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       Adoption Journal Dave Barry Column Alaska 2001 Links of Interest |
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ADOPTION JOURNAL Dear Storey, Our trip to bring you into our family started late on a Friday afternoon and a series of plane flights that began in Hailey, Idaho and took us to Salt Lake City and Los Angeles before arriving in Guanzhou at about 7:30 AM. We had traveled for over 30 hours and we ate our first meal on Chinese soil in the Guanzhou airport. The constant movement of China's people became so apparent to us  immediately - a controlled chaos filled the airport terminal, and there were enough restaurants for a small city. We flew on to Guilin, met by a guide named Bai, and spent the night at the Garden Hotel. It is difficult to describe our first impressions of your native land, our wonder at the energy of its people and near-poverty existence of the people of Guilin. Our hotel looks out onto the Li River, and our room, out across the spires of karst that rise like towers from the rice patties and apartment buildings that exist cheek-to-jowl here. But the wonder for your mother and me remains that our first meeting with you is now less than two days away. All these months of waiting are compressed into just forty-eight hours, and our hearts pound in anticipation of holding you in our arms.
We have come to China two days early, mostly to adjust to the time change, but also to see a few sights before moving on to Kunming. We saw reed flute cave yesterday, and I write now from a trip down the Li River. The limestone peaks rise dramatically from the lush vegetation, a deep, saturated green of bamboo, pine and so many trees and plants we’ve never seen. The river is a murky green, like dark jade, undulating and twisting through the towers, past tiny villages and compounds, gravel spits, water buffalo, cormorants and fishermen on bamboo skiffs barely four inches out of the water. The talk between our fellow New Hope families and us varies between the impressions of the stunning scenery and expectations of our time with you. When will we see you? Tomorrow night upon our arrival, or the following day? So many questions—our hearts beating joyfully as we think of you. We have brought two duffel bags with us—nearly all of it for you: clothes, diapers, formula, food, baby carriers. Books. Tape recorders and players. All hoping to have what we need when we meet you. To make you as comfortable as possible for our long journey home. You are joining our family. We are painfully aware of the responsibility that bears upon us. We want to make this transition for you as seamless and smooth as possible—to cherish without smothering, to provide without over-indulging, to welcome you into a family whose premise is love. Love and its enduring power, strength and calm. This country in which you live has filled us with awe. It is inspiring. Yet we know it pales in comparison to one glimpse of you, one smile, one moment in your presence. * * * Following our river trip we drove back to Guilin on a wide cement road that split the verdant valley in two, both sides encased by distant karst ranges almost artificial in their stage-set beauty—two dimensional, round-topped green spires, armies of them in regimented splendor. And along the roadway, reaching toward those hills, yellow-hued harvest time rice patties stitched into the dripping green patches of sprouts ripening quickly in the muggy summer air, geometric fields of still water like broken mirrors reflecting back the jagged-mouth splendor of those karsts. The challenge is to stay focused, for I am so easily distracted by the spectacular scenery that my imagination drifts unconsciously to peaceful, serene dreams of the simplicity of life here. To rise, water, plant, harvest—cycling through seasons with years falling away like autumn leaves. Along the road, in lanes designated just for them, bicycles carry everything imaginable: rice straw, melons, sticks, rebar and brick. Here in this valley it is all brick—we pass factories, the rich red bricks stacked in perfect rows five feet high, whole fields of them awaiting mortar and attention somewhere farther up the road. A place to call home. Everything comes back to you, dear Storey. A home. You have been treated well here—we trust that—but have yet to find a home, like those stacked bricks out in the field. Marcelle and I hope to give you the love—the mortar—to bind you to our lives, to include you in the music and the laughter we call home. To give you an older sister, Paige, who, like us, already anticipates your inclusion into our family circle. Our dinners, our family baths, our games of hide-and-seek and our bedside prayers. In this family, so much comes down to prayer. And so, as another day slips toward night, bringing us inexorably closer to you—our purpose in this visit—we whisper prayers for our reunion with you and the magic we feel certain to follow us for all of our days. * * *  Today your mother and I visited a "free market" in Guilin—a huge, indoor-outdoor market with NO tourists—a Chinese street market for the Chinese of Guilin. We saw every vegetable, every cut of meat, egg, spice, mushroom, hatchet, dress, shoe, knife, etc. you could ever imagine. We bought your mother a black leather belt for $3 U.S.