Momma

pic by sume

Stepmother, who I was closest to of all my mothers, had prepared everything to the best of her ability.  Rooms were ready to be re-arranged to allow us to squeeze between the empty spaces she’d made for us.  I’d forgotten how much I’d missed her when I’d left.  She’d been my best friend during my time in Nebraska.  I’ve always called her by her nickname, but she’s been “momma” in my head since I was fifteen.

It seems a joke that I’d be closest to the one person most would consider an outsider,  but true to my contradictory life, I grew closer to her than anyone in my adopted family.  Perhaps it really isn’t so strange given we were both outsiders in our own ways, both of us having to make a place for ourselves in an already established family under unusual circumstances.  Adopted Vietnamese Daughter, meet Dad’s really young, live-in girlfriend.

We were fairly close in age and spent a lot of time together in Nebraska.  I was 15 at the time and she was 23.  Dad was always traveling which meant my stepmother and I spent weeks and weeks alone together.  We even worked at the same place.  Children need constants in their lives and she was definitely one of mine. She carried a quiet and sometimes not so quiet strength beneath her bubbly exterior.  She was a doer more than a talker and that was the example I needed.  More importantly than anything, I could talk to her.

She served as a buffer between Dad and I.  For her, it must have been like being squeezed and pulled between two invisible bull elephants as Dad and I fought our war of wills.  Somehow, she found ways to unobtrusively insert her diplomacy and keep the peace.  It would be interesting and probably a little painful to hear her take on Dad and I.  Though I’d inevitably disagree with a lot of what she had to say, I’d probably find her opinion more credible than most. In the past, she hadn’t been shy about expressing her opinions.  Whether I agreed with them or not, I felt I could at least rely on her honesty.

As I watched her hug my children, I wondered how she felt about us coming back.  She’d always been insistent that I come back to Texas, but I don’t think this was what she’d intended.  Whatever her true feelings, she didn’t hesitate in expressing her wish that we feel at home, even my friend whom she’d never met.

We’d barely entered the house before she’d whipped out two old photos of me to show him.  One was my high school senior photo and the other from my senior prom.  I knew the embarrassing childhood stories wouldn’t be far behind like the time I left the car on E and the car died on the railroad tracks.  Then, there was the times she’d rolled the clock back, because no matter what, I had to be ten minutes past curfew every time I went out.  And let us not forget about the time I lied about being late, because I’d driven into a ditch only to have it actually happen a couple of nights later.  She had tons of them and wasn’t shy about telling my friends.

I couldn’t help but notice how there were no photos of me hanging up in the house.  Not that I really blamed anyone.  This wasn’t my home really.  This home belonged to Dad’s new family.  My children and I were just guests.  Still, I couldn’t help but feel the sting of the omission.  I couldn’t suppress the feelings of being an intruder, but Momma always made it better in her usual way.  She immediately whipped out the photo albums and invited us all to look at the past we shared.

“At first, Sume was so unhappy in Nebraska,”  she said, “No other Asians would talk to her because she didn’t act like them.”

“Momma, I didn’t think you knew.  I never talked about it,” I said, surprised.

“Of course, I noticed,” she replied, “I’m your mother.”

Cycles

As I walked to the end of the driveway, the loud crunch of the rocks reminded me of too many restless nights of wandering, always wondering.  Though this was a different driveway, the atmosphere was similar enough.   This one was shorter and led to a rock road rather than a highway, but the loud, hollow crunch was exactly as I remembered.  A streetlight planted at the end made the the stars seem dimmer and less numerous, but they were the same stars. Looking up at them still made me feel small and insignificant.

“Home again.  Home again,”  I heard a voice whisper, but I still didn’t know what that was.

Self doubt threatened to swallow me on a daily basis.  Pouring myself into work kept it at bay, because at least there, I had the respect of my supervisors and co-workers.  Wow, I’d finally landed a job after all this time.  Me, a stay at home wife and mother for almost 2 decades had landed a full time job.  I’d made it through all the grime, smashed fingers and aching muscles to turn a temporary construction job into a permanent position.  It wasn’t a great job, but I was making my own money and decisions for myself for the first time since I left all those years ago.

Surely, there was something to be proud of somewhere in there.  And I would be for a while, before my mind’s eye widened its focus to consider all that was happening and all that was left to do.

How long does the disorientation last after so much disruption and upheaval?  At first, I plowed through the days doing what was necessary.  Running on auto-pilot was easy and something I was use to, but when life got too quiet, the confusion would set in again.  How did I get here?  What am I suppose to do with myself now?  What about the kids?  They were adjusting well, but we were all dealing with feelings of abandonment and displacement.  Did I possess all that was necessary to see them through this?

