Red Threads vs. RAD, Part Three

Adoption is a challenge. It is a challenge because we have absorbed many of the dominant culture’s truisms about procreation, children, parenting, and so forth. Society represents adoption as inferior to biological reproduction, and we absorb that. But I love challenges because they expand you, you learn, you end up in a new place from where you started. Who wants to stay the same person forever?

Anyway, I’ve been doing some reading on RAD, Reactive Attachment Disorder, and this may be the most challenging element to adoption. Because, basically, you want your kid to like you, to love you, to cleave to you, and all of that. And, often, they don’t. Or they can’t–their extreme fear of abandonment lingers, often latent, only to resurface after you have assumed the adjustment period has ended, and all seems to be going well.

I had assumed that once you get over the initial shock period of adjustment with your adopted child, most adoptions proceed swimmingly. Not true. Assuming you adopt an infant, there is often a relapse of some sort when the child hits toddler age–at 3 or 4. The child will often regress in terms of responsiveness, aggressiveness, and so on. They can suddenly act out. They can suddenly withdraw. They can suddenly act destructively, towards parents, siblings, pets, or objects. A level of violence and belligerence can appear that seems utterly at odds with what you have known previously of your child.

The solution seems to be some combination of “holding therapy” and biofeedback, with the theory being that it’s necessary to take the child back to infancy behaviorally–cuddling, rocking, bottle-feeding the child as if she was a baby at your breast, etc. That because she was denied this stage when she was truly an infant, it’s necessary to provide it to her even though it does not seem age-appropriate. That until this infancy stage is properly handled, bonding with your child will be very difficult.

One of the most interesting cases I read about was of a child who needed to pick up objects and carry them into the next room with her in order to walk through the house. She would discard the object associated with the last room as soon as she felt comfortable in the current room. I was so taken with this image of the child who associated objects with moving through space that I wrote a poem about it. Here you go:

The Adopted Child

She travels from room to room like a chain reaction,
moving objects between thresholds: spoon from kitchen

to den, book from den to foyer, dog leash from foyer
to bathroom, toothbrush to bed. Her attention to any one

of them lasts the time it takes recognition to settle in,
abandoning the last room’s remnant as soon as she trusts

the next set of floorboards, remembers the plaster. There
is almost always silverware in the sofa. She is Janus,

two-faced god of doorways and new years, wary
of progress—that old excuse to disrobe, to unbind.

Looking back, the god replicates himself. He laces the past
to his temples, she collects souvenirs. Her destinations

are no less provocative, her borders no less defined.
She has a clear sense that absence is what’s left

when she lifts a foot. Objects dislodge easily in her hand,
and what is there to do but carry them around,

grateful for their shape and weight, for their indulgence
as she straddles two worlds, on some level aware

that each token costs precisely everything.

Red threads vs. RAD, Part Two

I realize I spent a lot of time on the toilet issue in my last post, but it bugs me that American parents complain so much about cultural differences when they’re in China. It’s a pet peeve. When I’m in China, I won’t be among those who visit MacDonald’s, Walmart, Pizza Hut, or the Hard Rock Cafe. Sorry if this comes across as self-righteous. It’s just that we’re asking these little girls to give up everything they’ve ever known, come home with us to a strange place, with strange customs and even stranger food, to adapt completely to living in the west, and we can’t survive two weeks outside of our middle-class, American comfort zones? Um, that doesn’t work for me.

Let’s not even get started on the subject of haggling for bargains in Chinese shops when they make less money in a month than we do in a year. Some day–the way things are going–China will own us. Until then, get your suburban-dwelling, Starbucks-drinking, SUV-driving meekness on.

Now, to the topic of cultural appropriation. I am suspicious of people raised in a middle-class, JudeoChristian tradition suddenly turning to Buddhism, embracing Zen, hanging mandalas, dream catchers and kokopellis on their walls, Tibetan worry beads in their car, or the yinyang symbol on their person. Perhaps their motives are pure, but does that really matter if the end result is a sort of self-indulgence, a cross-cultural dabbling, suspiciously available only to those of sufficient means? Too often these sorts of material and emotional appropriations–dare I say, adoptions–are represented as thoughtful, as enlightened, as groovy. Are they? Are they really?

I must point out that this suspicion is largely self-directed. Three years ago we bought a ranch in the high desert of Arizona that used to be a religious retreat, owned before us by an eclectic spiritual organization. There are several miles of trails, leading to shrines of various religious persuasions, where they used to hold healing or transforming ceremonies. We love the property because it’s beautiful, at the foot of a beautiful mountain (that used to be a volcano), and has great hiking trails. I was nervous about the idea of maintaining the rest of it, given that a bunch of white people living in the inner mountain west don’t seem to qualify as particularly Hindu-Buddhist-Zen-Native American, no matter how earnest the previous owners were or how curious we might be. I will say it’s been a regular course on comparative religions. I like the learning part of living here, but it’s daunting to be a caretaker of such a complex space.

