ever-fixed mark

I just finished my seventh presentation in front of an audience this month. Tomorrow, I do one more, and then I don’t speak in public again for a blessed week.

Eight speeches in a month. Since I took a few days’ vacation in March, that’s eight speeches in 20 days. That means not only delivering a speech every 2.5 days, but also writing a speech every 2.5 days.

I feel like I should be wearing a sign declaring, “Will Bloviate for Food.” I am just so tired of the sound of my own voice, and tired of the effort required to be ready to speak every second or third day for weeks on end.

Have you seen the recent episode of “The Office” where Dwight has to give a speech? (It’s called, unaccountably, “Dwight’s Speech.”) He’s completely unprepared, so Jim gives him a doctored-up version of one of Mussolini’s speeches, which Dwight delivers to great effect.

Right now, I feel just two steps away from seizing the podium and crying, “We must never cede control of the motherland!”

I hated public speaking until I got to college. The professor in my freshman seminar forced us to memorize poems and recite them in front of the class. I thought I would hate this, and I chose a rather long poem — “To an Athlete Dying Young” — hoping I would make up in feats of memory what I was sure to lack in oratory skill. Surprisingly, I really enjoyed the experience and took the initiative to memorize a few other poems on my own. (”Margaret, are you grieving/Over Goldengrove unleaving…” Go on, test me!) I didn’t spontaneously recite them in public, of course, but after that I didn’t mind standing up in front of a class. Good thing, too, because eventually I went on to teach for six years.

When I was in college, I also read a book of essays, How I Got to be Perfect by Jean Kerr, who wrote the memoir Please Don’t Eat the Daisies that was adapted into the movie and TV show of the same name. Now, the Kerrs had four sons when she wrote Please Don’t Eat the Daisies, but their family had grown to include seven children (six boys!) by the time she wrote How I Got to be Perfect. The book details how the Kerrs held weekly “culture nights,” where they and the children memorized and recited poetry for one another. She admits that this innovation did not go over well at first, but eventually the boys gained an understanding and appreciation of form, rhyme, and meter.

Do you think Aitch and his brother would hate me forever if I instituted a poetry night? I think it would be fantastic. Husband is totally on board, as he has fond memories of his mother reciting “Gunga Din” when he was little.

Can’t you just see Aitch in a few years’ time, delivering the St. Crispin’s Day speech: “We must never cede control of the motherland!”

Uh…I mean, “Once more into the breach, dear friends, once more!”

You have got to be kidding me.

You know, this is what’s wrong with the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster. There are no misogynistic elements to this religion. If they would incorporate some repressive requirements — women must be covered from elbow to wrist while cooking pasta, or women cannot become pirates, only pirate wenches — not only would it be a better parody, but they would probably get some real converts.

Shortly after I bought the pinhole camera for my husband at Christmas, I came across a description of another low-tech camera, the Holga, on I Blame the Patriarchy. I was intrigued by some of the effects, and you couldn’t go wrong on the price: $20. One measly Andrew! I ordered one immediately.

Holga’s claim to fame, believe it or not, is that it takes pictures out of focus. The camera has a plastic body and is so shoddily constructed that light leaks in. Even if you paint the inside matte black and seal the holes with black tape, there are only four f-stops (pictorially represented as a face, a family of three, a group of people, and some mountains) and two shutter speeds (clouds and sunshine), making precision photography difficult. There are also a number of pitfalls that await the novice Holga photographer, into all of which I fell as I began to use the camera: Film upside down? Check. Film exposed inadvertantly while re-loading? Check. Wrong manual film-advance setting for film mask? Check. Double-exposure because I forgot to advance the film manually? Check.

Now, the whole blurry-on-purpose thing has been around since Julia Margaret Cameron, but the wonderful thing about the Holga is that it gives depth and texture to a photograph that is difficult for me to get with a 35 mm. I suppose it is a bit of a cop-out to avoid the hard work and study that true craft entails and instead choose to work in a medium that has built-in limitations, and then crow, “Look at me! Look how artsy-fartsy I can be even when my medium imposes all these strictures on me!” (Symbolism alert: You know how some poetry is about baking a pie or pitching a baseball but it is really about writing poetry? Well, you can connect the dots from here.)

Anyway, here are some early efforts. I had so many technical difficulties with the first few rolls that there wasn’t much to choose from. They are not good, but they do give you an idea of what the Holga can do.

Pretty artsy-fartsy, eh?

Last week, Catholic Charities decided it would be preferable to discontinue adoption services in Massachusetts rather than abide by state law to assist gay couples who applied to adopt children. In response, Governor Romney announced that he supports exempting religious groups from anti-discrimination requirements if they happen to oppose them. National Public Radio did an excellent report on this today, which got my blood boiling as I drove to a meeting.

