One . . .
The poor orphan child confined to the basement of a rickety old orphanage with a black hearted, domineering  head master who forces him to scrub the toilets with his own toothbrush and eat gruel from the dog’s bowl.  It’s Oliver Twist and Little Orphan Annie and every single story about “orphans” since (except those that choose “the other”).    It’s the lowest of the down-trodden (who could be more down-trodden than a poor unfortunate orphan) inevitably transcending the hopeless challenges of parentlessness, abuse and gruel to become the happy hero who teaches all the world how to love unconditionally and stick it to the man.

It makes a great story, I get it.  But does the care taker ALWAYS have to be the villain?

The Other . . . 
The poor orphan is adopted by beautiful, rich parents whose only dream has forever been to love and nurture a perfectly healthy, white 10 year old.  As time passes however, the happy family discovers that their dream child is a black hearted deviant who chains them to the toilet in the basement and makes them eat gruel with their own toothbrushes.  It’s the ironic plot twist of the helpless downtrodden adolescent scarred by the hopeless challenges of orphanism (now a word).

Again.  Gripping.  But seriously, could we please stretch the orphan stereotype a little?

Even the real life stereotype is missing something.  
It’s virtually impossible for me to envision an orphan without floods of pity.  My personal orphan image has been built by beautiful starving baby pictures and pleas for just $10 a month.  Not that there are not millions of beautiful starving orphans all over the world (and probably some ugly ones that didn’t make the commercials).  I’m sure there are.  And not that some pity and $10 a month wouldn’t help.  I’m sure it would.

(Stepping onto my soapbox and speaking in my Martin Luther King Jr. voice)

But when does an orphan become a person?

At what point does a child without parents become  . . . a child . . . who likes Star Wars . . . or soccer . . . or Crunch Berries.  When does an orphanage become a child’s home with the emphasis on HOME as a good thing.  Think about it.  Home is almost exclusively a delightful concept.

“Home is where the heart is”
“Home Sweet Home”
“There’s no place like home”

But apply it to orphans (and in fairness, old folks) . . .

What’s going to happen to the orphan?
Well if no one will take them they’ll have to go to a home.

. . . and it’s a bad thing.

Three people rocked my paradigm of orphans and orphanages.

We arrived at the gate to our daughter’s orphanage with low expectations and massive stereotypes.  When we adopted our daughter more than 8 years ago, visiting the orphanage was not an option.  In my mind that was because “they” have something to hide.  I’m not even sure who “they” are but probably some combination of the orphanage workers, the government and the Chinese population in general.  “They” didn’t want “us” to see the horrible conditions that “they” had been raising “our” children in.  I’ve heard the China orphanage stories.  I know the “truth”.

We weren’t surprised when the guard at the gate wouldn’t let us in but Flight, our Chinese assistant (whom we had brought with us specifically for this moment – and because we like her) was not intimidated.  In true Chinese fashion she pressed and pressed for about 45 minutes with a smile and a gentle tone and in true Chinese fashion he continued to refuse with a smile and a gentle tone.

He didn’t really offer any answers but in retrospect, answers were above his pay grade.  He was the guard.  He keeps people out.  He was pretty good at that.

Eventually word had spread that there were some annoying foreigners at the gate who weren’t leaving and the director of the orphanage came out to explain that without the proper paperwork and signatures and stamps their hands were tied.  However he had asked his second in charge to come out and answer any of our questions.

Paradigm Rocker #1:  Mr. Wang  
Mr. Wang was amazing.  He had this heir about him that made me think he was perfect for his job.  I could envision him walking through a cafeteria filled with children who would both wrap themselves around his leg and finish their broccoli when he looked at them just so.  He was thrilled to see Rachel and the first thing he told her was there was a good chance that he had held her when she was a baby.  

He laughed and said, “you cried when we gave you to your parents and now you would cry if we took you back.” I got the feeling that this was his go to one liner that he uses every chance he gets but it was still profound.  

He told us about the 400 plus kids who lived at the orphanage and the brand new school that had just been built.  We could see the building from the gate and it was beautiful. Nicer than the school I went to.  Then Mr. Wang hit us with the  zinger . . . 

“I was raised here.  I was an orphan.”

It was a sobering thought that this was more than just a home to him.  It was home.  The good kind.  So much so that he never left.

Paradigm Rocker’s #2 and #3:  ?
As Mr. Wang told his stories two little girls walked into the orphanage arm in arm.  I’m guessing they were 10 or 11 and they were obviously residents.  As they walked by us they did something strange.  They stared . . . and they giggled.

