Editor’s note: Last fall, Butch Ward wrote a letter to his adopted daughter, Caitlin, addressing her Asian heritage. It was a letter that she urged him to publish, and one that received a strong response from readers. Below are some of their reactions to “Letter to Caitlin,” followed by Butch’s thoughts on the power of personal journalism.
Dear Butch:
…How does one raise a multicultural family? Are the racial differences more important that the values one holds — values that are universal? Is one’s life experience stronger in determining how a child is raised than one’s race, religion or tribe? As the world shrinks (I read your essay in a country half way around the world), are we actually closer to better understanding who the other is?
I ask these questions because I have been thinking about these issues since little Sara came along Sept. 1. My little girl — this phrase has a totally new meaning to me now — is as mixed as they come. I am of Pakistani origin, my wife a Malaysian-Chinese; I am Muslim, my wife a Christian. I attended a university in the U.S., Lisa in Singapore.
… Sara is not adopted, but your column touched me because, like Caitlin, Sara is a product of two very different worlds. How to raise a child in an increasingly shrinking world (Is it really shrinking, I often wonder?) is a challenge Lisa and I also face, as do thousands of other parents around the globe.
People are different; human values are not. Personal journalism is powerful because it is a window into the soul of the writer, allowing outsiders see what the writer holds dear — or not.
Best,
Hasan
“Personal journalism is powerful…”
Amen, Hasan. Amen.
Hasan Jafri is the bureau chief in Malaysia for Dow Jones Newswires. We met last fall when he sent me the e-mails excerpted above in response to the letter I wrote to my daughter, Caitlin, about my desire to explore the issue of race in our relationship.
In the months since my “Letter to Caitlin” appeared, Hasan’s e-mails were among the many I have received from friends, former colleagues, adopted men and women, adoptive parents and people who just care a lot about the issue of race.
Thanks to your responses, I engaged in conversations I never expected to have — conversations that spanned the globe. Thanks to you, I met other adoptive parents who also worry how their children will fare in a world that, all too often, discriminates against those who are different.
And thanks to you, I was reminded of the power of personal journalism.
Today I want to share some of the messages you sent me. I do so for three reasons:
- First, to honor your stories and your generous decision to share them.
- Second, to encourage others to join the conversation about race in the hope that, by talking with each other, we will defeat a few stereotypes and challenge a few assumptions.
- And finally, to further demonstrate personal journalism’s power to resonate with readers — at a time when journalism needs so badly to resonate and move its audience to act.
Caitlin responded to my letter as she so often responds to life — very enthusiastically. Not only did she encourage me to publish it, she posted it for her friends to read. And most importantly, we talked — over hamburgers at the Red Robin, at the kitchen counter over the Christmas holiday. And then, just before returning to college for the spring semester, she sent me a letter, which she has asked me to share with you. I have done so with great pride.
As for your other question — why I decided to write about such a personal matter — the truth is, I did not compose my letter to Caitlin with Web consumption in mind. I intended to share it only with my fellow participants in the “Writing About Race” seminar and, of course, with Caitlin. Each of us in the seminar was asked to write a personal essay, and at the point in the week when I shared the letter with them, I felt confident they would accept it as my heartfelt effort to explore a difficult issue in the most sincere way I could — in the context of my love for my daughter.
And they did.
It was afterward, as we stood in line for lunch, that my colleague, Keith Woods, asked if I planned to publish the letter. I don’t know, I said. But when I asked Cait how she would feel if we were to publish it, she immediately said what I know to be true about personal journalism — that the letter had the potential to help others explore their own hopes and concerns, express their own questions and anxieties, initiate dialogue and promote discussion.
Because when personal journalism works well, that’s what happens.
We’re not talking here about opinion pieces or commentaries. Personal journalism is storytelling in which the “I” plays a role — sometimes moving to center stage, sometimes becoming the narrator, but always unobscured — with biases bared and other baggage open for inspection. The personal journalist does not seek to create an air of objectivity by using the third person; nor does the personal journalist eschew the need to fully report and attribute that which is offered as fact.
And personal journalism is not — and this is my opinion — suitable for all situations.
Personal journalism works when the author’s presence in the storytelling enhances the reader’s ability to understand, empathize, respond. In some cases, the inclusion of the author as character can distract rather than enable. Those situations argue for conventional storytelling techniques. After all, it’s not all about me, is it?
