An escalator ride, a few more direction-asking-moments and we finally (miraculously) stood in the Arrival Lobby to wait for the moment when Amanda would be reunited with her best friend from China. Since leaving the expat life in China, the girls have gotten together numerous times in various states—Michigan, Texas, South Carolina and now Georgia. Their bond is one I know will never be broken, as they share many memories from all over the map. Amanda was so excited that I could not persuade her to go for a bathroom detour, and her eyes remained fixed on the hallway the new arrivals were streaming through. Knowing the first thing she would notice was Madi’s naturally platinum hair, she relentlessly searched the crowds for each blonde and scrutinized her face before moving on to the next stranger.

As we waited and I tried to ignore the traffic-induced back spasms, I struck up a conversation with the tattooed man beside me. I saw him give directions to a lost passenger and he was obviously very familiar with the airport layout so I asked if he could direct me to where to pick up Delta luggage. I knew that as soon as the girls were together, they wouldn’t be much help and I wanted to get a head start on getting the heck out of there. We began a conversation and he told me he was picking up two young men who had been exchange students at his home a few years back. Both boys were from Austria but he really tweaked my interest when he told me that his latest student was a girl from China. He said, “Jessica came over and was very quiet and timid but when she left she was a riot—I ruined her.” At this confession, he let out a boisterous laugh and I could tell he was a fun person who genuinely cared about each student. When the two boys saw him, they both high-fived him and the joy on their faces was proof that the affection was reciprocated. I realized as they walked away that I still need to work on my judging-a-book-by-the-cover-skills because this man at first was not someone I would usually approach because of his tattoos and overall appearance, but just a few minutes with him and I would bet that he is an amazing person with a collection of interesting tales that I would be honored to hear him spin.

Behind me, I suddenly heard a “Wo yao….blah blah blah” and turned to find a group of Chinese businessmen. Watching them rock back and forth on their heels, I was suddenly taken back to memories of China and the many airport trips we survived as we scuttled to and fro on home visits and rest trips to various places. Being in the midst of all the chaos of travelers, luggage and reunions, I desperately missed my expat life and the feeling of ‘doing something different’ it constantly brought us. Now back home in the states, I’ll admit that American life feels boring and monotonous, at least compared to the five years we spent overseas. While we were told that repatriation was very difficult, no one explained that years after returning home, these feelings would remain. The only light at the end of the tunnel is that once our Amanda is out of school, we are sure we will once again become travelers and I will be able to do more to feed my passion of working with underprivileged children.

The next person to catch my eye was a fascinating woman who was slowly weaving her way to the front of the waiting crowd to compete for the best look-out spot. She appeared to be approximately mid-forties and had ash-colored dreadlocks bundled with a hair tie and falling down her back. Uncaring about the out-dated clothes she wore, she was perfectly at ease in her Jesus sandals and long shorts, covered by a scalloped-collared simple sleeve-less shirt. She wore no jewelry or make-up, but her face was so interesting that that she didn’t need it. For a fleeting moment, I wished that I could borrow her confidence and walk about without make-up and leave behind all the effort it takes to do my hair and choose my clothes each day—but at this age, I know that gift will never come. If anything, I’ll try to do more to disguise the effects of age on my quickly fading youth, as that is just who I am.

Judging by the concentrated expression that Gypsy Woman wore, and the intent way she was searching for a familiar face to come through, I expected to soon see her throw herself into the arms of her lover—and I was curious to see what sort of man he would be. Would he have dreadlocks and be wearing sandals and a shirt with a big marijuana leaf over the chest? Perhaps carrying a tattered army duffel bag that contained all of his worldly possessions? Or would he be a shined-up businessman, stopping in to see his mistress who represents the opposite of all that he is and has in his other life? As we watched for our Madi, I also kept one eye on Gypsy Woman so that I wouldn’t miss the passionate reunion.

Before long we witnessed a soldier coming through. The USO representative greeted the young man with an arm around his shoulders and a comforting word as he guided him to some unknown area. At first I searched the crowd for the man’s family but soon realized he was probably on a service-related mission and was not flying in to his home. On his face I only saw loneliness and fatigue—and I said a quick silent prayer for our troops who are facing experiences that we can only imagine.