If you’ve ever been to China for more than 10 minutes you’re probably thinking, “what’s so strange about that?  Everyone stares and giggles.” For me however, that was a defining moment.  They were little girls, like other little Chinese girls that I have seen all over China doing what little Chinese girls do.  Namely staring . . . and giggling.

We came to the Orphanage hoping to catch a glimpse of some of the facilities and maybe some of the orphans and instead we saw kids . . . at home.  

My imagination went a little crazy and I couldn’t help but think that these two beautiful little girls might have been Rachel’s friends if she still lived here.  Or maybe they would have been the little girls who made fun of her and threw grapes at her in the lunch room.  Or maybe Rachel would have been the one throwing the grapes and getting sent to talk to Mr. Wang.

I’m not naive enough to think that stereotypes aren’t built from at least a partial truth.  I know for a fact that there are some horrible orphanages in China . . . and America . . . and anywhere there are children.  I also know that not every care taker is kind and compassionate.  I’m even willing to admit that I could be wrong about Mr. Wang.  I also love that we adopted Rachel and I love that her home is with us.

However, for the first time, I got to see beyond the word orphan.  To be parentless may be horrible but it doesn’t have to remain the single most distinguishing characteristic of a person for their entire life.

The last time my daughter went to Xijiao park she was one day old . . . and she was abandoned.

“Abandoned” is a horrible, ugly word, tightly packed with presuppositions.  It’s one of those words that lights the fuse in my assumption cannon (corny metaphor alert – hang with me for a minute).  We might possibly know about 5% of Rachel’s adoption story so our brains instinctively and involuntarily make up the other 95.  All we have to go on are a few words and some stereotypes.  She was abandoned . . . in a park . . . in China.

Let the assumptions begin.

She was obviously abandoned because she was a girl.  Everyone knows that girls hold less value than boys in Asia and China is famous for that “one child policy”.  She was most likely born in the countryside to some poor farmers who took her to the park at night so no one would see them.  They found a spot in some dingy little park where they thought someone might find her the next day, wrapped her up tight so she would make it through the night and walked away.

Yep.  The sum of my assumptions comes out to about 5% (2.5 of which might be accurate) but there is so much I’ll never know and even if I knew I wouldn’t understand.

Let the questions begin.

Is it possible that she could she have been a city girl?  Maybe an “illegal” pregnancy?  A second or third child who would have constituted a “family planning” issue?  Would she have been a “mandatory termination” (forced abortion) had the local government discovered that her mother was pregnant?  Or maybe her mother wasn’t married which would have placed her on the same “mandatory” list?  Did her mother hide out for months to save her life only to have her baby whisked away?  Did she cry that night (or was it broad daylight)?  Was she afraid? Broken? Remorseful? Confused? Ashamed? Relieved? Was it the hardest moment of her life?  Did she feel immense pressure from the government?  Her family?  The other girls?

And even if all of my original assumptions are spot on, could I ever (as a freedom loving albeit incredibly dense American) grasp the deep cultural impact of Chinese countryside poverty and the imminent challenges of growing old without a son to maintain the farm?

What about that park?  Was it really dark?  Dingy?  Could it have been a place that was widely known as a safe place for parents who want their daughters to be found by orphanage workers or was it just a random spot and a shot in the dark?

We went there.

We took our daughter back to the park where she had been abandoned.  It didn’t take us long to realize that we’re still not going to grasp the full picture.  Every step we took we were constantly overwhelmed with the question, “I wonder if that’s the spot?”  We imagined the entire scene at least a thousand times.   It was weird and surreal and a tiny bit creepy but more than all of that . . .

It was redemptive.

For eight years this park has occupied little more than a symbolic greasy spot in my adoption story assumptions.  It’s the worst part of the story.  The abandonment part.  The part I can’t fathom because I can’t know because I can’t understand.

However . . .

Had I built the park with my own hands I couldn’t have designed it to more perfectly fit the 8 year old version of my daughter.  It was like the city planners had consulted her when they constructed it.  It was filled with games and rides which are undeniably her love language.  Three roller coasters (none of which she was too short to ride).  Bumper boats.  Go carts.  Spinny planes.  A real plane (to climb on).  A tank (not making this up).  A rocket (what?).  Giant climbing nets. A People sized hamster wheel and a horse.  A real one.

Perfect.

And in the middle of the park was Chinese my dad.  Seriously.  There was a man in the middle of the park who had to be born on the same day as Rachel’s Grandpa with a Chinese banjo . . . playing . . . wait for it . . . “Oh Susanna”.  That’s one of my dad’s go to songs when he pulls out his guitar or (get this) his banjo (the American kind) and Rachel has loved it since she met him.  It was like we were in some alternate Chinese universe?

