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Colorblind

From the moment he arrived, Abraham was interested in everything. On the first day at our house, he was like a human pinball, bouncing from one distraction to the next, lighting up with the advent of discovery, flashing a beaming smile and catapulting to the next distraction. Anything that could be switched on was left that way and typically carried around until something new replaced it. The phrase "like a kid in a candy shop" doesn't quite sum it up. It was more like taking a young Thomas Edison before he perfected the light bulb and transporting him to Las Vegas for a night. Or maybe take someone who is dying of thirst to Niagara Falls.

Later, we'd find out his family had a television and a VCR, so it wasn't like he hadn't seen this stuff before. It was just that there were now so many more choices. This reminds me of a book called the Paradox of Choice by Barry Schwartz. In it, Schwartz comments on how those of us who live in first world societies where mass production provides access to a dizzying array of choices, and how making a selection can be almost paralytic.

Here's an excerpt:

Scanning the shelves of my local supermarket recently, I found 85 different varieties and brands of crackers. As I read the packages, I discovered that some brands had sodium, others didn't. Some were fat-free, others weren't. They came in big boxes and small ones. They came in normal size and bite size. There were mundane saltines and exotic and expensive imports.

My neighborhood supermarket is not a particularly large store, and yet next to the crackers were 285 varieties of cookies. Among chocolate chip cookies, there were 21 options. Among Goldfish (I don't know whether to count them as cookies or crackers), there were 20 different varieties to choose from.

Across the aisle were juices — 13 "sports drinks," 65 "box drinks" for kids, 85 other flavors and brands of juices, and 75 iced teas and adult drinks. I could get these tea drinks sweetened (sugar or artificial sweetener), lemoned, and flavored.

Ironically, when I Googled the book, Amazon suggests there are 300,000 books I can read on my Kindle and Google gives me 1,320,000 results for "paradox of choice."

The funny thing with Abraham was that he just kept zoning in on something new, soaking up the entertainment value of it and moving on. Though I think Abraham's responses helps make Schwartz's point. With so many choices, Abraham couldn't just settle on one thing. He always had something new to discover.

What was interesting about this process of acclimating to our house was how Abraham didn't carry any preconceived notions about style, selection, pattern or color. When we pulled riding toys out of the garage, he jumped on Olivia's purple princess bike and happily rode around the driveway. When we pulled out bike helmets, he chose Olivia's flowered helmet. If we played a movie for the girls, he was just as happy to watch princess movies as he was to watch action movies.

It got me thinking about how it is that we indoctrinate our kids with "male" choices and "female" ones and why a kid like Abraham was so free from these preferences. I suppose there's a lot of subtle guidance that goes on with the parents, not-so-subtle marketing coming from manufacturers and a certain amount of natural gravitation for kids. I suppose at home, Abraham isn't bombarded with marketing for boys and many of their toys still have universal appeal.

It wasn't long before I was asking Abraham which flavor ice cream he wanted and he couldn't decide from the 64 flavors available. Then there was the time I accidentally switched plates and put the Barbie plate in front of him for dinner. He looked up at me and said "papa, why a pink plate?" I was stunned.

So I must confess that while we provided a home and food and clothes and entertainment for this child from Ethiopia, we also indoctrinated him with the heaping plate of choices served to Americans. We also gave him the option to be more of a boy and to adopt the code of American boyhood which classifies action figures not dolls, prefers blue and black over pink and polka dotted and insists on riding the carousel horse with hunting equipment or not riding at all.

Eventually, he settled on his favorites. He loved Spiderman and the color red. He favored a red scooter and a white bike with a pink seat but no princess (occasionally swiping Owen's black bike when it was unattended). He loved pop ice (any flavor) and gummy candy (Spiderman). He loved anything that shot water, flew or ran on batteries (no preferences aside from Spiderman). He never could suppress his excitement enough to wait his turn. I couldn't really blame him.

With the subtle changes that I observed in Abraham came a lesson. It's not so much about limiting choice or carefully trying not to direct their choices. Actually, I'm more concerned about paying attention to what my kids care about. What can I offer them that would be more valuable than material possessions? I could see how quickly attitudes can be changed and how quickly we lose our kids hearts when we're not paying attention.

It seems that it's that attention they need. They crave it. It's why they interrupt, repeat things until we respond, yell until our ears burn. For kids, their entire world hinges on our attention, our response, our approval or disapproval. For a time, we define and shape their world. Their understanding of this world and its myriad of choices is filtered through us. It's almost as if there's a cosmic stopwatch giving us an opportunity to make an impact. What will we prepare them with and how will we guide them to make the right choices? It's powerful stuff, but it's worth a daily reminder. I think I'll remember every time I see a pink bike.