Feelings of abandonment were as familiar to me as my own face.  All my life, it seemed the most important people in my life, even parents had come and gone at their leisure.  Most of what I remember of Dad from early childhood is him coming to get my brothers and I for weekend visits and then dropping us off when they over.  Eventually, he moved out of state and even those stopped.  The eventual phone call had to suffice.

To watch my own children go through something similar made me angry and hurt for them.  I wanted to shield them, but couldn’t help but feel I’d failed them.  I knew that feelings of parental inadequacy were something many parents struggle with, but for me, they were compounded by feelings leftover from my childhood.  It was as if I could see through two different viewpoints at the same time.  The whole thing left my mind feeling as if it had just been turned inside out.

I’d always been there for my children, at least I’d tried to be.  From the time they were born, I’d been their “primary caregiver” and the constant in their lives.  Now the very things necessary to build a new life for us were the very things that pulled me away from them.  How could I reassure them that unlike so much in their lives, I would remain?

Stranger in the familiar

Dad’s first words to me were, “It’s been too long,” as he hugged me close.  The first thing I noticed was his cologne.  It was the same smell I remembered from my childhood.  Looking up at him, my eyes widened at how much about the rest of him had changed.  His gray, closely cropped hair contradicted the dark, wavy hair of my memory.  He’d put on weight and seemed shorter somehow.  His eyes were still the same ice blue and still reminded me of his mother but had mellowed and warmed a little with age.  Or maybe I just viewed him differently, found him less intimidating.  I really couldn’t say.

The conversations didn’t happen the way I’d pictured them.  The confrontations weren’t nearly as volatile as I’d imagined.  Dad and I work on almost completely different wave lengths.   Is it possible that we’ve simply misunderstood each other all these years?  That’s not to say we weren’t both guilty of one insensitive offense or another.  We can both be held accountable for our own types of deception.  Again, the silence between us seems to have done more damage than any outright lie.  I might have been able to get past the lie if he’d only told me why.

Dad, however, is unapologetic and feels his conscious is clean.  Part of me understands it’s just the way he is, but part is angry that he’s that way.  I’m still trying to digest all that’s happened between us, but am slowly piecing together all the different elements that contribute to our strange relationship.

If only I could just let it all go and fall back into the illusion, things might go on the way he’d pictured all those years ago.  I did try to purge some of it.  If only I could selectively erase the hurt and the anger, things between us might go more smoothly.  I knew better, but thought I might be more successful as an adult.  To my surprise, I was even less so.  The reminders were everywhere from the beginning.

“It cost me $______ to get her out of Vietnam,” he told my friend.  What was I to say?  Why does he always have to say it like that?

“Funny how I’m closer to you than my real sister,” joked my younger sister.

“What was it like to grow up with a white family?”  asked a co-worker.

“Ahhh, you were one of those airlift babies,” said another co-worker, “all of you were so lucky.”

“You’re not Vietnamese,” said an acquaintance, ” you’re whiter than I am.”

“You love me long time?” said another, and another and another.

Adoption awareness in this little bubble seems pushed back 20 years.Validation is something nearly impossible to find here.  Seeking it out will more than likely get you labeled as ungrateful, immature and bitter.  I guess some things never change.  Not surprising, but it’s still disappointing.  So I don’t talk about adoption much and try to think about it even less.  But again, the reminders are everywhere.  The snide, sarcastic comments do bubble to the surface once in a while.  I can’t help it.

My conscience pushes at me to do something, but my focus is forced elsewhere.  Still, I know I can’t hide forever, so I continue to observe and take notes.

In the meantime, I continue to build my strange existence alone and yet not alone cradled in the arms of my family that is not my family as the white girl who is not white but is not quite Vietnamese enough to be called Vietnamese.

Selective Purging…Not

If only I could somehow purge my life of all the things I didn’t want to remember, they would go away.  Part of me said the life before was over.  Why not let it go?  I’d seen others do it a thousand times over, and it wasn’t as if I hadn’t done it before however indirectly. My parents had erased my previous life for me and I’d gone along with it.  Children have an amazing ability to move forward.  I was no different back then, but could I do it now?

I could set it all to flame in my mind, pitch the memorabilia and as many tangible reminders as possible.  Denial would take care of the rest.  My adoption taught me that personal history could be erased and altered at will.  I could do it.  Really.  I just needed to forget.

Another part of me screamed at the hypocrisy.  How would that make me any different than those who’d done it to me?  It seemed a weak, cowardly thing to do.