As the soldier and the story line I had begun to weave in my head disappeared, my attention was captured by a woman dragging along her little boy. She was obviously exhausted, but so was he and I thought she could have had a little more patience with the small chap. She tugged him along behind her with one hand while dragging their luggage with the other. In the hand that was not grasped tightly by his mother, the boy dangled a ragged teddy bear. When the mother looked down and sharply said, “Hurry up!” the boy looked up at her and softly said, “I love you, Mommy.” I could tell he was trying to break through and soften her up and my heart ached for him. I thought he must have been about four years old and that prompted a sudden memory of a little girl who was only four when I met her—and the way she looked at me as if she wanted my love but was not going to lose any pride trying to get it. She was the opposite of this boy, to his innocence and naivety she was strong and had battled tragedy, molding her into a tiny warrior with battle scars evident all over her body. Yes, I was thinking of Xiao Gou and before I knew it, I was trying to swallow past the lump in my throat and blink away the unexpected tears. I had a flashback of the times I would get Xiao Gou out of the bath and put her little rosebud pajamas on her. I would pull the shirt down and she always wanted her pants pulled high over the shirt—Chinese style that looked ridiculous to me but soon became part of a night-time ritual. Then she would get 30 more minutes of playtime with her box of blocks before we’d trudge up the stairs with her on my hip and make our way to the guest room for bedtime. My little Asian angel wasn’t interested in teddy bears to bring her comfort; instead she would go to sleep wrapping the threads from the blanket around her tiny fingers. I would lie beside her until she finally closed her eyes and I would wonder what sort of nightmares she faced in the orphanage during those long nights in the cold rooms.

Lately I have been trying to guard my heart against thoughts of Xiao Gou, because it hurts so much—much more than anyone could ever understand—but with the upturned face of a little boy trying to be affectionate to his mommy, something triggered those memories to come flooding back and I took a moment to put aside the guilt of leaving her, the fear of her current circumstances, and remember the times she filled our house with the spunk of her personality.

Finally just when I thought Amanda couldn’t take the suspense of waiting any longer, a familiar petite figure broke through the crowd and Amanda was like a wound-up jumping bean beside me. “There she is! There she is!” The girls hugged each other tightly while doing a combination of a laugh/scream that represented the joy of their friendship. My mother’s heart was soaring at the happiness my daughter was feeling to see her forever best friend and I readied myself for five days of chatting, shopping, midnight laughter and all those things that make best friends click.

I can’t end this chronicle without giving you the conclusion of Gypsy Woman and her mystery man, now can I? Right before we walked away, I looked over to see the exact moment that she found her loved one in the crowd. The happiness that spread across her face made me instantly scan the crowd to see who she was zoned in on. Surprisingly and much to my romantic side’s disappointment, it was not her prince after all—but instead a woman who could have been her sister, or maybe a friend. What did peak my curiosity was the fact that as Gypsy Woman rushed around the roped area, the emotion on the other woman’s face was not the same as on Gypsy Woman’s face. There wasn’t much excitement or joy—only a look of irritation and a fumble to half-heartedly return the embrace that was heaped upon her. I felt a surge of pity for Gypsy Woman that her friend was not as excited to see her as she might have expected and I looked away from the public rejection of affection.

As we hurried along, a light bulb moment hit and my fairy tale continued as I realized that it may have been her lover after all—coming in person to break up the long distance relationship they had shared for years. With this new twist in the story, my imagination revved back up again and we headed out the door into the heavy Georgia heat and a two-hour return trip home with two happy fifteen-year-olds chatting behind me as I day-dreamed of another life on another continent with a different culture to appease my constant purpose-seeking spirit.—Kay Bratt

Fly Away Home Boutique has probably got the most adorable China inspired line of clothes I’ve ever seen and the amazing part of it has to be the fact it is completely organized, orchestrated and fulfilled by one tenacious mom! This mom has turned to her life-long love of sewing to alleviate the financial part of her dream that brought her daughters home from China. Now this mom of four (two away at college) uses her basement as her design shop, her daughters as her models and their heritage as the inspiration to create some of the prettiest clothes you’ll ever see.

Jen has once again agreed to donate one of her most popular dresses to a Kay Bratt GiveAway! The dress will be custom made to your specific size requirement (up to a girl’s Size 8). All you have to do to get in the drawing for this Panda Dress is three things: FIrst follow the link to Jen’s Fly Away Home Clothing Boutique Fan page become a fan and leave a comment on one of the pics of the outfit you think is the cutest. Second, link this url on your facebook page or blog and title it “Kay Bratt Giveaway”. Lastly, leave a comment here on this post stating you have completed step 1 & 2 so that you can be in the drawing! (You HAVE to see the pillowcase dress at Jen’s blog!)

Come back here Sunday night to find out who the winner is. (Randomly drawn from those who participated)

And please visit the website of Fly Away Clothing and support another IA family member by making a purchase that is sure to make your little one smile!