But when it’s appropriate — and when it works — personal journalism can make our storytelling an emotional, as well as enlightening, experience. Most of you who responded to my letter to Cait said it caused you to “feel.” Perhaps, just perhaps, it was that feeling which moved you to respond.
And that’s what you did. You sent me personal e-mails and posted comments on the Poynter Web site. Some of you wrote to say thanks, some told your stories and some expressed opinions about the issue of interracial adoption and the role of the parent.
All of you who responded did what Caitlin and I hoped you would do — made this a conversation. We thank you for your responses, and for allowing us to share them here.
Let’s keep talking.
Jenny Ekstedt Johnson, 25, works for Children’s Home Society & Family Services in St. Paul, Minn. This is an excerpt from her e-mail correspondence with me:
Mr. Ward,
How to talk about my adoption? What a big question that really doesn’t have one clear and definite answer… I was glad to grow up in [the] Twin Cities, [of] Minnesota, which really does have a high population of adopted persons, specifically Korean-adopted persons. This can be both a blessing and a curse, but at the very least, there were always kids in my class at school and at my church who were also adopted. So I never had the experience of being the sole “other.” Not that I didn’t face ignorant questions, or hard situations, but I never felt completely alone.
Looking back, there’s not a time that I can remember not knowing that I was adopted. When asked by other kids on the playground, “When did you find out you were adopted?” I replied, “When did you find out that you were a boy?” Other playground questions included, “Why is it that you’re not white but your parents are?” or “Why are your eyes all squinty and your nose flat?” I was lucky in that my parents had instilled such confidence and self-esteem in me that I had the answers to those questions and could talk about how my parents had chosen adoption to form their family. But I remember being frustrated that other kids didn’t seem to understand what adoption was and they certainly didn’t have to answer personal questions about their own families.
As I got older, the questions became more “polite” as people sought to not ask their real questions. Instead of asking, “Didn’t your real mom and dad want you?” they asked, “Have you met your birth mom? Do you want to? Have you been back to Korea? Do you speak Korean?”
As difficult as some of those questions can be to answer for any adoptee, I think the most hurtful statements that people ever made to me were, “I don’t think that skin color matters at all. You mostly act white anyhow.” These comments usually came from very well-meaning people who thought that their attitude of being “color blind” was the answer to racial equality. I personally would strongly advocate for everyone to see skin color, and to celebrate differences. Saying that color doesn’t matter at all is taking away a rich tradition, history and culture of many peoples from all over the world. I am proud of my Korean heritage, and definitely want others to recognize and celebrate that fact.
I have met many adoptive parents through my job at Children’s Home Society & Family Services, and it has been phenomenal to see how much adoption practice and parent education has changed over the years… I once heard a social worker, who is also an adoptive mom, say, “I was so bound and determined to teach my racist father a lesson that I chose to adopt internationally. Little did I realize that in attempting to teach my father a lesson, I was doing it on the backs of my kids.”
Regardless of whether or not you see your child as “other”, the reality of life hits all of us and things may not be as easy for your child as they were for you. So give your children the tools to face life. Thank you to all the adoptive parents out there who are teaching their children how to have the language and confidence to talk about their lives and share their story.
Kim Chapin, deputy director of photography at The Boston Globe, wrote:
Butch,
I was adopted from Korea 32 years ago. I was six years old. I was the only Asian in my town of 2,400 people in Michigan. My parents never talked about my heritage, about racism — how hurtful it would be when I experience it for the first time.
For my high school graduation gift, my parents took me to Korea. It was their way to show me where I came from without really talking about it.
I went back to Korea [the] summer of my junior year in college. That is when I was ready to learn my heritage and identify myself as Asian, not a person who grew up white. I worked two jobs while I was there for three months and lived with a middle-class family who didn’t speak any English (I still can’t speak Korean).
What I learned that summer was [that] Koreans have a rich heritage and are proud people. I have that in me and it’s a part of me. But I am also Kim Chapin, who grew up in a little town in Michigan. And I put the word “adopted” out all together. My mom is my mom, not my adopted mom. My dad is dad, not my adopted dad. “Chapin” is a huge part of my heritage.
