Don´t Forget

I don't remember when I got those old, worn books. They´ve just been there ever since I could remember. Tucked away in the cabinets downstairs, waiting for someone to open them up and explore inside. Mom always told pleasant stories that were hidden behind the pictures of my sister and me. As I grew up, I started wondering about the foreign pictures and what they meant. I decided to invest all my concentration on a specific photograph to start out with. A thin, grinning man is squatting low to the ground next to my sister; it looked like they were the same height. To the right of them is a skinny middle-aged lady who is smiling as she's holding a little person- me. I notice my sister and I looked unsure. Were we unsure of what was happening? That would be my guess. She was only three at the time, and I was one. You don't know much at such a young age. All we knew was that something big was happening.

There are groups of joyous-looking figures all around me in the photographs. I flipped the page; there are more. Each turn of a page just showed more and more people and places I didn't know about. Where was I? There´s small, green, see-through tents in one picture. Mom and Dad are riding a huge stroller in another. Lots of the photos are filled with people scattered around share similar features as me. Their hair is a sea of blackness- just like mine. Their eyes are deep shades of brown- just like mine. Their skin is a beautiful mix of white, gold, and brown… Just. Like. Mine.

I turn my attention away from the books, a little rattled. Now, when I look up, all I see are people who are different from me. They don't look like me. Questions began to zip through my brain as fast as darts. Why do these people not look like me? Is this not where I belong? Would I fit in more there because the people are more like me? Would they not comment on my shortness because they too would be short? I stared back again at the old pages that are full of memories of my past… Then it clicked.

This is not where my ancestors once lived. I was millions of miles away from my original home. As I began to live my life here in America, playing volleyball and learning how to write my name in English, my birth family stayed on the other side of the world, sleeping soundly in their small homes. The only actual glimpse I could get of the short life I lived over there was through these small, unfamiliar photos. I remember asking Mom about my baby books. Who are these people? I would ask. These are the people from the orphanage that took care of you. And that is your birth family. We adopted you two. She would say.

After I asked what an orphanage was and what adoption meant, I understood. My life was altered before I even knew it. Things still feel weird, as if this isn't where I should be, but at the same time, it feels like home. America is the only home I ever knew. For better or for worse, I am here. My birth parents gave me up so I could have a better opportunity of a greater life. So I am as sure as butter on bread that I am not going to waste the gift they gave me. I gently lifted the books into my hands and walked over to my bookshelf. It was time I left the past in the past and focus on the future. Carefully and daringly, I slip the hard covers into the open slots. I stood to leave my room, but paused to look back. I won't let you down, I think to my birth family. And don't worry. I won't forget.

8/26/16 -MTO