The President, Rev. J. Bryan Hehir, released a statement on March 10 saying that the organization “cannot reconcile the teaching of the Church, which guides our work, and the statutes and regulations of the Commonwealth.”

This should come as no surprise to anyone in Massachusetts. The church could not reconcile its inclination to shield pedophile priests with the statutes and regulations of the Commonwealth, either.

Let’s recap: If you’re a known sex offender, with a proven commitment to harming children, the Catholic church will forgive you, shelter you, show you mercy, and even help you procure access to new victims.

If you’re a gay man or woman with no criminal record and not a shred of scientific evidence to prove that you might be a worse parent than a straight person, then the Church would rather pack up its toys and go home than help a child by associating with the likes of you. As a special bonus, your governor is perfectly willing to trample all over your civil rights to prevent that from happening.

Well, Catholic Charities, all I can say is putting you in charge of the welfare of young children is akin to putting an alcoholic in charge of a bar. Don’t let the screen door of the Commonwealth hit you on the ass on the way out.

When Husband dresses Aitch in the morning, I usually take care to conduct a little inspection before he leaves the house, just to make sure he’s not wearing three different shades of green, for example, or even worse:

During our ski trip a few weeks ago, Husband bought some new ski socks, and I noticed this:

Maybe I should start inspecting both of them before they leave the house.

From my last post, Courtney divined that Husband and I will not be going to Korea to pick up Aitch’s little brother, and she asked why we have made that decision twice. It’s a fair question, and one I was asking myself a few months ago. In fact, I couldn’t remember why we had decided to have Aitch escorted. It wasn’t really the money, and we could, I suppose, have taken the time off work. Husband and I are accustomed to overseas travel, and it certainly would have been a wonderful experience to meet Aitch’s foster family. The only strong feeling I could remember about it either way was a fear of traveling more than 24 hours straight with a tiny infant, and a feeling that we were in over our heads anyway with the job of being new parents, without having to add a grueling plane flight to the mix.

This time around, that didn’t seem like a good enough reason, so I approached Husband and insisted he consider traveling to Korea for the new baby. “I’m tired of holding back and not doing things because we have a child,” I told him. “We haven’t been on a vacation in two years. Sure, it’s not convenient. Sure, Aitch is a pain on a plane. But we can’t say ‘no’ to life for the next twenty years just because we’re parents.”

It was a pretty stirring speech. Not only did Husband agree to take Aitch to Korea to pick up the new baby, he also let me schedule a little ski vacation for the three of us. He wasn’t one hundred percent on board—it was more like, “If you really need this to make you happy, I’ll do it.” There was some unattractive whining. But I had prevailed.

Then…I started working on three projects at once. One project involved week-long trips to Europe every month. Other US trips were sandwiched in between. The Amsterdam trip started off four hours late due to a snowstorm and ended five hours late after a detour to Newfoundland. Sitting at the Logan baggage carousel, after waiting nearly an hour for the baggage handlers to get it in gear, I reflected on how absolutely miserable I felt; how that feeling would be magnified if I had a screaming two-year-old; how that feeling would be exponentially magnified if I also had a screaming infant; and how I never, ever wanted to board an airplane again for the rest of my life. Now, at this point in time I still had a passel of business trips on the calendar. I couldn’t really make that vow. But I could say, “No more trips that are not absolutely necessary to put food on the table,” and I did.

Husband was very happy with my unilateral decision.

Having a baby escorted is not very PC in the adoption world, where most people don’t even have that option, so I’m a little defensive about it. Part of the experience of adopting a child cross-culturally is to engage with his birth culture. The social workers push it hard during the home study: “Have you considered traveling? It’s not that much more expensive than escorting, you know. Korea is a very modern country; westerners can feel very comfortable there. It’s a fabulous experience to see where your child comes from. It’s the trip of a lifetime!” And then the segue: “How do you plan to integrate your child’s birth culture into your home life?” Something you’ve clearly failed to do at the outset if you can’t get off your ass to go get the damn kid, you fat, lazy, ugly American. (Not that I’m implying that you were implying this in your question, Courtney, but I clearly felt this from our social workers both times we originally discussed it.)

I visited Korea about ten years ago, before I was married. After I left the Peace Corps, a whole group of my friends moved there to teach English, and I spent ten days with them, bumming around Seoul on my own during the day and hanging out with them at night, that is when I wasn’t passed out on their floor from a combination of jet lag and soju. It was an amazing experience. I love urban environments, and Seoul is so completely urban in a way that I’ve only felt in New York. (I can remember returning to Chicago, looking out the window of my high-rise the next morning, and thinking, “Wow, Chicago’s such a sleepy little city.”) I also adored the other-ness of being in the East; Seoul definitely whetted my appetite for what I hope will be future trips to Japan, Hong Kong, Singapore and other points. But they will be future trips with older children capable of a modicum of reason.

