A Bridge Over the Ocean
by Susan Sher

Parenting has given me immeasurable opportunities for lessons about love, forgiveness, and honesty. For me, one of the wonderful by-products of being a mother is the timeless and universal bond I feel with other parents whose hearts have also been stretched. When I began the adoption process three years ago, I could not have imagined my good fortune at being able to share this parenting connection so vividly with the birth mother of my daughter.

Prior to adopting my daughter, Hattie, I received paperwork which provided some limited information about the baby then known as Tran Thi Lu and the circumstances which led the birth mom to choose adoption. I learned that Hattie’s birth mother, Tu, who resided in a farming village just outside Hanoi, Vietnam was unable to raise her child due to poverty, a five-year old son to care for, and her own physical disabilities arising from an amputated leg. I was also informed that at the time Tu consented to have her two-month old baby girl placed for foreign adoption, the child had just undergone surgery for what was described as peritonitis. For a short time, I hesitated to accept the referral, concerned that the child may have lasting health problems. I did some serious soul-searching and stared for days at the photo I had received of Tran Thi Lu. Like most international adoptive parents, I took a leap of faith and decided that there was a reason why this child was referred to me. I knew I was meant to raise and cherish her for a lifetime.

In September 1998, two days after 11 month old Hattie was placed in my arms, I attended the Giving and Receiving Ceremony in Hanoi. I had understood that a family member or possibly a resident of the village where Hattie was born might appear at the ceremony to “give” this child to me and witness the official adoption process. I welcomed the opportunity to meet a family representative who could provide even a grain of background information that I could later share with Hattie, but thought that such an appearance was unlikely. Shortly after we were seated in the government office where the ceremony was to take place, much to my amazement, a strikingly beautiful woman on crutches with an amputated leg, accompanied by a little boy, entered the room. I knew instantly that she was Hattie’s birth mom. I walked over to Tu and placed Hattie in her arms.

Because the officials were busy arranging paperwork, Tu and I had some time to sit together. She was obviously very happy to see Hattie and played and cooed with her, while at least on the surface, Hattie did not seem to know Tu. Although Tu and I were both shy and unable to speak each other’s languages, we shared some limited communication. We laughed when her little son picked Hattie up with some difficulty, and Tu said something that I knew was along the lines of, “don’t drop her.” While we sat together, I found myself sneaking glances at her, trying to memorize her physical features, her mannerisms, anything that would help me to know Hattie. I noted that Hattie had inherited her exquisitely long fingers and beautiful, full lips.

With the help of some quick translation by one of the adoption agency officials, I was able to find out what I had hoped—that yes, she would like to keep in touch via updates and photos and if we were able to return to Vietnam, wanted to see the child again. I learned that she had seen Hattie two months earlier in the orphanage, but due to the long trip from her home and her limited finances, that was the only visit during the prior eight months.

I regretted that I did not have a gift for Tu—something that I could give her to express my gratitude for bringing this beautiful child into my life and in recognition of the overwhelming loss which I could only imagine she was experiencing. Aware of her poverty, I decided that money was surely something she could use. I quickly grabbed a bunch of American bills from my fanny pack and shoved them into her hand. She nodded in appreciation and put the bills into her pocket. I started to cry and we gave each other a quick, awkward hug. I then moved away so that Tu and her son could have some time alone with Hattie.

After the very short ceremony and the signing of the paperwork, we all went outside into the stifling heat of midday. Before I stepped into the air-conditioned van that awaited us, I put Hattie in Tu’s arms for one last time. Tu kissed the baby and quickly handed her back to me. I sat by the window in the van with Hattie on my lap. As we pulled away, I waved goodbye to Tu with Hattie’s hand and Tu waved back. It was one of the most poignant moments I have ever experienced. That night Hattie cried inconsolably for hours. I could not tell if it was because of her bronchial infection, tiredness or—despite how easily she seemed to have parted from her birth mother—a deeply rooted and subconscious grief.

Over two years have passed since that Giving and Receiving Ceremony. Hattie has grown into a smart, beautiful and healthy three-year-old. In the Vietnamese tradition, during the past few years, I have sent a small amount of money to Tu for Tet, the Vietnamese New Year, along with letters and photos. Tu very quickly responded to both letters through a friend, as it appears that she herself is unable to read and write in Vietnamese. A Vietnamese friend of mine in the town where I live graciously and patiently translated the letters on both ends for me and advised me of appropriate phrasing and etiquette.

Through this brief correspondence, I feel like Tu and I have in small, but significant ways, shared information about ourselves and of course, about Hattie (or Lu as we both refer to her) and as a result, have become some thing like pen pals. The amount of money I sent was, for me, a small donation, but for Tu, has meant a great deal. I initially feared that our link may depend on the gifts of money but it seems that the connection runs more deeply. Thinking that it would sadden her to see pictures of Hattie and me together, I carefully chose to send only photos of Hattie. Tu, however, specifically asked me to send pictures of the two of us.

Hattie has now lived with me for a much longer time than she did with Tu and clearly, my friends, family and I, and the culture within which we live, have indelibly molded her. But it is Tu’s blood, lineage, and spirit which will forever be a part of Hattie, who will also always be Tran Thi Lu. Tu and I each hunger for information about the other world in which this child has lived—I want to know where Hattie came from and Tu wants to know who she is becoming. As Hattie grows more to physically resemble her birth mom, my curiosity has increased; with the approval of my Vietnamese translator friend, my questions for Tu have become more personal.
She has responded directly and with no apparent embarrassment. She explained that her life is very difficult. At the age of twenty, she was diagnosed with bone cancer and apparently, with no options for treatment, was told that she would die if she did not have her leg amputated. Since then, for the past fifteen years, she has earned a meager living selling cooking rice paper in the market. She supports her son and also cares for her ill mother. She has no husband and no other family who live locally.

Imagining the difficulty of her day-to-day existence, I am jolted to an examination of my relatively privileged life. I, too, am a single parent and often feel exhausted and stretched to the limit. My daily challenges, however, clearly exist in a different universe. In learning Tu’s story, I see how it is one of the sad ironies of adoption that the precious beings whom we can not imagine living without, came to us as a result of the suffering and loss of others who also loved them dearly.
In a portion of one of her letters, as it was translated to me, Tu wrote, “I feel like there is a bridge over the ocean. Now we are connected as friends.” Those beautiful words filled me with gratitude for the opportunity to create a bridge for my daughter between her two worlds and to lessen the burden of her inevitable search for origins. In recent months, Hattie has started a practice of standing in front of our house and waving at the drivers of passing cars. Most days, she does not want to get into our car until at least one driver waves back to her. In my quest for symbolic meaning, I have often wondered if she has already started her search.