My 19-year-old stepson, D., and I have talked some about cultural appropriation. He wears his hair in dreadlocks, listens almost exclusively to reggae music, sports a red-yellow-green pendant around his neck, and can quote Haile Selassie. He has never been to Jamaica, and he had a typically white, middle-class, suburban–though not totally orthodox–upbringing. Yet he has immersed himself in the African-Caribbean cultural experience that is reggae. He also has some tattoos representing Chinese characters. His white skin and hair have appropriated these markers of color. When I questioned him (not exactly using this language) about whether he is appropriating a culture that doesn’t really “belong” to him, whether his choices might to some degree represent a colonizing impulse, he necessarily defends them. But, then again, I can’t really blame him. I love wearing Native American Indian turquoise jewelry. Is that a cultural appropriation, a colonizing move? Or is it just pretty? an aesthetic thing? I’m not sure. It honors the culture, right? Right?

I cringe at the idea of dressing my Chinese-American daughter-to-be in Chinese silks, kimono-type layette sets, or T-shirts with Asian characters on them. I am hyper-aware of buying a diaper bag made of Chinese fabrics, even though this probably would have been my first choice if I had had a biological daughter. Even though my adopted daughter will be Chinese, this expression of her Chineseness would seem to be more for me than for her. It doesn’t seem to be the same as encouraging her to ask questions about her birth culture, enrolling her in Chinese language classes (or other Chinese cultural classes), or taking her back to China when she gets older, which would all benefit her. Asking her to play The Part by loading her up with Chinese symbology seems more about me than her. I don’t know. Does it emphasize that she’s special in a positive, self-empowering way? Or does it mark her as special in terms of difference, as “exotic” and therefore available for our (western) consumption?

These are some of the hard questions I think about when I think about adopting internationally. While the story of the Red Threads is a lovely one, I suspect (as is the case with most of our myths) that it serves to gloss over some of these harder truths. And I want to go into this experience with my eyes wide open.

One of the other hard truths about international adoption is RAD–reactive attachment disorder, which I may actually get to in the next post. ‘Til then.

Red Threads vs. RAD, Part One

There is conflict in the international adoption world. Not that that’s news to anyone, but–as someone who is entering this subculture–I’ve been trying to learn about it. I knew (could see, could tell) that some adoption blogs lean to the “sweet” side (talk of nurseries and clothes and ladybugs–the symbol of international adoption–and the legend of the red threads) and some others to the “issues” side of things (discussions of cultural appropriation, the implications of transracial adoption, reactive attachment disorder [RAD] issues, the primal wound theory, etc.). That’s a bit of a reductive assessment since there is some overlap between these two camps in most adoption blogs–but, in general, adoptive parents and parents-to-be choose one of these approaches and stick to it. That didn’t bother me; I enjoyed looking at and reading both sorts of blogs. After all, I have become a recent clothes hound in the 6-18 mos. category, and, yet, I’m someone who doesn’t shy away from serious dialogue. I like to learn by listening to competing ideas.

When it comes to this blog, I have no doubt that it will be an “issues” blog, with photos of clothes and the nursery thrown in for good measure and salivation. Yesterday, I was reading an old post on Grrltravels, discussing the purchase of adoption paraphrenalia that is loaded with racist and/or insensitive innuendoes. Here is her list with her commentary:

Things to Avoid

Images of Buddha–I believe that respecting the culture includes respecting dominant belief systems. For myself, I do not walk around adorned with pictures of Jesus, and would be offended to see someone with a cute-ified Jesus on their chest. (It’s not a word, but you know what I mean.) So why is it ok when it is an image of Buddha? Simple answer: It’s not.

Pseudo-Confucian Sayings–What may seem to be a clever play on words to us might be extremely offensive to those of Chinese ancestry. Confucius was an extremely important figure in Chinese history and his words are studied and honored in China today.

Take-Out Boxes, Chop Sticks, Fortune Cookies, Chinese Stick Fonts, Cone Shaped Hats, Nonsensical and Poorly Written Chinese Characters–I am not a sociologist or an anthropologist, so I am treading lightly here. To many in the US, Chinese-American culture revolves around Chinese restaurants and take-out and certain images traditionally associated with China (like the hats). To quote someone much wiser than I, the items listed above represent cultural commodification. This does not mean that you can’t bring food home in take-out boxes or eat with chop sticks. It does mean that you should think carefully before buying one of those cute take-out purses, wearing chop sticks in your hair, doing anything with a Chinese stick font, using fortune cookies for your adoption announcements, or getting a Chinese character tattooed on your person. When you do these things you are contributing to the stereotyping and misunderstanding of Asian and Asian-American culture that is so prevalent in the US today.More on cultural commodification: Cool Commodities, Pikachu Eats Sushi While Watching Jackie Chan

Cutesy Slanty-Eyed Kids–Perhaps the argument would be that this is a way to embrace physical characteristics belonging to our children. Personally I would stay far, far away from this form of stereotyping. No excuses.

