by Hao Bao Bao
My dark-haired, dark-eyed son sticks out in our otherwise light-haired, blue-eyed family. So, we can attract a little attention and just a few questions in the grocery store checkout line or our neighborhood park. Usually the questions range from “Where is your son from?” to “Is he adopted?” or something along those lines.
As long as the question is asked politely, I don’t mind sharing that yes, he is adopted from China. The follow up question to this is most likely, “Why did you adopt from China?” A good question and the usual answer of “Because we used to live there” was enough to satisfy many people’s curiosity of our mismatched and beautifully-created family.
Some will prod further and asked where in China we lived, to which until last month I would say, “A big city most people have never heard of, somewhere close to Shanghai.” (Which is like saying North Carolina is close to Florida!) Now, however, I just open my mouth and say,
You’d think I just said “Mars” the way most people have looked at me this month as I uttered that once heart-warming word. Because, for me, “Wuhan” is home, my China home. We lived there for two years and have gone back to visit whenever we can. But most people don’t know “my” Wuhan. They only know the HazMat suits and masked-faced crowds Wuhan. The hospitals-built-in-ten-days-and-teeming-with-people Wuhan. The “dirty”-wet-market Wuhan. And whatever-else-is-floating-around-on-social-media Wuhan.