It is Christmas in Ethiopia today.  Merry Christmas, Melkam Gena, Feliz Natal to all of those whom we love in Ethiopia and to all of those who love Ethiopia in the US.  A few days ago, we were invited along with other Ethiopian adoptive families, to celebrate Gena at the only Ethiopian restaurant in our area (two hours away).  The owner of the restaurant does this every year as a way to teach Ethiopian adoptees about their beautiful heritage.  This was the first year we participated.  There were Ethiopian dancers and musicians.  There was free and delicious Ethiopian food.  There was celebration.  There were cute kiddos everywhere.

Scootle-doot was mesmerized.  This was the first time (as far as we know) that he saw professional Ethiopian dancers.  This was the first time since Ethiopia that he did not stand out by wearing his traditional Ethiopian shirt.  Where a few weeks ago at school, he was the kid wearing the different shirt, here he was one of MANY little boys his age dressed alike.  He and the boy-pack bonded almost instantly.  They formed a little mosh-pit in front of the tiny stage.  They danced and laughed.  Most of these boys were complete strangers, but for a few hours, they were brothers.  They had more in common than any group of boys Scootle has met since being in the US.

Checking each other out.

First there are three ...

Scootle-doot in awe.

 

Getting their groove on.

Now there are more ...

Boo takes a break from running around to see what the fuss is about.

The music was loud.  Good loud.  It was impossible to stay still - the rhythm was infectious.  If it weren't such a small place and if it weren't the kids' day to shine, I would have been right in that mosh pit.  The dancers were powerful.  It was a multi-sensory experience.  Then it happened.

Something happened that made me lose it altogether.   I was already on the verge of joy-sorrow-gratitude tears when SHE got up and danced.  Do you see the tall girl in the picture?  I am glad I did not get a picture of her face because it would have been unfair.  She was in her moment.  I barely met her family.  All I know about her is that she is about 12-14 and she had been in the US for only 2-4 months.  All of the little kiddos were dancing and having fun, but they didn't really KNOW what they were doing.  They didn't remember or didn't REALLY know how to dance the Ethiopian way.  She walked in between them after a few numbers and started to DANCE.  Her shoulders and head snapped perfectly.  She held her dress.  She did not look at anyone.  She did not smile.  She looked up the entire time.  She was not doing this for us.  She was doing it for herself.  The catharsis was palpable.  Her face almost shone with the enormity of the moment.  It was as if she was transporting herself to a time less confusing, a time she knew, a time she danced with those she loved, a time where she was at home.   At one point, since no one could take their eyes off of her, the three Ethiopian female dancers stopped dancing and held their arms out to acknowledge her.  She was not stealing the spotlight.  She was the light.   I am about to cry right here in this coffee shop as I write this because this was one of those moments.  A kairos moment, for sure.

I don't know a thing about that girl other than what I already wrote.  I don't really know at all what was going on in her head.  But I know know what it is like to be a 12-14 year old girl and I am learning enough about transracial and intercountry adoption to know her life is not easy right now.  I have a feeling, though, that if she is as strong as her dance, that she will be something else.

As for my little two.  They ARE something else!  I am so thankful that they were able to experience this day.  They belonged like nowhere else.

Happy Easter! Feliz Pascoas! Melkam Fasika!

Out of tragedy, pain and senselessness, beautiful things can bloom.

We got a wee bit of attention with our Ethiopian outfits.  I love them.

Graveyard egg hunt

Excuse me as I squeeze, old souls!

 

Boo-boo had no idea what was going on, but he went with it!

Dying fresh eggs from Germaine's chickens

Scootle-doot concentrating

Yellow egg!

Tonight I Make A Photobook

I've been putting this off and putting this off.  I have only started and I realize why.  I have started making a photobook for someone in Ethiopia.  This someone is a link to the boys, someone who loves them, someone who thinks about them everyday.  I began looking at pictures from Ethiopia, from where our story as a family of four began.  A knot immediately made itself a lodging place in my throat.  In the day to day of laughter, tantrums, school, dinner, baths and meals together, one can easily lose sight of all of the pain through which our family was born.  Pain that will always be a part of us, along with everything else. 

I had to stop and write this post.  I could not go on.  How do you explain to that someone in Ethiopia that K was born deaf?  And how do you explain that he can now hear?  How do you explain the gadgets on his ears?  How do you explain that A doesn't understand much Amharic or Sidamic anymore, but that he has started reading small words in English?  Though he has forgotten the language, how do you explain to someone that they are not forgotten, but that A often mentions this person and that person and that person in his prayers?  How do you explain the inconceivable material differences between the life the boys now have and the one they left behind?  How does one hold all of these tensions, all of this love and all of this pain?

