Random Things, Part III: Do I have food in my teeth? Maybe something funny going on with my hair? Toilet paper stuck to my shoe?

Then why are you looking at me?!

I think you can guess what this is about.  When we first got home from Africa with Ruby, I felt eyes on me everywhere I went.  Two months later, I don't notice whether people are looking at me too much, I just focus on my own thing when we're out in public.  But I do find it funny to observe the ways that different people try to look at you without getting caught doing it.  There's the double-take, the open stare (most often I get this from African Americans), the kind smile (meant to indicate approval, I suppose), and then the slow glance around the room as if you're just looking around for no particular reason.  It's okay, I look at other people like that too.  I mostly employ the slow glance method, but sometimes I get caught doing a double take (like when the sales clerk at a store I was in happened to be  a midget).  It's just something out of the ordinary, and it's almost impossible not to give yourself a second to put it all together.  It just gets a little tiring, eventually, even when I know that people are (mostly) genuinely kind and interested in Ruby and her story.  But it means I can't really leave the house without brushing my hair.  Okay, I still do that sometimes, but I feel bad about it.  

(As a little background, we live in Winston-Salem, NC, and it's still very much The South here.  We have lived all over, including Texas, New York City, DC and Portland, OR, and I'm absolutely not trying to imply that people more are racist here at all, but it's just a little more out of the ordinary to see white families with black children than it would be in bigger cities.  I'd love to hear what people who live in other places think about this topic ...)  

The thing is, I felt prepared for being looked at in public.  My dad has had Parkinson's for 30 years, and I can tell you that when you are in public with a person who is lurching and falling all over the place, you attract a little attention.  Lest I sound cold-hearted, we have begged my dad to use a walker or even a cane, but he is very stubborn and likes to wing it, so we're constantly scraping him off of the floor of restaurants and other public places.  In his case, people most often give my mom and me looks of confusion and concern.  If you think about it, it's really not all that often that you see a grown man completely fall over just walking around town.  It's not a small event, not just a stumble or a trip.  He goes down hard, sometimes face first, sometime flat on his back.  Strangers are ready to call 911 because they think he is maybe having a heart attack.  Or they think he is a drunk, and they are trying to use their eyes to convey that they would be happy to help me get away from him.  When my mom and I are nonchalant as he hits the ground and we waive off help, I know folks are very confused by our lack of concern for this poor man who is now bleeding and trying to catch up with us as we continue on our way.  At some point, a long time ago, I got over the feeling that I somehow owed an explanation to any of these kind strangers.  There is too much to explain, too much history, and no one would understand who doesn't A) know my father and B) have ALOT of experience with a person with Parkinson's.  And even then, I'm not so sure.    

So anyway, now that I've gone into way more explanation than was necessary, I'll just say that I pretty much feel the same way with respect to strangers who seem to want to examine me and Ruby and try to figure us out.  A friend recently asked me if I wish I could wear a t-shirt around explaining that Ruby is my adopted daughter from Ethiopia so that people would understand what was going on.  After thinking about it, I realized that I really don't.  I don't not want people to know the story, and I'm happy to discuss it with anybody, more or less, but I also don't really care whether some person in Target thinks it's great that I saved a starving orphan or thinks white people have no business raising black children or knows someone who adopted a child from China of thinks I'm a super-star Christian or a million other things that might come to mind when someone sees a white lady toting around a black baby.  

Okay, fine, I don't care.  We made this choice and are happy and that's all that really matters, but ...  But, I am going to care if my child feels uncomfortable or self-conscious as she gets older.  I realize that falls into the category of borrowing trouble, and we have at least a few years before Ruby knows what's what, but I do feel that urge to protect her somehow, to let her feel normal even if her situation isn't the same as everyone else's.  Yet another issue to tie up in 2060, when we can hear Ruby's perspective on the matter ...

Just looked over to see Ruby up-ending my wine glass to get the few drops I left behind, so while I sit here pondering the "big issues" of parenting, I'm failing to prevent her from drinking wine at the ripe age of 18 months.  Nice job.  

Bye for now.

My Dad and Ruby in Texas - quite a pair!