I just watched the "Neda" video. I won't post it here because it's incredibly disturbing, and it's easy to find on youtube or facebook if you are so inclined, but if you haven't heard about her, Neda was a young Iranian woman killed while watching a protest. She died in the street. Shot in the heart. The video shows her bleeding out her chest and mouth before she goes blank-eyed.
When all this mess started going down, I felt like a lot of my peers were being overly romantic about the revolts, talking about how we are all Iran and calling them brothers and sisters sort of seemed like folks were just looking for the next Che t-shirt. And maybe most of them are, but I started to read up on the situation. Something like 70% of Iranians are under 35. Most of the protesters are college students. Then I read this article on Jezebel and articles referenced therein about the election's huge effects on women, and the huge effects they are having on the protests. Then I watched the much talked about Neda video and saw someone brutally martyrd just for being there.
It's overwhelming. I just can't wrap my head around the situation. Women my age are being beaten and killed on the other side of the world. It doesn't make me feel romantic, it makes me wonder if I'd be brave enough to lay it on the line for what I believe in, to fight for my basic rights. It's a luxury to have that as a thought instead of reality.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
my history, via my lack of history
I'm not shy about discussing the fact that I'm adopted. I understand that it's part of who I am and it's interesting to people. But lately it's come up more often, I'm not sure why. Maybe because I'm reading The Girls Who Went Away so it's been on my own mind lately. The book is full of heartbreaking stories about young women, most sheltered and uneducated about sex, who found themselves pregnant and sent away by their parents. Some of the parents were supportive but had to do what was done at the time, others were monstrous and made their daughters out to be evil.
A few weeks ago, my cousin and I were talking about the circumstances around my adoption. Well, what little circumstances I actually know. I know my mom was 26 and a college graduate and that my dad was tall and moved to Colorado before I was born. It just sounds like a shit situation and I've always been afraid to seek more details. Records show she had little prenatal care and I went into foster care instantly. Denial ain't just a river in Egypt, ya know? But this cousin of mine, she points out that I have a college education, am nearing 26 years old, and am not in a serious relationship and asks the question: what would you do if you got pregnant right now?
I'd live. It'd suck and not be ideal, but it wouldn't devastate my life. My parents support me through every ridiculous thing I do and would nowhere near dessert me (especially with my mom's baby fever). I have an incredible group of friends. I have a giant web of cousins, cousin's cousins, and cousin-in-laws. None of those people are incredibly conservative, and none would disown me for being an unwed mom. Quite the opposite. Lots of people don't get that lucky with their adoptive family. And maybe she wasn't that lucky with her family. Though 1983 is well out of the era of the girls who went away, her parents may have still been in that frame of mind. Or maybe she didn't even tell them. Or maybe she didn't have parents. Maybe she just didn't have the means to raise a child on her own and couldn't ask for help. I'm the undisputed queen of foolish pride, could it be hereditary?
The first time I ever put in any real thought about her was on my brother's birthday, probably 5 or so years ago. A product of an open adoption, he got a birthday card from his birth mom and pictures of his young half-brother. It came addressed from the adoption agency and to my parents' name. And though I'd not consciously been thinking of her, my first thought was that my mom was trying to contact me. I fervently opened the card and started crying, I mean sobbing, when I saw what it was. I cried first because I'd invaded my brother's privacy, and then because I was jealous that he knew so much, and then because of course it wasn't her. I told my mom I wanted to find my birth mom. That afternoon I spent hours on the phone with my caseworker, the same caseworker who did my brother's adoption and remembered me showing off my halloween costume on a home visit. I got all the info, contacted all the sources, obtained all the paper work and did not go through with it. Wasn't there, wasn't ready.
In the past couple years, I've started to think of her with empathy. It took almost 25 years, but empathy is not easy. I've written a lot about her. "Someone Else" is about her. "The History of Your Life, Page One" tongue-in-cheek as it is, is about her and my father. I used to think about what if she doesn't want to meet me or what if she doesn't like me. Those are possibilities, but I don't think of her in terms of what our relationship would be like. I don't need that.
I have a knack for noticing shared family features. I laugh to myself when people say I look like my parents or brother. At a cousin's wedding last summer, a friend pointed out how alike the girls in my family look when you see us all standing together. I've always wondered who I look like, always noticed women who'd be around her age who vaguely resembled me. At the same time, I'll be okay if I only ever look like myself.
A few weeks ago, my cousin and I were talking about the circumstances around my adoption. Well, what little circumstances I actually know. I know my mom was 26 and a college graduate and that my dad was tall and moved to Colorado before I was born. It just sounds like a shit situation and I've always been afraid to seek more details. Records show she had little prenatal care and I went into foster care instantly. Denial ain't just a river in Egypt, ya know? But this cousin of mine, she points out that I have a college education, am nearing 26 years old, and am not in a serious relationship and asks the question: what would you do if you got pregnant right now?