“China Doll”–This has been covered extensively, but must be included in this list. “China doll” is a term that is often offensive to Asian women, demeaning with sexual overtones. It may be cute to call your 1-year-old “my little China doll”, but my guess is that when someone leeringly yells it at your teenage daughter you will feel differently.

T-shirts–There are many, many offensive T-shirts out there. Some are clearly in poor taste (Buddha with a pacifier); some are more subtle (”Made in China”, “Spicy Hunan Girl”, “All American Girl”, “My Parents went to China and all they got was me”); some are steeped in American adoption lure (ladybugs, red thread references). I am AMAZED at how far adoptive parents will go to defend their right to wear a T-shirt that others (especially Asians) may find offensive. It’s a T-shirt—just let it go.

Things to Consider

Pandas–The Chinese consider the panda a national treasure. And pandas are endangered and deserve our ongoing efforts to protect their habitats. So why are pandas on the list? Consider if you will for a moment a European couple who adopts a baby in the US, returns to Europe with their child, and decorates the child’s room with American bald eagles. Does that scenario strike you as strange? An overabundance of pandas perhaps reduces the longest existing civilization in the world to cute bears. In addition, remember that it is isolating to your child to place all of the Chinese stuff in her room. If all of the pandas in your house reside in one room, you may want to rethink the pandas.

Bamboo–Are you buying bamboo tchotchkes to give an Asian flavor to your home? That might be bad and it might not. Consider your motivation. And be careful to think through the message you are sending to visitors to your home.

Ladybugs and Red Threads–While these things aren’t inherently bad, I do think they send a message in the American International Adoption community. For example, these items may signal to other adoptive parents that you are in their camp, with all that implies. Secondly, I haven’t read much about how Asians and Chinese in particular react to the ladybugs and the appropriation of the Red Thread legend, but my gut tells me that is something I’d want to know before moving forward with anything of this ilk. And finally, in my heart I believe that at this point in time the ladybugs and red threads serve to minimize the issues and real challenges inherent in international and transracial adoptions for many people.

Eds. Note: The majority of the items on this list were contained in a message posted on APC a few months back. The author of the list is a member of the Chinese IA community who I respect and admire. The list is uncredited because all of the commentary is mine and mine alone.Posted by grrlTravels at June 22, 2005 04:40 PM

Me again. I was happy to see this list. I only had one emotional hiccup reading through it, when I got to the stuffed panda part: my favorite stuffed animal as a young kid was a panda, although it was strangely colored pale-blue-and-white. I guess I thought it would be around in my kid’s room too. I might have to re-think that.

By and large, I think the list addresses some very real concerns I have about cultural commodification/appropriation/imperialism and the way the west historically plays the role of cultural patriarch to the east (including, by the way, the middle east). This topic can’t be ignored when you’re talking about adopting children from Asia and bringing them back to (largely) white, middle-class America. Because you’re literally parenting them and you exist in a culture that has historically set itself up as the symbolic parent of the “unruly,” “untameable,” “exotic,” Orient. I’m thinking of a whole political history with China, of course, and of the ways we interacted with Chinese immigrants in this country in the 19th-century, creating “China Dolls” out of Chinese women and dismissing Chinese men as effeminate. It’s not good enough to say that was then, this is now, because that is the cultural currency we’ve inherited, although we may be only marginally aware of it. It pops up in adoption blogs in subtle ways, I think, such as the ways American parents describe the food, the markets, the shopping experience, the toilets, etc., in China. I hate to say it, but their attitude is nearly universally negative, dismissive, disdainful, and superior–for instance, that using a squatting toilet is such an inferior choice when they could have western toilets, and so forth. This is how the historical paradigms continue to rear their ugly heads: as Americans, we perpetuate the myth that we know better, are better, and if they would just listen and learn from us–like children must of parents–they would be so much better off.

Let me tell you what someone in India explained to me about traditional squatting toilets when I spent time there in 1998-99: that they are actually considered much cleaner than western toilets. I saw evidence of this first hand when I traveled all over India in the second- and third-class train cars. They were equipped with both kinds of toilets, and, if you didn’t use the western-style toilets within the first half-hour of an overnight train ride, you were in for quite a mess. Let’s just say that there is much more surface area to soil on a western toilet. That whole big porcelain bowl compared to a hole in the ground, in which your waste is instantly out-of-sight, with a mere porcelain rim. That perspective is foreign to most Americans, but it’s true–many Asians think of us as dirtier. And toilet paper, which we hold dear enough to tote around with us when traveling in Asia, is likewise considered a dirty way to go about things. In India, there were water spigots about a foot off the floor with buckets underneath in all the toilet stalls. Water (and your hand) was considered a much more reliable cleaning method than dry, thin pieces of paper that stuck and tore and never did a complete job of removing waste from your bum. Sorry, folks, but that’s the other side of things. It always makes me cringe to hear adoptive parents bemoan the toilet situation in China given this other way of looking at things. Just think: we may, in fact, be doing it all wrong…or, at the very least, we are doing it the way we’ve been taught, which is no more right than their way.