—about 1/5 what it would have cost back home.Our guide then took us up Fobu Hill—all 325 steps—to a 360 degree view of this memorable city. The green river flowed on as it has for tens of thousands of years. Currents swirled. We were captivated by the surrounding mountains once again—our final glimpse of this dramatic place while outdoors. We cooled down some in a cave at the base, where vandalized Buddha sculptures two thousand years old stared solemnly into the hills, poetry chiseled into the ceiling walls dripping with water. We lunched in a revolving restaurant, all of us giddy about our upcoming flight to Kunming and our meeting with our children. Bai, our guide, escorted us to the airport, and now we are in the plane: Chris, Cathy, Gary, Christina, Kara, and Di. Nerves are high. We may see you this same night! We can’t wait! All this way from home we have no idea what to expect, other than we will be met at the airport and driven to Greenlake Hotel. There is talk you may join us tonight—tomorrow morning at the latest. Dear Storey, I can’t tell you how thrilled we are at this chance to be with you. We weep when we talk of you. We laugh. Chills run down our spines. We can only hope that someday these next few hours will mean as much to you as they do now to us. A beginning. A treasure. A family. Your elders say "a journey begins with but a single step." We, the four of us—Paige, you, your mother and I—now take that first step toward a future together. We unite and we move forward. Your grandfather likes to quote a passage from the bible; coincidentally your mother read this same passage aloud this morning, and it seems so appropriate: ‘This is the day the Lord hath made, let us be glad, and rejoice in it.’ We are rejoicing, dear soul, with every passing minute drawing us closer to you. Rejoicing, at the strange and wondrous journey that has led us here. * * * Today was an emotional ride into all of our futures. We started out quite early, leaving the hotel and crossing a wet road, heading over to a government complex where a pair of armed guards would not allow us inside, their gloved hands gesturing us back. We moved across to a parking area where we were made to wait. We were met a few minutes later by an escort and allowed to enter the complex. We walked a short distance to a very old, very dilapidated building and we climbed four flights in the dark, the only light through windows which no longer held any glass. The hallways too were dark and gloomy, though the occasional office was lit brightly and had adequate furniture inside. We walked down this extremely dark passage and were shown into quite a nice room with a long oval table and many chairs. We sat down at this table, China’s red flag in metal on the wall, the windows a filthy gray. Emotions ran high as we were made to fill out forms and complete statements about how we intended to care for you as a member of our family. And then, in the middle of all that, the caretakers paraded in bearing the babies in their arms. Adorable, bright-eyed little children as filled with expectation as the adults who had come to take them across the ocean. Tears sobbed down onto this great oval table as the forms dragged out, all of us eager to leap from our seats and go claim our daughters. Cameras flashed. More tears. Couples hugged and squealed as we all identified our children from the photos we had cherished all these long months. No longer Kodachrome. Living. Breathing. More tears. Our organizer, a wonderful woman name Lin, walked around the table collecting our completed applications and forms. One by one, couples rose from the table to approach and hug and chortle over finally feeling the warm of the child in their arms. Your mother and I were last. * * * And now, many hours later, you are in fresh clothes. You have taken a bath and are smelling so baby-wonderful. You are sleeping alongside our bed, light breaths. You’ve had a whole bottle of milk, drinking wonderfully hungry, but by no means famished. You don’t cry. You’ve smiled at us repeatedly. We feel exhausted but reunited at last—not united, but reunited. We feel you a part of us, already. So complete. So