Surreal stayed surreal but creepy turned awesome.

She finished the day by getting a necklace made with her two Chinese names on it.  The name that was given to her before we met and OUR family name.

We were a little scared of this trip going in but who wouldn’t be?  We’ve heard mixed stories of similar journeys.  Sometimes it’s inspirational but sometimes it’s too much to process and ends poorly.  And seriously, who goes back to the greasy spot in the story?

We went anyway and we got to see a little bit more of the full picture.  I’d say we’re at about 8% now but that extra 3 percent has transformed abandonment into redemption.  We’ll never know the rest of the story and we’re mostly okay with that.  However, now we can see Xijiao Park as the middle piece of the Precious Baby Girl story.  It’s part of the vehicle that carried Rachel from one chapter to the next.

Moses had a basket, American slaves had an underground railroad and Schindler had a list.  None of those represent the most exciting or happy parts of their respective plots.  In fact, if you dig a little deeper, you find words reminiscent of abandonment.  Horrible, ugly words like, infanticide, oppression and holocaust.  In the broader scope though, the basket, the tunnels and the list were all strategically and brilliantly designed to carry people from one side of the story to another.  Just like our park.

We’ve always rejected the rescuer mentality that sometimes comes all too naturally with adoption.  We’re not the heroes of this story who have liberated Rachel from being poor or hungry or Chinese.  On the contrary, she may have lived a healthy, happy, wonderful life on a farm in rural China or in the orphanage where she spent her first 9 months (see next post).  All of that falls into the remaining 92% that we are (and will most likely remain) completely clueless about.

However, in this story that we know very little about, we are thankful to be on this side of Redemption Park . . . with our Precious Baby Girl.

More pictures from my new favorite park in the world.

Four laps on a horse for 10 kuai (about $1.50).

Low Ropes Course

One of three (count em’ three) roller coasters.  No lines.

The hamster wheel.

Two story climbing net with Miss Janet

We skipped that part.

We met our daughter on the fifth floor of the Sunshine Plaza Hotel in a city called Lanzhou China (try pronouncing it Lawn Joe and you’ll get close).  She had traveled from about 4 hours north (by train or on the road – we’re not sure) with 9 of her best friends who had also come to meet their parents for the first time.  The moment we stepped through the door of Magnalia Hall (which I assume is supposed to be “Magnolia” but sometimes English is spelled differently in Chinese) is a moment that will be tattooed on my brain forever.  We thought we were coming to wait for our daughters to arrive.  As we stepped through the door we realized they were waiting for us.

“Ooooohhhh wow.  They’re in here.”  

I remember saying that because at the very moment that I did my hypothalamic-pituitary-adrenal axis (I looked this up on Wikipedia) shot eight gallons of some unknown endorphin through my system which had two immediate effects.  One, my brain was tattooed forever and two, I nearly lost consciousness almost dropping my video camera.

18 months we had waited (I think the natural waiting period is something like 9 right?) and there she was.  In fact there were ten of them and we were afraid to look because we didn’t want to guess wrong and get too attached while we were waiting.  All we had were two photos that were six months old and babies change a lot in 6 months (I looked that up on Wikipedia too).  We sat around a huge table for an absolutely excruciating amount of time (in retrospect it may have been 20-30 minutes) signing papers that we didn’t understand.  Seriously, we would have signed anything at that point . . . just give us our baby!

“And by signing right here you’re acknowledging that you will wrap yourself in bacon and skydive into a convention of remedial pit bulls in Northern Laos . . . daily.”

“Yeah fine . . . give me my baby.”

One by one they called us to the front of the table and asked us, “is this your baby?”  That’s when Momma got to hold Rachel for the very first time.

There was nothing natural about it but man it was beautiful.

The front of the table in “Magnalia” Hall at the Sunshine Plaza in Lawn Joe, China is now one of my favorite spots on the planet.  The most beautiful places on earth don’t compare.  Grand Canyon, Mt. Everest, Niagara Falls, Great Barrier Reef . . . pfffft.  Nothing compared to that spot.

Sometimes natural doesn’t beat unnatural.

Last week we got to go back and stand in that spot again.

My heart thumped when we walked through the door and even though there may not have been eight full gallons of Wikipedia driven endorphins coursing through my veins . . . I don’t think I’ll ever forget the second time I visited the most unnaturally beautiful spot in the world.