To be continued.

The little things

It’s funny how the little things start to matter. When I was younger, it was the milestones–the mountains not the moleholes–that I took notice of, that seemed to carry weight or to change lives or perspectives. Graduations. Marriages. Births. Deaths. But the older I get, the more the little things interrupt me, announce themselves, and just plain take my breath away. These are GOOD little things, I might add. Yesterday, I noticed a particular pine tree of no particular caliber, in no particularly important place. It stood next to an office building I was walking by. It was shimmering and silver and each long needle seemed to glint. The first explanation that came to mind was raindrops, but–as I am in the desert, and it hasn’t rained here for months–that didn’t make sense. Then I realized that I was seeing the sun reflected off of sap, that each needle was coated with the sticky stuff, and, at that particular moment, each one was glowing like amber. Pretty cool.

A few weeks after we decided to adopt a daughter from China, I found myself in downtown Phoenix, walking by a kid’s clothing store. I think it was called This Little Piggie. I did something then that I have never done before. I went in and bought my first baby clothes. I realize this admission will not sound monumental to anyone who hasn’t experienced infertility, but, for those who have and who have subsequently become pregnant or have decided to adopt, it’s a life-changing experience. What you might otherwise think of as casual, pedestrian minutes spent in a shop picking out a few pink outfits, sizes 6-12 months, become unforgettable. I am suddenly Someone New. I am The One who gets to shop for onesies. I have legitimacy as I fondle the strollers on display. If I want to take that little jacket home, embroidered on the back with butterflies, all I have to do is pay for it at the cash register. I no longer have to eye the clothing from afar, feeling that I have no right to look or touch because I am childfree. Not anymore. I am adopting. I am a parent-to-be. And this little thing, this little pink cotton jersey jacket, has brought me joy. Indescribable joy.

I realize then that I will probably never take shopping for children’s clothing for granted, even when I am harried and frazzled and the kid is screaming and the dog is barking from all the way across the parking lot in the car and I have some unknown substance spilled down my midsection. I will always revel in the simple act of this type of purchase.

For years it felt as if the childed world got to do things that I did not. Nurseries and midwives and baby showers and birth announcements and macaroni drawings brought home from preschool. They were different than me. They knew things about unconditional love and pride and fear and memory that I didn’t. They were special.

Now I am different, special, in a way that the easily-childed world is not. I have a knowledge that they missed because their fertility was a birthright. I know that while the little pink jacket might have a pricetag of $30, it would have cost much more than money to have to walk away from it. And, so, the little pink embroidered jacket came home with me, and it did not go in a dresser drawer or in a closet or stay in its bag. I kept it out on the kitchen counter where I could see it as I walked by and touch it for days and days.

The modesty topos

I realized with some degree of amusement that my first post (”Mea culpa,” below) actually functions as an example of “the modesty topos”–a fancy term used by scholars to talk about authors who apologize or defer or otherwise self-deprecate at the beginning of their texts. Women seem to employ the technique more often than men (and are infamous for apologizing in classroom settings for what they are about to say before they speak), although men of a certain era–the sixteenth century, for instance–did this in epigraphs as well. After all, publishing was considered vulgar.

Why is she going on about this? Enter frustrated scholar confession: I am a frustrated scholar. Sorry. (!) I spent many years (15) in the academic world, teaching college students the joys of Renaissance literature and the difference between the semi-colon and the comma. When a particularly intrepid doctor informed me three years ago that I would never get pregnant working the number of hours I was at the time (about 70/wk., 7 days/wk.), I quit. I resigned mid-year, between semesters, and my daily anxiety attacks immediately disappeared. I am now a poet, working in an office at home (actually in a separate building, which is good because I’m not tempted to come to work in pj’s). I love it and only mildly, once in a great while, miss the highs of teaching in the classroom. More than the practical aspects, I miss the sense of identity that comes with having a career. I still consider my writing a career and take it very seriously. I never miss a day in the office and still “go to work” on the weekends. But it’s obviously my own thing, and very flexible, and doesn’t include company letterhead. Most people don’t know what to say when I respond, “I’m a poet,” to their query about what do I do. I know they’re thinking, “well, yes, dear, I am too–when I can find the time.” Sigh. I’m not too bothered by all this, really, because I know that I am very, very lucky to be working and publishing at something I love.