whole. Sleep dear child, sleep. We have a long journey yet ahead of us.... * * * Today is our first full day with this new marvel in our lives. You grow in this atmosphere of abundant love the way a plant will lean toward the room’s only window. We gasp at the radiant beauty of this little child, this tremulous wonder who has accepted us so immediately—and we you, of course! You woke twice in the night, having gone to bed at eight thirty; first, at eleven thirty—exactly three hours to the minute after we put you down; after a twenty minute feed you went down just before midnight, and rose at EXACTLY a few minutes before three; needless to say we think you were kept on a three hour feeding schedule at the orphanage. We added some rice cereal to your formula and you slept until eight-fifteen, about four hours, after that long middle of the night feeding where you wanted to play for a while. You are just a joy, such a "perfect" baby; no crying, except when hungry, no fuss. Just like your older sister was! We are SO lucky! We have already won many, many smiles from you—our hearts do little butterfly beats at seeing this—and even a few heartfelt laughs when we tickle you or nibble on your middle. We each learn more about the other with every passing minute. * * * Following a quick Chinese breakfast of noodles, tea and cookies, we elected not to go with our group to the department store (we all need to buy things that have either run out or weren’t expected—it’s FAR colder here in Kunming than we ever would have guessed) and so we walked, Marcelle carrying you, Storey, (I carried a backpack with supplies!) through the Kunming streets toward our final destination: of all things, a Wal-Mart. Yes, you read that right. A Wal-Mart. Talk about oxymorons! It doesn’t fit in, which is great, because if it did we would have to leave here immediately. We walked along streets lined with tiny shops, women and men on low wooden stools, all of them gaggling over you, bundled at your mother’s chest, a colorful handkerchief tied around your head to keep in the warmth (we were trying to buy you a knit cap, but they don’t sell them anywhere, so a kerchief it is). We saw wooden elephants and tigers for sale, jade, old hand embroidered fabric and clothing. We stopped in a roadside store and bought you a yellow and white baby outfit. Being Chinese, it has the slit trousers (Chinese kids don’t wear diapers, they squat and do their business through this slit). We bought little blue shoes and some angora wool socks. We paid $7 US dollars for everything. We stopped at crowded crosswalks in this bustling city, Chinese crowding around us, smiling, loving your beautiful face and even, I think, the fact that you were in the arms of Anglos. We were stared at, grinned at, talked to, and grabbed hold of throughout the half hour walk.  We missed our mark—your father was navigator, and doing a poor job—and so I asked directions repeatedly (pointing to Chinese characters on a map I was carrying) and alas, we worked past bike shops, camera shops, noodle shops, thousands upon thousands upon thousands of pedestrians and cars and bikes streaming past in a parade of color and humanity. We reached Wal-Mart—established that there were no knit hats, no sweaters, but plenty of baby formula (you’re eating so well we were afraid we might run out by the end of the week!) —and fed up with America’s long arm, we headed back to the hotel by cab. We’ve just finished lunch, fed you a long, glorious series of bottles, and you’ve gone down for your nap (at 2PM, with only a brief 30 minute nap throughout the excitement of morning). We expect you will sleep a long time this afternoon—you have that look in your eyes.Your mother is on the bed next to the crib reading; I am at the room’s only desk writing you this, ready to work in a minute or two; from out the window comes the steady slow, slow drumming of some kind of machine that sounds like something huge is being pounded into the ground, the dull rhythm of it calming and soothing, as I imagine are the pats on your back. As we ate lunch today, you sat in my lap for forty-five minutes or more. I ate with chopsticks over your head, and spent much of the meal gently tapping your back as I helped you to sit in my lap. You never complained. Only sat there, cooing, smiling, chewing on your fingers, looking all around with that wide-eyed curiosity that is so intense within you. I feel the flower of your soul awakening with every minute, every image you absorb. You drink it all in, always generous enough to offer your mother or me an expression that pulls us to tears, for it is thanks. I cannot explain that look in any other way: it is gratitude. You look up or over at us, and you say thank you with those eyes; thank