JOYCE MAYNARD

Dear Friends,

Less than two weeks ago, I returned from Ethiopia with my two newly adopted daughters, Almaz and Birtukan (ages 7 and 10). As you might imagine, it has been a busy time here, but most of all, a rich and wonderful and deeply moving one—starting with the moment the gate opened at the orphanage and I stepped in to the open arms of two little girls I had met last July, who had been waiting ever since for my return.

While we were in Ethiopia the girls and I paid a visit to the one-room hut where they were born and where their mother died. When we arrived, their three older brothers served us three bottles of warm orange soda and Almaz prepared a coffee ceremony. We took a six day road trip through Ethiopia, where we met a tribal king, rode a boat through a lake filled with crocodiles and hippos, ran after zebras, and visited a friend’s coffee collective. We participated in a goodbye dinner (at the orphanage that has been the girls’ home for the last twelve months) with a traditional Ethiopian meal and prayers, followed by much joyful dancing and then tears.

It was an experience filled with lessons, watching the girls say goodbye to their three living brothers, and to every single thing they have known of the world, and then step onto an escalator (for the first time) to a plane taking them to America. I do not kid myself that doing this was without great pain. But they are also two of the most hopeful, uncomplaining, trusting and resilient people I’ve ever met. They look after each other.

After the twenty-eight hour journey home to the United States, everything they see here—from the Golden Gate Bridge to a doorbell—fills them with wonder. It is my hope for my two new daughters that they will always maintain strong ties to the country and culture of their birth—and to the family they left behind. At the same time, of course, they need to learn a new language, a new set of customs (Eating with a fork! Petting a dog!)

And they are doing all of this with so much courage and good spirit.

Of course it was a pile of fun, bringing them to the ocean for the first time and watching them chase waves. I have gotten to see the world through the eyes of children again, and the particular children are two who have had so little up until now that they take nothing for granted, and every single experience (the gift of a balloon, or even a piece of shiny paper; a glimpse of a hummingbird) is new. But the first trip to the supermarket, and even to the doctor (to whom they solemnly said “thank you” after getting their shots) were equally big moments. They’re learning to sound out words in English (at the moment we’re reading Hop on Pop, a book I last opened about 25 years ago, and Go Dog Go.)

They are amazingly sturdy, independent, cheerful girls. One morning I found Almaz at the stove, cooking scrambled eggs for her little sister, and the other night they popped into the kitchen to say “Ciao”—meaning they had decided they were tired and were putting themselves to bed. Last night I discovered a secret cache of all the underwear they had been wearing—and washing, by themselves, and hanging out to dry.)

The list is long of things they need to learn (and want to learn), starting with the English language. They have also made it plain they want to swim. They want to learn karate—something they heard about from two beloved Ethiopian friends recently adopted from their same orphanage and now in regular touch with them by phone, from their new home in the Midwest. They want to go to school. And learn to ride the new bikes I bought them—used, but to them, an amazing luxury. They ask for no toys, though they do look longingly at displays of Valentine chocolates and—I think because I have a pair—Almaz has asked me for green boots.

They have begun putting words together into phrases, with a surprising ability to get their message across. (Told she could not have any sweets until she ate a meal of protein and vegetables, Birtukan thought a long time, looking sorrowful, then announced:
“Mom! Birtukan. Eat. Finish. Cauliflower. Cake. Chocolate! Ice cream?”) And they are perpetually ready to make friends wherever we go. They greet a stranger with a hug, and call out that person’s name (and “Ciao”) when we say goodbye. Even if it’s the toll booth operator.

I’ve discovered they love to watch silent movies (no Pixar extravaganzas yet). They have both perfected a perfect imitation of Charlie Chaplin, walking and spinning his cane. Laurel and Hardy elicit the biggest laughs. Though now that they have seen a couple of Michael Jackson videos on You Tube, he is invariably their first choice. (They watch, transfixed, facing the screen, imitating all the moves. And later, driving in the car, they try singing the words to the songs, nodding their heads and bouncing as much as seatbelts allow.)

It is not hard finding signs of all they have missed. Climbing stairs is new for them. So is a refrigerator filled with food. They both like to be held a lot—even carried. They have a hard time with the food we eat around here, and when I serve it, they deal with the experience by spooning large amounts of berbera spice on top. Birtukan gets car sick nearly every time we go out (partly due to anemia, I’m told, and partly due to having almost never ridden in a car before.) But when it happens, she calls out “Bag!”, attends to business, takes a tissue out of her pocket (she calls them “soft”) and a swig of water, and off we go.

Life with the girls has been demanding, for sure, but when I feel overwhelmed, and remember how I used to sit with my coffee having nice long talks with friends, or lingering in the bathtub, or reading a book in bed—I remind myself how fleeting and precious this time is now. Soon enough they will need me so much less.

In the nearly two weeks we’ve been together, I have seen my daughters cry only once: when they left their friends and caretakers at the orphanage. Before every meal they say a prayer in Amharic, their language. I don’t know the meaning of all the words but my Ethiopian friend Lily tells me they are praying for their friends back in Ethiopia, and for everyone who does not have food to eat.

People I meet these days often tell me what a wonderful thing I have done, adopting the girls. I tell them what is true: There is nobody in this household luckier than I am at the moment.

With warm friendship,

Joyce Maynard

P.S. Speaking of good fortune: In the days since the earthquake devastated Haiti, I find myself comparing whatever seemingly difficult task I am facing at the moment with what a woman would be going through in Port au Prince right now. Not much feels worth complaining about after that. I want to remind you of my invitation to join me March 28th at my home in Mill Valley, CA, for the open house I’m hosting. I’ll be teaching all Pie Day participants how to make a great pie (this means the secret of my crust) and generally having a great time. All proceeds will go directly to Dr. Paul Farmer’s Partners in Health. (Simply donate to PIH on their site here, and then send Melissa an email with your receipt of donation attached. Your name will be added to the invite list, and you’ll receive an email in mid-March with further details and directions to my house. And if you can’t join us on March 28 for baking, I hope you’ll make a contribution, and let us know about it so we can add your donation amount to our website tally. I’m happy to “attend” your own Pie Day, if you let me know the day and time, via Skype video conference. Anyone who can show $500 in donations to PIH receives an autographed copy of my newest book, Labor Day. We’re nearly halfway to my goal of raising $10,000 for Partners in Health.)

A LETTER FROM JOYCE: Feb. 12, 2010

PIES for HAITI
INITIATIVE

$6930 raised
(as of 3/13)

GOAL:
10,000 USD donated to Partners In Health

Please read more, sign up for the Open House Pie Day, and let us know if you donate to Partners in Health by clicking here...

25 WRITERS,
4 FACULTY,
1 LAKE

Write By The Lake
Writing Workshop 2010.
From the submissions, this seems to be a phenomenal group of students. We’ll let you know how the week goes.