What my adopted sons from Russia and Ukraine taught me about trust
I am the father of two adopted sons, from Russia and Ukraine. Lifting a child from the only culture he has ever known is a serious affair. My new sons were brought to a place where nothing would be familiar: the sights, the sounds, the people, the smells, and the language.
Alyosha was 7 when I adopted him, living in an orphanage south of Moscow. He had no idea I was coming for him. Still, when I asked, “Do you know who I am?” he threw me a curious look and inquired, “Papa?”
Why We Wrote This
A story focused onInternational adoption summons trust at its rawest and most powerful. It’s an act of good faith with the potential, as our writer learned, to transform both those adopted and adopting.
Anton was 5, living in a Ukrainian orphanage near the Black Sea. Tiny and knock-kneed, he registered doubt in his eyes when he spotted the 6-foot-3-inch frame of the stranger who had come for him.
But the readiness with which both boys came along with me, and the trust they placed in me, still astounds. When it was time to take Alyosha home, I wondered what I would do if he was hesitant to leave. I was pleasantly surprised – no, overjoyed – when he leaped into my arms and said one word: “domoi” (home).
I carried him away in my arms, and he never looked back.
I am the father of two adopted sons, from Russia and Ukraine. They’re grown now, but I still find myself looking at these young men with the same wonder I harbored when they were little boys, about to accompany me to a new country, a place brimming with promise for their futures.
Alyosha is the older of the two. He was 7, living in an orphanage south of Moscow. I recall my Russian escort walking him over to me as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He had no idea I was coming for him. Still, when I crouched before him and asked, “Do you know who I am?” he threw me a curious look and inquired, “Papa?”
As for Anton, he was a tender 5-year-old, living in a Ukrainian orphanage near the Black Sea. Tiny and knock-kneed, he registered doubt in his eyes when he spotted the 6-foot-3-inch frame of the stranger who had come for him. I managed to disarm his anxiety with the gift of a toy car, which elicited a look of wonder and a willingness to take my hand.
Why We Wrote This
A story focused onInternational adoption summons trust at its rawest and most powerful. It’s an act of good faith with the potential, as our writer learned, to transform both those adopted and adopting.
The readiness with which both boys came along with me still astounds. I remember those departure days. When I returned to the orphanage for Alyosha, I found myself wondering what I would do if he was hesitant to leave. I admit that I was pleasantly surprised – no, overjoyed – when he leaped into my arms and said one word: “domoi” (home). I carried him away in my arms, and he never looked back.
Similarly, Anton was raring to go. The orphanage staff had decorated the room with placards bearing messages of encouragement in fractured English: “Anton, we very like you,” “You must be friend with brother Alyosha,” and my favorite, “The boy! Many happy you!” Then, gathering up his teddy, he took my hand and we walked out together.
Lifting a child from the only culture he has ever known is a serious affair. Beyond their not knowing what “America” meant, my new sons were being brought to a place where nothing would be familiar: the sights, the sounds, the people, the smells, and above all else, the alien language. Alyosha, for example, often despaired of being able to understand and communicate with his American classmates in English, crying into his hands in frustration. I of course knew that, as English gradually supplanted his Russian, comprehension would come, and contentment would follow. But the interim was certainly fraught.
While the adoptions were still in progress, I had been told that the early days, weeks, and perhaps months would constitute a “honeymoon period” in which my sons would be angelic in their desires to please, for fear of being “sent back” to their home countries. I never enjoyed such an introductory grace period. Alyosha was willful, and Anton cried – howling at the top of his lungs – until he passed out from exhaustion. Although I didn’t realize it at the time, their difficult behaviors were expressions of the profound trust they had placed in me. In other words, they felt secure enough to let their emotions run free precisely because they had no fear of my rejecting them or sending them back. The tears and tantrums were signs of temporary distress, but these behaviors also represented, again, an abiding belief that I was someone who would be there for the long haul, come what may.
This last realization came home in spades to me on a winter day when Anton was 6. I was performing draft-horse duty, pulling him on a sled over a snowy Maine field. The day was flinty cold, the wind biting, and Anton was bundled in his snowsuit. After a particularly energetic romp, he called out to me to stop the sled. And then, “Papa?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you for bringing me to your home.”
I was momentarily overcome by such a sentiment from a 6-year-old. I regarded his rosy-cheeked face smiling out at me from the frame of his hood, and, gathering myself, I gave him the only answer I could. “It’s your home, too. Never forget this.”
If trust means anything, it’s that it flows both ways.
