A Southern Girl: A Novel

Prologue

1 Prologue June 28, 1978 Dear Open Arms: My name is Elizabeth Carter. I am a twenty-eight year old mother of two biological sons. This letter responds to Section 3(a) of your application: “State in five hundred words or less why you want to adopt a son or daughter from a foreign country.” No question on a pre-printed form has cost me so much sleep as this one. My husband, Coleman, has been asking me this exact question for months (although he wisely did not restrict me to five hundred words—he knows better ). My answers have not convinced him, and worse, they haven’t convinced me either. So I decided to put my desire in writing, in hopes that by the last period on the final sentence both you and I are persuaded that this adoption is best for everyone. If either of us remains doubtful, perhaps it was not meant to be. I cannot address the question without telling you something of my early life. As you know from responses to other questions on this application, I was born in Topeka, Kansas, on July 14, 1950. As a child I attached no significance to that date—the middle of summer heat when no one felt like doing much and my friends were either at camp or traveling, so the few birthday parties I remember were poorly attended. In high school, I learned I was born on Bastille Day. I liked the sound of it. Peasants storming a prison to liberate people who should never have been there in the first place spoke to me. I searched for some ancestral tie to France, but never found one. My folks were of Polish and German descent, and their parents were the outer limits of their genetic curiosity. A Southern Girl 2 So many of the girls I knew had parents just like mine: second generation eastern European, middle class, church-going, tax-paying, hard working. But somehow those families succeeded in areas where my family seemed predisposed to fail. My friends adored their parents, whereas I found mine rather stiff and removed. My friend Janet told me her three brothers were her best friends, but my two brothers just happened to live in the same house. I knew from visits to my friends at Christmas that certain traditions predominated, yet my family observed very few of those. In a real sense I grew up without the identity felt so strongly by those I spent my time with. Things only got worse when I reached high school. I was skinny, flatchested , and bookish; hardly the attributes that got a girl elected homecoming queen. I had a few girlfriends, but they focused more on boys than anything else. By the time we graduated, a couple of them were already engaged. I, on the other hand, couldn’t wait to get away from Topeka, to run toward a special and exciting future that I was sure awaited me in some other place. I chose Hollins for college because it was in the East, had a strong English department, and promised some sophistication I hoped would rub off on me. My parents were none too happy with the price of tuition, but they reluctantly supported my choice. I filled out there, both physically and emotionally. I first met my husband on a blind date, then again just before he finished college at the University of Virginia. He is a true son of the South, but without that sappy drawl I find grating to the ear. He is an only child, the “golden boy” his parents doted on, in much the same way he dotes on our two sons, Steven and Josh. He is an excellent father, which is why I have been surprised at his attitude about this adoption. I probably shouldn’t be telling you he has reservations , but he does and I want to be honest even if it dooms my application; our application, because he has signed it despite those reservations. He says he doesn’t think he can love an adopted child the same way he loves our biological boys. I think he is wrong. In important ways I know him better than he knows himself, and once he gets past his fear of the unknown, he will be a great father to her (we want a girl, as specified in response to question 2(c)). He also says a foreign adoption will upset his parents. He...