(I’m writing this in a middle seat in the back of a plane on a completely full flight to Chicago. My flight was delayed two hours, so I had to scramble to stand by on this one. I think I made the right choice.)

Last night, I flew home on the perennially cursed Newark to Boston route on Continental. There is always way too much drama for a forty-minute flight; it is always late and oversolf, and I’ve been bumped from it twice, even with a confirmed ticket. Yesterday was no exception. It was over an hour late. The new sign over the jetway did nothing to allay my concerns: “Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate.” Classy, though.

When I got to Logan, a feeling of happiness and expectation suddenly came over me. For a few minutes I couldn’t parse it, then I realized I was remembering Aitch’s homecoming day. With a shock I realized that in a few short months, I would be back to pick up his little brother.

It’s odd that Terminal C in Logan would be the place where my life with my children would start. I wonder if other mothers feel the same way when they drive past the hospital?

Well, where do you think Her Highness stays when the Plaza is being renovated?

At any rate, that’s where I’m staying: at an Embassy Suites, that assault upon the senses. Three days breathing hotel air exclusively. It’s the kickoff to three straight weeks of travel: five destinations, six presentations. Or maybe there are seven? I’ll worry about that when I get to week 3.

That’s three straight weeks where any minor mistake — forgetting a pair of shoes, a file, a cable, or a detail — could be the butterfly’s wing that utlimately results in a tornado in my head.

When I got to Logan, for example, the garage was under construction, severely limiting the number of parking spaces available. Because I was struggling to finish up the adoption paperwork before I left, I had arrived at the airport less than an hour before my flight. If I would have had to trek out to the economy lot, I would surely have missed my flight, then missed my meeting, then I would have had to meet with people after their late meeting, then I would have had to stay up all night revising my presentation based on their notes, etc. etc. Luckily the airport was offering a new valet service, so I was able to abandon my car, give the keys to some guy, and after going down to the third floor, across to the other side of the garage, then up to the fourth floor and over to the terminal, make my flight. It was delayed, but that’s another story.

Husband: I’ve never heard of a valet service at Logan before. You just gave your keys to some guy?

Well, I’ll worry about that on Friday. Because, even if he is a thief, I have the receipt!

In spite of our social worker, we have been doing our best to prepare Aitch for his upcoming role as big brother. I say “in spite of our social worker” because, at the referral meeting, she recommended that we hold off on telling Aitch about the new baby because of the possibilty that “the birth mother might reclaim the baby, or — God forbid — the baby might die.”

God forbid indeed! Occasionally a Korean birth mother does reclaim a baby placed for adoption. I don’t have exact figures, but based on the highly anecdotal evidence on the adoption boards, I’d say the chances were low, perhaps in the 1 - 5% range. Given the birth mother’s circumstances, I’d lean more toward the lower end. And as for the other comment, WHY IS THIS WOMAN TALKING TO ME ABOUT MY PERFECTLY HEALTHY BABY DYING? Do I look like the kind of person who is far too carefree for her own good, who doesn’t struggle daily to banish thoughts of death just so she can function?

Can you imagine telling someone this about their biological child? “Mrs. Smith, congratulations on your new son! You might want to wait a few weeks before telling your older kids — never know when he might pop off.”

Have I ever mentioned my intense distrust of social workers?

Anyway, to ready Aitch for the big event, I checked the book Jin Woo out of the library. It’s the story of a family of three — mother, father, and young boy — who adopt a Korean infant. It tells the story from the time the family get the “travel call” for their baby through the airport meeting and homecoming, and touches on the older child’s ambivalence about his new brother. The circumstances in the book match ours almost perfectly, save for the fact that the older brother in the book is white.

I have to confess that the first time I read this book to Aitch, when I got to the part where the escort handed the baby over to the adoptive family, I started bawling. The scene reminded me so much of Aitch’s homecoming, and I was so eager to relive that scene with our new little one, that I couldn’t stop myself. Frustrated literary critic that I am, though, I can’t help picking out a few little things about the book that bothered me:

1. As the baby is coming off the plane, the mother spots him with the escort, and then they disappear down an escalator. The mother anxiously asks, “Where has she taken him?” and the father says, “They have to go through customs, sweetheart…. They’ll be back.” I don’t know, maybe I’m getting cranky in my old age, but this strikes me as stereotypical “anxious, clueless woman” vs. “strong, worldly man.” Imagine it the other way around: “Dad clutches at Mom’s arm. ‘Where has she taken him?’ he whispers. ‘They have to go through customs, sweetheart,’ Mom says. ‘They’ll be back.’” It doesn’t seem realistic when Dad’s the nervous Nellie, does it?