Katelyn Mee Harding is a student at the University of Massachusetts. She posted this message in response to the column:
Butch,
I just wanted to say that your essay hit directly to home with me. I was born in Seoul, Korea, and adopted at the age of two-and-a-half months to Caucasian parents. I have lived the rest of my 21 years with them and my sister, who is also Caucasian…
I write for my college’s newspaper, The (Massachusetts) Daily Collegian, and I wrote an article about being adopted and Asian. I located the column on the newspaper’s Web site — here are some excerpts:
Mitchell Owens, New York design editor of Traditional Home magazine, is the father of Catherine, whose nickname is Cati. Here are excerpts from our correspondence:
Mr. Ward,
… I am the white adoptive father (one of two white adoptive fathers, actually) of a mixed-race child — half black and half Irish — who is now four.
I worry about and anticipate the same issues/responses that you mentioned in your article about your daughter, and, like you, merely walking down the street of a black neighborhood in Baltimore, believing you were walking arm-in-arm with African-American Baltimore, I make missteps. Just enough missteps, at times, to make me look, at best, incredibly naive, or at worst, incredibly stupid. But I am trying, at the present time, to prepare myself for the day when my partner and I will have to discuss race with my daughter, whom I love beyond all measure and who has changed our lives in ways in which I never dreamed possible.
However, like your recognition of the differences between you and your Korean daughter, I will never know really what it means or will mean to be black or mixed-race like my child. And she will never know what it means for us to be white. That’s why my partner and I will be saving your article. It will provide us with a template of father-daughter conversations to come. Hopefully sooner than later.
… Issues of color regarding our adopted mixed-race daughter were unimportant during our two years in Morocco. She looked like everybody around her, whether they were of Arab or Berber extraction: wavy dark hair, pale golden skin, dark eyes. My partner and I were the odd ones out in our neighborhood, being fairly obviously European/American whites. In Morocco, there was no reason to point out any differences to Cati. She went to a Moroccan school with Moroccan friends, played with Moroccan children, conversed largely in Arabic, and for all intents and purposes, was a Moroccan child, and was recognized as such by our neighbors — several of whom were fairly convinced we had managed to adopt a Moroccan child (which actually is difficult — if not impossible — for most foreigners).
We returned to the States last summer, and now things racial are becoming more interesting. Or at least more challenging. Matthew and I now live in a very small, largely white-populated village in upstate New York, and Cati, as far as we can tell, is one of only three mixed-race children for miles around. As a result, we have tried to introduce color differences gradually, largely through stocking up on children’s books with a wide variety of family structures and racial components. (Her pre-K teacher independently has done the same and reads books featuring adoption and various races to the children at storytime.) Matthew and I try to casually explain that people come in all colors and shapes and sizes, information our daughter seems to absorb without question, whether we are reading a book or watching television or in public. We also have chickens and goats, which allows us to point out to Cati how, like people, animals are all different, too, even within the same species. She has dolls in assorted skin tones and seems to favor them all equally, selecting a different baby doll to bathe or to carry around for the day: black, white, Hispanic, Asian. She has a very thoughtful godmother — white, French, bohemian — who is determined, however, to give Cati only brown-skinned dolls.
Occasionally, however, incidents have arisen that flummox both Matthew and me. At Cati’s weekly ballet class, for instance, a slightly older mixed-race girl asked the teacher, apropos Cati and Matthew (who was present), “Why does that black girl have a white daddy?” (This particular child has a white mother and a black father, by the way.)
It was really the first time, honestly, that I had ever heard someone describe Cati in that way — as “black” — which stunned me a bit. She is as much white as she is black, and that is my only personal difficulty at present, knowing that people see what they want to see or make assumptions that, in the future, will make certain conversations with our daughter necessary. I was brought up by a mother who was very sensitive that my brother and I make no racial distinctions/assumptions about people, who impressed on us that everyone is different and worthy of respect, et cetera, and I will try to rely on those lessons as Cati grows up. But I know not everyone was raised that way or believes the same thing.
I guess Matthew and I will have to cross that bridge when it looms before us.
Recently, Cati and I went to [the] American Girl Place in New York City, where children can choose, among other things, dolls that look most like them. I thought this would be a good moment to underscore racial differences, so I steered Cati to a doll that did look almost precisely like her: long wavy hair, brown eyes, pale golden skin. (I also tend to enthusiastically point out models in fashion magazines who resemble her as well as actresses like Halle Berry in order to make subtle and, I hope, successful connections that can be explored later, as she gets older and becomes more questioning.) My daughter had other ideas, however, and wanted very much to have a doll with straight blonde hair, blue eyes, and white skin. I explained to her what the American Girl philosophy seemed to be about, i.e., the look-alike quotient and girl power, and she eventually, hesitantly, after seeing other girls do the same, chose the doll I originally hoped she would.
