Born in the USA?

It is a little known fact that one of my favorite holidays is the 4^th of July (second only to Christmas).  Around Easter I start thinking about where I can go and watch fireworks that Independence Day, and by Father’s Day I know what combo of red, white, and blue I am going to wear.  I don’t really know why I love it so much. There aren’t any gifts or big family gatherings (sometimes, but not annually).  I don’t have any immediate family currently serving in the military, though my grandfather served in WWII and will always be one of my heroes.  Something about the bright colorful fireworks against the dark summer sky, the people arrayed in the deep colors of the flag, and the spirit of the patriotic songs.  One of my favorite things to do is to go to Stone Mountain Park in Atlanta, and sit on the great big lawn to watch the laser and fireworks show.  You can take people from all walks of life and put them together there, and I promise you by the time it gets to the part of the show where “I’m Proud to Be an American” starts playing they will all be cheering and screaming.   Why? Because our patriotism unites us.  We all can celebrate freedom. We all are Americans. 

I was raised to love this country from “sea to shining sea.” I was taught to respect the flag, to honor those who serve in our military, and to appreciate liberty.   But there is something else my parents did that was so key that I hope adoptive parents who have children from other countries will take note of it.  They didn’t let me forget my Venezuelan culture.  You see Venezuela, with all of its beauty, was my past, but the United States of America is my future.   I was so blessed that my parents had served as missionaries in the country of my birth.  They didn’t have to pretend to know about it because they lived it.  In fact, if you ask the nationals there they would tell you that my father is American on the outside, but his heart beats Venezuela.   We often spoke bits and pieces of Spanish at home, and my mother cooked (still does) Venezuelan food all the time because it was one of my favorite meals.   Our home was filled with artwork and artifacts native to the people there.  They did such a fantastic job of educating me in the culture that I came from, and in turn making me feel a part of the society and country I was now a citizen of.   I would probably be the opposite of my father: on the outside I am Latina, but my hearts beats for the USA.

Just a side note on this, I don’t have time for unpatriotic people.  I have been blessed to travel to many places much poorer and restricted than we are here.  If you are just going to complain about where you live and burn flags and mock military personnel, I would like to personally put you on a plane to North Korea and let you find out if that suits you better. OK, end of soapbox!

There has never a time in my life where I didn’t want to be an American, but there have been moments when I didn’t want to be Venezuelan.   I was homeschooled through eighth grade, which basically means I was not a minority.   But when I would go to church I quickly noticed that I was: all of the other girls with their slight frames, pale skin, and blonde hair.  My hair was unruly coal black.  I was shorter than everyone else, and my frame was a little thicker.  This was the first time it began to bother me, though my father always told me I was his "Venezuelan beauty queen” (another little known fact of the day for you – Venezuela has had more Miss Universe’s than any other country).  Next came around High School when I did attend public school.  I began to have to fill out forms for various testing and college applications in which I had to choose a race. This still bothers me today when filling out forms for doctors’ offices—I may be Hispanic but does that make my anatomy different?  I grew up in a Caucasian family isn’t that close enough?  People began to ask me what I was, Mexican or mixed.  “Neither!” I would politely snap back, though many times I wanted to say, “Alien, what’s it to you?”  More recently it began to bother me when people would refer to mine and my husband’s relationship as “interracial.”  Not that “interracial couples” bother me, I just don’t like to be labeled.  Some have even asked if we will put “Caucasian” or “Hispanic” on our children’s birth certificates when they are born.   I may just put “eskimo” for the heck of it! 

The time that I most despised being Venezuelan was in the past couple of years following the reunion of my birth mother and I.  You would have thought that connecting with someone who looked like me, and wanted to bring me into a family of others who I resembled and fit in with would have made me feel better about myself, but it didn’t.  It had the exact opposite effect.  I didn’t want to see Spanish, or speak to my birth family there.  I loved taking Zumba fitness classes, but soon the Latin style music began to irritate me so much that one class I just walked out in the middle of a routine and didn’t come back.  I hated my big hips, dark skin, black hair, and brown eyes. I just wanted my fairy godmother to come along and magically turn me into Cinderella.  Then I would physically fit into the family (and the country) that my heart had belonged to my whole life.  It wasn’t worth it, nor did it make sense for me to for me to physically fit into a family that my heart had not belonged to.

Adoptees: your identity isn’t defined by your race. I feel so encouraged to think that my identity is found in Christ. It is only in Him that I found peace in this area of my life. Ultimately, my citizenship is in Heaven, and I am so far from home. I pray that you too have this same confidence. I have to constantly remember that He is the one that created me. I was fashioned on purpose by His hands, and I am His masterpiece—olive skin, curves, and all.

Please hear this all of you who are adopting/have adopted outside the US.  I never once was made to feel like an outsider by my family, but that doesn’t mean that I didn’t feel like one sometimes.  Not one person in my family has brown eyes, dark hair, or is shorter than 5’7”.  Don’t think I didn’t notice when we would go into a grocery store and I looked more like the Latin family on aisle 3 than my Caucasian sisters.   Being raised in the US helps because it’s such a melting pot of cultures and people, and your child will love you because you love them no matter the difference in skin.  Just don’t fool yourself into thinking that it isn’t ever going to be an issue for them, because I assure you it will. 

Honor their past. Give them a future.   Celebrate being Americans.  Unless you are a Native American, then we are all immigrants in some form at some point in our history! 

Enjoy the fireworks y'all.