I have been avoiding this lump in my throat, this tightness in my chest, these tears I just cried.  Time for courage.  There is someone in Ethiopia who needs to see our boys' smiling faces, to know we did not forget, to know that we will always be woven together.  

Dear Brazil,

Saturday morning, I woke up to my child(ren) (K did not yet have his ears on) listening to this:

 

I just sat in bed and listened to A playing with K, who was still in his crib.  They have started this new ritual that allows Bill and me to sleep in a tiny bit on Saturday mornings.  A turns on the lights in their room, K stands up, and A makes K laugh and laugh with his antics.  The room is always destroyed, but we are grateful for the extra sleep.  

As I listened to them play, I also listened to that beautiful native tongue of mine drifting in from their room.  I listened to the fun rhymes that are impossible to translate, remembered my childhood and that old feeling came creeping in.   I didn't have to say much to Bill.  He said, "saudade."  Yes, saudade. It came out of hiding, to say hello, to say, "remember me?"  Of course I do.

There are some crevices in my heart that are filled with saudade.  Saudade of Evelyn when she was just "Lyn" (leen) or Eh-veh-leen.  Saudade of the girl who was finding her way there only to be transplanted here.  Nothing has marked my life as much as this uprooting, this sharp change of course, this splitting of myself.  I don't know if it was for better or for worse.  It just was and it just still is.  

As I am embracing a third culture into my family, I am afraid of Brazil getting pushed even further back into my memories.  It can get so lonely sometimes. I don't get to speak Portuguese on a regular basis.  Yes, there are some Brazilians here, but most of them came for very desperate reasons and find me an oddity.  "So, how long have you been here?"  They ask.  "27 years."  Silence.  We are very different.  I have established my life here.  They are just trying to make a go of it.  I look like them, I speak like them, but I am definitely odd. Odd?  Me?   I share much more in common with my American friends than my Brazilian ones in Brazil.  Much more, except that.  The saudade and the hole in my soul are mine.

Two of my brothers were born in Brazil and moved here to the US at the same time I did.  Except I was ten.  They were two and one.  They don't remember Brazil, and unlike me have no biological ties to it.  They feel no saudade.  Bill and I laughed yesterday, because his parents have lived in the same house he grew up in.  They are still there after 33 years.  Before going to college, I counted that I moved on average every two years and once, it was to another continent.  His story is the opposite of mine.  We love that in each other.

But as I was thinking about all this saudade,  feeling quite sad and sorry for myself, of course I had to wonder about A and K.  This move marked me more than anything in my life and yet I moved with my mom, with my brothers, with my step-dad.  I am still connected to my family in Brazil.  My support system remained the same.  I had the thought (sorry mom and por favor nao deixe commentarios aqui - mande por e-mail se quizer - em serio), "How could my mom just pluck me up and bring me here?"  The question seemed to echo, echo, echo....  She had her reasons and I know she did the best she could do given our situation in 1983.

But this is 2011.  And in 2009, we plucked up two beautiful little boys from Ethiopia and brought them here.  How could we?  And yet how could we not?

Sweet boys, 

I want you to know that we did the best we thought we could do given our situation and yours in 2009.  I will never fully understand the feelings you already carry within your little souls, but I am here to hold you.  And when you see me drift off into my saudade, I hope you will understand that it is okay to mourn something forever, it is okay to wonder "what if...," it is okay to be mad at your mommy and your daddy for the part they had in it, it is okay to cry with confusion, cry with sadness and cry when you don't even understand why you are crying.  Because there are some things that we just can't comprehend, can't let go of, can't reconcile - ever - at least that is what I currently understand.  I also hope you will always know that I am here, not only to hold, but to listen and to love you.  And you have each other.  You may feel differently about these things than your brother, but always share, always listen.  You have each other.    

With all of this talk of saudade, you might never guess that being born in Brazil and raised in the US is one of the things I like best about myself. It has made me one-of-a-kind.  It has given me a different way of looking at the world and I like it.  Yes, it makes me lonely sometimes, but it has also brought such great things into my life, too.  I have known since I was little, that the world is a big place, but that we all have something in common, we all share in a basic humanity, a basic goodness, the ability to be friends and to be family.  Perhaps having my family stretch across two big continents early on made it make perfect sense to have you come from another continent, too.  Our family is further strengthened.  Our hugs go farther around the world. 

Though both of you and I are both far away from where we began, love is one thing you cannot get away from.  You are so loved, my dears.  Both here and there, you are so loved.  May life be gentle with you, may it give you lots of love where your saudade can rest and may it also help you celebrate how unique and magical your journey has been.  Though I started writing this feeling saudade, I am finishing writing this feeling felicidade (contentment, inner peace, jubilee) for all that my own little journey has brought me - you and your daddy especially. 

Te amo, wud e shaloh, I love you,

Mommy