Something Like Beautiful by asha bandele Read Free Book Online Page B

it.
    Nisa may very well have been my present and my future, but in a very real way, she was also my past. She was, to be sure, where I was headed, but her very life said everything about where I had been, who I had been, who I had not been, who I had not come from, where I had not come from. So there it is, perhaps the whole of my story whittled down into a few short paragraphs. And yes, I mean it’s also true that, of necessity, I have had to have little faith in blood ties. But I longed for them, longed for what I imagined they carried, all that history, those unbreakable bonds, unbroken.
    The oft-repeated interpretation by my parents, the ones who adopted me, the only ones I have ever known, is that I was twice loved—first by my birth mother, who must have wanted thevery best of homes for me, which is why she gave me away, and then second, I was loved by them, by my adoptive parents, the ones who chose me. Chose me willingly.
    My own take on it, which was evidenced about as well as my parents’ version of the truth, was that I was the mistake, the one who could—and would—always be given away. Everywhere inside of me has lived the story of a child who—sight unseen—was unwanted. I admit that that changed, sort of, when the social worker and my adoptive parents—and I do not wish to minimize the only people who have ever taken responsibility for me, and people whom I love deeply—scooped me up nine-one-one-style late one winter night out of a foster home that was rife with trouble that no one, even now, can fully disclose to me.
    What I will tell myself like a mantra even to this day is that my parents came to my rescue only because they’d already met me once or twice before at the orphanage or whatever it was. People stepped in—and I realize too that this makes me lucky—because it was apparent that there was something wrong in the foster home I lived in at the time. Even before that night, I am told, my social worker would periodically take me to meet other potential parents. From the beginning, there were concerns.
    My mother, father, and I, it is said, got along famously from the very beginning. As their version of the family history goes, I was a very pretty child, startlingly verbal, inquisitive, and affectionate, an all-around charmer. I was two and half years old.
    But what if I had not been? What if I had been obviously flawed? I mean, all humans bear flaws, but some of us hide them better and I’m a master at hiding. But this is the question. Would my parents have chosen me? What qualities must a childpossess to be chosen, accepted, taken in and loved? And not just children who are adopted, but all of our children? Is there some predetermined formula that makes one kid count and another counted out?
    What if I had been shy or a crier, not too bright, maybe a little funny looking? Would I have been relegated to the dank, pest-infested cellar of child rearing: multiple foster and/or group homes? Or would there have come a moment when the new parents, foster or adoptive, grew tired of me, gave me back? If someone whose body you grew inside of could give you away, then anyone could? Right? This the story behind any story I tell the world about who I am.
    My story is not about being a charming Black girl who graduated high school at fifteen, rides English, and can discuss opera or hip-hop depending on the audience. My story is about a girl who believes if she is not perfect she will be left behind; it’s kind of an ultimate tale of childhood horror about being the last one picked, or worse, the one never picked at all when the kids on the playground are choosing sides.
    Here’s the point. I wanted a family and most especially a child, a child from my own womb, because I wanted someone who would love me, flaws and all. Because didn’t they have to, didn’t we have to, well, love each other no matter what? We were, after all, family, and we had the