I've always believed whole-heartedly in the mantra, "fake it till you make it." If I don't want to feel something, I should just pretend I don't feel it till it goes away, right? I've heard people say it takes strength to show emotion, and in my head I think, what a cop-out. Of course it would be nice if spilling your drama over into everyone else's lives were the "strong" thing to do, so go ahead, say whatever you need to say to make yourself feel better, and then, please, don't try to apply your philosophy to me.
We adopted my little brother when I was seven. I had seven whole years of a ridiculously idyllic childhood; my parents took us to church, homeschooled us, and were 100% invested in pouring out God's love on us. We weren't poor, we weren't exposed to anything children shouldn't be exposed to, we were just completely immersed in love.
By we, I mean my older brother and I. Ben is 2 years older. Let's talk about that for a moment. I have this older brother worship syndrome that I try to keep under control, but it's really hard because I want to be EXACTLY like him. Indulge me while I gush about him really quick: he always seems to have his life under control- even when he has NO idea what he's doing, he has this calm, intellectual solidness about him that I have admired from the time I was little. He is one of the smartest people I know, and he is ridiculously supportive of pretty much every part of my life whenever I need him. I also admire the way he loves his girlfriend, who happens to be super high-quality.
So all that to say that I have a lot of good things in my life. At eight, (1997) we had two additions to our family. Grace was born in March, Alex was adopted in October. To say we underestimated the adjustment we would have to make would be a gross understatement, but that's what happened. I remember overhearing a few phone conversations my grandma had with my mom while she and my dad were over in Russia gathering up our tiny, bony bundle of joy. "He threw Jack's glasses over the balcony? In the middle of a mall?" I gathered that he had thrown a fit or two since my parents had gotten custody, but I assumed he would calm down once he got home. He'll be so happy to have a new family, I thought. He was going to share Ben's room, and we couldn't wait for him to come home and see it. We had gone shopping for clothes, toys, all the things a destitute five-year-old would need, but we were going to try not to overwhelm him with too much wealth in the first day. Finally the night came that we were to pick them up from the airport, and we arrived plenty early. Practically our whole church plus more friends had shown up to welcome them all home, and I remember being annoyed that someone had made a banner because I hadn't thought of making a bigger, better one. The plane finally arrived at the gate, and an eternity later, I spotted my parents and ran for it. I wanted the first hug, (in case you haven't noticed yet, I was just a little competitive) and I got it.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Monday, August 1, 2011
Fresh and Honest
Whenever I see reviews of new books or blogs, the phrase "fresh and honest," usually means the critic thinks the thing is the cat's pajamas, and it makes the rebel in me want to give you a stale and deceptive look at my childhood, but I know deep down that honesty is the best policy, so I will do my best to stick to that. No promises of freshness, though- that policy is definitely debatable in my eyes.
Alright, where to begin? I'll start with the positive, which was any part of my life before the date of Sept. 22, 1997. (That's the day our little bundle of joy stepped off the airplane from Russia at the age of 5) Just kidding, my entire life is full of positives! No, but seriously, it kinda started to go downhill after that day. So before that... I was born into an upper-middle-class family, older brother, loving parents, sandbox in the backyard, amazing, memorable vacations, two dogs, cats are the devil, learned to read and played in the mud, all the things a child should have. Boring, I know, but important. It's important because I was about to have my world rocked.
I was shy to the point of pain. I remember one time we had some friends from church over for dinner, and when my mom opened the door, Mr. Wallace gave me a simple, "Hi, Kara, how are you?" I couldn't handle it. I looked down, twisted my fingers together, and wanted to crawl in a hole for the rest of my life.
"Kara, Say 'fine, Mr. Wallace, how are you?'" My mom nudged my back, and I knew she was slightly embarrassed at my rudeness. Her touch sent shivers down my spine, and I started to feel intensely guilty, but I couldn't do it. After several minutes of prompting in the doorway, my mother, not one to back down, gave me an ultimatum: say what she told me to say, or get a spanking. I was probably crying by this time, but I literally could not make my mouth to form the words, or my voice to say them, yet I had known from the beginning that I was headed for this. I was actually relieved that she finally said it because I would much rather have been spanked than say the words, and I was spanked. What I didn't expect, however, was that my mother would wait for me to finish crying, lead me back out, and make me be polite. I remember finally squeaking, "Hi, Mr. Wallace," and then breaking into tears again, wishing with all my little heart that my life would just be over. Drama much? Perhaps, but I wasn't trying to cause drama. I freshly and honestly wanted to disappear, never to be looked at again.
As a writer, my greatest temptation is to rush to the point within the first paragraph, but duh, that's the opposite of the point of writing, so that's the end for today. Plus I have to go to work.
Alright, where to begin? I'll start with the positive, which was any part of my life before the date of Sept. 22, 1997. (That's the day our little bundle of joy stepped off the airplane from Russia at the age of 5) Just kidding, my entire life is full of positives! No, but seriously, it kinda started to go downhill after that day. So before that... I was born into an upper-middle-class family, older brother, loving parents, sandbox in the backyard, amazing, memorable vacations, two dogs, cats are the devil, learned to read and played in the mud, all the things a child should have. Boring, I know, but important. It's important because I was about to have my world rocked.
I was shy to the point of pain. I remember one time we had some friends from church over for dinner, and when my mom opened the door, Mr. Wallace gave me a simple, "Hi, Kara, how are you?" I couldn't handle it. I looked down, twisted my fingers together, and wanted to crawl in a hole for the rest of my life.
"Kara, Say 'fine, Mr. Wallace, how are you?'" My mom nudged my back, and I knew she was slightly embarrassed at my rudeness. Her touch sent shivers down my spine, and I started to feel intensely guilty, but I couldn't do it. After several minutes of prompting in the doorway, my mother, not one to back down, gave me an ultimatum: say what she told me to say, or get a spanking. I was probably crying by this time, but I literally could not make my mouth to form the words, or my voice to say them, yet I had known from the beginning that I was headed for this. I was actually relieved that she finally said it because I would much rather have been spanked than say the words, and I was spanked. What I didn't expect, however, was that my mother would wait for me to finish crying, lead me back out, and make me be polite. I remember finally squeaking, "Hi, Mr. Wallace," and then breaking into tears again, wishing with all my little heart that my life would just be over. Drama much? Perhaps, but I wasn't trying to cause drama. I freshly and honestly wanted to disappear, never to be looked at again.
As a writer, my greatest temptation is to rush to the point within the first paragraph, but duh, that's the opposite of the point of writing, so that's the end for today. Plus I have to go to work.
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