Transracial adoption

I remember it well.  It was two summers ago, and we were at the park.  My kids were playing- running around the play equipment, climbing and sliding and hollering.   There were other kids playing, too, and two of them I noticed in particular.  They were two little girls with beautiful black skin- darker than Adelia's-- and curls all woven into braids and colorful beads.  Their mama sidled up to me and asked me if Adelia was adopted from Ethiopia.  No, she was adopted through the foster care system here in the states.  Her daughters were also adopted, she said- and so we chatted about that and then- the ever-popular topic of conversation with adoptive mothers of black girls with curls: HAIR.

She shared that her girls didn't like their curly black hair, that they were teased at school for their hair being different, and that they wished they had swingy, swishy hair.  I looked at my Adelia-girl, all sassy with her braids and beads and thought: "Thank goodness she doesn't go to school and get teased about her hair.  How awful."  I told the mom that so far we had avoided that.  Adelia happened to love her hair and thought she was pretty smart with all the clickiness of her beads snapping together as she moved. 

***

I intentionally and frequently tell Adelia how much I love her hair and skin; that God gave them to her and how blessed she is to have such pretty tiny black curls and beautiful black skin.  She shrugs it off in her "Oh, stop" sort of way (she'd roll her eyes if she knew about that yet) but I keep at it.  I know she's listening and I hope she's taking it all in and that she will grow up feeling secure in her skin and see beauty in herself because she is created in the image of God.  I'm praying so, too. 

I see it in her, though, as she grows- the desire to have hair like mine.  I suppose it's natural.  She wants to use the same hairbrush we do but she has braids or twists in and you can't really brush those with a hairbrush.  She wants her hair in pigtails, like Audra's- but they don't really look the same, her pigtails. 

Today that four-year-old girl stepped out of the bathtub and I wrapped a towel around her and got out the oil to put on her.  She wanted to sit in my lap first. So I pulled her wet self into my lap and hugged her and then after a minute, began putting oil on her legs.  I said something about how beautiful her skin is and she harrumphed and had a grumpy look on her face.  So I asked her, "Don't you like your black skin?"  [And.  Maybe I shouldn't have put those words out there so plainly.  But it was written on her face and that's kind of how I roll- to call it out and talk it through.]  She said no, she wanted "grey" skin, like me, and then pointed to my arm which was stretched out in front of her.

I pulled her around to face me, then, and asked her: "Who made you?"  She said right away: "God."
"Right.  And He made you beautiful.  He chose to give you black skin like this because it's so beautiful.  He thinks it looks *good* on you.  He does all things good."  And I rubbed oil on that precious black skin.  It makes me want to clap and celebrate this creative God who made all colors and all shapes and sizes and all types of hair, whether it's frizzy or straight or wavy; He makes us all unique and wonderful.  Can you imagine how boring it would be if we were all the same?  Sheesh.  Let's celebrate our differences already-- it makes life so much more interesting! 

For Adelia it's simply about wanting to be the same as us.  (Or- when I told Mark the story later, he said "That's just Adelia being obstinate."  Maybe so.)  But I know that she sees her daddy and mommy and sisters with white skin and that's what she wants to have, too.  Since that's impossible, I'm trusting that God will help us navigate these conversations as they crop up throughout the years.  I know that God placed her here in our family- with white parents- for a reason.  I'm trusting that even when I feel inadequate and uncertain about how to handle these issues, He is faithful and He will guide us.

I told Mark just last night that I often forget that some of our kids are adopted.  We went to get donuts the other morning, just me and the kids, and I noticed a couple doing a double-take as we walked through the door.  It took me a minute to figure out just why they were staring at us.  Then I remembered Isaias' dark brown skin and Adelia's black skin and realized that the couple was trying to figure our family out.  I truly forget that we're a transracial family.  They're just my kids and I love them and I don't even notice the differences that others immediately see.

I've gotten all off track, here.  I was just going to say that things have changed since that conversation I had in the park with that other mom.  Adelia doesn't go to school and she's never (to my knowledge) been teased about her hair-- in fact, she's praised for it-- but she has those feelings just the same.   Somehow I feel like I should record these types of conversations.  I want to learn from them and I want to listen to her and be thoughtful and prayerful of where she's at.

That's all.  Mark wants the computer now and my knitting project is calling my name.

Love to you all,
~Stacy