This is the second half of some video I took in March when S was making injera wat. S and R were also making a movie. S wants to be a moviestar.

"How to Raise an Inclusive Child," Or, Who Will Sit By Saffron the Lonely Girl?

Sometimes growing up with my mom was a real drag. She had pretty high expectations for her girls (four of us, no brothers), and I was reminded of them exactly 29 gazillion times a week. These were the kind of ridiculous things she expected of us:

Be a giver, not a taker.

Be a doer, not a whiner.

Let it out, or let it go.

Look for the fault in yourself first.

(“If one finger is pointing at your friend, three are pointing back at you.”)

And always—always—be an includer.

Let me tell you that it is simply no fun at all to come down the stairs with a long list of completely valid complaints about your sister, which you have very clearly been indicating to her through your huffing and puffing around only to have your mom say,

Well, did you tell her you’re mad at her? Did you tell her why?

“Of course not! I’m not speaking to her. What do you expect me to say—‘I am mad at you because . . .?!’”

Yep. If you don’t tell her you’re mad at her, and give her a chance to fix it, then you have no right to go on being mad.

RRRGGGGGG! I hated that. “Mom, you are so—RRRRGGG.”

And it is really supremely stinky when you come home from school wounded to the point of spilling emotional blood by a supposed ‘best’ friend, when you did absolutely nothing to deserve it. You get a word of sympathy and then, before you can even stick out your bottom lip and enjoy it, here it comes . . .

“Do you think you might have done something to make her feel bad? People don’t usually get mad for no reason. It takes two to tango.”

Tango Schmango. “Mom, you are so—RRRGGGGGG!”

And the final insult, the message that seemed to be my mom’s credo:

The more the merrier.

You can find something to like about everyone.

Some people are happy as long as their kid has one friend. Well, it’s not enough just to know you have a friend. I expect my girls to look around and see who needs a friend. Who is sitting alone in the lunchroom? Who is being left out? If you sit by and watch it happen, you’re just as guilty as the ones doing the excluding.

“OKKKKKK, Mom! Leave me alone! Why does it always have to be me? Why do I always have to be the one reaching out? You KNOW that’s why I end up having all the weird loner boys like me.”

Seriously, my mom really put a damper on my childhood. Just when I would be enjoying myself with my friends, I would think “Uh oh, why is that girl sitting over by herself?” And when I passed that totally gross Derek kid in the hall, I would suddenly hear my mom’s voice in my head droning, “You can find something to like about everyone—even him.”

……….

These days my friend Belinda, with whom I love to throw parties, likes to joke that if we just want our fun friends to come, she should do the inviting. If I do it, she laughs, we’ll have to invite everyone or else feel guilty about it.

I didn’t always live up to my mom’s expectations, and still don’t. But I find I want to. Some of my most positive young experiences came when I saw that with a tiny effort I could lift somebody’s spirits—it bounced back and lifted mine. And some of my best friendships have developed with people I first sought out grudgingly. I start out thinking I have something to offer them, and they end up returning the favor tenfold.

Now, just like all moms, I find myself saying the very same things to my kids that my mom said to me. Some things I repeat out of habit, because I’m exhausted and the words leak out from somewhere deep in my brain, without thought. But these expectations I repeat on purpose.

Now that I’ve lived through some good and bad in life, and see my kids doing the same, I want so much for them to be the doers, the givers, the includers. I know they are sick to death of hearing it from me, and I know they don’t always do it. But I hope at some point, my thoroughly annoying voice begins to ring true in their heads. The best news I’ve received in weeks was when a parent told me he liked having Jasper over to play with his son, because Jasper was one of the few who included the little brother.

So you see why it’s hard for me to hear that Saffron is eating lunch alone—this time I can’t tell my kid to go over and sit by her. I’ve already told her over and over to go join another table, or ask someone to be with her, and she’s tried—a little. But there’s only so much she can do. Her English is only so good. She’s already lightyears out of her comfort zone. She’s scared. So now I’m hoping for those other kids, whose parents are also ruining their childhoods, to notice, and roll their eyes, and say to themselves, “Fine, Mom! I’ll go sit by the lonely girl.”

Miss Saffron Apron

Oh, Saffron, Saffron. What is thy life these days?

For starters, when you grow up I am confident you will be forever grateful to Grandma Swensen for giving you the perfect word to teach people how to pronounce your name. (My “Africans” v. “Afrikaans” was a bit obtuse, I admit.) Grandma’s simple, “Well, it’s just like apron” will get you much further in life.

