Staatenlos

In my life there have been so many surprises. My biggest concern is my ability to ” seize the day,” and taking advantage of whatever comes my way. It’s easier to fall into “woe is me” mode and focus on the obstacles I face and the perceived impossibilities.

A good example of closed door / window open occurred in  the early to mid nineties when I wanted to become a Systems Engineer (CNE/MCSE) . Back then, women were not so prominent in technology . Fascinated by the Information Superhighway,  I knew I was ahead of the game and aspired to always be on the cutting edge. This was before web design or development classes were available. Folks like me were devouring second hand books and winging it on the net.  The textbooks, CBTs and formal certification classes were very expensive. As a single mom of two,  I was  pinching pennies; even trying to create them out of the air.

Application  first, skills evaluation and then the interview: I did well on the test and was soon to meet one of the kindest women I’ve ever met. She was a petite grandmother, and a very savvy business woman. If she were branding herself today, her byline would be “synergy.” Apparently, she saw something in me and when I humbly confessed that I couldn’t afford her classes, she made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. She believed that I could teach. She offered to give me the books, allow me to audit classes and in exchange,  I’d teach the corresponding class after I passed each test the following cycle.

Even before I finished all the modules, I had a business plan and a job offer. Just imagine how it may have all turned out if  was embarrassed or too proud to reveal the truth about my finances with this compassionate woman. Angels unawares…

Having exchanged hands several times before I landed safely into the arms of my adopted parents, there is no doubt whatsoever that it was all divinely choreographed. I ended up exactly where I was supposed to be. Unfortunately, the trauma and turmoil that was to plague my life didn’t end in those loving arms. I’ve endured much suffering, shed a boatload of tears and climbed countless walls in the years that followed,  until one day I declared, “I don’t do walls any more.”

That’s not to say I don’t still wrestle with melancholy all too frequently, but never to the extent I’d experienced before that day. Rebuking the demons I continue to battle both internally & externally, I’ve learned to recognize my angels. Some are known, others remain nameless.

Some of my angels are steadfast and loyal and help guard both my body & spirit. Some hold my hand and gently guide and encourage. Some run beside me up and down hills and valleys where we share occasional refreshment. Others simply nod or smile and bring light into my life.

If you are reading this, you’re probably one of them and I’d like to thank you from the depths of my heart. If you don’t think this describes you, I’d like to bless you somehow and help dust off your wings.

In my darkest of days, my pastor would remind me to “seek out the roses in the desert.” There were days I thought I’d faint and shrivel up looking for them and was convince I’d settle for the scent of the rose. I’ve become more adept at finding them over the years but there have been occasions when the sandstorms were pretty high and I couldn’t see at all for the stinging stones that filled my eyes.

Recently, I reported to him that at that particular moment, there were so many roses that  there was almost no visible sand. Full of joy, and riding high, I was blindsided again by Murphy’s Law and an apparent force relentlessly stirring up storms and raising sand. I was in the midst of a spiraling downward, confidence somewhat broken when I popped in the video that came yesterday.

My sister was asking her grandchildren (whom I also had never met) what they’d like to say to Aunt Rose when one of them broke into a chorus chanting “I love Aunt Rose.” Next she asked them what it was that they loved about Aunt Rose. They wrestled to come up with answers that would describe their feelings and   some of the responses were, “she’s nice”, “she sings to us on the telephone”, “she makes grandma smile.” The one that moved me most was the wee one that said “because she loves God.”

As I looked into the children’s cake smudged faces,  I recognized I’d been blessed with the most beautiful bouquet!

It’s often thought that people  pass on talents or affinities through DNA . Then there are aberrants who become masters of their craft seemingly out of the blue. Alas, here the nature versus nature theorists come into play. As a frustrated artist, then, any of these explanations could account for my childrens affinity for visual, technical and performing  arts. Both have chosen to pursue creative careers.

