Packed Bags
The first time I remember a bag being packed and unpacked, it was my new foster sister arriving to stay with us and eventually be adopted. At 13, I thought I knew what it would be like to discover her past & her personality, but nothing could have prepared me for the plastic bags she brought with a few pieces of stained clothing. And that was all. Nothing else, that I can remember.
While I’d never before considered myself a privileged child, wealthy or exceptional in any way, that all changed in an instant. It was if someone picked me up off the earth & planted me back down, but with a new identity: entitled, spoiled, suburban, white brat. Instantly, I feared I was that person and always would be, and set out to instead be kind, loving and just the best sister and person ever.
I was 13.
I failed. Miserably.
But I was deeply impacted. And eventually it was a catalyst in making me a better person.
And now, I own a thriving travel company, which allows me to pack bags & travel frequently with and without my family members. I pack big and often new, suitcases. I evaluate which one is best for a particular trip. I visit beautiful places and sleep in gorgeous spaces. But I will always and forever remember my sister’s bag. I will refuse to be an entitled, spoiled, suburban, white brat.
I suppose it would be easier to walk through life and turn away from what I’ve known and battled, suffered and witnessed, but that’s not who I am. It never will be. Instead, I’m the downer in the room who looks at something beautiful and remembers the tragedy in my past; Not even my past - a past I witnessed. It’s who I am.
Since my first experience brushing up against my sister’s painful childhood, I’ve gone on to love and adore many adopted persons. I have relationships with grown and adopted survivors, along with children of all ages and stages. I’ve taken many kids in, some for months and one for years. In fact, so many stories have dominated my walk through this life, it makes me wonder what I’m supposed to be learning now so I can be of use, later.
Because I didn’t know at 13 what I was learning and why. I didn’t realize what it meant when I was plucked off the earth and returned forever changed, but I know now. When people speak about white privilege and entitlement, I know exactly why they’re concerned. I again feel the earth tremble beneath my feet as I’m jettisoned off the ground. I want to stand up to them and say “ME! They’re talking about ME!” and I’m washed anew with incredible gratefulness I wasn’t allowed to remain in my state of ugliness; my suburban bubble.