Xiao Gou

Kay Bratt and Jamie Mason chat about China, abandonment and the children of Silent Tears.

Listen here at PsychJourney.com.

If you take the time to listen, please leave me a comment here and tell me what you think!

Thank you for your support– Kay

It’s early in the morning
Two hours before the light
I look around to see who’s there
No one is in sight.

I set both baskets by the gate
Kneeling to the ground
Tying my shoe, I say good-bye
I know you will be found.

Standing up I look once more
Up and down the street
My hand picks up one basket
The task is now complete.

Please don’t cry my darling
Let me walk away
My heart remains there with you
Until my dying day.

Tom Fisher
© October 20, 2005

1. Comment below if you remember either when your child suddenly discovered they were different than you, or when they were faced with ignorance of someone teasing them about their ethnicity. How did you handle it?

2. Post this url to this contest on your blog, site or face book.

I’ll draw for the winners on July 4!

Most of all, I know this for sure—I don’t want to lose the passion I cultivated and I want to use my story to inspire that fire in others to advocate for children—any and all children, China and everywhere. I need to work harder to be an example to the children in my own family so that one day they might take over and do more for the disadvantaged than our generation did. This world should not be about who gets ahead, who has the nicest car or the biggest house—We shouldn’t obsess about what colleges our kids will go to or how successful they will be if we just push them a little harder or force them to join one more sport or club. Wouldn’t this world be a better place if we concentrated more on molding the younger generation to be more compassionate to those around them, to reach out to people in their lives and give a helping hand? What if we gave equal time to community outreach that we do to organized sports and activities? The important thing to remember is that when the children become adults and find their passion, they will find their peace.

The intense tingling and slight burning on my skin I had been feeling all day was getting stronger. The unnatural feeling that the blood in my legs was slowly hardening to the consistency of concrete became hard to ignore. As I continued to finish the task of cooking steaks on the grill, and cutting up vegetables for a salad, I contemplated the sleepless night that was sure to come sneaking in like a silent thief. Stress is the biggest trigger for my condition and managing my pain [without medication as I am determined to do] depends on being able to manage the stress in my life, I know that from years of experience but sometimes life circumstances cannot be managed.

After dinner I accompanied Amanda to take little Jake for a potty and exercise break. Trying to wear out the tiny pup, we trekked up the steep hill behind our house as he hopped over the high grass and tried to keep up. His adorable puppy antics were a welcome respite to the impossibly frustrating day I had just endured and I gave thanks for my very normal and warm home life that I was able to return to.

Though she is only 15, the realization that my daughter has become my sounding board and confidante hit me hard as I tried to convey to her the frustration of the day’s events, and the conditions I witnessed as I interviewed the family members of my latest CASA case. She laughed as I told her about getting lost in the maze of hallways in the county jail; she knows that I am directionally handicapped. Going in unaccompanied or escorted surprised me and also caused me to forget the complicated instructions to find block B2 to where Convict Daddy would be waiting for me. After a small argument about my approval to visit, causing me to pull out my court order to gain entry, she instructed me to get in the elevator, go up to the 4th floor, go down a long hallway, take a left, get on another elevator, go down to the 2nd floor, down another long hallway and take a right. Find the magic set of double doors with a speaker and press the button to ask Oz for permission to enter. —or something like that.

Walking the long hallways with nothing but black camera domes in sight was eerie and I was easily unsettled. A few times I whipped around to see who was quickly coming up behind me, only to realize it was my own footsteps and the clicking of my heels echoing around me. The stress I was feeling caused my back to tighten painfully and all I could think was, “What the heck am I doing here? This is too scary for a small town girl like me.” I am sure the way I was lost and obviously intimidated by my surroundings was entertainment for the bored employees manning the camera panels and I struggled [and failed] to maintain a professional, confident expression on my face.

As I trudged along uncertainly, I was writing a breaking news headliner in my head and it went something like this, “CASA volunteer held hostage at county jail where riot has just begun—husband called in to plead with prisoners for her release. Kay Bratt is the author of Silent Tears and ironically there will probably be many tears shed for her today…” [I had already decided Kate Hudson would play my part and Richard Gere would be my devoted husband]

I finally found where I was supposed to be and only waited for a minute or two before Convict Daddy came walking up with his stylish orange jumpsuit and sat before me. I was expecting a terrifying lump of a man to come swaggering in but what I got was the complete opposite. Surprisingly, he appeared very neat and clean, with blond hair combed over to the side in a style that reminded me of Opie Taylor. But unlike our beloved Opie, Convict Daddy had many tattoos branding his arms—but I wasn’t afraid, especially knowing there was a wall of windows between us in case I said something he wouldn’t like.