It was fascinating to me when during my brief encounter with my biological mother, she sent me a photo of a picture she painted and told me of her love for the arts. My sister has sent me several gifts that she handcrafted  including a sculpture that she made representing the bond we are building between the two of us. Nothing could have prepared me for what I experienced yesterday I viewed her latest video. There on the screen was a framed leaf she referred to as an “elephant leaf” on which she had vividly painted a parrot. I was awed.

Recently in one of the social networks I belong to, a question was posed that gave me a brief pause. Who do call your family and who are your relatives?  What is the difference? While this may be an easy answer for some, its has been more complex for me.

I’ve decided to keep it simple. If you are my family, I know and love you and vise versa. We have a sincere and trusting relationship. I’ve been blessed to have a large and loving family. On the other hand, you may be biologically related to me and in this lifetime we may never meet.

Frequently, I wonder about how others may define home, homeland or hometown. For me its an abstract concept. Growing up as an “army brat” life was akin to living in the White House. You could never be certain you’d be there two full terms. I have few memories at all if any of Germany and Virginia. It wasn’t until Alaska that I can really recall anything substantial. The Good Friday Earthquake and the Iditerod with my Dad are my most vivid recollections. (In a later post I’ll have a lot more to share about those two experiences.)

I’ve been on my own pretty much since I left for college at 15 with only a brief stay at home with my parents after that. The longest time I attended school in a community I lived in was 6 years. I’ve lived in my present community for about 13 yrs now , the longest I’ve ever consecutively lived in one town. Despite that fact, I can count on one hand the people I know directly here and do not even know any of my neighbor’s names. Most of my friends and acquaintances live in neighboring towns or in the vicinity of my church where my mother lives. I communicate regularly with maybe three people that I ever attended school with.

Yet as I return full circle to the land of my birth, and my mother’s birth I’m going to a strange and foreign place. I know no one except persons there that I’ve met and communicated with online. There is evidence I have biological relations there, but that’s another trip for another day and time. This trip is devoted to visiting who I’ve come to know as my brothers and sisters on the other side. In their company, I’m sure to be at home.

What are you? Where do you come from? These are questions I’ve been asked since I can remember and still find myself responding to today. Of course this is something I have in common with many who come from blended ethnic & cultural backgrounds. I’ve observed and participated in many online communities described as multicultural over the years and viewed hyphenated identities with curious interest.

Recently, I viewed a documentary where it was stated that Barack Obama suffered some angst over his blended heritage and “chose” black when he determined that it was too uncomfortable straddling the fence. I’ve been quite defiant, often to my own detriment in this regard.

There was a period in my search for a cultural identity (even before I  married a Puerto Rican) that I became totally Latina. I dressed myself in a culture not my own because it apparently matched my physical appearance Through close associations, I became quite comfortable in the Puerto Rican community. Put on Fania Allstars today and I’m bound to start dancing salsa or merenge. Arroz y gandules and tostones are still staple foods in my home and a frequent request from family and friends at pot luck suppers or cookouts.

Yet still, I’m as apt to serve schnitzel, tempura, creme brulee or collard greens if you dropped in for dinner. I consider my cooking to be quite authentic since I’m usually recreating recipes I’ve learned from natives rather than cookbooks and have become a regular at several ethnic groceries over the years.

Although I know now, that my birth mother was Danish, I still have no definitive knowledge of where my father came from exactly except that he was obviously non-white. Over the last decade however, I’ve discovered that the community where I feel the most closely  connected has been the Black German community which itself is not a monolith and is culturally and ethnically diverse.  I most closely share a common history with the “Brown Babies” born after WWII to German Mothers and Black fathers who were adopted and brought to the US by African American Military families.

My social orbit however, extends much broader .In my quest for a cultural identity, I’ve discovered that I share interests, traditions, likes & dislikes with people from many places in this wonderful world and resent stereotypes with a passion. How unfortunate that people often tend to be socially grouped by skin color and/or nationality.  People are presumptively labeled (and allow themselves to wear labels ascribed to them) by what are too often myths rather than realistic insights into their individual character or cultures of origin .

