My cousins from Mexico visited for the holiday weekend (well, a cousin, and a cousin's cousin, but whatever). They practically cried when they saw the ocean, which was sweet, and sad. My family doesn't travel much, so the cousins had to photograph everything, and bring home presents for everyone. It was cute, though, watching my cousin film her toes when we got out of the nail salon, so that everyone would be well-informed on all the details of her first pedicure. I made her push all 700 buttons on the chair. She laughed her ass off.
I feel starved for time with my family. I only found them eight years ago, when I read my grandmother's signature on my adoption papers, and looked her up on Yahoo People Search. It's been a rocky path. We've always been very limited for time together, because of work, school, etc. Instead of a running history, my experiences with them are strung together like pearls.
My grandmother reinvented history to cover the fact that she, with my seventeen-year old mother, gave me up for adoption.
When we first met, she told me a tearful story of how my mother went into labor in Texas, and the American woman my grandmother cleaned house for told her that "the baby" (me) died. My grandmother asked for the body so she could bury me in Mexico, and she was told that INS was coming to investigate. When my mother was shot and killed two years later, this woman weepingly told my grandmother that "the baby" was still alive, and at least she still had that. However, my grandmother says she had no idea where I was at that point, and never knew where to look for me.
None of this is true. I don't think she even knows what the truth is anymore.
I thought she was just ashamed that she was not financially able to provide for me - they were living in Juarez and crossing the border every day to clean houses. My grandmother just lost her first husband (and by "lost", I mean that he moved to California, married someone else while still married to my grandmother, and changed his name), and she had three other children to provide for, one of whom was handicapped. But my astute cousin brought up that my grandmother was probably just incredibly ashamed of the fact that my mother was pregnant and not married, and that's why I never existed, until I showed up again eight years ago.
In Mexico, an unwed pregnancy is social death, according to my cousin.
My grandmother has put up this wall between us, and every time I'm with her, I keep hacking at it with a pickaxe. I can't tell if she distances herself from me because she:
- feels shame about the adoption, or
- she's just had too much pain in her life, and she can't deal with the pain that my questions and presence bring back, or
- she can't handle talking about my mother, or
- she feels embarrassed by her financial situation compared to what my parents were able to provide, or
- e) all of the above.
She keeps maintaining her stories, and I feel like we will never be close until she can just say "I thought giving you up for adoption was the best option at the time". I just want her to appreciate what she still has, and just let the truth be what it is. I make her cry constantly, and this approach has not been successful. During our last visit in June, I sat at the kitchen table and told her that I was grateful for the life she allowed me to have. I was educated, I speak five languages, I've lived in Europe, and New York, and traveled everywhere inbetween, I appreciate art and I know which fork is for the main course, and she gave all of this to me when she gave me up to give me a better chance.
This weekend, my cousin said that if I had stayed in Mexico, she thought I'd be cleaning houses with the rest of them, and be married with three kids... both options equally uninviting. She also says that even though I constantly tell my grandmother that I don't blame her for giving me up, everyone thinks if that were true, I wouldn't talk about it so much.
I talk about it because it's there, the giant elephant in the corner. I was given up for adoption. Nevertheless, I've had a fantastic life, and we have a second chance. Let me in.
Instead, I find myself trying to figure out how I fit in to my biological family, and how the knowledge of where I come from helps to shape my own identity. The emotional distance between my grandmother and I, and the fact that my visits with my family are so infrequent, makes it difficult for me to embrace my heritage. I don't feel Mexican. Everyone is dressed in their Sunday best when I come visit, and like everyone does for houseguests, they buy food and plan days according to what they feel will make me most comfortable and happy during my stay. I desperately want to just show up unannounced and stay for a year, but I can't pull my daughter away from her doting grandparents.
I plan to go again this winter, and stay for a week or more. My aunt hopes that this will help my daughter build a relationship with them. Perhaps in the meantime, I can figure out the social intricacies of what it means to be Mexican.
My mother's social worker who arranged the adoption, also happens to be the wife of my dad's close friend from childhood. Although she's never gone into much detail about my adoption (possibly as a courtesy to my grandmother), the one thing she did mention was that if my mother could have run off somewhere and kept me, she would have.
Telenovela aside, the weekend was far too short. The beach was fantastic, and so was the family. Even the great inflatable safety baby (pictured above, with headgear) had a great time.
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