you for the walk in the street—I had never taken one; thank you for the taxi ride—I’d never been in one; thank you for the little hat made out of your handkerchief. You offer that look and you touch us so deeply inside. You make this all so worth it; you give so much back already. Thank you, dear girl, for the lessons you have taught us so quickly: you have made this such a special event in our lives, have rewarded us in so many glorious ways. We cannot imagine what the days ahead have in store, but we are 3/4 of a family now—already this is so profound inside us—and from here there are only more such experiences, more such moments. From here there is nothing but the future. And it suddenly looks brighter than ever before. We are settling into a routine but are almost desperately wishing we were home—not out of any desire to leave this unusual and fascinating country, but to "get on with it"—to start our family life by joining Paige whom we miss SO MUCH and settling in. But it is not to be: the paperwork never ends. * * *  Today Marcelle joined the group and paid a visit to the orphanage—a complete tour of the facility—into the dorms where infants are in small cribs, one after the other. Clean but not heated, the infants bundled against the slight chill in the summer air of the high plateau. She was surprised to see so many older children, some handicapped—one such child of six or eight years stretched out his arms and appealed for an embrace, as if offering himself: "take me... take me..." She forgot the camera, but I don’t think she’ll lose the images any time soon.You and I stayed behind at the hotel so you could nap. Did I mention your sleeping "routine?" Well... did THAT ever change by the second night!! You slipped quickly into a feed-me-whenever-possible mode. This translated to every two hours: a ten minute feeding; sleep for an hour and 3/4 and then awake to feed again. I sleep by the crib—and I stretched the 5:30 AM feeding to 7 by patting you every time you so much as twitched. You had a great morning nap today, but we cut the afternoon nap short for a visit to the "bird and flower" market—an open air market with vendors in tiny cubicles selling everything from hamsters to wooden elephants, jade bracelets to taxidermied butterflies, Chinese pancakes to marble urns. So much color, life-chiseled faces, broken-tooth grins and women with rich black hair to their waists. Marcelle bore you in a carrier on her chest; I manned the video camera shooting stills. (Our film camera broke in a fall the first day we were here!) You drank in every face, every item, as curious and excited as your two enthralled parents. Life spills out onto the streets here—grass grows from tiled roofs—"minority women" in their native mountain tribe garb, bright yellows, shocking orange—and always those grins. Wide-eyed and as fascinated with us as we with them. Enchanting! My nap-sitting time included more paperwork. While at the orphanage Marcelle paid all those fresh $100 bills to cover the cost of the adoption from the orphanage itself. We inch our way closer to the visas, passports and notaries required to bring you home. Immersed in these dreaded forms, those inches can feel like miles. You and I spent some time on a lobby couch while the room was serviced. We were approached by a Brit named Mike, and he and I discussed the Chinese economy, its politics and its people. He’s been here for over a decade as an engineer for Hilton which manages more and more hotel properties here in China. This one, the Greenlake, since August 1st. Mike’s job is to keep it structurally sound (we’re in favor of this!). I learned so much about the inner-workings here—fascinating stuff! Kunming, host of a HUGE international horticultural expo (that’s going on right now) spent $10 billion (US$) for a face-lift to look good for foreign tourists. The problem is, that’s ten YEARS of their annual budget. The place looks great for the next few weeks—but for nine more years they will have virtually no money for infrastructure. Thus goes the thinking here: anything to save face. The next decade be damned! Today, we look great! Storey, you are so quickly a part of our lives! You are more beautiful with each passing moment. We tear-up watching you sleep so peacefully. We hug and count our many blessings. You make us feel so complete—I have a feeling we’ve been waiting for you far longer than just twenty months. We feel whole and with great purpose—and we are SO ANXIOUS to connect with Paige and complete the circle. In the meantime, sleep precious baby, sleep. We look forward to our phone calls—Wendy, yesterday; Betsy; L’Anne today, who told stories of Paige that made us laugh and cry. Stories everywhere. But just the one Storey here. And oh, what a story it has turned out to be! Tomorrow, a minority village (hill tribe). The adventure continues... * * * Picture a neglected flower drooping from its exposure to the sun, that withered leaf look, far from dead, but all its energy lost, its purpose sagging and flagging. You did not arrive that way, but you have responded as might that flower. In just two short days here we have witnessed the awe-inspiring power of love and attention. Storey, you little butterball—no shortage of food at the orphanage!