This has been a much bigger issue than I ever dreamed it would. In fact, though I’m a devoted word person who would never have considered spelling Ruby’s name “Rubie,” I have recently considered changing the spelling of your name to “Saffren.” It felt like heresy, but I had to consider whether that spelling would bother me less throughout my life than the mispronunciation of your name would. The problem at school has become so bad that now you can no longer figure out how to pronounce your own name the way your family does—you keep saying “Saff-rawn” and don’t yet have enough command of English to understand the difference. Poor thing. I didn’t mean to saddle you will something so difficult. Perhaps we should have gone with our second choice—Pat. That’s why we’re so grateful to Grandma S. So, let’s remind everyone once again: It’s Saffron, like Apron. If you typically say Aprawn, then I must remind you that you are talking about seafood rather than women’s culinary wear, and there is no hope for you. You’ll just have to call her “S.”

And, so you’ll always know why we chose such a beautiful if troublesome name, let me remind you that Saffron is one of the most beautiful and exotic spices and colors in the world, and IS the most valuable spice in the world. Not to shabby, eh? Certainly stands up to ‘Ruby,’ a most valuable woman, and ‘Willa,’ one of America’s greatest female writers. (Eudora Welty, I also love your writing, but wasn’t so keen on ‘Eudora,’ or ‘Welty.’ Sorry.)
Remember,
saf⋅fron  [saf-ruhn] –noun
“Coming from the dried stigmas of the saffron crocus, it takes 75,000 blossoms or 225,000 hand-picked stigmas to make a single pound which explains why it is the world’s most expensive spice.” --The epicentre.com

Yes, we could have given you a more typically American name. But saffron is a spice and a color that is valued the world over. The spice is ancient—transcends time. And the color is the choice for the robes of peace-loving Tibetan monks. It is as beautiful and transcendent and ancient as is your Ethiopia. We knew you would never be like Willa—you would always carry your memories, your culture, your Ethiopia with you. We wanted to honor that. Don’t let anyone underestimate your value, or you name. Ever.


And so, Saffron, what else can I tell you? You love watching TV. You want to all the time. You have no regard for content. You just want to watch. Always. Why? Is it an escape? And why do I often refuse? Why does it irritate me? I think it’s too early in your American life for me to worry about you becoming a couch potato.

I have figured out why you don’t play with friends or talk on the playground, and why you struggle to entertain anyone but Ruby at home. There are two reasons:

One, you are much more self-conscious about your English than I realized. You have finally told me you are afraid to speak without me or Ruby there. And now that I’ve learned to ask you about specific words and sentences, I realize you are understanding less than I thought (though still an amazing amount for 2 ½ months). It’s OK. People aren’t looking for you to fail! You must try.

Two, in Ethiopia you didn’t play. Now that Willa can express more and has become obsessed with repeating to me facts about life in Ethiopia, I know that 'Sam' and Willa played everyday, but Saffron never did. Saffron only ever watched. I can easily imagine you squatting, as you do, next to your shambles of a hut, and watching the other kids play. Willa often says “Saffron no play” when she talks about life there.

Somewhere in the last few weeks I lost my patience with you and began responding to your negative attitude, rather than transcending it. If I take the high road, you usually come along pretty quickly. But if I join you on the low road to nowhere, we both languish there. It’s good for me to be reminded what you came from only a few short months ago, and how far you’ve progressed. It’s my job to turn again with kindness, over and over and over. That is what is required for older child adoption. They tell you over and over how different it is from young child or infant adoption, and they’re right. Parenting you and Willa is night and day. Older child adoption is definitely more difficult, but the rewards are worth it. There is something amazing about a child old enough to recognize the mighty change in their life.


Finally, your hair. I have neglected to mention that we removed your extensions over Christmas break. They were coming out, and getting yucky. We knew they would only last about two months, but this was still very traumatic for you. You bawled for hours. You hated me for a bit, I think, and sulked for a few days. Now that I realize how much that hair meant to you, I think I may have made a mistake in letting you get them so early.

When you came, I was very eager to help you feel confident when you started school. I knew you wanted extensions in Ethiopia, so I hurried to get them for you here. We quickly got your teeth fixed so the brown spots didn’t show. I told you how beautiful you looked. So why should I be surprised now to realize you have wrapped your self worth in America up in that hair? Perhaps a better approach would have been for me to teach you about inner beauty, and let you feel good about yourself for a bit before I rushed to help you cover your short hair.

Well, now we have had that talk about inner beauty--about a kind heart, and a ready smile. You cried, and it occurred to me that you had probably never had anyone tell you that before. You wore a scarf over your head for a week, but we have since found some cute hairstyles for your short hair, and pointed out many beautiful women with short hair. To their credit, Ruby and Jasper have made a big deal about your lovely short hair. I keep telling you—honestly—that I prefer it. Your delicate neck and jaw, the graceful features which first made me see you as a Queen of Africa, are now visible, not hidden by fake braids.

You and Ruby are both suffering in the self-esteem department right now. But we’ll fix that. We’ll borrow some from Willa, who’s self-contentedness is ever effulgent, and before you know it you’ll be two supremely confident sistas.