Photo taken last July, Charleston, SC

This morning I told my beautiful bambinos about the Charleston shootings. Sadly, for me, but mostly for them, we’re getting quite accustomed to these conversations. I’ve become — again, sadly — strangely adept at discussing these things in age-appropriate ways with my children. And let’s be real: when I say “these things” what I’m talking about is the tragic loss of black lives and the horrific racism all too often at the root of current events.

We can’t shield them from reality. And I want them to hear the truth from me first — before they overhear someone talking about it, catch a glimpse of a tv somewhere, or see the front page of a newspaper or website.

I knew I had to tell them today; I had tried to sort out my own emotions enough yesterday to prepare myself for talking with my kids about it today. So I got up early to make them their favorite muffins. And then, one by one, over muffins and milk, I had three separate conversations in our kitchen.

“I have to tell you something,” I began, and then I told them. 9 black lives lost, an historic black church in Charleston, South Carolina, 21-year-old white male killer, gun, police search, caught and in jail, families and communities and me mourning, racism, the battle is not over, so much progress has been made, still a long way to go, and we — each of us in our family — you and me — need to be part of the push for change-for-the-better, we need to use our lives for good. And you are so deeply and enormously loved and cherished and valued.

Kyle couldn’t contain himself as his angst spilled over. I just looked up the word “angst” to be sure it was precise. It is the perfect word for Kyle’s reaction: “Angst: a feeling of deep anxiety or dread, typically an unfocused one about the human condition or the state of the world in general.” This kid, more than anyone I know (for real), gets it. In a rooted, comprehensive, overwhelming way, with — as C. Wright Mills would say, a complex intersection of history and biography — he gets is.

I had barely finished my first sentence, “Kyle, sweetie, I need to tell you something horrible, on Wednesday night nine people were killed—” when he first said it, “Again?” I nodded as I continued, and he repeated it over and over in the short three minutes it took for me to tell him. “—in an historic black church in Charleston, South Carolina—“—-“Again?” I’d nod and keep going, and he’d say, “Again?” and I’d nod and keep going. My throat felt constricted, like a thick choking feeling, looking him in the eyes — noticing for the millionth time how deep dark brown my boy’s eyes are, how gorgeously creamy his dark brown cheeks are — and having to tell him this sickly thing. He seems way too beautiful for this ugly truth. But I know with every part of me that I have to tell him, and I have to do it right. I finished, waiting for his response, and he said again, simply, “Again?” And I just stood there with him in a long silence. He finally said, “And in Charleston again? Why does it have to happen in Charleston? I love Charleston.”

We’ve been traveling to Charleston every summer for the past four summers. And we’ll be there again in just a few days. It is our family’s happy place. No place is unscathed.

In Charleston, 2012

Owen is much more cut and dried. There isn’t a lot of complexity to it for him. There is no gray area, things are right and things are wrong, and he calls it like it is. His reaction: “That. Is the definition of racist.”

Meera, at age seven, is and has always been the consummate family girl. There is nothing she values more than her family, and no one on earth she adores more, or craves the love and affection of more, or — as a healthy set of siblings — is more annoyed by, than her brothers. She knows no life without them, she knows no different, and the concept of racism is about as foreign and detached for her as could possibly be. If there is a white child on this planet who is less intrinsically racist than Meera, I’d be curious to meet them; there is not any tiny fraction of her that can understand how something like the Charleston shootings could possibly happen. But she understands family and she understands love and loss, and I think that she feels those things — at times like this — more powerfully than many others, at least in part because of her unique family and thus her unique perspective on life.

I felt sick to my stomach as I watched her sweet pink-cheeked face go slack and pale as I told her. The color literally drained from her. She said nothing. I asked her what she was thinking. She said, “I know this probably sounds weird, and maybe bad, but I am happy for the ones that died that they at least get to be in heaven.” I said, “That doesn’t sound weird or bad. I’m happy for that too.” I asked her if she wanted to ask anything, or say anything more. She said, “Not really.” I said, “I saw your face get really pale. Do you want to tell me about your feelings?” She said, “I was just thinking mostly about their families. I just feel so bad for the families.”

We hugged. Her pink cheeks came back. She ate a muffin and drank her milk. The boys got ready to run off to basketball camp for the day. All was ok. Sort of. Again.

In Charleston, 2011

So. Rachel Dolezal.