Since then, Cati goes to great lengths to point out their similarities in color, hair texture, et cetera, and seems very pleased to have another girl in the house who is just like her. (This is more important to her, frankly, than color at this point in her childhood. She obsessively counts the number of girls and boys in any given situation — and that includes dogs, cats, children, adults and dolls — and beams when the division of sexes is equal and/or when girls outnumber the boys.)
Her only substantive comments regarding differences in skin color, et cetera, at this point, have stressed our similarities. “You have brown eyes just like me, Papa,” she says. “And we both have brown hair.” This seems to please her very much; Matthew (Daddy), on the other hand, is blond-haired and blue-eyed, which Cati seems to think is a pitiable combination and deserving of enormous sympathy�
A last note: A number of other respondents shared stories with me but asked me not to publish their names. They had a variety of reasons: an adopted child did not want to raise the topic with his parents; an adoptive parent did not want to risk embarrassing his children. Their stories added to my appreciation of this difficult issue, and I thank them for writing to me.
I hope we can all keep talking.
Butch,
I was adopted from Korea 32 years ago. I was six years old. I was the only Asian in my town of 2,400 people in Michigan. My parents never talked about my heritage, about racism — how hurtful it would be when I experience it for the first time.
For my high school graduation gift, my parents took me to Korea. It was their way to show me where I came from without really talking about it.
I went back to Korea [the] summer of my junior year in college. That is when I was ready to learn my heritage and identify myself as Asian, not a person who grew up white. I worked two jobs while I was there for three months and lived with a middle-class family who didn’t speak any English (I still can’t speak Korean).
What I learned that summer was [that] Koreans have a rich heritage and are proud people. I have that in me and it’s a part of me. But I am also Kim Chapin, who grew up in a little town in Michigan. And I put the word “adopted” out all together. My mom is my mom, not my adopted mom. My dad is dad, not my adopted dad. “Chapin” is a huge part of my heritage.
Katelyn Mee Harding is a student at the University of Massachusetts. She posted this message in response to the column:
Butch,
I just wanted to say that your essay hit directly to home with me. I was born in Seoul, Korea, and adopted at the age of two-and-a-half months to Caucasian parents. I have lived the rest of my 21 years with them and my sister, who is also Caucasian…
I write for my college’s newspaper, The (Massachusetts) Daily Collegian, and I wrote an article about being adopted and Asian. I located the column on the newspaper’s Web site — here are some excerpts:
What amazes me is that throughout my life, people have asked me to choose a side, white or Asian. As if I even had the choice.
In one of my classes, we [were] discussing the issue of racism. Would you consider yourself racist? You would like to think you could honestly say no, but everyone has their biased opinions of others upon first glance, first meeting, etc. There always has been, and there always will be racism in America, whether we admit it or not. Recently, I viewed the movie “Crash,” and I was interested to see how gritty, graphic and honest it was. The movie plays upon every stereotype one can think of, but in reality, I am sure that more than one of you has had the exact same thoughts run through your head.
I cannot describe the number of times some idiot has come up to me and asked if I’m Chinese, and finding out that — gasp — I’m not, then “What am I?” As if China was the only Asian country that existed. …
… For the most part, none of us cared or knew about anyone else’s culture but our own. My high school was predominantly white, but coming to UMass has led me to meet and embrace so many different people and their cultures. One of my best friends is Bosnian, and it is so interesting to listen to him talk about his culture, his food and his religion. It’s more refreshing to learn about different cultures than to be stuck in White America.
It comes down to this: although we all know that the theory of America being a “melting pot” is crap, we can at least try to get some truth from it. But it’s up to you as individuals to make that change. In the words of John Lennon, “Living is easy with eyes closed, misunderstanding all you see.” Keep your eyes open; this life is a lot more colorful than just white.
Mitchell Owens, New York design editor of Traditional Home magazine, is the father of Catherine, whose nickname is Cati. Here are excerpts from our correspondence:
Mr. Ward,
… I am the white adoptive father (one of two white adoptive fathers, actually) of a mixed-race child — half black and half Irish — who is now four.
