Babies are floating. I was a floating baby once. No one knows who or where I come from, medical history is non-existent, birthday - a rough estimate, and any semblance of family is forced or found, not biological. 23 years a legal alien according to the US government. Aliens come with the notion of the abstract unknown, the weird green beings with inverted fluorescent lime teardrop heads. A classification of “Alien” is akin to identifying a body that the public wants to segregate themselves from. But this week I celebrate those 23 years of being an alien. Being a little different. A little awkward and strange.
Reflecting on how adoption has shaped my purview of the world, I always come back to “everything is fake”. The world is fake. We are fake. Nothing ever matters. An orphanage one day was handed a baby girl and told to do something with her. She was floating. And so they guessed her birthday. She looks maybe a week old - definitely no more than 3 weeks? So back tracking that brings us to May 18th. That will be her birthday. As for a name, Lu Le Le. All the children taken in this year shall share a last name, Lu, and for her Le Le - happiness. Even all of this remains speculation.
So now the baby girl has seen a 23rd year of being adopted, soon to be 24 years old. Despite the stable job, lovely friends, and more experiences and stories to tell than she once thought possible, she finds herself floating again. There is a romance in having nothing to your biological name, getting to define your own sense of self beyond that of your family’s. Choosing to weave in notes from a found family into a greater plotline, or being able to reject and throw away in favor of self-construction.
This space to pick and choose “what I want and when I want” establishes a canvas for me to paint, drawing on the histories of others and the dreams I hold for myself. But it becomes quickly scary. There was a woman once who told the world to follow their gut. Following what made them feel whole and new. Chasing after the good and bad that challenged the mind and stretched imaginations far beyond the daily commute. She asked that you and I look toward the sun, but not too long - we don’t want to burn our retinas. Up there… you see that… look! Up there is energy, something we are meant to chase. Even if touching the sun with bare hands is impossible - turning bodies into human bacon for aliens like me to enjoy, we chased something. It is to feel what heat does to the brain, and how extreme adrenaline forces the hand of curiosity to protect or explore deeper and deeper.
I used to ask myself “What if?” What if I was still in China? What if I had become a chemical engineer? What if I had overtly loved the people in front of me when I had the chance? These things plague an anxiety-riddled neural network. The constant questioning has long been trademark of children, but in particular inherent to the genetic makeup of those who grew up with these massive question marks hanging above their heads. Just out of reach. Like the cartoons of horses being manipulated with carrots, puppeteered by their rider right in front of them. A tiresome chasing of a reward that will never be devoured and digested. Rather we chase things we perhaps are better off leaving behind. A gift to the country that didn’t seem to want us. They can chew on that.
Lurching into mid-20s, 24 is supposed to be cooler and sexier… and even more pivotal than 23 and 25 - I have been told. I don’t know if I believe them. 23 was quite transformative. Confronting the loss of “youth” and “play” as defined by educational spaces and the numerical gauge of “minor” vs “adult” has its nightmarish qualities. As a college student, I promised myself that the floating would dissipate at the point of financial freedom. It has yet to. But floating higher than ever, the world looks so large and inviting. Drop me anywhere. Forge a path forward. Wait - don’t. Home is where friends are. Home is where family is. Home is where I can say hi to the security guard at the turnstiles every morning as I swipe in - enthusiastically waving hello with both my hands, a stupid grin plastered across a worn face. Home isn’t a place to leave quite yet.
London or Singapore have been put on the table. We kid and say, “Tomorrow we up and leave.” But at our core, we know where I am meant to be. She said she would test the waters in London for a year, and if they are safe, I can join her. There are too many deportation parties to plan for next year. In an effort to eliminate the planning of one, a verbal contract has been signed that civil marriage might be in order to protect what is lovingly called “the girlies”. San Francisco was another option, but prickly pears live there and I would have to learn to drive. The silliness of bringing a passport to a bar, the picture being from 2019, and knowing it won’t be renewed until 2029 is worth a light giggle. Passports are also quite romantic. Storytellers. Mine perhaps is less exciting, but still, it holds the picture of a disgruntled sophomore in college who wishes she was anywhere but the Canon camera store in Waltham at 9 AM during spring break.
I float. Float high above the earth. People are like tiny mites. Squish them and they ooze orange. And then once the atmosphere becomes too thin, and the looking becomes tiresome, we swim through clouds, looking for a tether back down to solid ground. But there is no tether. The weather is getting grim. White plumes of cotton are now thick and polluted by the anger and greed of the world. Breathing is impossible. Where is home to catch me? But a single home, place, or idea is not a guaranteed safe haven to nurture the floating - now falling - baby.
And now more babies are falling. But in all directions. You see them drift and zip. Some glide with a smooth arrow-like precision and others make loop-d-loops, dancing through the sky as they sink further and further into the abyss of cumulus. One mimics the spirling of sliding down a Fireman’s pole and another just barely in your line of vision executes a near-perfect swan dive toward an unknown but heavily calculated future. And you keep floating. Gravity doesn’t apply up here. Nothing pulls you closer and beyond the thick plushy mattress. Maybe you are an alien and are meant to stay away from the earth?
Radiating cancer and plant food, the sun becomes more attractive, mesmerizing even. It beckons and asks that you tread a little closer. You do. The heat is nice. Like that hot pack you sleep on every night, nestled into the small of your back, a failed attempt at rehabilitating a slipped disc that will forever haunt your dreams. Closer. Closer. Reach a hand out. Maybe both. Say hello. Embrace the firey marble. Alien daughters walk into the sun.