I’ve been getting email from all over the world asking me if/when I’m going to blog about this. It’s weighing on my mind. But honestly, I don’t think I’m going to be blogging in any extensive way about it. Mainly because I have too many deadlines (real work-related deadlines) looming in the next ten days. And also because this one is just a little too sensitive for me. I’m not sure I could write something on this right now without getting all mama-bear-with-the-hair-on-my-back-all-bristly.

I know, I know, it doesn’t make any sense– how could I write about things like Trayvon Martin and Ferguson, but not be able to write about Rachel Dolezal? I’d like to think I could rise above, but at the heart of it all — the ongoing commentary, insinuations, and outright arguments that white mothers can’t raise black children — well… truthfully… it puts me a little bit… maybe a lot… over the edge.

“Several years ago, she became the guardian of one of her adopted, black younger siblings, Izaiah, now 21. He sees her as his ‘real mom,’ she said, ‘and for that to be something that is plausible, I certainly can’t be seen as white and be Izaiah’s mom.'” (Quote taken from this source.)

To say that this makes me a little bit squeamish is certainly to underrepresent my squeamishness about this. For the past few days, as the word “transracial” has been increasingly thrown around surrounding the Rachel Dolezal story, those of us in the Transracial Adoption Community (all caps there folks, because, this is a real thing), have been getting more and more uncomfortable (to put it mildly) with this whole entire media-blitz-Twitter-Facebook-Rachel-Dolezal-frenzy. We aren’t used to our word (transracial), our phrase (transracial adoption), being acknowledged much — let alone getting any media attention. And now we’re not only seeing and hearing “transracial” peppered all over the mainstream media, the news outlets, the internet, everywhere — we are seeing and hearing “transracial” being used in what is — for us — a very peculiar, and very — how shall I say this? — ummm…. OFFENSIVE — way.

There is a long history of white women raising black children. It would be wrong to pretend that history isn’t totally, totally, totally messed up. But today — in this historic era — when we have so much history to learn from, and adult adoptees to teach us, and research on adoptive families to absorb, well, to be honest: there is just no excuse for not doing our absolute 100% best to live out transracial adoption as right as we can. And, TRUTH: there are lots of us out here — lots of us — who are trying hard, every day, trying very, very hard, as white mamas of precious black children, to do it right.

I am my sons’ real mom. That is plausible. And I am most certainly seen as white. And they are most certainly seen as black. I am white and they are black, and we are a good strong family who knows who we are. I am the white mom of Kyle and Owen — I am seen that way, and I am that.

Here’s a link to the best thing I’ve seen on the topic so far — please watch:

click here: Angela Tucker on Anderson Cooper

This past weekend was our annual Haiti Reunion. This was our 9th year getting together with this extended family of ours. I’ve written a lot about this in the past 8 years (see here).

A couple of days ago I heard something that really has had me thinking. Tylenol has a new ad campaign called #HowWeFamily (see here). It asks, “When were you first considered a family?… When did you first fight to be considered a family?” It has had me reeling, just thinking about it. Because I think this — how we became families, how we had to fight to become families, how our families are considered/perceived by others, and how we have to keep fighting to be considered a “real family” — this, at the core, is the bond that we share with our Haiti Reunion kinship network. This is what separates us out, and sets us apart.

I’m going to be honest: 11 years in, I can say with total confidence that, quite frankly, most people outside this little tiny world of Haitian adoption just don’t get it. You know I don’t go out on a limb and say such provocative things very often, and I know I’m going to ruffle some feathers by saying it, so that should just signal just how strongly I feel about this. Truthfully: we’re a small tight fierce little crowd for a reason. We have had to fight hard simply to become the families that we are. And we are still fighting, on a daily basis, to be considered — perceived and understood — by the world as the families that we are.

Haitian adoption is not for the weak of heart, mind, or soul. Not at the start, and not a decade in.

Even within the adoption world, even within the international adoption world, Haitian adoption is sort of on the extreme end of the spectrum. There are very few U.S. agencies that will process Haitian adoptions, the infrastructure (or lack thereof) in Haiti makes it an uphill (often losing) battle, and no piece of it — large or small — on either end — U.S. or Haiti — is smooth or easy. To say that we had to fight to become families is a huge understatement. We had to fight the fight of our lives, with every cell and prayer in us, in a grueling (non-)process virtually impossible to navigate. I am not exaggerating. When we get together as Haitian Adoptive Families, we can share our war stories and commiserate over the battles as we still try to process our experiences and memories, even after many years in. But I think, more than anything, what we’re doing is bonding over all that goes unsaid — all that doesn’t need to be stated when we’re together — we all get it, we’ve all been there and done that, we have unquestionable respect for, and solidarity with, our fellow comrades in the struggle to become families. We fought. Hard.

