 by Kimberly A. Behan Like a tornado, I swept back into my birth family's life. It was only after the dust settled again, that I wondered if this was the right decision. I thought I was a different person but my feelings of "where do they fit in in my life?" still resided in my heart. The language barrier was an obstacle. I do wonder if we didn't have that barrier to fight through would we be closer? Would we talk more often? Would I not feel dread when I see I have a message from them? I have visited my Colombian family a total of about five times since we reunited. We got more comfortable with each other, so I wound up staying with them in their small apartment. I got a glimpse of what my life might have been. My sister, Esperanza, loves parading me around the streets, introducing me to all her friends and acquaintances…literally ANYONE and EVERYONE. It’s here that I am first introduced to a facial look that I only ever experienced in Colombia. It comes after Esperanza introduces me and they turn to talk to me and address me directly, but I can only respond in faulty Spanish. The facial expression is a mix of confusion and fascination. They turn to Esperanza for clarification because maybe they misheard, but I imagine they are saying, “Wait, didn’t you just say she is your sister? Why the heck doesn’t she speak Spanish then? How does she only know English?!” All around me, everyone looks like me. I'm no longer the shortest. These people are my blood. I feel at home almost until they start talking expecting me to understand and talk back in their tongue. I had to hire a translator. I attempt Spanish around my birth family, but my accent is off, and they giggle uncontrollably calling me a gringa. That makes me not want to try and talk Spanish anymore. We might be family by blood, but we are not the same. This becomes apparent when I start staying with them at their apartment. They wake up early. It's 7 AM, and it's time to get up. This was my pre-mom life when I was a night owl and usually didn't fall asleep until 6 AM. Once we were up, it was time to eat. (Now here's a pause to try and explain something that even in English doesn't really make sense because it is hard to explain.) I don't like food or eating. You read that right. I don't like food. I don't like to eat. I eat out of necessity to stay alive not because it's enjoyable. I have a small appetite. Food isn't my thing. I'm an anti-foodie, in fact. I find few foods enjoyable. This isn’t linked to wanting to be a certain weight or anything. I’m just not a fan of most food. I have an eating disorder called Avoidant/Restrictive Food Intake Disorder (ARFID). Try translating that into Spanish with the little Spanish I know. Even in English, people don't understand. Eating and food gives me a lot of anxiety because of my dislike for it. All of that is relevant because at 7:30 AM in a tiny apartment in Bogota, Colombia, I am given a plate that is so big with more food on it than I would normally eat in a day. A panic attack erupts which just makes me have even less of an appetite. I try to eat as much as I can so I don't insult them. Food equals love to them. Food equals discomfort and anxiety to me. We are not the same. As I painfully try to eat more my birthmother, a woman of few words, says over and over again, "Come, Come, Come" (Eat, eat, eat.) The translator hasn't arrived yet, but even when he does it's hard to explain. There is a scene in the book and movie Matilda, where that kid is forced to eat an endless amount of cake. That is how I feel sitting at their kitchen table. Full. Sweating. Angry. Frustrated. We are not the same. When the translator finally arrives, he is confused because he has never heard of someone not liking food before. He does try his best to translate, but I don’t think they truly understand what he was saying and I get the sense that they think something is being lost in translation. I maintained some contact with my birth family from 2014-2017, but with the birth of my son, communication was harder because of the full-time single mom life I was juggling. I hired a babysitter who was from Bogota, Colombia for my son and then hired her to help translate our WhatsApp messages and help with occasional video calls. These were never comfortable phone calls, and I eventually had to tell her to tell them to stop asking me for money. It was constant. The last time I spoke with my sister, she begged me to not forget about them again and to effectively “ghost” them again. It was too much. I was pregnant again and so tired. I went radio silent almost a year and a half ago. I feel bad, but I don’t know how else to exist with them in my life. Having a translator wasn’t what I had hoped it would be. There was still just such a gap of understanding between all of us. Having the words that I said translated and then other words translated back and forth as a way for conversation to happen is a lot. It’s odd and hard to remain focused on the thread of the conversation. Back and forth, back and forth, English to Spanish, Spanish to English. As it stands now, I think about them constantly, but am left with an unanswerable question of, “How/where do they fit in my life?” About the Author: Kimberly A. Behan was adopted from Bogota, Colombia at two months of age. She is the author of Interconnected Threads, a short book about of poetry about adoption, reunion with birth family, ADHD, grief/loss, and motherhood. Kimberly is currently working on a forthcoming memoir. She is also a full-time mother, wife, and a librarian at the Brooklyn Public Library—all which bring her much joy and happiness. Grab a copy of Interconnected Threads here: https://a.co/d/00jxCtq AKA invites you to hear from members of the extended family of adoption and the surrounding community. While we take great care in curating the content, please know:
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