I worry about and anticipate the same issues/responses that you mentioned in your article about your daughter, and, like you, merely walking down the street of a black neighborhood in Baltimore, believing you were walking arm-in-arm with African-American Baltimore, I make missteps. Just enough missteps, at times, to make me look, at best, incredibly naive, or at worst, incredibly stupid. But I am trying, at the present time, to prepare myself for the day when my partner and I will have to discuss race with my daughter, whom I love beyond all measure and who has changed our lives in ways in which I never dreamed possible.
However, like your recognition of the differences between you and your Korean daughter, I will never know really what it means or will mean to be black or mixed-race like my child. And she will never know what it means for us to be white. That’s why my partner and I will be saving your article. It will provide us with a template of father-daughter conversations to come. Hopefully sooner than later.
… Issues of color regarding our adopted mixed-race daughter were unimportant during our two years in Morocco. She looked like everybody around her, whether they were of Arab or Berber extraction: wavy dark hair, pale golden skin, dark eyes. My partner and I were the odd ones out in our neighborhood, being fairly obviously European/American whites. In Morocco, there was no reason to point out any differences to Cati. She went to a Moroccan school with Moroccan friends, played with Moroccan children, conversed largely in Arabic, and for all intents and purposes, was a Moroccan child, and was recognized as such by our neighbors — several of whom were fairly convinced we had managed to adopt a Moroccan child (which actually is difficult — if not impossible — for most foreigners).
We returned to the States last summer, and now things racial are becoming more interesting. Or at least more challenging. Matthew and I now live in a very small, largely white-populated village in upstate New York, and Cati, as far as we can tell, is one of only three mixed-race children for miles around. As a result, we have tried to introduce color differences gradually, largely through stocking up on children’s books with a wide variety of family structures and racial components. (Her pre-K teacher independently has done the same and reads books featuring adoption and various races to the children at storytime.) Matthew and I try to casually explain that people come in all colors and shapes and sizes, information our daughter seems to absorb without question, whether we are reading a book or watching television or in public. We also have chickens and goats, which allows us to point out to Cati how, like people, animals are all different, too, even within the same species. She has dolls in assorted skin tones and seems to favor them all equally, selecting a different baby doll to bathe or to carry around for the day: black, white, Hispanic, Asian. She has a very thoughtful godmother — white, French, bohemian — who is determined, however, to give Cati only brown-skinned dolls.
Occasionally, however, incidents have arisen that flummox both Matthew and me. At Cati’s weekly ballet class, for instance, a slightly older mixed-race girl asked the teacher, apropos Cati and Matthew (who was present), “Why does that black girl have a white daddy?” (This particular child has a white mother and a black father, by the way.)
It was really the first time, honestly, that I had ever heard someone describe Cati in that way — as “black” — which stunned me a bit. She is as much white as she is black, and that is my only personal difficulty at present, knowing that people see what they want to see or make assumptions that, in the future, will make certain conversations with our daughter necessary. I was brought up by a mother who was very sensitive that my brother and I make no racial distinctions/assumptions about people, who impressed on us that everyone is different and worthy of respect, et cetera, and I will try to rely on those lessons as Cati grows up. But I know not everyone was raised that way or believes the same thing.
I guess Matthew and I will have to cross that bridge when it looms before us.
Recently, Cati and I went to [the] American Girl Place in New York City, where children can choose, among other things, dolls that look most like them. I thought this would be a good moment to underscore racial differences, so I steered Cati to a doll that did look almost precisely like her: long wavy hair, brown eyes, pale golden skin. (I also tend to enthusiastically point out models in fashion magazines who resemble her as well as actresses like Halle Berry in order to make subtle and, I hope, successful connections that can be explored later, as she gets older and becomes more questioning.) My daughter had other ideas, however, and wanted very much to have a doll with straight blonde hair, blue eyes, and white skin. I explained to her what the American Girl philosophy seemed to be about, i.e., the look-alike quotient and girl power, and she eventually, hesitantly, after seeing other girls do the same, chose the doll I originally hoped she would.
Since then, Cati goes to great lengths to point out their similarities in color, hair texture, et cetera, and seems very pleased to have another girl in the house who is just like her. (This is more important to her, frankly, than color at this point in her childhood. She obsessively counts the number of girls and boys in any given situation — and that includes dogs, cats, children, adults and dolls — and beams when the division of sexes is equal and/or when girls outnumber the boys.)
