Frequent Flyer
For all the nail-biting moments of travelling alone with a small child there are also some curious intimacies.
For one thing I learned that the customs and immigration officer who stamped our papers was the child of a parent who had a drug problem. Not something you generally get in those intimidating moments in front of the cubicle where it is so quiet it feels like the air has been sucked out of your space and the temperature has suddenly spiked. You stand there sweating, breathing hard, and the man (or woman) behind the very high counter is avoiding eye contact except when they ask you questions designed to trap you in a lie or set you up for a strip-search.
"Any articles to declare?" My customs form says no. What are you trying to imply?
Or the more devious,
"So, what's the weather been like in Los Angeles lately?" Oh, I don't know being that I was just smuggled in on a container ship.
As a Canadian I have a healthy fear of authority so even though I have nothing to hide I am a mass of nervous ticks inside a frozen smile during the questions they so casually pose while they are picking a pass or fail number to write in red ink on my entry card. But when Sweetpea and I were returning from a visit to family in Vancouver this past weekend we discovered that a lot of people wanted to get closer to us in one way or another. It took some getting used to. They want to touch Sweetpea's hair, or hold her while I rifle through my diaper bag for a baby-wipe.
They talk to you more often, too.
The U.S. immigration officer was particularly friendly while he was examining my passport (Canadian) and Sweetpea's (Chinese). He examined the documents carefully and checked some things on his computer.
"I'm an adoptee, too." he offered.
"Really!" I put my elbows on the counter and leaned in to get closer, something I wouldn't ever have dreamed of doing in the past. "And how was your experience?"
Why on earth I was asking the immigration guy about his personal life is beyond me but he started it.
"I'm from Korea and my parents took five of us right after the war."
"Wow."
"Yeah, they had to pass a bill in Congress to let her take all of us."
"Amazing. Was it good, your life? I mean, are you glad you were adopted?"
He fiddled with his pen.
"It was fine."
I waited.
He looked a little sad.
"Well, my mother, she was......" He stopped and gazed off, lost in thought. The people in line behind me were perplexed at our body language. We looked as though we were two old friends having coffee. Sweetpea was quietly chirping in the background.
He sighed. "Let's just say she abused prescription medications."
"Oh," was all I could manage.
"But, you know, she did have five of us". Oh, brother, I do understand!
I wanted to take his hand. Friends do that when they are sharing intimate things about their lives and one or the other is having a tough time.
"But look at you," I said brightly. He had a sweet and kindly way about him and obviously had a steady job.
"Oh, yeah, I turned out okay - joined the Marines and then took this position with the government."
Good for you!
I smiled encouragingly, ready to get my papers and make my flight.
"But my brother....."
I stopped, lowered my bags, and put my elbows back on the counter.
I never got his name but I think both of us will remember this encounter in an otherwise stream of anonymous faces. I really did want to know what it had been like for him. Sometimes I forget that Sweetpea didn't come from my belly, but other times I am looking out for her wellbeing in ways that other parents can never understand. I am trying to watch for pitfalls, large and small, for pearls of wisdom and insights from other's experiences that will help me to make the right choices about how to bridge her beginnings and our shared future.
One thing I do know. That man wanted to love his mother very much. And I think he even forgave her to some degree. Later on the plane, Sweetpea squirmed, pouted, and threw her mega blocks all the way up into First Class and I gritted my teeth as we bumped and rolled our way across the thousand or so miles home. Then the clouds parted and for the last half-hour she turned toward me, arms around my neck and I blew on her hair, she laughed and kissed me, then I blew on her hair some more and on it went.
Those moments were pure joy. I will do everything I can to stitch them together for her into a lifetime of memories.
And I'll stay away from prescription drugs.
For one thing I learned that the customs and immigration officer who stamped our papers was the child of a parent who had a drug problem. Not something you generally get in those intimidating moments in front of the cubicle where it is so quiet it feels like the air has been sucked out of your space and the temperature has suddenly spiked. You stand there sweating, breathing hard, and the man (or woman) behind the very high counter is avoiding eye contact except when they ask you questions designed to trap you in a lie or set you up for a strip-search.
"Any articles to declare?" My customs form says no. What are you trying to imply?
Or the more devious,
"So, what's the weather been like in Los Angeles lately?" Oh, I don't know being that I was just smuggled in on a container ship.
As a Canadian I have a healthy fear of authority so even though I have nothing to hide I am a mass of nervous ticks inside a frozen smile during the questions they so casually pose while they are picking a pass or fail number to write in red ink on my entry card. But when Sweetpea and I were returning from a visit to family in Vancouver this past weekend we discovered that a lot of people wanted to get closer to us in one way or another. It took some getting used to. They want to touch Sweetpea's hair, or hold her while I rifle through my diaper bag for a baby-wipe.
They talk to you more often, too.
The U.S. immigration officer was particularly friendly while he was examining my passport (Canadian) and Sweetpea's (Chinese). He examined the documents carefully and checked some things on his computer.
"I'm an adoptee, too." he offered.
"Really!" I put my elbows on the counter and leaned in to get closer, something I wouldn't ever have dreamed of doing in the past. "And how was your experience?"
Why on earth I was asking the immigration guy about his personal life is beyond me but he started it.
"I'm from Korea and my parents took five of us right after the war."
"Wow."
"Yeah, they had to pass a bill in Congress to let her take all of us."
"Amazing. Was it good, your life? I mean, are you glad you were adopted?"
He fiddled with his pen.
"It was fine."
I waited.
He looked a little sad.
"Well, my mother, she was......" He stopped and gazed off, lost in thought. The people in line behind me were perplexed at our body language. We looked as though we were two old friends having coffee. Sweetpea was quietly chirping in the background.
He sighed. "Let's just say she abused prescription medications."
"Oh," was all I could manage.
"But, you know, she did have five of us". Oh, brother, I do understand!
I wanted to take his hand. Friends do that when they are sharing intimate things about their lives and one or the other is having a tough time.
"But look at you," I said brightly. He had a sweet and kindly way about him and obviously had a steady job.
"Oh, yeah, I turned out okay - joined the Marines and then took this position with the government."
Good for you!
I smiled encouragingly, ready to get my papers and make my flight.
"But my brother....."
I stopped, lowered my bags, and put my elbows back on the counter.
I never got his name but I think both of us will remember this encounter in an otherwise stream of anonymous faces. I really did want to know what it had been like for him. Sometimes I forget that Sweetpea didn't come from my belly, but other times I am looking out for her wellbeing in ways that other parents can never understand. I am trying to watch for pitfalls, large and small, for pearls of wisdom and insights from other's experiences that will help me to make the right choices about how to bridge her beginnings and our shared future.
One thing I do know. That man wanted to love his mother very much. And I think he even forgave her to some degree. Later on the plane, Sweetpea squirmed, pouted, and threw her mega blocks all the way up into First Class and I gritted my teeth as we bumped and rolled our way across the thousand or so miles home. Then the clouds parted and for the last half-hour she turned toward me, arms around my neck and I blew on her hair, she laughed and kissed me, then I blew on her hair some more and on it went.
Those moments were pure joy. I will do everything I can to stitch them together for her into a lifetime of memories.
And I'll stay away from prescription drugs.
posted by vallie at 5:09 PM
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