April Fools
Sixth birthday. Photo courtesy of LuLu.
By LuLu Grant
Adoptee, 34
Nanchang Project Volunteer
From Fuzhou, Jiangxi; Living in Mexico
I used to like my birthday.
As a child, it was a day filled with pink streamers, a mountain of gifts, and a princess cake. Sometimes Mom and Dad orchestrated elaborate parties: a pony ride, a trip to the local fire station, or a train that chugged through the neighborhood. Something to commemorate the day, to make it special. But when I grew up and entered my teenage years, that changed. No amount of celebration could mask the dark reminder of what the day symbolized.
For my sixteenth birthday, Mom baked my favorite: a carrot cake heavy on the raisins and light on the frosting, just how I liked it. It sat in front of me, its sparkling candles aglow. I fixed a smile for Mom who pointed her new digital camera at my face. Unlike us, she didn’t believe in too many pictures. Down in the den, an archive of albums, filled with memories since the day she and Dad had adopted me and my younger sister from China, dominated all shelf space.
It was May 1994 when Mom snapped a photo of my first United States meal—roast beef, carrots, and mashed potatoes with gravy. At two years old, I clutched a pair of disposable wooden chopsticks I knew how to use, my lips parted more grimace than smile. I did not look happy. How could I? Everything was foreign, everything new. The family, the house, the food, the language. I didn’t understand what had happened to me. It didn’t take long for me to adjust, for my smile to widen, for my eyes to twinkle. There I was, bouncing on a rocking horse, opening Christmas gifts, savoring a spaghetti dinner—my bib and face splattered with sauce. There we were, my sister and I, with our matching Pooh sweaters, dressed as a cat and bunny for Halloween, and perched on Santa’s lap. It was all there: documentation of two well-adjusted Chinese girls growing up and living happy lives in the United States. At least that’s what it looked like.
As Mom clicked away to capture the moment, she broke into song. Dad harmonized, and my sister emitted a barely audible sound. When the last note ended, Mom told me to make a wish. I didn’t wish for a hot boyfriend, a new car, or a shopping spree, but something intangible. I wanted to know whether today really was my birthday. Official paperwork like my passport and birth certificate told me it was, but I doubted it. Mom and Dad didn’t witness my birth. Neither did the man who found me on the street as a baby nor my Chinese foster mother who took care of me before my adoption. And while other Chinese adoptees had an abandonment note, I didn’t. My sister did. Her birth parents had scrawled her birthday on a piece of paper and left it with her, both to be found. I was jealous she had confirmation of the day she came into existence. My designated birthday shared the spotlight with April Fools. “An April Fool’s baby,” people said, as if the coincidence made me special. I didn’t like April Fools. Not because people played devious tricks on me, but because I couldn’t help but feel the day mocked me.
I made my wish and blew until the cake darkened. Mom and Dad were about to applaud when one re-sparked. Then another. And another, until the entire cake burned like a forest. I blew and blew, but I couldn’t extinguish the relentless flames. I gave up. I wet my thumb and forefinger with spit, just like Dad had taught me, and pinched the black wicks into a hissing retaliation. If only it were that easy to squelch my thoughts.
“What’d you wish for?” Dad asked.
“Can’t tell you,” I said with a smirk. I hadn’t mentioned my birthday issues to anyone, not even my sister. The two of us never discussed adoption.
After cake and gifts, Mom turned to me, her face pensive. “Your birthday was pretty low-key this year,” she said. “Are you sure that’s all you wanted to do?”
For years I had chosen to celebrate at Azteca, or as my sister nicknamed it, Gasteca, the aftermath of refried bean consumption. At our favorite local Tex-Mex restaurant, the waiters plunked a big sombrero on my head and sang Las Mañanitas, the Mexican version of Happy Birthday. I shrank under the attention. Once I hit ten, I begged Dad not to tell the waiters it was my special day. He didn’t listen. Eventually, I replaced outings to Azteca with a homemade feast of honey-BBQ glazed ribs, creamy mashed potatoes, and buttered carrots. As Dad’s number one culinary fan, I preferred his cooking. I also preferred the private setting where no one could stare at our mixed family, where Mom and Dad couldn’t tell strangers my adoption story. “I’m sure,” I said, smiling for reassurance. Mom looked unconvinced, but she let it go and hugged me tight. Dad came over.
“Happy birthday,” he said, planting a kiss on the top of my head. “Love you, kiddo.”
“Love you, too,” I said.
I gathered my gifts and hurried to the refuge of my room where anger stormed my cheerful facade. It reflected inwards towards the turmoil the simple date dredged up. How many times had I said, typed, or written April 1 without hesitation? Too many to count. It wasn’t the date itself, but what the date symbolized—the beginning of my life, an origin story shrouded in mystery. I knew one thing: a man had found me on the streets as a baby. But who was he? Where did he find me? When did he find me? And most importantly, why had I been abandoned? I did my best to suppress the taunting questions, but every birthday they stormed center stage. They poked at my painful past and made me question who I was and where I came from.
I hated it.
By the time I climbed into bed that night, my simmering anger had transformed into guilt and confusion. So what if I didn’t know my real birthday? It was just a date. I had other things, things that mattered, like a house, clothes, food, parents who loved me, who had traveled to the other side of the world for me. They cooked me ribs, baked birthday cakes, gave me presents, and goodnight kisses. All of that was more than enough. So why couldn’t I forget my past? I stared at the frilly edging of the white canopy above my bed as thoughts of my birthday and adoption gnawed like termites.
April Fools.
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