Butterflies in the Wind: The Truth About Latin American Adoptions

By Jean Nelson Erichsen and Heino R. Erichsen

The book chronicles not only the adoption of their three children abroad, but follows each of their children (including their biological son) into young adulthood. It vividly depicts their difficulties in raising teenagers in a cross-cultural, transracial home, and also exposes the frightening conditions facing today's kids in our public schools, including gang issues, drop outs, and culture clashes. It provides valuable insights to parents and non-parents as well. This book was a real eye-opener and awakened me to the harsh realities our teens must face in what I would have thought were quality schools. Although told from a parent's point of view, they very effectively explored the emotions, indeed the angst, of their teenage children.
-Jo-Anne Weaver, adoptive parent of a Chinese daughter placed by Los Nios International, and Senior Acquisitions Editor of Education and Developmental Psychology for Harcourt Brace.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 17, 2004
• ISBN: 9781475915143

Jean Nelson Erichsen

The arrival in midlife of three infants propelled Jean Erichsen in a new direction. Her first publications were written for children. Later, she used her pioneering adoption experience to create the first book on international adoption. Subsequent versions evolved into How to Adopt Internationally, still considered the bible on the subject. When she and her husband launched Los Niños International Adoption Center (LNI) they paved the way for thousands of North Americans to achieve parenthood. The Erichsens traveled extensively in Latin America, Asia, and Eastern Europe, to visit orphanages and develop adoption programs. The agency earned a national and international reputation for high ethical standards. Jean is considered an expert in the field of international adoption and was often interviewed for national television broadcasts by ABC, CBS, NBC, Cable News Network (CNN), Univision, WorldNet (U.S. Information Service), major magazines, and newspapers. The agency and her books were mentioned in dozens of books on adoption. Erichsen earned a bachelor’s degree in communications/social work at Metropolitan State University, St. Paul, Minnesota; a master’s degree in human development, specializing in foreign adoption sources and procedures at St. Mary’s College, Winona, Minnesota; and certification by the Texas Board of Social Work Examiners. Erichsen was in Holland for the final reading of The Hague Convention on Intercountry Adoption. She is a member of the Association of American University Women, the National Association of Social Workers, Great Decisions Foreign Policy Association and member for twenty-five-years of the National Council for Adoption and the Joint Council on International Children’s Services. She and her husband are the parents of three biological and three adopted children who are now married with children of their own. The Erichsens live in The Woodlands, Texas.

Book preview

BUTTERFLIES IN THE WIND:

The Truth about Latin American Adoptions

By Jean Nelson-Erichsen LSW-MA & Heino R. Erichsen MA

Authors Choice Press

New York Lincoln Shanghai

Butterflies in the Wind The Truth about Latin American Adoptions

All Rights Reserved © 1992, 2004 by Jean Erichsen

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher.

Authors Choice Press

an imprint of iUniverse, Inc.

For information address:

iUniverse, Inc.

2021 Pine Lake Road, Suite 100

Lincoln, NE 68512

www.iuniverse.com

Originally published by Los Niños International Adoption Center

ISBN: 0-595-32393-6 (Pbk)

ISBN: 0-595-77268-4 (Cloth)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-1514-3 (ebook)

Contents

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Preface

Abandoned Children

Homes for the Children

Poverty & Prejudice

Spanish/Indian Children With White Parents

Crossed Cultures

Temporary Kid

Mexican Standoff

Laying the Ground Rules

Flour and Eggs

Quinceañera

Mis Hijos

Graffiti and Gangs

Flight of the Buttlerflies

Winds of the Future

A Birth Mother Says Goodbye

Epilogue: Adopted Twins Tell Their Story

Afterword: Los Niños International doption Center

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Our Colombian and U.S. born children provided the impetus for us to begin writing about Latin American adoption procedures and about the stories of the homeless children who found new homes in the United States. Some stories were printed in adoptive parent newsletters, others were published in our first book, Gamines: How to Adopt From Latin America. In this work, pseudonyms have also been employed and names of schools have been changed to preserve confidentiality.

Over the years, many individuals and organizations have contributed insight and information to help make this book what it is. Adoptive Families of America (AFA), Association of Single Adoptive Parents (ASAP), Council of Adoptable Children (COAC), Families Adopting Children Everywhere (FACE), Families Adopting in Response (FAIR), International Concerns Committee for Children (ICCC), Latin American Parents Association (LAPA), Joint Council and International Children’s Services (JCICS), National Committee for Adoption (NCFA), National Council of Adoptable Children (NCAC), Adoption Agency Councils in Austin, Dallas, Houston and San Antonio, and the hundreds of post-adoptive parents who have told us about their experiences.

Finally, we wish to thank the directresses, social workers, liaisons, priests, nuns, and doctors who struggle through crisis after crisis to care for the abandoned children while millions of other children await their turn—if it ever comes.