He looked at me curiously and with even a small trace of fear in his eyes. So as I’ve seen the many dramatic prison wife actresses do in the movies, I pointed to the phone on the wall. He picked up his, and wishing I had some hand sanitizer and a paper towel with me, I reluctantly picked up mine and we began the interview that would end in one of us shedding tears.

Part Two

After struggling through the county jail maze of hallways and moving beyond my initial foreboding of interviewing a man in jail whose child was my latest CASA case, I got down to business. I explained who I was and reassured him that I did not work for the department of children’s services. It took some time for him to process but he finally understood that I was a volunteer appointed to advocate for the best interest of his child. I asked him when his release date was and what his thoughts were on where his daughter had been placed as well as future custody of her. I recorded all of his answers in my handy-dandy (Target) notebook and then he said, “Can I ask you a question?” Of course he could, but I might not be able to answer it but in this case I was easily able to produce a strong response.

“When I get out, how can I get my daughter back?”

My response, “That isn’t for me to say but I can tell you that the wishes of the court is for every child to be reunited with their parents, if possible.” I explained to him about the issues of having a safe home, steady income, clean drug tests, counseling, etc. We talked about possible outcomes to the case, which depended on details I was not privy to and decisions I would not be making, as I am only a CASA. I scolded him about domestic violence in front of his children and told him, “You have a choice—you can either choose to straighten up and be a part of your children’s lives, or you can continue down the road you are on and that makes the statement that you don’t care about them.”

He began to tell me about all of the antics his wife was up to—but I stopped him and told him that I didn’t need to hear it because it was all in the court documents. He agreed that the system had fairly taken his child because of their combined inappropriate behavior but he wanted me to know that his daughter had never been deprived. I corrected him with the statement of, “Yes, she has been deprived—of the right to a safe and healthy home and parents who strive to put her well being above their own selfish needs.” I was expecting him to get angry, slam the phone down and stalk away, but to my surprise he began to sniffle and then wipe tears from his face with his clenched fists, and I told him if he didn’t have any more questions I needed to go.

Then the big, bad prisoner said he had one more question and with a shaky, whimpering voice asked, “I am only allowed one visit a week. Since you came am I still gonna get to see my Mama on Sunday?” I tried to feel sorry for him but unfortunately felt nothing but disappointment that a set of parents has been blessed with a beautiful child and they don’t even realize the gift bestowed upon them.

I left there and headed for my next destination—the home where Convict Daddy’s baby girl was temporarily living.

Stay Tuned for Part Three to be posted later.

A girl who has seen much more of the ugly world than she should have at the age of 13.

A girl who has a long road ahead to overcome the tragedies she has been forced to bear.

During the first five minutes of our conversation I thought what I had been told about her must be untrue, that the child who sat before me was not capable of her alleged actions and the smile that radiated across her face could not have hidden such anger and resentment at the world. When we began to talk and she started to unravel the story of her life to me, the flash of anger in her eyes did not go unnoticed—the wall of defensiveness around her was evident in the sudden tightness of her shoulders and the way she sat ready to pounce at any given moment. But still, the bits of the little girl she once was pulled me in and captivated me to believe that perhaps if I convinced her that I am on her side and will do what I can to help her, that she will be able to focus on a future that does not balance on a repetitive cycle of chaos and pain. After we got the ugly stuff out of the way and I assured her that I believed her and was outraged on her behalf, I guided her towards thoughts of ‘what can be’ instead of ‘what is.” We talked about her dreams and goals and I discovered she wants to be a nurse and desires to help people. Some might find that ironic, considering her history of lashing out at those around her, but I see her antics for what they are—a child screaming for someone to stand in her court and to believe her when she voices the crimes against her.

At our second meeting she was depressed and almost unreachable, but I knew somewhere underneath she was listening to me and waiting to see if I’d give up and walk away. I decided to avoid hard subjects and focus on putting her mind at ease. We talked—or at least I talked and she listened, with an emotionless expression on her face. But I continued to talk and told her about my morning with my cat who had gifted us with a baby rabbit and a baby mole at our doorstep that morning. Possibly a morbid story—but as I joked about my killer kitty’s adventures, the small smile I saw creeping across the face of the child before me was my reward. Just a few silly words but enough to pull her away from her dark world for a brief time before she shut me out again. As I said goodbye and reminded her that I’d be back to visit, I could see the doubt flicker across her face.

To learn more about the role of a CASA, see their website at www.casaforchildren.org