Boston

October 8th, 2019

I had a wonderful visit with my sister Deanna and her family in Boston. We drove down to Kings Point for a memorial service for alumni, including our Dad, who died last summer. He would love to know a plaque with his name sits under an arbor on that beautiful campus. Lobster roll at Farnham’s, a day strolling in the charming seafront town I always forget the name of, lots of De’s amazing home-cooking and David’s roasted coffee, and time with my nieces, which is never enough. Oh, at the Peabody Essex, a trunk show of Iris Apfel’s jewelry. (I may have purchased an oversized pearl necklace wrapped with chain mail. Possibly an Iris-esque tunic. Who can resist?) I’m feeling blessed.

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Be prepared.

September 6th, 2019
This morning, as I gave Mateo bus and lunch money, I noticed his wallet was stuffed with Qs. (Qs=Guatemalan currency, quetzales.)
“Why so many Qs?” I asked.
“In case I get deported,” he said.
This is the world we live in, people. For kids like mine, US citizens with brown skin.
Crazy, except that it’s real.

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Love Never Quits by Gina Heumann

September 5th, 2019

I love reading memoirs about adopting from Guatemala, so when I saw my friend Gina Heumann post on FB about a book she’d written, I bought it immediately. Love Never Quits tells the story of Gina and her husband, the two boys they adopted from Guatemala, and the challenges they faced and overcame as a family. The younger boy suffered early trauma which manifested as behavior diagnosed by mental health professionals as Reactive Attachment Disorder. But this diagnosis did not come quickly. Gina tried for years to find help for her son, until, finally, she did.

The biggest takeaway for me in reading the book was how little is understood about adoption by mental health professionals, still, after so many years. And by adoption, I mean being relinquished by your mother; possibly living with multiple caregivers, in an orphanage, or on the street; and/or possibly being neglected or abused before landing in a secure, loving home; and, after all that, being required to adjust–as a young, frightened child–to an entirely new life. Reading the book also reminded me how ill-prepared *we* were as adoptive parents: how no one told us what we might face, how alone and misunderstood we would feel while facing it, and how difficult it was to find trained professionals qualified to counsel and guide us.

I met Gina Heumann at Heritage Camp for Adoptive Families (something else many of us do in our attempts to build bonds with our children) and was impressed with her dynamism and energy. Brava to her for writing about her family’s struggles and how they overcame them. May Gina’s story deepen the understanding of adoption’s complexity.

For more information about Gina Heumann, visit her website.

 

 

 

 

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Our front door

August 30th, 2019

Every summer when we visit Antigua, Guatemala, I make Olivia pose with me at the door of the charming little house where we lived together while waiting for her adoption to be finalized, back in 2003. Here we are in August 2019. Mateo snapped the picture. xoxo

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Adoption as universe

August 24th, 2019
I’m catching up on my reading, including back issues of the New York Times. In this July 19 Modern Love column, “Don’t Put All Your (Frozen) Eggs in One Basket,” author Ruthie Ackerman writes about her yearning for a baby while married to a man who doesn’t want children. The plot thickens and ultimately Ackerman freezes her eggs, hoping someday to create her longed-for child. She writes movingly and eloquently of her feelings of disappointment and profound loss when, as the article subhead explains: “With ‘fertility preservation,’ I thought I could have children on my own timeline. I was wrong.” There’s much to relate to in her essay, and I encourage you to read it.
But the ending stopped me. The part where Ackerman writes: “Donor eggs are an option. Adoption too.”
After reading those lines, I wanted to sit down with Ackerman and say, “Oh, honey. It’s not that simple. Adoption, I mean. Not the process itself–that’s procedural stuff you’ll get through. But the very fact of adoption. Talk about complicated. For your child, every day of her or his life. For your child’s birth family. For you and your extended family. For every single person involved.”
Mind you: My children came to me through adoption, and my children are the best things, the very best things, in my life. I would not trade a single decision or action that led me to them. I’m a huge advocate for adoption.
At the same time, the person I am now–17 years as an adoptive mother–would say to the person I was then–naïve, as Ackerman is necessarily naïve, how can she not be?–
“Please, please understand: Adoption is bigger than an offhand, two-word sentence.
Adoption is a universe–ever-expanding, infinite. You need to know that going in.”

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Eulogy for my father

August 20th, 2019

My father’s funeral was a year ago today, in San Diego. Today is also his birthday. He would have been 91. I’m posting the Eulogy I wrote and said at his funeral Mass, mainly because I want to keep track of it and this is a good way. It’s strange because when my father was alive, I never would have described us as “close”–our relationship was complicated in the way every relationship is complicated–yet I miss him tremendously, every day, as much as I miss my mother and in some ways, more so. In a few years, I might have enough distance to write about my father, and the power he had over me, over all of us in the family. But for now, I’ll post his Eulogy, and remember him with love.

 

Good morning. I’m Jessica O’Dwyer, Bob’s third daughter. Bob—and his late wife, our mother, Gerry–had five children, eight grandchildren, and one great grandchild. On behalf all of us, thank you for coming. Thank you especially to our Uncle Roger, Bob’s youngest brother, and our cousin Sean, for traveling from Texas. Thank you to the community at San Rafael, where Bob attended Mass regularly and, afterward on Sunday, consumed many donuts with good friends.