—you have responded to our care in ways, and at speeds, that any parent would never believe possible. It gives me chills. When you arrived in our arms you were bright-eyed and healthy, but little else. You could not sit up, could not lift your head, and had little hand-eye coordination. Yesterday, in my lap, while I was having a conversation with the Brit in the lobby, you sat forward from a leaning back position. All at once, and without warning. By days end, you had "sat up" (albeit from a short angle) over four times. Then, last night, only your second night in our care, you lifted your head for the first time and moved it to the other side. You astound us with how quickly you accomplish these things! How can it have been just two days? Is it possible? Twice, while in the baby carrier, you have reached out and grabbed hold of the teething ring without us noticing. But when we looked down, there you were holding the ring and grinning at us—always smiling, and laughing—big and heartfelt. We feel the joy in you, busting out like sunshine—your sweet little noises, your sparkling eyes, the way you love to touch your toes to the opposite foot and just watch them dance there. In the warmth of love (and lots of rest and plenty of food) you seem to be jumping ahead, one milestone after another, only hours apart. You have spent the day studying your hands and the entwined fingers and giggling at yourself—you are so PLEASED with everything. And it rubs off. Marcelle and I grin, teary-eyed at each other, kiss your head, coo into your ear, and watch you beam back a smile that could power a city it is so bright. To witness this effect of nurturing is an education all in itself, for the absolute power of that love reflected in you and coming back to us is so vividly clear when viewed in such a narrow time capsule. We had heard that you would excel and quickly catch up to other children—but we never expected "instant" gains like this. You amaze us as every turn. We are indebted to you for the lessons you are giving us. If this is the power of love, then why do we all reserve it for so few? * * * With a palatable muzak playing over the hotel room’s "radio" (canned music), and with you snuggled into your crib, I sit down to write about another day in China. Your progress continues. You now hold your head up independently, and not just for a second or two—you throw your head back and forth in bed, rubbing your nose, secretly proud of this newfound ability. Showing off. Your arms are gaining strength; you can push yourself left and right in your crib, and do so freely now. Unthinkable just three days ago. You "stand" in our laps—able to support your weight—and you smile a smile as long as the Golden Gate bridge. You "chat" —delightful baby sounds that you wouldn’t share the other day. And today, for the first time, you awakened in the morning without the desperate, fingers-on-blackboard screaming you’ve been doing (and still do after your naps). One wrinkle: yesterday and today, late afternoon, you have given yourself to cry and complain (very loudly) for about 90 minutes. You drink your bottle, we change your diapers, we hold you, rock you, dance with you—and still you scream. We’re hoping tomorrow might bring a change—it’s a difficult time of day for us, and we seem to sag a little just before dinner following this tirade. China parades past as a stream of color and mass of humanity. Bicycles blur endlessly—more bicycles here than in the whole world combined—taxis churn. Tour buses cough down the streets. This place cooks—it rocks—morning to night. Humankind is too ever-present to allow it even a moment’s rest. We went out to dinner tonight for the first time: another hotel across town. The town is BUSIER at night than in the day. We had NO IDEA of this, being that we’ve been hitting the hay about nine every night, to keep up with the many feedings in the wee hours. But there is Kunming—bumper to bumper. Sidewalks teeming. SO MANY PEOPLE. And here, we are center of attraction, even at the International Expo that owns this town right now. We went yesterday, took it in. And we became the central exhibit. Chinese by the dozen were stopping us to have their pictures taken with the tall, blond Americans and the