I fell in love with Russia. I bought books, collected dolls and learned the language. Before I even reached college I decided that if I had two daughters, the second one would be named Katrina Joy (thank you Hurricane Katrina for spoiling that hope.) And all throughout college everything I did was Russian. If I had to take a class on Latin America, then my papers were on Soviet influence there during the Cold War. If I took a class on art, then I only wrote about Russian art. I dreamed of going to Russia, walking along the Neva during White Nights, when the sun never sets because St Petersburg is so far north that in the spring night is transformed into a glowing, iridescent duskiness. I knew all the art in Moscow museums and St Petersburg palaces. I could tell you the capitols of former Soviet countries but would not be able to locate Indiana on a map. A fact I am still proud of ;) I could tell you the Romanov tsars in order, from Peter the Great on, hundreds of years of rulers but I have no idea who the 4th American president was, or the 12th, or the 30th. . .
I did not choose Russia. Russia chose me.
In 2002 I had my first opportunity to go to Russia. Our church was partnering with a church in Federal Way to provide a summer camp for children in an impoverished area, south of Moscow. These children had nothing and we had the chance to go play games with them, see their eyes light up when we held out a box of crayons. Although that trip chaotically became a life or death experience for me-that story is for another blog or feel free to buy me a latte and I will tell you the dangers of lighting a 30 foot bonfire with gasoline. But I was in Russia. Its vastness, its beauty, its determination, are indescribable. That trip was more than ten years ago but I can picture every moment in my mind like it was yesterday. I can't tell you which moments were better, living in the countryside, with children clinging to my hands, their big eyes shining up at me. Sitting around a small kitchen table with people who brought us into their warmth, their homes, their families. Walking through dirt roads, behind cows, watching children play in watering holes, bartering at local markets, and listening to the girls sing rock songs while looking at family photo albums. Or the city moments, seeing artwork that I had studied for years, walking through churches that had existed for centuries, millennium of money and power, art and history, a people with a depth and breadth who were building themselves up ages before Washington had a Valley and Jefferson had a Declaration. This was history. But the history of the city was not possible without the history of the country because her people were one and for Russia to turn on her own people is for her to carve out her own soul. And I knew all that, I had studied it and was now living it, as Russia would, over and over again. That is why the Russian sky is so big. It has so very much to encompass.
My friends teased me about that sky. I simply could not get over how big it was. Yes, it's bigger than our sky because everything in Russia is bigger than anywhere else. It's just big. Taking the train through the Russian country side, all you see is sky. It's the transition between city and country. To know Russia you have to know both. And as much as any American could, I did. I came back and dove even further into the language, which tries to drown you, just for fun, and began pursuing a graduate degree in Russian studies with the goal of becoming a professor and sharing my love of Russia with students everywhere. I watched Russian movies, I bought Russian books, and sometimes I even ate Russian food! Not many people purchase huge expansive maps of the former Soviet Union and hang them in their house, but I did. Every other book in my house is about Russia-art books, economy books, cookbooks, fairy tales, fiction, poetry, and dictionaries. You need a lot of dictionaries to learn Russian! I think back on those days, of sitting outside in my backyard with flashcards on verb conjugations and it seems like another lifetime. It was. But that love was still tucked inside of me, even as life veered me away and I left my books behind.
I went back to Russia. A shorter trip, and this time without the hospital visit. That trip is how Bard and I met. He went to that church in Federal Way and just so happened to be going on the same trip. Over sickeningly adorable phone conversations and email flirtations, we discovered we each had a love for Russia, for children, and coincidentally, for each other. We met up in Moscow and had chocolate crepes, better than any I've had in France, but don't tell them that. Some of you may remember that Russia was at our wedding. From tiny gift matroshka dolls, to the crystal glasses we used in our toast, Russia was part of us and we wanted it to be part of our first day together. And even though my life had not continued its focus on Russia, it continued to be a part of me. Before we had our own biological children, Bard and I had already decided to adopt from Russia. More than once I would go down to the basement and find a loose flashcard here or there and decide to visit my old friends, the conjugations. I still read Russian books, finishing two fairly recently, a fascinating biography about Nureyev and a new one about Catherine the Great, probably my twentieth but not my last. And when you enter our home, the first framed picture you will see is not of our children (although you will quickly see a LOT of those) but a print of Russia, a map from the muscovite era.
When Evelyn was born we received a lullabies of the world CD and one of the songs was Russian. Actually, I didn't care for the song itself, it was not nearly as good as my Russian discotech CD, without which my house would never be clean, but I loved it because it was Russian and a few months ago it gave me the idea to purchase a CD entirely of Russian lullabies. Songs that I could learn for my baby boy and play for him (experts debate the positive influence of reminding an international orphan of his "homeland" due to the negative association he may experience but I thought it was a romantic idea so I went with it!) I asked for the CD for Christmas.
Some people choose a country to adopt from based on the age or gender of the child they can adopt. Or the cost of the adoption, ease of travel, or perhaps they know someone else who has adopted from that country. Sometimes people chose a particular country because of the need of the children within that country, or perhaps they visited that country and met a child they knew was theirs.There are any number of reasons that people can chose a country to adopt from and I am not saying that my pain is greater or lesser than theirs, it is simply my pain.
I did not choose Russia. Russia chose me. And I did not just lose a child, I lost a part of me. I lost the little girl who wanted to name her daughter after Catherine the Great. Now those books sit on my mantle, mocking me. I lost the artists, whom I loved, read about, wrote about. Now the art evokes pain. I lost the joy of hearing the Russian language when I would walk into the Y, or sit in my Dr's office. And I lost the beauty on my Christmas tree, taking down ornament after ornament that was a little piece of Russia in my home. Russia betrayed me. It took back my love and it took back my child. It broke my heart.
Big Russian Sky.
Over everything and subject to nothing. Encompassing the city and the country. The wealth and the poverty. At once calm, then a raging storm. You are beautiful and you are terrible, and so, you are Russia. But your soul is the people. Please do not carve out your soul.
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