Thanks for the lesson Abraham.

Learning the Language

One of the first things Abraham said clearly to us was "yes." He said it with a kind of hissing extension of the "s." He almost always said it while his attention was drawn elsewhere so that it wasn't so much an expression to agree as it was simply to respond. It seemed to be his version of the ubiquitous response from kids: "uh huh" which means "I hear you, but I have no idea what you're talking about."

For the first few days, it was his only response. This meant he'd take any kind of food we offered, wear whatever clothes and be amenable to almost any kind of activity. It was much easier to gauge a response based on his facial expression combined with some pointing.

For the kids, it didn't matter. Talking was optional. With kids, it's the universal rhythm of play that perpetuates the day and postpones any other physical needs. I think this is why it became so easy for Abraham to fit right in. With Owen, he had a companion. With Olivia (she's our middle one and is four), he had an alternative to Owen. With Evangeline (the youngest at 2), he had someone to look out for and someone who knew as little English as he did.

In the first week, he'd tried popcorn and taught us that it's called "fahn deh shah" in Amharic (his native language). That was as much of his language as we'd retain. He taught us a few other simple words as well but I couldn't repeat any of them. I tried Googling Amharic which yielded a few simple phrases and taught us to count but didn't seem to help us communicate any better.

Then one day he sang a song that was to the tune of "Mary had a little Lamb." After he learned more English, he explained the word we assumed was for lamb in the song was actually the word for bread. I haven't gotten a translator to negotiate here, but it almost sounded as though someone had picked up the old nursery rhyme and interpreted "had" as "eaten" rather than "owned." I'm pretty sure that bread wouldn't "follow her to school one day."

Over the next couple of months, Abraham rapidly picked up English words and before long was conversing quite a bit. We began to learn more about him. He has an older brother who apparently sleeps a lot. He has two older sisters. His dad is an electrician. He has a television at home and knows about Coca Cola. Beyond that, we began to hear stories about his life in Ethiopia, similarities and differences from life in the US.

A few of my favorite things that he left us with:

1. He called Evangeline's pacifier a "pasta fire."
   
2. We call Olivia Liv for short. When Abraham said it, it always sounded like "Lovey." It's my new pet name for her.
3. We introduced ourselves to him as "Kevin" and "Kim," thinking that would be easier for him than calling us "mister" and "misses." However, he quickly adopted the kids names for us, "mama" and "papa."
   
4. Once, when he lagged behind on a field trip, Kimberly said "hurry up, Abraham, you need to catch up." "Ketchup, mama?" he asked, perplexed. Hot dogs and hamburgers were more common to him at that point than phrases of urgency.
5. "Me go, too?" The car never left the driveway without Abraham running out to find out where one of us was headed.
   
6. A barrage of questions pursued any activity. Abraham always had to know why things were done a certain way or why we were going somewhere or what something was or who was on the phone. He was more inquisitive than all three of our kids together. He got a lot of answers too.
7. The laughter. Abraham found so many things amusing. He wasn't bashful about adding peals of laughter over almost anything. My favorite moment was when he described how I snore at night, making a snorting sound and laughing hysterically.

The most touching part of our time with him was when he desperately attempted to explain something to us. Using the few words he knew, he would put a sentence together, pause, squint, searching for the right word, make gestures and tighten his lips as though trying hard to push a word through that might be somewhere in his head. It made me wish I knew more Amharic. It just reminds me that he met us where we were and learned our ways rather than us learning his. It's an amazing human ability, especially for a six year old.

The Ride Home

We expected Abraham just after Mother's day. Fortunately, our Maine winter had subsided and save for the coolest parts of the yard, all snow had melted away. There was still enough of a chill in the air to require a few layers. So we prepared a bed for him, set out extra blankets and an ample down comforter. We set aside a few of Owen's jackets in case he didn't bring any. Finally, we shoveled the toys out of the playroom to create some space for indoor play.

He came on a Tuesday. He arrived at the Portland Jetport with his eye doctor, Dr. Emanuel. Apparently, Abraham was extremely reluctant to go with his appointed chaperon, so the doctor accompanied him to her house. From there, Kimberly would pick him up.

She was a little concerned about the transition after his resistance at the airport. As it turns out, the presence of another boy about his age would be all the persuading he'd need to come home with them. On the ride home, Abraham was enamored with all the new scenery, New England homes, Maine trees, cars, different people and Owen's hair. In a moment of curiosity, Abraham gingerly reached out and patted the top of Owen's head. His straight, straw like blond locks must have been an unusual sight for someone who's lived his whole life in Ethiopia. Kimberly recounted these moments of transformation and discovery tearfully over the phone, relating how his reaction to Owen made it seem just right to have him as our guest.

