We were standing in the long line leading from the sanctuary to the community room after church one Sunday in November, when the woman behind us asked, "What's her story?"
It's been more than six years since Don and I entered the world of adoption, and I've spent hundreds of hours studying how to be a good adoptive parent. And, still, the question caught me off-guard. I know the importance of handling intrusive inquiries with the proper balance of civility and succinctness, especially when Sarah is present. I don't want to give the impression that her adoption is a tense subject, but I also need to guard her privacy and keep prying people at bay.
Perhaps it's a function of how little we get out, but we haven't had many instances where people have asked inappropriate questions. I've read about some unbelievably stupid, rude things people have said ("How much did she cost?" "Couldn't you have children of your own?" "They kill girls in China, don't they?"), but I haven't been subjected to them myself. I consider myself fortunate, but also inexperienced. No matter how much I've read, until I've put my knowledge into practice, I will make mistakes. And, I did.
The conversation went something like this:
L: Sarah was adopted from China.
PW (Prying Woman): Oh, how old was she?
L: 12 months
PW: Do you know who her parents are?
L: Her biological parents? No, she was abandoned.
PW: Oh, my gosh, I just can't imagine giving up my children.
L: I'm sure it was a very hard decision for her mother; she probably felt she had no choice. The one-child law in China makes things difficult.
I don't remember what happened at this point, but, fortunately, the conversation was interrupted, and we moved on to enjoying cookies and coffee with other acquaintances. Sarah, who was standing in front of me the whole time, seemed not to notice any of it, but I know how good her hearing is, and I know how smart she is. She was probably taking it all in.
I analyzed that episode for days, ridden with guilt. I felt as though I'd betrayed Sarah's trust by divulging her personal information. Even though I knew better, once I'd started down the road of politely answering the woman's questions, I didn't know how to stop. I didn't want to be rude, and I didn't want Sarah to sense I was uneasy, so I tried to politely educate. That might have been okay, if Sarah hadn't been there, but to discuss the details of her early life in front of her, with a virtual stranger, was not.
It's not that Sarah doesn't know her story, because she does. She can tell it quite accurately. "I was a baby in my birth mother's womb, then I was born. My birth mother couldn't take care of me, so she took me to a place where she knew someone would take care of me. My foster mom took care of me when I was a little baby, then Mommy and Daddy came to China and adopted me. Now, we're a family at home."
I have avoided using the term "abandoned" with Sarah because, first, it's a pretty big word for a three-year-old, and, second, I don't think it accurately describes what happened to her, even though she has a "Certificate of Abandonment" from the Chinese government. It is a cold word that implies a lack of responsibility and caring. Sarah was placed where whoever left her knew she would be found right away and cared for. It may have been a desperate act, but it was not an irresponsible or uncaring one. There will come a time when she'll need to understand the term and all of its connotations, but not yet, and I shouldn't have used it.
This incident reminded me that I need to be prepared at all times to handle intrusive and inappropriate questions. It's far too hard for my middle-aged brain to finesse an answer on the spot, taking the circumstances into consideration (Is Sarah with me? How well do I know the person? Why do they want to know?). I've decided that it's best to politely shut down the conversation as soon as possible.
After much brainstorming and wordsmithing, I think I've devised a reply that I can deliver quickly and kindly, and that will end the conversation comfortably for all parties. After I've shared that Sarah was adopted from China, if someone asks any further questions, my response will be: "We keep that information private. I'm sure you understand." I've practiced it like a mantra, hoping that, the next time the situation arises, I can walk away feeling that I protected my daughter's privacy while setting a good example for her.
Given the emotional energy I've spent on this over the last couple of months, Friday's dustup between Presidential candidates Ron P*ul and Jon H*ntsman hit close to home. In case you missed it, there is an Internet ad that accuses H*ntsman of being "the M*nchurian candidate." It shows him speaking Chinese (he was ambassador to China) and with his daughters, adopted from China and India. It is a disgusting ad, no question, but it was H*ntsman's response that really disturbed me.
He began by objecting to the use of his daughters and the implication that "there is some sinister motive there." I wish he had stopped at that point. Instead, he went on to share that one was abandoned in a vegetable garden when she was two months old and the other was left to die on the side of a road the day she was born ("Luckily, she was picked up before the animals got her," he continued.). My stomach flipped as I heard this on the radio. To me, disclosing this personal information painted his daughters as victims and himself as the hero who rescued them. His statement didn't respect their dignity and privacy and appeared to be politically motivated.
The episode reminded me that Sarah's story is hers alone. I need to safeguard it until she is old enough to decide when and with whom to share it. I've discussed parts of it on this blog, as I've felt my way along as an adoptive mom, and I think that's okay. I like to believe that I do so in a respectful, nongratuitous way that may benefit others, without harming her. My posts will likely change as she ages, however, and perhaps I'll make the blog private, as a fellow adoptive mom did recently. At any rate, I will do my best to remember that, although we are part of each other's life stories, we each have our own to tell, or not, as we choose.