As for how our families are considered…  That’s a whole other part of this journey that we’re on. It isn’t a chapter in the story, it is a theme threaded throughout all the volumes. We get everything from (this one was popular a bunch of years ago) “Oh! You’re so cool! Just like Brangelina!” (oh, how I hated that one), to the blank stares and/or piercing glaring stares, to the frequent questioning (we’re currently thick in a stage of life where the J-M bambinos get a lot of this) “How is she your real sister? That isn’t really your mom, is it? Where are your real parents? Can you prove those are really your brothers?” Don’t even get me started on the documents we need carry with us when we travel (particularly internationally), or the really unbelievably stunning comments/reactions/experiences we run into frequently in our own hometowns. The fight to be considered a real family is a daily battle, ever-looming, and ebbing and flowing as we — especially our kids — go through various phases and stages of life. When we are at our Haiti Reunion we have one day a year where there is no fight. We are foundationally unquestioned, and unconditionally accepted. When you’re fighting all the time, a day’s break feels indescribably amazingly good. To look around and see families that resemble your own? That’s the icing on the cake. It is a powerful bond.

Our other bond is the joy, grace, and beauty that we uniquely know in Haitian adoption. We have the fighting (and we are all warriors), but we have the sweet soft center in common too. There is a deep delicious vivacious gorgeous love at the heart of it. We share that together too — we know the profound utter beautifulness that is in being the families that we are. We have something special, and we know it. Together, we can be witness to that in community. There is beauty in struggle. There is grace in pain. There is dignity in the fight. We are the lucky ones on the front lines.

My dear Haiti Family, Thank you. I meant it when I said I want you dancing at my kids’ weddings someday. I want us to all stick around, and hold on tight, for the long ride. We need each other. What will become of all these kids? What lies ahead for us? Let’s find out together. I wouldn’t want to be doing all this without you. Love, Heather (for the J-Ms)

Two years later, the Fairy Forest is still buzzing with the telltale signs of fairy life — and now more than ever! During a walk in the woods a few nights ago, we discovered a new installation! One we did not build! 

So. Much. Fun.

If you are living anywhere in the Lehigh Valley of Pennsylvania, and are missing this film festival each year, then you — like we used to be — are missing out! Make sure you mark you calendars as soon as the schedule is released for next year. Because this is a great local event!

A few of our friends are organizers of/volunteers for this annual event. This year we jumped in to the deep end of the pool with it. When we hear “red carpet event,” we go all out people! All out! I told the bambinos that they could wear whatever they wanted, with the only criteria being that they should “dress like movie stars.” They got way into it. Way into it! Which was way fun. (Note: despite the fact that I was not dressed like a movie star, I somehow got dragged into this photo shoot.)

The film festival itself was wonderful (great films) and so cute (free popcorn, and sweet little movie treats for sale). The bambinos loved the whole laid-back-yet-Hollywood-esque vibe. I loved that it was right in our neighborhood. Literally just steps from campus. 

This event drew a crowd of kids — a whole bunch of whom are friends from school — to our very own neighborhood — which was super fun for all involved. After the opening night film ended, Braydon and I did our part as unofficial South Side Film Festival Volunteers and walked a group to the campus ice cream store so that their parents — the REAL Volunteers — could clean up kid-less.

The next day I took the same group to our house on campus to play and give everyone (the kids and their volunteering parents) a break. Really, just SO.MUCH.FUN! I love these crazy kids!

It was a great couple of days, and I highly recommend this Film Fest to any youngish families in the local vicinity. Keep an eye out for info next spring about the 2016 schedule!

The see-saw photo was chosen for the top of this post on purpose. Read between the lines, folks: literal and figurative see-saw.

So, it is here. The long awaited glorious days of summer are upon us. The bambinos’ last day of school was Wednesday, so we’re officially on summer “vacation.”

Important to note: the quotes around “vacation” (think big, dramatic 2-hands-with-2-fingers-on-each, in-the-air, AIR QUOTES) are just as important as the word they are around. Mamas, can I get an AMEN?! With the first two full days of summer came all the big feelings. Why do I always forget this will happen? Why do we call kids’ break from school for the summer “summer vacation”???????—- it should simply be called kids’ break from school for the summer. That might help all of us with our expectation-setting. Which might help level out that see-saw a bit?