On the other hand, I carried a high level of anxiety with me. How would we adjust to a fourth child? How would we relate and care for another family's son, who had little exposure to American culture, food or language. What kinds of mistakes would we make with him? How would we show him as much love as we show our kids and not make him feel left out?

When I arrived home, Kimberly briefed me. It turns out that Abraham spoke no English and he was utterly fascinated with everything in our house, especially electronics. He was jumping from one thing to another, pulling out toys, pushing buttons, popping gumballs and hoarding coins. He was plenty entertaining to our children who did nothing but follow after him and giggle at all of his reactions to our "treasure trove." I spotted him for awhile after he discovered a pair of roller skates. Then Kimberly let me know that she was off to a meeting, so dinner, baths and bedtime was up to me. No more time for anxiety, I was about to be initiated.

Turkey and carrots were not a big hit, but bananas provided proper appeal. Typically, the kids only change their minds twice per course, so I wouldn't make more than eight trips between the kitchen and dining room per meal times the number of courses. Potentially, only 32 trips per meal. Four drinks, four spill proof tops, four plates, four forks and four refills later, all children had eaten some kind of meal.

Sometimes, when the sun sets and bedtime approaches, I start hearing the theme song from the Twilight Zone in my head. I imagine myself trapped in a world where parentless children rule the world, staying up late, binding the adults as captives, dancing around the house all night, tossing clothing and dishes all over the house. Bedtime often feels like its headed in this direction.

We shifted gears toward baths and pajamas. Baths alone are enough of an event to sap the energy of even the most robust adult. By six o'clock in the evening, I am anything but robust. I typically wear full rain gear and sop up enough displaced bathwater to refill the tub. For pajamas, a fifteen to twenty minute hunt for 1 to 2 pieces of nightwear per kid is followed by no fewer than five reminders to stop doing acrobatics on the furniture and put on the pajamas (on the proper appendages). Once I could confirm that all children were wearing the correct sizes, we start the lineup for brushing teeth.

Finally, we headed upstairs for stories and bedtime. Abraham settled into his bed, I tucked him in, read a quick story, then switched on the nightlight and shut off the overhead. When checking in on them before heading to bed ourselves, Kimberly and I discovered that Abraham had crawled into Owen's bed and fell asleep beside him. He'd found a friend thousands of miles from home.

Snapshots of Abraham

Where's Ethiopia?

"Papa, where's Ethiopia?" Liv asks me.
"It's far away, Liv, across the ocean, in another land called Africa."
"Is it in another world, papa?"
"No, Liv, it's in our world, just very far away."
"Is it farther than grandma and grandpa in New York?"
"Yes, much farther. Abraham will have to take a plane to get here."



Before we met him, we just had a digital picture of him and his dad. His dad stands behind him, a lanky man in his 40s, smiling broadly, his hands on Abraham 's shoulders. They stand against a clay or concrete wall, maybe the wall to their home. Abraham wears a sober expression, a green and white striped polo, and his hair is shaved close. His left eye is nearly closed and has a lot of excess skin on his eyelid. He looks to be about seven or eight, just a bit older than Owen, our oldest. I got a sense of a tough environment surrounding him, maybe a tough lifestyle. Maybe that's just the American in me.

He was still just another boy at that point, removed from us emotionally, like the pictures of our World Vision sponsored child or the ones from many missions pamphlets I've considered over the years. For the month of April, all we could do was wonder what he'd be like.

He needed corrective surgery on his left eye and would need a place to stay for a few weeks while in Maine. Of course, I found out about this arrangement after it was settled. Kimberly rang me at work to let me know that she'd just agreed to an amazing opportunity presented by a friend from church. Apparently, they usually have several host families to "share the burden" but Kimberly couldn't bear the thought of this little boy being passed around from family to family while away from his home and family and after surgery. I'm glad she had enough compassion for both of us.

Three weeks seemed like a long time. At least he'd be on his way home in time for us to celebrate our 15th anniversary. So I just held my breath and bit my tongue. Sure, I agreed, it sounds great. "Does he speak any English?" I wouldn't exhale again until late August.

Abraham is from the capital city of Ethiopia, Addis Ababa, in the center of the country. He was brought here through the efforts of a ministry called Grace for All that is run out of Atlanta by a man named Yonas, who is also Ethiopian. The official language spoken is Amharic, a language as different from English as Chinese or Russian. We were told that Abraham lives in a culture and environment very different than ours and there would be some adjusting. Ethiopia is also a much warmer climate and a landlocked country, several hours from the ocean. So Abraham would be in for some surprises.

Summer with Abraham

Well, He is on his way and our work is done. What a summer we have had with our little friend from Ethiopia.