Chinese baby. Again today at the minority village—a somewhat cheesy attempt to duplicate what and where the hill tribes live—we, all of us in the adoption group, became the targets of the Kodaks. We will be on kitchen walls from Beijing to Guilin. The Pearsons: a freak show. Rain today. Doesn’t stop anything. Guys out on the roof next door still breaking rocks with hammer and chisel; I have no idea what they’re doing up there. I’ve been watching them for days. There’s nothing to build up there: it’s a flat roof of a funky three or four story building. But there are eight or nine guys out there busting up rocks every day, all day. Place looks like it’ll crack under the weight. We are beginning to gain a "locals" eye. We’ve been here just long enough to notice the old, old "Tudor" and brick buildings—ramshackle but stunning. Two story. Grass growing TALL and THICK off the ancient tile roofs. Wedged between ugly newcomers erected by a government always behind, always desperate to catch up. They never will, of course. You can’t catch up with a billion people. That’s a race you’ll lose every time. The Chinese are bright, inventive and, now that the economy has opened up (which it has throughout the country, though this is not widely publicized), creative entrepreneurs. Capitalism is a many-headed dragon here. It is devouring the government’s attempts to be what it once was. There are Chinese here in Kunming who speak three languages and have not yet been to Beijing, but have been to Las Vegas TWICE. There are Lexus cars in the streets (in a country with 100% import tax on luxury vehicles). IT IS COOKING here. You feel it. It’s inescapable. And when this economy finally busts loose of the lame attempts to contain it, as it most certainly must—and soon, no doubt—the world is in for a shock. Labor in this country is dirt cheap—absurdly cheap, embarrassingly cheap. When that labor force becomes more trained, more educated, even more hungry for what the west has to offer.... LOOK OUT. It’s going to blow the doors off anything we’ve ever seen. Tsunami, here we come.... We are loving it here, but SO anxious to get home. As a group we are restless. We await paperwork. Patience is running thin. The group itself is disjointed and not feeling like a team, but instead a group of disparate players. Marcelle and I live for the morning phone calls and the emails from family and friends. We are isolated here—in a hotel room that is constantly too cold, in a country where we are the favorite freak show, and with our other daughter home waiting for us. Tuesday we finally head to Guangzhou and the last leg of this amazing journey. And none too soon. Were we simple tourists, we would be in hog heaven; but we’re new parents, a partial family awaiting permissions and stamps and notarizations, and our focus remains getting out of here, safe, sound and intact. Despite all of this, each day is invigorating, exciting and leaves us filled with wonder. The Chinese people are so wonderful. Huge smiles everywhere we go (and those cameras) —hard, hard workers, and eternal optimists. We have no idea what tomorrow holds for us, but we’re eager to find out. * * *  These last few days, all spent in Guangzhou (old Canton), a city of six million that should be about 2 million, have been a whirlwind of medical appointments, photos, and panic attacks. In the few remaining hours, we did manage to get into the streets of the old city and wander an enormous neighborhood, endless really, of open air markets and tiny shops, one after the other. The atmosphere is more SciFi than reality, apartments stacked on top of apartments, laundry high overhead, chickens and turtles and eels out for sale, the pungent smells that turn one’s head, the thick smog and thicker humidity. A landscape of human on top of human. Curio and tea shops selling over fifty varieties of Chinese medicinal teas. We encountered a young man named Billy, and anyone who has seen Year Of Living Dangerously knows the significance of that name. Just like in the film, Billy escorted us deeper and deeper into the urban outback, in search of antiques (my eyes wide open so we wouldn’t be burned) —and down a narrow lane where we sat with a woman and negotiated over two Ming Dynasty rice bowls for the better part of thirty minutes—Marcelle and I sweating from the unbelievable heat and sipping from sodas we had bought on the street—Sprite and Orange with straws delivered by tweezers to prove the vendor had not touched them.We stepped back in time, the heat sucking us down, the woman negotiating with us through our little Billy and his clipped English. In the end we didn’t buy, but OH what an experience. We shall never forget it. And you in the cuddly at Marcelle’s chest, eyes wide, curiosity