I'd live. It'd suck and not be ideal, but it wouldn't devastate my life. My parents support me through every ridiculous thing I do and would nowhere near dessert me (especially with my mom's baby fever). I have an incredible group of friends. I have a giant web of cousins, cousin's cousins, and cousin-in-laws. None of those people are incredibly conservative, and none would disown me for being an unwed mom. Quite the opposite. Lots of people don't get that lucky with their adoptive family. And maybe she wasn't that lucky with her family. Though 1983 is well out of the era of the girls who went away, her parents may have still been in that frame of mind. Or maybe she didn't even tell them. Or maybe she didn't have parents. Maybe she just didn't have the means to raise a child on her own and couldn't ask for help. I'm the undisputed queen of foolish pride, could it be hereditary?
The first time I ever put in any real thought about her was on my brother's birthday, probably 5 or so years ago. A product of an open adoption, he got a birthday card from his birth mom and pictures of his young half-brother. It came addressed from the adoption agency and to my parents' name. And though I'd not consciously been thinking of her, my first thought was that my mom was trying to contact me. I fervently opened the card and started crying, I mean sobbing, when I saw what it was. I cried first because I'd invaded my brother's privacy, and then because I was jealous that he knew so much, and then because of course it wasn't her. I told my mom I wanted to find my birth mom. That afternoon I spent hours on the phone with my caseworker, the same caseworker who did my brother's adoption and remembered me showing off my halloween costume on a home visit. I got all the info, contacted all the sources, obtained all the paper work and did not go through with it. Wasn't there, wasn't ready.
In the past couple years, I've started to think of her with empathy. It took almost 25 years, but empathy is not easy. I've written a lot about her. "Someone Else" is about her. "The History of Your Life, Page One" tongue-in-cheek as it is, is about her and my father. I used to think about what if she doesn't want to meet me or what if she doesn't like me. Those are possibilities, but I don't think of her in terms of what our relationship would be like. I don't need that.
I have a knack for noticing shared family features. I laugh to myself when people say I look like my parents or brother. At a cousin's wedding last summer, a friend pointed out how alike the girls in my family look when you see us all standing together. I've always wondered who I look like, always noticed women who'd be around her age who vaguely resembled me. At the same time, I'll be okay if I only ever look like myself.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
ring
(better title soon)
At first, I just liked the feel of the ring on my finger. I liked to nonchalantly place my hand on any flat surface just to see it, just to watch it shine. I liked the feel of it. I would spin it around, first to see the angles it could take on and later out of mindless habit. When I was a kid I would put my hand on the sidewalk and rotate my shoulder until I couldn't anymore, just to see my arms from those angles. The ring was an appendage at that point, I wanted to see what it could do.
I kept pushing. When spinning became old hat, I started taking the ring off, moving it from finger to finger. It felt like a secret, like my ring did something special. I would roll it across my knuckles, carry it around the house in my palm, put it on upside down. I concentrated hard on not making it a habit, but a special ritual I did only in private. Who knows what could happen if I took that ring off out in the world. I could drop it in a sewer grate. A criminal could catch me off guard and snatch it from my hand. It'd be much easier than snatching it from my finger. My phone could ring and, startled, I could drop it on the concrete while reaching to answer and not even realize it. The ring could slip right though my hands. I did it anyway. I started taking off my ring randomly, in and outside of our home.
Sometimes I took it off and set it next to me. It'd been years since I'd seen my finger without the ring. It looked naked, slender, clean, maybe a little aged. I'd never really looked at that finger before the ring. My finger had angles, too. And was lighter without the ring. No one could take that finger, and I couldn't drop it.
I was having lunch in the park one afternoon, watching the pond and thinking about how the ring could slip off while I was feeding the ducks and sink to the bottom of the murky water. I didn't want to think about the ring anymore. It was dull, didn't shine like it used to. Didn't look right on my finger anymore, wasn't worth the worry anymore. So, in the end, it didn't slip through my hands. I threw it.
At first, I just liked the feel of the ring on my finger. I liked to nonchalantly place my hand on any flat surface just to see it, just to watch it shine. I liked the feel of it. I would spin it around, first to see the angles it could take on and later out of mindless habit. When I was a kid I would put my hand on the sidewalk and rotate my shoulder until I couldn't anymore, just to see my arms from those angles. The ring was an appendage at that point, I wanted to see what it could do.
I kept pushing. When spinning became old hat, I started taking the ring off, moving it from finger to finger. It felt like a secret, like my ring did something special. I would roll it across my knuckles, carry it around the house in my palm, put it on upside down. I concentrated hard on not making it a habit, but a special ritual I did only in private. Who knows what could happen if I took that ring off out in the world. I could drop it in a sewer grate. A criminal could catch me off guard and snatch it from my hand. It'd be much easier than snatching it from my finger. My phone could ring and, startled, I could drop it on the concrete while reaching to answer and not even realize it. The ring could slip right though my hands. I did it anyway. I started taking off my ring randomly, in and outside of our home.
Sometimes I took it off and set it next to me. It'd been years since I'd seen my finger without the ring. It looked naked, slender, clean, maybe a little aged. I'd never really looked at that finger before the ring. My finger had angles, too. And was lighter without the ring. No one could take that finger, and I couldn't drop it.
I was having lunch in the park one afternoon, watching the pond and thinking about how the ring could slip off while I was feeding the ducks and sink to the bottom of the murky water. I didn't want to think about the ring anymore. It was dull, didn't shine like it used to. Didn't look right on my finger anymore, wasn't worth the worry anymore. So, in the end, it didn't slip through my hands. I threw it.
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