Ten Times Two: May 8, 2014

Ten years ago today, in a medical clinic on the streets of Cite Soleil, in the city of Port au Prince, in the country of Haiti, on the island of Hispaniola, amongst the Greater Antilles, of the West Indies, deep in the Caribbean — two boys were born.

Their birthmother was a strong and courageous woman. She was beautiful in the most true sense of the word. Her face was full and round and there was gorgeous strength to be seen in it. And she overcame all odds and obstacles to deliver healthy twin babies. The fact that she did this within circumstances which make it an absolutely extraordinary, almost unexplainable, feat, is an enormous accomplishment.

And then, according to trustworthy sources, Yolene Badio did what she was determined to do: despite the gravity of everything that everyone knows about motherhood and pain, she let those babies go — an act of pure love and bravery. She knew she could not take care of them, and she wanted for them a better life. This isn’t a fairy tale line made up for the sake of protecting precious little hearts. This is the true story; the facts as we know them. She really did it, and she did it fully, and she did it selflessly. And we will, forevermore, be profoundly grateful for her acts of love and her brave commitment to the future of her boys.

Within 48 hours the two babies — beautiful brown-skinned boys, with big huge dark brown eyes, heads full of jet-black hair, hungry as can be, with miraculously strong and healthy bodies and minds — newborn infants with twenty fingers and twenty toes between them — these perfect beings with nothing, nothing, in the world but each other — these twin baby boys were in the care of a passionate Haitian man, the director of a Haitian orphanage, an orphanage scraping together every bit of a thing they could find and muster in order to keep young souls alive.

And then, according to trustworthy sources, Rock Cayo did what he was determined to do: despite desperate circumstances of profound deprivation, he made sure that those babies were kept alive, and he kept them as well as could be, and he made sure that they would be placed in what he believed would be the best family for them. He loved them like sons, and he was convinced, deep in his heart, that they were something very special. He was sure of himself, he was sure that these boys would become great Haitians, and he was sure that they would go on to do great things in this world. On those points he had clarity. And we will, forevermore, be profoundly grateful for his acts of love and his brave commitment to the future of his boys.

Within 9 months, after much waiting and too much missing, after too many near-misses and close-calls, after not enough food and not enough holding, after too little stimulation and too much yearning, those boys met their mama and papi. And that mama and papi already knew what was most important for that moment: the axis of their world had shifted, the center of their universe was now clear, and their whole lives had led up to that union.

And then, they did the most powerful thing they’d ever used their lives to do: despite the enormity and complexity of the situation, they took those babies on forevermore. Despite the heat rising from the pavement of Port au Prince, despite the endless bureaucracy of international adoption potholes and loopholes, despite the pain of loss and grief, and the debilitating guilt of privilege and power, they took those 8-month-old twin baby boys on an airplane and flew them to Miami. And we will, forevermore, be profoundly grateful to the country of Haiti, its people, its roots, trees, and branches, its resilience, and its many individuals who, in large and small ways, acted out of a sheer commitment to the future of our boys.

Almost ten years later I’m at a Little League game. I find myself holding a six-week-old baby of a poor, Dominican-American mama. And for some unknown reason she decides to tell me her fresh story. A story she hasn’t yet told, at all, to anyone. And she tells me of how she had planned to relinquish her baby, and she tells me of who she had picked to adopt him, and she tells me many details of her thoughts, feelings, worries, beliefs, hopes, and fears. And she talks for a very long time. And she tells me that six weeks ago, when her baby was born, she changed her mind, and she couldn’t go through with it, and she kept him and she devastated the dreams of the couple she had chosen. Her words are like a waterfall of a story, pouring down, and I feel like the steady rocks along the cliff, flooded by the cool crisp rushing water. I am there to hear her. And in her face I see the round full gorgeous beauty of Yolene. In her eyes I see the dark brown passionate clarity of Rock. In her body I see the whole of Hispaniola. I hug her and I thank her.

And it is only now that I am dizzy from the whole experience. Light headed, no longer the rocks under the waterfall, but now — instead — feeling weightless and airy and overcome by the enormous complexity of it all.

I know now, in ways I didn’t ten years ago, how intricate and arduous and fragile and precarious the web of adoption is. I know now what I could not have known then.

May 8th, 2014. We are at home in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. It is 5:50am and I am too excited to sleep. It feels like relief and pressure all swirled up together: they are ten. Double digits. A whole decade. The period of young childhood is over. A new era begins. We are here. I whisper to Braydon, “They are ten.” He whispers back: “Yes, they are ten.” We both know what this all means.

We hear them, and we know them inside-and-out so we know that what we hear is pure happy giddy joyfulness. They are the birthday boys and they come bounding in holding a large and expensive remote control airplane above their heads — it is their end-of-the-bed present; their birthday gift from their mama and papi. It is what they wanted. They are beyond delighted.

They stop for just a minute: “What time were we born?” Kyle asks, with Owen right there too — as curious for the answer as if he had himself asked it. “We’ll never know,” I say, as calmly and confidently as I can muster. Owen says, “But we know for sure that it was today, right? For sure, May 8th, right?” I say, “For sure. We know that for sure.” “Phew!” they say in unison. “Jinx!” they say in unison. “Double jinx!” they say in unison. And they crack up laughing, and they are now elbowing each other and jabbing at each other, and off and running they are, still with the plane gliding carefully over their heads.

They are boundless energy, all noise, big boys, Haitian through-and-through, dreadlocks bouncing, brown eyes beaming, sharp minds, strong bodies, resilient to their roots. They are gorgeous faces and passionate eyes and the whole of their story. They are Kyle and Owen. And they are their birthmother’s sons, their orphanage director’s pride, their root country’s hope, and ours forevermore.

We are grateful.

We surprise them with a trip to Dunkin’ Donuts before school. It is special because we’ve never, ever done this before: donuts before school. Their little sister wants to stand between them and the three of them are about as happy and joyous as anyone could ever imagine three kids to be. I only notice later, when I look at the picture, that you can see the “North Face” logo on the boys’ jackets. And somehow that changes the picture for me. Now I see in it more clearly what I know is the truth: the privilege we’ve given them, the power they can ride, the incredible opportunities we’re propelling them with. Despite the challenges they face and will, the layered foundation of power and privilege is there too. It is always there, but in the photo I see it more pronounced. It is a gift we are giving to everyone in their web and everyone in their story. It is a very small gift in comparison to what we’ve been given.

Theirs is a unique and complicated story. It is multi-faceted and multi-dimensional. It is hard to try to tell it because it is so rich. It can only be told in pieces and thin chapters. But on their tenth birthday, it seems, some of the story should be told. It is a story of loss and gain, and it a story of so much more.

Happy 10th birthday to the most incredible and inspiring two humans I’ve ever known. You are a shining light. And you make us all proud.

Love, mama