A better life. Three words…powerful yet vague. Words of comparison or promise. Regret or inadequacy. Words that evoke feelings of hope or gratitude. Envy or disappointment. A better life according to whom or what standards? How do we know when we’ve arrived at a better life? Isn’t it all relative to each individual’s perception anyway? And what if you were tasked with providing “a better life” for someone else?
Lately, during a time of more stillness mixed with unrest, I have pondered these three words. A LOT. You tend to do that when you feel some responsibility for the fate of another human being. Especially when that person is your adopted son. From a country that looks NOTHING like America. And definitely when that son’s birth family’s only hope and request was for that child to have “a better life” in America. It is the land of opportunity, after all. Seems like a no-brainer. Of course he’d have “a better life” here rather than Ethiopia. And their dreams for him would all come true.
And the burden of those three words have weighed heavily on my heart ever since.
See, in rural Ethiopia, young children tend to even younger children while the actual caregivers (parents or otherwise) spend MANY hours a day walking miles to get water or working in the coffee bean fields or going to market to sell their crop. Other children walk the streets looking for odd jobs, handouts or friends to spend their days with. The more “financially fortunate” families are able to afford shoes and uniforms, a pre-requisite for children allowed to go to school…but many cannot, leaving the children to roam the countryside. Lives are lost, daily, to medical complications that wouldn’t be an issue in more developed countries. Families live in huts made of mud, branches and straw. They sleep with their cows for fear of poachers in the night. Malnourishment, yes, even in the 21st century, is still prevalent.
Families relinquish their babies in the dark of the night because they have been led to believe that the child will be better provided for elsewhere.
As heart-wrenching as the decision would be, it’s understandable to see why a parent or guardian would make the choice to give up their child. And why they would hold on to hope for “a better life” for that child and the possibility that, when grown, their child may return and reward their “sacrifice”.
But here’s the thing…that child, MY child, that I brought here from that far away land; That child…MY child who I’ve been told by MANY mostly-well-intentioned (albeit naive) friends and strangers is “so lucky”; That child, MY child, whom people assume must be much better off here in the USA because of the “wonderful opportunity” he has been given, came here from a place that was dirty, impoverished, and in need of more medical care. But there was love and acceptance and smiles and hugs. There was a sense of community that is indescribable. He “fit in” there. But his birth family had hopes and dreams of that “better life” for him. And at the time, I believed he could have that in the USA. In THIS family.
Depending on how you classify “a better life” it IS better here, in our bubble, in suburban Chicagoland. Nice homes, good schools, plenty of food in our home, entertainment, opportunity to attend college and build a career, a plethora of sports and activities to occupy many hours a week, video games, toys… A financially better life.
But one person’s idea of a better life may be completely different from another’s based on culture, values, and experiences.
I wonder what all the birth families in Ethiopia – who gave up one of their children with hopes that child would reap the benefits and have a “better” and even easier life – would think and do if they understood that here, in the USA, in 2021, parents lose sleep at night worrying about the discrimination and racism their black children may face. That coming here (or being born here, for that matter) does not, even in 2021, guarantee equal rights for all. That here, in 2021, parents have to talk to their black children about things that would never even be a thought in many all-white families. That here, in 2021, we still have to march in the streets or hold rallies or post blogs and articles or have uncomfortable conversations because there are so many people here, in the USA, the “melting pot” and “land of opportunity”, who STILL have some caricature in their mind of what a black person is, does or should be. And STILL, I see people trying to convince themselves or others that they are “not racist” because they “have black friends” or “don’t see color”.
I wonder how many of those black children adopted into white families are, like my son, resentful or angry or detached. I wonder how many suffer from attachment issues, PTSD or live in fight or flight mode most of the time. I wonder how many of them, like my son, have told their parents, like me, that this life is not “better”. That they will never understand why their parents chose to bring them to a place where they don’t fit in. I wonder how many mothers, like me, have had their hearts broken by a child who blames them for all the hardships (real and perceived) they have endured. And how many of those mothers’ hearts ache to take away the pain and carry regret for what could have been different.
What I KNOW is that we can all work to DO better. Give more grace to self and others. Learn more to understand more. Live our own best lives while supporting others around us. Stand together until ALL lives matter equally, without exception. Period. And respect the fact that your idea of a “better life” may not be the same as your neighbors’.
We never really know what another person is dealing with but compassion and empathy go a long way to narrow the divide.
To my son’s birth family, I will continue my journey of growth. I will do my best every day to guide my son, our son, through this life. His life. And I pray that, one day, he will be able to think it is a good life.
#abetterlife #transracialadoption #BLM #PTSD #trauma #compassion #empathy #adoptivemom #findingpeace