Her only substantive comments regarding differences in skin color, et cetera, at this point, have stressed our similarities. “You have brown eyes just like me, Papa,” she says. “And we both have brown hair.” This seems to please her very much; Matthew (Daddy), on the other hand, is blond-haired and blue-eyed, which Cati seems to think is a pitiable combination and deserving of enormous sympathy�
Pam Robinson is a news editor for the Los Angeles Times-Washington Post News Service:
Butch,
… It’s always been amazing to me how many people approach me — nearly always with good intentions — to ask questions about my daughter. (Anna, 12, is adopted from China.)
I’ve had only one or two negative experiences, including one that is somewhat the store situation you describe. Shortly after Anna’s arrival, a rather hostile… woman approached to criticize me. [After] letting her spew for a few minutes, and after she repeated the “a white mother doesn’t know how to raise a child of color” line for about the 10th time, I said, “But her father is Asian!” which is technically, presumably, true. It shut her up.
But all in all, I have found people very positive about our situation, though I suspect people are kinder toward Asian kids than black kids in this situation.
I also think that people are very curious about adoption, and sometimes ask questions without thinking, like, “How much does it cost?” I do believe, though, the questions, while sometimes tactless, are driven by curiosity and not by rudeness, so I always answer in very general but polite terms. And, as I’m sure you do, when people, especially other Asians, try to point out how lucky Anna is, I always, always, say, “I’m the lucky one.”
Wendy Wilber is on the board of Families with Children from China in metro Detroit, an organization of more than 250 families:
Dear Mr. Ward,
The incident in the bakery that you talked about reminded me of the many, many times I took my daughter to Target or Kohl’s or some other store and got what I started calling “the double-stroller stare.” Like all people do, they would look at the stroller to gaze on my stunning daughter. Then their smiling face would move upward until their eyes would meet with mine. Then, as if I could see the cogs in their head grind to a screeching halt, they’d look down at my daughter again trying to figure out how it was possible for this Caucasian woman to be parenting a Chinese child.
The questions people think they have the right to ask never cease to amaze me. Just when I think I’ve heard it all, I hear something new and so incredible that I have to wonder just where in line those people were the day that God was handing out brains and common sense.
People pry. They think they have a right to know. Sometimes I am polite and nice. Sometimes I’ve just had enough of the prying and decide to dish it right back at them, like the day this old lady asked me rather loud, “Well, is her father Chinese?” To which I responded, “I don’t know. I never saw his face,” and walked away. Or the dietician who was supposedly helping me adjust to a type-II diabetes diet and spent most of the time asking me about a pregnancy that never existed. With my then-four-year-old standing right there, she said, “Do you have any REAL children?” (Insert heavy sigh here.)
I grew up in Detroit. I grew up thinking that racism was strictly a black-and-white issue. I’ve learned a lot in the four years I’ve been a parent. And, you’d think that with my being adopted myself, I’d have a bit of a leg up on the whole thing. Not true. No one ever asked my mother if I spoke English. No one ever doubted that she was my mother. Yet, it’s a pretty common thing around here now.
My beloved little Eloise still delights in holding my hand. And, by God, I will hold it as long as I can. I will be by her side through thick and thin. Yet, no matter what happens, I will always be a Caucasian woman living the life of what I now know to be “white privilege,” while my beautiful little girl will be asked until the day she dies, “Do you speak English?” just because she’s Asian.
When I was growing up, my mother used to say to me, “Wendy, life isn’t fair.” She knew what she was talking about.
Cheryl McLaughlin is CEO of MPSciences in Danville, Calif. Here are excerpts from her two messages to me:
Dear Mr. Ward:
… In my practice as a specialist in human performance, I work with many athletes, a number of whom are young athletes who began their early lives in orphanages in Korea and Vietnam. They were adopted by loving white families and grew up in affluent, predominantly white neighborhoods. And even though interracial families are more common and accepted in California, and these children learned to adapt and succeed in their new surroundings, there’s no denying that their experience is different.