Label me yourself should you find it necessary, but for now I’m quite comfortable and have made myself at home in the margins. Invite me to your place and I’ll sing your songs, enjoy your food and dance to your music. Come to my place and you’ll find a tapestry of diverse cultures that I’ve enjoyed and worn on occasion. My home is my oasis where I can undress myself from borrowed cultural garb and simply be me.

Even before Jr. High I became a Francophile and dreamed of living in France. Before I was able to take foreign languages in school (which I did formally for about 6 years) I taught myself French & Spanish by studying the appropriate dictionary and listening to recorded audio lessons on LPs and cartridge tapes.

When I first got divorced, I was determined to move with my children to Paris I began buying books and ordering information from the French embassy. We even set a date. Children’s French Language Audio filled our home and auto. The kids still remind me of this fantasy by singing “Les bon bons au chocolat, un pour moi et un pour toi.”

Growing up on military bases and communities where career military families retired, I befriended neighborhood women from other countries and became a devoted pupil. I learned about manners, culture, cooking and whatever else I could glean from them about their respective homelands. In that manner, I’ve experienced not only France, but Pakistan, Japan, Austria, Germany & Korea among others.

As life would have it, I’ve not yet seen Paris, but my daughter lived out my dream as an exchange student. My dream has been deferred but it hasn’t died. I’ve followed some pretty wonderful sites through the  years such as Americans in France & The Paris Marais Newsletter .I still haven’t given up on seeing Monet’s Garden, the Catacombs , Sacre Coeur & Mont St. Michel. Still planning to retire in Marseille and hang out at least once at the Cannes Film Festival.

Keep on visiting me here and one day for sure you’ll be reading about my picnic lunch and art class along  the Seine. You just wait and see.

This morning I awoke to a DM from @darrenkeith a Twitter friend who reminded me his weekly podcast was ready. What a blast from the past to see  Toni Childs & Brothers Johnson on the list. Just seeing their names made me have visions of LPs & 8Tracks that I wore out in my high school and college years.

Now after years of flute, clarinet & piano lessons, I am still not an accomplished musician but have had some long lasting affairs with music. My kids tease that they started out liking a certain song or artist until I played them repeatedly for looooong periods of time. I doubt they’ll ever listen to Amy Grant again, but if they did I’m sure they’d recall every word to all of her songs. (secular music was a no no for them growing up) Every morning Amy’s angels accompanied us on the ride to school).

I attach to artists that speak to my spirit and express for me either where I am or where I’d like to be. As an only child and therefore comfortable with my own company, those two places often collide. Not specifically loyal to any particular genre per se, my dalliances include music from around the world. In my library you may find anything from Gospel to New Age and Punk to Country. I do however have a speacial affinity towards World Music. For the past several years Susheela Raman & Joy Denalane reigned supreme in that category. Lately, though I’ve had a roving eye and have begun hanging out with some new friends I’ve gotten quite comfortable with. As my good friend Grace sings “…I be jamming on the road yes, I do…..cuz music is a wonderful thing….”

While I must leave preaching to the preachers, I wouldn’t be able to share my journey without addressing what directs my spirit. I confess to being a sinner saved by grace. I have been at my present church for more than half of my life where I raised my children.

Those persons other than my parents and my pastor who have strongly influenced my personal theology are St. Therese de Lisieux, Corrie Ten Boom, Oswald Chambers & Soren Kierkegaard. Each day begins with tending to the Kierkegaarden & sending out a Daily Bloom to my list members. Then Fr. Bob leads me to St. Therese’s Little Way. Corrie & Oswald have been close companions over some pretty long & bumpy roads.

I also identify closely with Francis Thompson as depicted in his poem: The Hound of Heaven .