2. When the family brings Jin Woo home, the neighbors gather to welcome him. The older boy is feeling left out, so a neighbor tries to make him feel better by recalling the big fuss his parents made when he was first adopted, including the fact that the father stood on the front porch and sang, “God Bless America.” What are we supposed to make of this? Is it a comment on how lucky the boys are to have been adopted by parents with US citizenship? Since the older boy is not specifically identified as foreign-born, it seems oddly placed in his story, and not in Jin Woo’s. In any case, it’s a bit offensive. Although I’m as patriotic as the next person, and I think that America offers great opportunities to the poor, tired, huddled masses, adoption is about matching children to parents, not matching children to democracies.

3. On the way home, Jin Woo’s car seat is facing forward, although he’s clearly not yet a year old. How did this get past the fact checkers? As I turned the page I was imagining the happy family getting pulled over by the police and being sternly lectured on infant safety.

4. And I especially hate the way the social worker cautions the family against getting too close to the baby, because he might die.

Oh, right. That didn’t happen in the book. No one would have found it believable.

Last week, Husband and I finally decided on a boy name. This was a big relief, because our inability to settle on a name for a boy was somehow preventing me from anticipating a boy as joyfully as I would a girl. With the name in place I was suddenly excited about the possibility of a second son.

We decided to name him after my father-in-law, who died in August. His name fit our criteria of being old-fashioned, but not common. When we looked it up on the Social Security baby name site, we discovered just how uncommon it is: in 20 years, it hasn’t cracked the top 1000. (In the 1880s, it ranked 291, and has been dropping steadily in popularity ever since. Now with that little bit of data, see if any Encyclopedia Browns out there can find the name.)

Because the name is unusual, we expect to get a little flack for it (my mother: “You’re calling him what?”). Any raised eyebrows, though, at the mention of the name will be swiftly met with the appositive, “After my dear departed father-in-law.”

So the point of this, as you may have been able to anticipate, is to announce that we received the referral of our little boy this week, and happily we had his name all ready for him. On Thursday we drove to the adoption agency to review the referral paperwork. It is so good to have a face to match to the name! As with Aitch’s referral, there is one adorable chubby baby picture and one scrawny-chicken looking baby picture. As with Aitch, I am displaying the cute picture prominently.

For the Korea program, at least with our agency, the referral paperwork comes with a short history of the birth mother — her age, where she lives, other people in her family, how she met the birthfather, and their current relationship. Both times, our social workers have warned us against revealing any of this information to family or acquaintances, saying that it is not right to tell a child’s personal history without his or her consent. It make sense that you might not want to blab this information all over town, but not for that reason. There are lots of facts about your child’s life that you might share with other adults before he or she is old enough to understand them; you might as well say that you should hide the fact that he’s adopted until he’s old enough to decide he wants to tell. With that said, there is something important I want to tell, so I’m going to try to say it without revealing any more details than necessary.

Both Aitch’s and Little Brother’s birth mothers were underage and unwed. When we read Aitch’s birthmother’s story, we felt very sad that a young girl had to go through the pain of an unplanned pregnancy, and we hoped that she could move on and rebuild her life. The new baby’s birth mother, though, had a slightly different history: She had no life to go back to. She had been deserted by every family member at a very young age, and now by her baby’s father. The papers gave no clue as to how she would survive after release from the unwed mothers’ home.

We couldn’t get past it. The social worker asked us if we had any questions about the baby; all our questions were for the mother. What would happen to her? Would she receive any support? What kind of social services are available in Korea? Could we do anything? There were no answers.

It’s unthinkable. We were adopting one child, while his birth mother herself was in desperate need of a home. It didn’t seem right. Adoption is always bittersweet — your gain is someone else’s terrible, terrible loss — but this girl had lost everything.

I have been asked how someone whose motherhood depends on another woman’s continuation of her unplanned pregnancy could possibly support abortion. Phantom Scribbler even suggested — jokingly? I hope? — that the South Dakota abortion ban was a conspiracy to produce more white children for adoption. (I hope she was kidding; adoptive parents are demonized enough without adding that to our list of sins.) I will always be grateful to these two girls for giving birth to their babies, but I would hate to think that they were forced by law to do so. Who could read a history like the one we just saw, and want to compel that girl to bear a child, just so we could adopt him?

She did bear that child, though. What a gift to the world, and to us. I hope she’s okay.