Thursday morning I had a rude 1st-Morn-of-Summer awakening when the very first words I heard that day were my precious son’s “I’m hungry!” Out of the mouths of babes. Not, “good morning!” or “happy summer!” or “Mommy, I love you so much, you’re the most beautiful woman on the planet!” Not even, “Hi!” Just, “I’m hungry!” Nice. I was determined to let it roll off me. (It helped that he immediately saw the wrong in his ways, and threw himself around me, hugging me and saying, “Oh, right, um, good morning, Mommy, I’m so, so, so, so hungry!”

So, I proceeded with breakfast making. I know, I know, I know. I should make him cook for himself, I should just give him a bowl of cereal, I should get chickens and grow-my-own, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah (these are the sorts of comments I get when I mention Owen and me and our food-related-supply-and-demand relationship). Just do me a favor, and save your time, and don’t leave those comments here today. Ok? I cook for my boy. Is that so wrong? And I like it. I mean, I love it. I mean, truly, for real, some of the time I really enjoy cooking for him/them. And, if I’m being honest, it is also a huge amount of work that is never-endingly-incessant and always-looming and the-quintessential-sort-of-work-that-is-exhausting-in-its-thanklessness.  Anyway…. so, I made breakfast. Now, let’s be clear: the other members of my family eat what I think of as relatively normal amounts. Even Kyle. For the most part. Within reason. But Owen. He’s a different story. It’s a whole other level. The boy requires an insane amount of food to fuel his utter essence. Thursday morning he ate 2 waffles, 1/2 pound bacon, 2 poached eggs, 2 bananas, 2 large glasses OJ.

See-saw up: oh my heavens be, how I love to see my boy eat! The joy! The beauty! The pride in being his mother! Remember, for me, for us, this is especially profound. This is a child who was born into starvation– quite literally. It is never lost on me. I feed him with a pronounced send of purpose and a never-to-be-forgotten-awareness of where he came from and where he’s going. I feed him, I love him, it is summer, we have all the time in the world, I can cook big breakfasts every day and nourish his body-mind-soul. And every day is a gift and aren’t I the most fortunate person in the world to be able to mother these children and have achieved a flexible enough time in my career to allow for me to spend this time feeding-the-heck-out-of-them?! Thank God for tenure! Oh the glory! To be able to have a cup of coffee and watch these precious little lovies eat their breakfast! This is the most beautiful moment imaginable. All is right with the world. Ahhhh, summer!

See-saw down: And then, in a flash, it’s all empty plates and empty glasses (not even half full). There are quick kisses on cheeks and “Thank you Mom!”‘s and they’re off and running to do something that is, surely, either very naughty or very messy, or probably both. Yes, I should make them wash their own dishes and clean the entire kitchen, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. But that would be more work than it’s worth; trust me; easier to get to it myself. And I’m left with the dirty work and all the landslide of emotions. Seriously, is this my life? How did this happen? Who am I? What is my purpose on this planet? Do these spoiled brats even know how good they have it? And then the memories come flooding back: this is summer. It is a constant rhythm of cooking-and-cleaning up, creating experiences and picking-up-after them, days dealing with the kids and long-nights-working-to-make-up-for-it. I’m thinking, “maybe the 9-to-5-ers are really on to something here! damn flexible career! damn tenure! damn  motherhood” And I’m left, alone in the kitchen, to make summer happen. And it is a whole heck of a lot of hard work to make it happen. Can’t we just have school all year long?

This is the see-saw of summer folks. The up, the down, the up, the down.

I am grateful for all of it– the ups and the downs. And it is also a messy mix of thoughts and feelings. To be fully present is to not push any of it away.

I am going to try to make this summer awesome. And by awesome I don’t mean just all “up” on the see-saw. I mean I am going to try to be fully present for all of it, and every gradation of the ups and downs. I’m going to try to allow for all the big feelings (and that’s a lot of feelings!).

Our first days of summer included crazy wild playdates with crazy wild friends (we love those kind of friends!). Shout out to Shingles family! Let’s just say that the slip-n-slide Meera got for her birthday has gotten a lot of use in the past few days (and currently has many duct tape patches holding it together).