Then, I felt silly for even considering it.  It was still tempting, but I knew better.  The past never disappears completely.

In the end, I decided to keep everything even the reminders of my own mistakes.  There would always be those anyway.

So no purging but a lot of reflection and inner conversation. Somehow life feels as if it’s all coming together.  It’s chaotic and tumultuous as usual, but I figure it’s appropriate given my chaotic beginnings.

The Noisy Road Home

pic by sume

The road to the house was long, dark and noisy.  Very little was visible except for the dusty tunnel of illumination created by the headlights.  I could see the scattered lights of nearby houses but they seemed dim and insignificant.  What stood out to me most was the noise.  Even at thirty miles per hour, the crunching of the tires against the rock road was so loud, I could barely hear K on the phone.  I wanted to describe the scene to him, but all I remember saying was, “Oh my god.  When does it end?”

We’d arrived late after overshooting our destination and ending up near Fort Worth.  I felt ragged but wired after the long drive from NC.  I was excited to see everyone, but couldn’t push away feelings of arriving as the guest, the near stranger, the intruder.  This was their home, not mine.  Almost ten years had passed since the last time I’d seen my dad and his new family.  So much had changed while I’d been away.  I’d changed and changed again.

I’d traveled this road many times before as an 18 year-old.  Dad had bought land in the area not long after we’d moved back to Texas from Nebraska.  When time allowed, I’d come out to help build the barn or whatever project he had going on at the time.  I moved to Irving before he built the house and only visited three or four times after leaving Texas to live in Florida.  I’d missed almost all of my new siblings’ adolescent years.  New sister #1 had magically turned 18.  New Twin Brother and Sister were 15.

A few years ago, Dad sold the land and the house they’d built in favor of building a new house on the neighboring property.  I didn’t really have much of a history with the old place and none with the new one.  It would be my first time to see the new place with my own eyes.  Time had gotten away from me.   The years had flown by so quickly but thinking about all that had changed drove home just how much time had passed.  I was going home, but I don’t think I’ve ever felt more lost and disoriented.  Displaced again.

As we continued down the road, my dad in his car leading the way, me in the middle and my friend following in the moving truck, the grinding seem to get louder.  Somehow it added meaning to the moment.  I’m not sure why.  Maybe because I felt that as I traveled further down that road, my chances of going back were slowly being ground away.  And I wanted to go back.  It was as if I were being escorted to a prison cell after so many years of being on the run.  I’d escaped this place only to be brought back blindfolded with my hands tied.

Night people

We talked about the monsters within.  I don’t remember at what point or why we switched topics from what a relief the cool, evening breeze was after such a brutally hot day to our inner demons.  The time just before the sun disappears has become my favorite part of the day here in Texas.  I’d forgotten how hot it gets here.

When the sun starts to set, it’s difficult to tell whether it’s morning or evening.  For a moment, time seems to stand still.  The difference between the two being as the sun rises, my day is ending.  As it sets, I’m at my most active.  Josh and I are night people, you see.  We work (and play) at night and sleep during the day.

It was the only night off we had together, a night for monsters to come out and play.  It helps to let them out once in a while or else they get restless and try to escape.  The really nasty ones will even try to take over if they’re pent up too long.  Needless to say, it’s safer to let them out at night, when most of the population is indoors.  That way there are fewer witnesses to see just how strange night people can be.

I’m slowly coming to the conclusion that night people are a bit off just for being night people.  You have to be to work the night shift especially if you prefer it – which I do.  Though there does seem to be two kinds of night people.  There are those who are by circumstance and become odd as a result of adaptation and those who were already weird and desire the graveyard shift because of their nocturnal natures.

Josh seems to be of the latter group as well which is probably one of the reasons we get along so well.  The funny thing about Josh is that some would say he’s more scary during the day than he is a night.  I’ve often thought to ask him if that’s why he prefers the dark of night, but felt it might offend him.  Luckily, he’s not too easily offended or perhaps he just keeps it inside until it’s safe – like the night we decided to introduce our demons to one another.

I tease him when I can get away with it.  Such a big, ugly beast with hair that eats people. I know what others see, but I see something else.  He teases me, too.  The beautiful girl made of tiny. But I don’t feel beautiful.  I see myself the way others see him.

“If I were beautiful,” I once told him, “People would love me.  I’d be rich and happy.  Not here, working my ass off on some night shift job.  There must be something terribly wrong with me.”

He looked empathetic and sad for moment.  I saw recognition in the deepening blue of his eyes.  Demon meet Demon. Then he smiled, “…or with everyone else.”

And then I let the tears come.  It was night and only he would see.