Often I don’t know their story until I ask them to tell it; when they are wondering how they can approach sponsors to help them on their first years on the professional tennis tour. Often it’s the first time they’ve told the story. I learn so much and I’m even more in awe of how resilient they have been, their optimism for the present and future, how they have dealt with the glances or off-handed comments, and what they have accomplished. …
… What fascinates me is watching how these kids grow up as children, teenagers — and now in their 20s and 30s — as they find their way in their careers, in their marriages and as parents of their first children. On the outside, they look like normal, happy, healthy kids. And they are. But when they tell the story of their experiences in the orphanages, and after their adoptions as they adjust and grow up in this very different, American culture, you begin to see the roots of their life force energy that has enabled them to accomplish something extraordinary.
One young man told his story of being the only child out of 3,000 in his Korean orphanage to be adopted. Not only was he the chosen one, he’s a survivor who beats the odds and succeeds by constantly proving people wrong. This is a thread that has been woven into every area of his life and that forms the foundation of his resilience and his determination to succeed. It’s also why he is able to blunt the sting of other people’s comments or limited expectations, and why they only motivate him further to continue striving to accomplish his dreams.
Amna Rizvi is a junior at Temple University who is pursuing a bachelor’s degree in journalism. These are excerpts from our correspondence:
Dear Mr. Ward,
… The reason why I’m writing this e-mail to you is because I read the letter you wrote to your daughter, Caitlin. I had tears in my eyes by the time I was done reading it. I could feel all your emotions in your words — the disappointment that you hadn’t, in all the 19 years, understood your daughter’s experiences as being an Asian and living in a primarily white society. I felt your desire and your urge to learn about her Korean heritage, her experiences, etc.
I’m also a minority in this country. I’m from Pakistan, and after reading your letter, it just felt so good [to know] that there are still people out there who want to understand and learn about other cultures, values and traditions and not just dismiss them. …
… I’m not adopted. …However, I am [a] minority and I have, for a large chunk of my life, [lived] and continue to live in a country that is predominantly inhabited by white people. But — and this might sound strange to a lot of people — I don’t see the various colors. I just see people hailing from different cultures and backgrounds, and I just have this desire to know everything about them: Who they are? What sort of food they eat? The religion they practice? Their experiences? …
… I feel that this is the healthy way to tackle some of the issues of race, stereotypes and prejudices that plague this country and the world. We need to be inquisitive. We need to ask questions. We need to talk. We need to be eager to learn from different people about their experiences, their culture and their traditions. We should not just gulp down the ideas and images that the media throws our way. An open mind is what all should wish for…
Butch,
… It’s always been amazing to me how many people approach me — nearly always with good intentions — to ask questions about my daughter. (Anna, 12, is adopted from China.)
I’ve had only one or two negative experiences, including one that is somewhat the store situation you describe. Shortly after Anna’s arrival, a rather hostile… woman approached to criticize me. [After] letting her spew for a few minutes, and after she repeated the “a white mother doesn’t know how to raise a child of color” line for about the 10th time, I said, “But her father is Asian!” which is technically, presumably, true. It shut her up.
But all in all, I have found people very positive about our situation, though I suspect people are kinder toward Asian kids than black kids in this situation.
I also think that people are very curious about adoption, and sometimes ask questions without thinking, like, “How much does it cost?” I do believe, though, the questions, while sometimes tactless, are driven by curiosity and not by rudeness, so I always answer in very general but polite terms. And, as I’m sure you do, when people, especially other Asians, try to point out how lucky Anna is, I always, always, say, “I’m the lucky one.”
Wendy Wilber is on the board of Families with Children from China in metro Detroit, an organization of more than 250 families:
Dear Mr. Ward,
The incident in the bakery that you talked about reminded me of the many, many times I took my daughter to Target or Kohl’s or some other store and got what I started calling “the double-stroller stare.” Like all people do, they would look at the stroller to gaze on my stunning daughter. Then their smiling face would move upward until their eyes would meet with mine. Then, as if I could see the cogs in their head grind to a screeching halt, they’d look down at my daughter again trying to figure out how it was possible for this Caucasian woman to be parenting a Chinese child.
The questions people think they have the right to ask never cease to amaze me. Just when I think I’ve heard it all, I hear something new and so incredible that I have to wonder just where in line those people were the day that God was handing out brains and common sense.
People pry. They think they have a right to know. Sometimes I am polite and nice. Sometimes I’ve just had enough of the prying and decide to dish it right back at them, like the day this old lady asked me rather loud, “Well, is her father Chinese?” To which I responded, “I don’t know. I never saw his face,” and walked away. Or the dietician who was supposedly helping me adjust to a type-II diabetes diet and spent most of the time asking me about a pregnancy that never existed. With my then-four-year-old standing right there, she said, “Do you have any REAL children?” (Insert heavy sigh here.)