Meera thought she had died and gone to heaven when she inherited a huge collection of gently used Barbies and a “Barbie Cruise Ship” on Wednesday night. Just in time for summer! Thank you to our dear friends Diane and Claire who have been gifting Meera with many hand-me-downs. The best part is that Diane and I share a mutual hatred for the entire Barbie brand and can roll our eyes at ourselves over the sheer fact that these things are even existing in our homes, let alone that our daughters so freakin’ adore them. Lucky for Diane, her daughter has moved on (she’s 10). Lucky for me, we’re the recipients. It’s all good. Especially for Meera whose forte has always been creative play. Summer means time for uninterupted hours spent in the very best kinds of creative play.

Because with summer comes time. Time for playing Risk with your twin brother. And time for lots of other stuff like that. I never understood why boys liked to play the game Risk. Conquering the world, and all that. But, you know what? Again, it is all good. It is all real, real good. I’ve accepted the fact that my children are gendered beyond belief and that somehow I ended up here (much to my shock and dismay) with a girl playing Barbies and two boys playing Risk. All the big feelings folks, all the big feelings. The good and the bad, it’s all good.

Welcome summer 2015! Bring it on– all the ups and down, the highs and the lows, the cooking and cleaning and the time to pause and take it all in. Summer, I love you! You were worth the long, cold wait!

“I walk without flinching through the burning cathedral of the summer. My bank of wild grass is majestic and full of music. It is a fire that solitude presses against my lips.” ~Violette Leduc

Last night was the South Side Film Festival‘s 3rd Annual Fundraiser at Molinari’s. Braydon and I have been wanting to attend this since its first year, but weren’t able due to prior commitments for the nights of the 1st Annual and the 2nd Annual. This year, however — third time’s a charm! — we lucked out!

What an amazing night!

We are so fortunate to live in a revitalizing, blossoming, historic conservation district, and last night’s event was — in my mind — a testament to the flourishing of Bethlehem’s South Side. It was symbolic for me; a real statement of the work of those who have been fighting tirelessly for years to stay true to the best interests of the South Side and its community. Big shout out here to — among many — our dear friends Georgeann and Jeff Vaclavik (love you!), and our favorite local foodie spot Molinari’s (love you too!)!

Seriously, you kinda had to be there to get what I’m saying here, but really: it was a beautiful, delicious night representing some of the best of the best things happening in our tiny little corner of the world. And a whole bunch of money was raised for the South Side Film Festival too!

Not only did Braydon and I get to go, but we got to go with a very large table of friends whom we adore. And for that, we need to give another big shout out (and a huge thank you) to our very generous friends Diane and Chris Martin (love you two too!).

The dinner began with passed appetizers and a delicious sparkling wine. We then proceeded to indulge in five delicious courses, each presented by a different local chef, and each paired with amazing Italian wines. We ate, we drank, we laughed and laughed and laughed. We clapped for the celebrity chefs of our local foodie world, and we cheered for the South Side Film Festival. It was a memorable, wonderful night. Thanks to all who made it happen!

Last week Owen broke the school record for long jump. The scary thing is, it was his first time ever trying it. Also, this was the “standing” long jump (they don’t run and jump, they just jump from a standing position). 7’8″??! Whattha?!?!

For her 7th birthday Meera asked for an iPod and “a blog.” She got the iPod, and Braydon set up a Tumbler blog for her. We’re helping her get started on her blog. I’m not sure how often — or what — she’ll be posting. But in case you’re interested in checking it out, here it is:

http://meerajmsblog.tumblr.com/

This girl. Serious lamb-chop-lover and restaurant critique-er. She takes after her mother in a scary big way. This picture was taken last night, at dinner, The Apollo Grill.

At age just-barely-7, Meera cannot eat a meal at a restaurant without giving a running commentary on all of her strongly opinionated thoughts regarding everything from the atmosphere, to the service, to the actual food. She’s a force to be reckoned with; she has quite a critical eye (and taste bud), and has absolutely no problem tearing a place apart.

Last night, driving home after dinner, she gave the Apollo Grill experience a “100” on a scale of 1-to-10… which is, basically, her highest mark ever. I don’t recall her ever giving a restaurant a 10, let alone a “100.”

Full discloser: It doesn’t hurt that she got invited into the kitchen for a private tour and to make her own ice cream sundae (!!! pretty much one of the best things that has ever happened to her!). At one point, the restaurant owner leaned down to her eye level and asked Meera, “Are you a restaurant critic?” She laughed and said, “No!” But I was laughing quietly to myself thinking, “Yes!”

#foodiefamily

Meera was playing in the bathroom after school today. She’s moved on to other things (she’s currently braiding a doll’s hair), but I just went in the bathroom and discovered this.