Page 48 - Rana Sampson Issue (1)

Next Time who’d adopted from Ethiopia and they positively glowed about
their experiences.
It took almost a year to the day to bring her home. Margie, one
of my favorite social workers liked to say, “With adoption, you’re
I Want Vanilla For nearly four months, we compiled financial records, proof of
paper pregnant.”
life insurance, FBI checks, DMV histories, installed extra smoke
detectors for the fire marshall inspection, and got a thermometer
by Zori Mustin Bragg for the refrigerator. Even our fridge was under investigation! After
completing mountains of paperwork (AKA the home study), we
were approved... to wait. Three months, two weeks and twelve
My Ethiopian daughter followed me into the bathroom to inform hours later, we were matched with our daughter. And then after
me that she’d like to be white. How could I snap at her to quit more paperwork, we waited for a date to travel to Ethiopia.
barging in on me after that shocking announcement? I really On June 14, 2008, we met our precious two year old daughter.
needed to go and I’d rather have my pants on for this conversa- She weighed barely 20 pounds (soaking wet with steel-toed boots
tion. on) but was otherwise healthy. During our week stay in Addis
“What?” I said. Ababa, we learned that despite her petite stature, Mia was big
“We don’t say ‘what,’ Mama,” she admonished, always reminding on personality. She laughed fiendishly when the balls she threw
me of the rules I made. repeatedly landed in a bucket of water and choreographed a
Daddy’s girl dance that ensnared his heart.

Growing up biracial, I thought I’d be prepared for
conversations with my daughter about skin color.
But then, I hadn’t imagined they’d take place in
the loo.
My stomach churned as I tried to decide what to
say. I was much older than Mia when I realized
that I didn’t look like my white father or my black
mother. How was I supposed to teach my four
year old to be comfortable in her own skin?
As she laughed with me over her big nose joke, I
looked into her bright, deep set eyes that always
draw compliments from strangers.
“It doesn’t matter what color your skin is,” I told
48 her. “Do you know what really matters?”
“Umm,” she said, worrying her full bottom lip.
“That you show people kindness?”
“That’s right,” I said giving her a squeeze. “If you
don’t have kindness in your heart, then--”
“Can I have a snack?” she interrupted, clearly let-
ting me know the racial conversation was over.
“Yes, as soon as I go potty.”
“Don’t forget to wash your hands,” she reminded
“Why do you want to be white?” me with a stern look.
“Because.” The standard answer for a four year old.
The social workers had warned that the important conversations
with adopted children rarely happened when adults initiated them.
“Well, God made people with all different skin,” I said. “You have
beautiful, chocolate skin and Grammy has chocolate skin--”
“And Daddy has vanilla skin.”
“Yes, Daddy has vanilla skin and Mama has almond skin.”
“I think next time I’d like to have vanilla.”
Next time? Was my daughter talking about reincarnation or
Baskin Robbins?
“Why?”
“Because I’d like to.”
I took a deep breath. “Did you know that lots of people with
vanilla skin wish that had beautiful, brown skin like you?” She
wrinkled her brows. “And those people spend hours and hours in
the sun trying to make their skin brown like yours?”
Mia thought this notion was funny.
“People come in all different sizes too. Some people are tall,
some people are short--”
“Or they have big noses!” she suggested forcing a laugh from me.
When we chose to grow our family through adoption, my husband
Photography by Jaime V. Habert
and I investigated myriad agencies and programs. Because we’re
a military family, we wanted to complete the adoption before our
Model Hollyanne Setola
next transfer. We also wanted our biological son (who was four at
the time) to remain the eldest. At an open house, we met a family
March/April 2011