Elyse

Dim sum days:

clank of dishes,

smell of taro, five spice,

rice wrappers’ slippery feel.

Girls in purple aprons,

calling their wares,

steeling their feet

for Sunday morning’s smiles and smells,

tinkling change lining their pockets.

Straight-banged children

with plastic backpacks, ill-used chopsticks,

reaching across the table,

hearing Chinese, speaking English,

putting on a show for the token Round-Eyes—

steady customers, here each week to get their fix.

In the car on New Year’s Day while driving home from my parent’s house in Connecticut , we passed the apartment complex in which we first lived, just before we were married. It was where Steven had moved for his first job after his separation from his wife. And it was where I nursed him from the hurt of divorce, where we took in our first cat, Ives, where Steven came up with his dissertation conclusion, and where we amassed the early memories of our years together. When we passed the building this time, he slowed the car, turned to me, and in a voice with a hint of what I define as wonder, commented on how little decisions or actions—in this case, taking one apartment over another (for this is the beginning of the story of how we met)—could affect your entire life.

That’s the way it was at the onset of another Year of the Ox when he picked up the newspaper and decided to read a human-interest article—uncharacteristic for his reading tastes. That little action would inexorably change our lives and that of a child oceans away. The article told of a reunion of Chinese baby girls and their adoptive families in the U.S. with others in like circumstances. It seemed so right to both of us, seemed so to click and come together: the Chinese connection to his sister’s family, the baby ogling in which we engage in dim sum restaurants, our love affair with anything ethnic and dark. Even the red paper place mats on which we ate our dim sum portended this with the profile under the picture of the ox, proclaiming mine the sign that would excel at parenthood.

And yet, I took several weeks of soul searching: Could I be a good parent, after forty-plus years of childless status? Would I have the physical energy? Of course, we both had fears about the process: Would we lose all our money and come away empty-handed? Would I get sick, with no recourse to the sophisticated medical interventions I might need? Silly, laughable fears, too, like how on earth would we carry enough diapers in our luggage on the trip to China to pick up our daughter.

There came a time, soon thereafter, when we decided to put our money where our hearts were—a moment when two misfits, of sorts, who had found each other in all the chaos that is this universe, this earth, this troubled country of wonder and beauty, of good intentions and prejudice and violence, decided to choose love and hope over atrophy and pessimism.

It was fitting that our first meeting at the adoption agency, albeit uneventful, was followed by our annual celebration of the Chinese New Year at the Chinese Cultural Center ’s banquet downtown. It was there that I collected the picture with which I plan to grace my daughter’s room. It’s a Chinese calligraphy print with two symbolic representations: the character representing the strength of the American eagle, and, at our request, a saying in her honor. The translator had a hard time rendering it in English for me, but it ostensibly conveys something to the effect that a “merciful heart has many pleasures.” I took it to mean that our “kindness” in adopting our daughter would come back to us in many good ways in the future. I hope for that with all my heart, but the gift is not just from us to her; it is the extra dimension of love that she will bring us, as well.

***

Last week, I saw a documentary on mothers and daughters. It featured women and girls at both life stages, talking of their feelings about their relationships. Sadly, these relationships weren’t precious to some, they were merely painful. It was a very poignant program, but what struck me most was the relationship between one Chinese mother and daughter. The very assimilated Chinese daughter—in her 20s—felt smothered by her Old World mother’s constant intrusions into her life. What she missed, however, was physical contact. Her mother, as is supposedly the custom in China , never hugged her. So the daughter arranged several portrait sessions for them together, during which they posed in various stances, with the daughter’s arm or arms around her mother. This was the ruse she needed for a physical connection. Her mother smiled, but did not respond in kind.

My own mother, together with my grandmother—my second mother—never made me feel unloved, unwanted, or embarrassed, and they never held back on expressing their affection for me in kisses and embraces, as well as in words and deeds. For my grandmother, who did not have the sophisticated words that my mother had to explain the nature and depth of her love for me, it was in her touch, and in the touch with which she sewed the glorious garments I wore. As I rummaged through the closet that will house Elyse’s clothes, I found many things my grandmother had made for me that I hadn’t been able to wear in years, since menopause and chemotherapy and the natural broadening and shifting of my body caused me to get acquainted with my new best friend: elastic. But I couldn’t give these clothes away to someone who had never had any connection to my grandmother. I knew my daughter would never have an Eastern European peasant stock body like mine, with its curves and bulges. I pictured her growing up either tall and lithe, or round and small. So what to do with these works of art and love that hung deserted in the guest bedroom closet? The idea came to me when my fingers reached to the back of the closet and a favorite jumper caressed them. It’s made of velveteen—a young fabric, a sumptuous fabric—black with a delicate farm scene in pumpkin and taupe and lavender. There are houses and rivers and farmers plowing their fields. And when I looked closely, I noted that the animals pulling the plows were oxen, my zodiacal animal, and most probably, my daughter’s as well! I knew then how to honor my grandmother and leave Elyse a legacy from her. I’m going to bring the jumper to the woman who hems my dresses so lovingly, and ask her to make two garments from one: a vest for me and a child’s outfit for my daughter. Maybe Elyse will pass it on to a daughter of her own some day.

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