Mattering

I woke up at two last night because I was upset. I planted lots of different greens for guests at Spirit Hill Farm to eat, only there are no guests because we are in a time of social distancing. I’m doing my best not to waste the kale, the frisée, the chard, the spinach, the sweet gem, the collard greens, but, sweet lord, how much roughage can one body stand? Even the chickens are starting to look at me sideways (more sideways than usual) when I walk in the gate with an armful of exuberantly fresh salad fixings. 

I have been arguing for four years now that the stories of adoptees are important. That roots are important. That our right to our original birth certificate is important. It’s exhausting work, somewhat like spitting into the wind or singing to a wall. Other adoptees applaud and cry out in agreement, but generally the larger world is like, But do you like my new car? 

I feel ashamed sometimes of the things I write about—about wanting to be heard, seen, understood. When I have not been eating well or sleeping well, I feel small, useless, and I wish I could disappear so that the aching place I occupy in the world could seal itself shut and the trouble that is me and my needs could no longer exist, but I have a daughter, and more than wanting to disappear, I want to show up for her wholeheartedly, and so for the sake of my role as a mother, and for the sake of being my own caretaker, I get up and keep writing. 

It is so painful to want something you don’t have in order to feel safe in the world, in order to feel part of the world, in order to feel respected, important, seen. 

Sometimes I fantasize about not writing about adoption anymore. I think of the relief many of my friends would express: finally. You are done with that stuff. Welcome to the party. This isn’t exactly true. The friends that would say this have already exited the building. The ones that stayed have my back, and it makes a difference. They may not understand, but they care, and they listen. 

That makes all the difference. It gives me space to breathe.

 You can’t write things like space to breathe now without immediately referencing George Floyd. Sometimes when I feel vulnerable and that the world may just be too hard, I think about the fact that human beings took Jesus and put nails through his hands and feet. We have to witness such extreme suffering to wake up. I am so grateful I’m not Jesus. Sorry if that sounds stupid, but I’m just so truly thankful my worst problems do not involve mortal harm to my body.

It hurts just to be called a name. To be dismissed, but when someone lays a hand on your body and takes away your ability to breathe, you have come face to face with the worst humanity has to offer: fear and hatred. 

Part of me wants to watch the world burn, but then I remember the animals that live underground, my daughter I love so much and her right (shouldn’t every young person have the right and access to dreams?) as a young person to a bright future, the trees that move in the breeze. Part of me hopes the unrest we are seeing today is just the beginning, for, still, nothing much has changed as far as I can see.  

I believe I have to be willing to give up all that I have in order for the social order to change. 

What I want to say is that you matter to me and that I know this is hard. I also know I have no idea how hard this actually is. Part of me just wants to put a black box in my Facebook and Instagram account and hide behind the shadow of I am doing the right thing, but I suspect the right thing may have more to do with showing up with an open heart and a true desire to listen and understand, to enter in conversations in which I am bound to look like a fool.

 Not knowing what to do is hard. 

Having someone’s body on your body, keeping you down, wishing you ill, is infinitely and obviously so much worse. 

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