never ceasing. What a jewel you are. What a mystery. * * * By last night we had seemingly satisfied the last of our requirements—a medical exam where the women doctors were truly kind and gentle to the babies—and more and more paperwork. Marcelle attended a late night hallway meeting (this hotel has floor hostesses who memorize each guest and point you to your room as you come out of the elevator). Panic was in the air. The American Consulate had found problems with our papers (everyone’s) and were warning that our adoptions would be denied. You can’t imagine how it felt to have come so very far—so many days, miles and agonies—to hear this news. One member from each family was dispatched to the Consulate at 9PM to argue our case. I stayed behind to deal with you, my fussy child—Marcelle and others walked down the street to the Consulate and attempted to rectify the situation, only to infuriate a woman delegate who had to come downtown at that time of night. It went horribly bad. By eleven o’clock I was on the computer writing a note to plead for a couple of our dear friends to use their pull with the Consular General and attempt to put out this fire. At midnight, the email ready, I called Lin, our adoption agent here, and she requested I not send the plea. She had one last trick up her sleeve: fly another agent from Kunming with new, notarized documents in a midnight-hour desperation attempt to resolve the issue. But first, she wanted to see how our final interviews at the Consulate went. * * * At 8:30 this morning we gathered in the hotel and reviewed all our paperwork individually—we knew the Consulate would be gunning for us now, because we had angered them the night before—we wanted every T crossed, every I dotted. With paperwork prepared, at 9:40 we headed off en mass to the Consulate for our tightly scheduled adoption interviews—the penultimate event in legalizing our children. Only the actual delivery of the visa would follow, if all went well, late afternoon the next day. We entered a room about 500 square feet, and about 55 degrees—air conditioning set to keep the room cool over the next six to eight hours as bodies warmed it one by one. We were freezing! They were angry at us. Lin got chewed out by an assistant director and was in tears. Things did not look good. Within three quarters of an hour there were forty of us in the room—forty! —babies everywhere, nervous parents, and two Chinese to check paperwork and two Americans to do the interview—all in the open, all in the same room. Time stopped. Thirty minutes passed. An hour. An hour and a half. The Pearsons were called. We went through our HUGE stack of paperwork with the Chinese assistants. We passed muster. Go sit on the couch and wait for your interview. What couch? Another ten people and their babies had entered the room. It looked like a frat party phone booth. A madhouse. Kids everywhere. Tension you could cut with a knife. Lin announced that she thought they would accept the paperwork being flown in by hand from Kunming. Time dragged out. We were the LAST of our group to sit for our interview. The man was incredibly nice (said my name sounded familiar to him, "What do you write?"—we’re sending him a hardback.) We spoke for only minutes; he apologized for all the politics and tears and refusals. We lifted our right arms, a knot in our throats, tears trying for our eyes one final time, and we swore to the United States government that we would protect and cherish this little wonder for the rest of our lives. We married you, little Storey. We said "I do," and our hands went down and we were a family. This is another of those moments I shall not lose. Not ever. "I do." The man’s red hair, his suspenders. The noise in that cold room. "I do." Little Storey in our lives forever now. A member of the Pearson family. Little Storey, quiet and still wide-eyed: fascinated we would bother with a man with red hair. We stood and we walked out of that place, back into the oppressive heat of Guangzhou, down a peaceful street under a row of Banyan trees, the three of us, walking close together, kissing, leaning against each other. You looking up into our faces. You do this all the time: just look and stare. "You’re still here..." your dark eyes seem to say. "You’re still here..." And now we’re here forever, Little One. We have the passport—the visa arrives at the hotel tomorrow, God willing. We have airline reservations. We have hope. In our hearts. On our faces. In our smiles. In your loving eyes. Hope. It’s why we came here; and with it now firmly entrenched in us, we leave. Out of Guangzhou, bound for home. Home and hope. We hum those words, and they mean more to us than ever before.  |
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