Bob’s Catholic religion was a guiding principle in his life. Perhaps THE guiding principle. He raised his five children Catholic, herding us to Mass on Sundays and Holy Days. He sent us to Catholic schools and made sure we received the Sacraments. More than that, he led his life according to the Golden Rule: Love God and love your neighbor as yourself. Beneath his rough exterior, Bob was kind. Compassionate. He was the first to extend his hand to help when it was needed. He understood hardship.

He also loved a good laugh. Bob collected jokes—Irish jokes, Jewish jokes, Italian jokes. Jokes that began “A priest, a minister and a rabbi walked into a bar.” He loved comedians from the Marx Brothers to Ellen DeGeneres. He’d watched every Seinfeld episode so many times he could quote the dialogue.

To his family, Bob was protector and provider. He rose at 4:30 AM to catch the commuter train in our New Jersey town to the high school where he taught in the South Bronx. When school was out, he caught another train downtown where he supervised a night school. Weekends, he did odd jobs for extra cash; summers, he “shipped out” to exotic ports, working as an engineer. When he was scheduled to pick us up, we never had to worry if he’d be on time. His adhered to the motto: “If you’re not early, you’re late.” My mother called him “Johnny on the Spot.”

And oh, how he loved her, his wife Gerry. Up until his very last days, he’d marvel that he’d gotten so lucky, that they found each other, that they’d shared such a beautiful life. They met on a blind date and fell in love at first sight. Theirs was a grand and happy union that lasted 63 years. I have no doubt they’re together now.

Bob was an avid bridge player who loved classic films, historic documentaries, and good food. On Saturdays, he cooked spaghetti sauce while Italian opera played on the radio. His Thanksgiving stuffing was legendary. (His secret was ground beef, cashews, and hot sausage. Lots of spices.)

Bob was opinionated and vocal, a writer of letters to the editor, including one from the 1980s’s that warned against the presence of “internal passports,” published in the New York Times. He was a master at agreeing to disagree. He believed in the dignity of all people, equal education and equal opportunity.

Bob’s presence was large and so was his heart. We miss him already.

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English and Spanish

July 16th, 2019

All around the world, people speak more than one language, but in the U.S., increasingly, speaking Spanish or anything besides English feels like a political act. We live in California, where my Guatemalan-born children frequently are assumed to speak Spanish. My daughter Olivia, who speaks quite well, describes this assumption as “triggering.” The other day, Olivia and I were chatting to each other in English while waiting to make a purchase at Macy’s. The cashier, a bilingual speaker, addressed Olivia directly and asked, “Hablas español?”

Olivia responded in Spanish, “Yes, a little,” and engaged in a short conversation to prove her cred. But the exchange bothered her. Later Olivia said, “The cashier wanted to see if I was one of ‘you’ or one of them ‘them.’ Why can’t I be both?” This happens to Olivia all the time: At her new large public high school, where teachers and students assume she’s fluent; in restaurants, where staff will speak to her in Spanish and me in English; in the aisles of the grocery store and Target, where strangers approach and ask her questions in Spanish. (“Do I look like I work here?” Olivia sometimes wonders.) For our kids from Guatemala, as for the politicians and other Latinos profiled in this excellent Washington Post article, Why Don’t You Speak Spanish?: For Julian Castro and Millions of Latinos, the Answer Is Not So Simple, speaking Spanish is considered a litmus test, a mark of authenticity. At the same time, in the United States, being bilingual often is viewed with suspicion and contempt.
Witness these sentences: “You’re in America. Speak English.”

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Gemma Givens

July 12th, 2019

 

I’m posting a link to an excellent profile of 28-year-old Gemma Givens in UCBerkeley News, Staffer’s search for birth mom reveals dark history of Guatemalan adoption. Adopted in 1990 at four months of age, Gemma Givens is founder of Next Generation Guatemala, an international community of people adopted from Guatemala.

So much of what Givens says in the article resonates, especially this: “I felt like I was foundationless, or that I was floating, or I was a ghost, or I was a genetic isolate, which, in a way, I was… Whose face do I have? Why am I so short? Why is my hair so thick? … On good days, I felt super proud and entitled and arrogant about that, like, ‘There’s no one like me.’ And on the worst days, I felt crippling depressed because I’m all alone in the world. Of course, I’m surrounded by love and family and friends, but in a really existential way, I’m completely alone.”

For more information on Gemma Givens or Next Generation Guatemala, see FB, the Next Generation webpage, or contact nextgenguate@gmail.com.

Photo credit: UC Berkeley photo by Brittany Hosea-Small

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Mateo graduates

June 11th, 2019

Last week, our dear Mateo graduated from St. Hilary 8th grade. We’re proud of our kind, funny, curious, creative, and bright son, and the splendid young man he is becoming. On to high school with Olivia!

 

 

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Our annual party

May 22nd, 2019


I channeled my Rockette mother as I struck a pose and greeted guests at our annual party for adoptive families with children born in Guatemala. I love this day that brings us together to catch up, connect, laugh and cry. How blessed I am to be part of our community.

The party was Sunday, which meant Costco run Saturday. Once again, I was that frantic woman pushing two carts through the aisles and ordering cake. The Guatemalan flag is light blue and white; hence the color choice.

Cheers!

 

 

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