I grew up in Detroit. I grew up thinking that racism was strictly a black-and-white issue. I’ve learned a lot in the four years I’ve been a parent. And, you’d think that with my being adopted myself, I’d have a bit of a leg up on the whole thing. Not true. No one ever asked my mother if I spoke English. No one ever doubted that she was my mother. Yet, it’s a pretty common thing around here now.
My beloved little Eloise still delights in holding my hand. And, by God, I will hold it as long as I can. I will be by her side through thick and thin. Yet, no matter what happens, I will always be a Caucasian woman living the life of what I now know to be “white privilege,” while my beautiful little girl will be asked until the day she dies, “Do you speak English?” just because she’s Asian.
When I was growing up, my mother used to say to me, “Wendy, life isn’t fair.” She knew what she was talking about.
Cheryl McLaughlin is CEO of MPSciences in Danville, Calif. Here are excerpts from her two messages to me:
Dear Mr. Ward:
… In my practice as a specialist in human performance, I work with many athletes, a number of whom are young athletes who began their early lives in orphanages in Korea and Vietnam. They were adopted by loving white families and grew up in affluent, predominantly white neighborhoods. And even though interracial families are more common and accepted in California, and these children learned to adapt and succeed in their new surroundings, there’s no denying that their experience is different.
Often I don’t know their story until I ask them to tell it; when they are wondering how they can approach sponsors to help them on their first years on the professional tennis tour. Often it’s the first time they’ve told the story. I learn so much and I’m even more in awe of how resilient they have been, their optimism for the present and future, how they have dealt with the glances or off-handed comments, and what they have accomplished. …
… What fascinates me is watching how these kids grow up as children, teenagers — and now in their 20s and 30s — as they find their way in their careers, in their marriages and as parents of their first children. On the outside, they look like normal, happy, healthy kids. And they are. But when they tell the story of their experiences in the orphanages, and after their adoptions as they adjust and grow up in this very different, American culture, you begin to see the roots of their life force energy that has enabled them to accomplish something extraordinary.
One young man told his story of being the only child out of 3,000 in his Korean orphanage to be adopted. Not only was he the chosen one, he’s a survivor who beats the odds and succeeds by constantly proving people wrong. This is a thread that has been woven into every area of his life and that forms the foundation of his resilience and his determination to succeed. It’s also why he is able to blunt the sting of other people’s comments or limited expectations, and why they only motivate him further to continue striving to accomplish his dreams.
Amna Rizvi is a junior at Temple University who is pursuing a bachelor’s degree in journalism. These are excerpts from our correspondence:
Dear Mr. Ward,
… The reason why I’m writing this e-mail to you is because I read the letter you wrote to your daughter, Caitlin. I had tears in my eyes by the time I was done reading it. I could feel all your emotions in your words — the disappointment that you hadn’t, in all the 19 years, understood your daughter’s experiences as being an Asian and living in a primarily white society. I felt your desire and your urge to learn about her Korean heritage, her experiences, etc.
I’m also a minority in this country. I’m from Pakistan, and after reading your letter, it just felt so good [to know] that there are still people out there who want to understand and learn about other cultures, values and traditions and not just dismiss them. …
… I’m not adopted. …However, I am [a] minority and I have, for a large chunk of my life, [lived] and continue to live in a country that is predominantly inhabited by white people. But — and this might sound strange to a lot of people — I don’t see the various colors. I just see people hailing from different cultures and backgrounds, and I just have this desire to know everything about them: Who they are? What sort of food they eat? The religion they practice? Their experiences? …
… I feel that this is the healthy way to tackle some of the issues of race, stereotypes and prejudices that plague this country and the world. We need to be inquisitive. We need to ask questions. We need to talk. We need to be eager to learn from different people about their experiences, their culture and their traditions. We should not just gulp down the ideas and images that the media throws our way. An open mind is what all should wish for…
A last note: A number of other respondents shared stories with me but asked me not to publish their names. They had a variety of reasons: an adopted child did not want to raise the topic with his parents; an adoptive parent did not want to risk embarrassing his children. Their stories added to my appreciation of this difficult issue, and I thank them for writing to me.
I hope we can all keep talking.