Preface

Baby-lifts. Plane loads of orphans. The media carried heartwarming stories of Korean and Vietnanese orphans being brought to America for adoption by loving Americans. The United States was at war in Vietnam; political life was complicated and ugly. On the other hand, our home life was simple and beautiful. My husband Heino and I had another baby. Kirk was, without a doubt, the most lovable baby we had ever known. Our older sons, Jorg and Arthur, were puzzled. Why would we want another child?

And now we wanted a girl. But when we contacted local adoption agencies, we discovered they had long waiting lists for Asian and U.S. born children. They would not even take our application. Where in the world could we adopt a baby? A Latin American* friend provided the answer. Our older sons were absolutely flabbergasted when we told them we were flying to South America to adopt twins.

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1

Abandoned Children

BOM-BOM-BA-BOM, Latin American dance music drummed from stereos blasting at two parties in the apartment building where we were staying. I put on my glasses and peered out the window at an early morning haze blanketing the city below. In a few more hours, Heino, Kirk, and I would be hurriying down those streets, heading toward the adoption agency where our twin infant girls were waiting.

Adopting a daughter had been a dream. Now it was actually happening. I gazed myopically into the mist, reflecting upon the miraculous events that had brought us to this place. The trip had begun with an excited call from my old friend, Maria Mosquera. Our social worker just called to tell me they had a baby girl for Renaldo and me. We’re going to name her Yolanda Maria, she exulted. I was delighted for Maria, but at the same time, I expressed my hope for a daughter, too. In her typical style, Maria said, Don’t worry about it, Jeanie. I’m going home in December, and I’ll find one for you."

I had met Maria at my job with a computer company. She was the most fascinating person in the office. Anyone who cared to listen to her had lost their "Mexican siesta" stereotypes

about Latin America. Well-educated and well-traveled, she had been an unofficial ambassador. She had given us Spanish lessons. She had taught us South American geography, anthropology, and politics. Most of us had our last lesson on Latin America in the sixth grade.

Maria had also told us sad stories of beautiful gamines (Colombian word for abandoned children) as young as four years old. Everywhere, she said, these ragged street children followed her and politely asked for food. She told of toddlers trying to sing and dance for pesos outside theaters at midnight, of desperate mothers standing on street corners trying to give their babies away to passersby.

Maria’s method in finding a daughter had been to write to her brother, a doctor in a charity hospital. She had asked him where the babies were taken after being abandoned there at birth or after an illness. The doctor had promptly responded with application forms from a licensed adoption agency. We had filled out our form, requesting a recién nacido (newborn). Maria had translated our documents. These papers, in addition to pictures of our family and our home, fattened the envelope Maria carried on her flight to Bogotá that December. Then we had been on our own. We had not known that the U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service had stringent requirements concerning the adoption of foreign orphans, and that each U.S. state had its own set of laws.

Renaldo and Maria had thought our orphan s immigration would be a simple process; we, like them, would merely have our Colombian baby s data stamped into our passports. Since Renaldo and Maria were still foreign nationals, that had been possible. Heino, a European immigrant and naturalized U.S.

citizen, had not been convinced that it could be possible for us. After a few conversations with our local immigration department, Heino had discovered that no one had been really sure how to handle a Latin American orphan s immigration. It had been Hubert H. Humphrey, that lover of tired and poor immigrants, who responded to our pleas for help by sending us the laws and requirements pertaining to U.S. immigration procedures.

Sheer determination had carried us thus far. Adopting a Third World girl orphan had become a logical choice for us. My grandparents on both sides of my family had raised girls orphaned in Minnesota in the early 1900’s. But seventy years later, I had been forced to search for a daughter thousands of miles away.

Then one January morning I rocked before a window, nursing nine-month-old Kirk and enjoying the crystalline beauty of an icy-bright day. Suddenly a U.S. Mail truck braked to a stop in the blue-shadowed snow. The mailman’s boots squeaked on the hard slippery walk to our door. Maria had been gone only a month. Now she was sending us a special delivery letter! Still holding Kirk, I sat down to read it. The words blurred, and then seemed to fall off the page. I shakily handed it to Heino.

He read it aloud, Dear Jeanie, I took your application into the adoption agency today. The social worker went through your application while I was there. She told me to write and ask if you would like to adopt two-week-old, dark-skinned twin girls. Their mother brought them here when they were five days old. Maria went on to explain the procedure: The agency, called Casa de la Madre y el Nino, would provide an attorney, and we would need to stay abroad about a month. If we wanted the girls, we were supposed to leave immediately.

Our calm existence exploded into chaos. We had expected only one daughter—six months to a year later. Now there was just one weekend to decide. Yes. It was not a difficult decision. We cabled the adoption agency—WE ACCEPT. Belatedly, Heino and I discovered that we had much to do before we left. We still didn’t have the FBI clearance required by U.S. immigration, nor the home study required by our state. The home study was a social worker s report on a prospective adopter s suitability for parenthood.

My mind flew back to the interviews. Where did you meet? the social worker asked. Heino and I had met at a Partnerless Parents meeting. We matched in appearance: blue eyes, ash brown hair, pinkish-white skin, medium height and weight. Both of us had a distinguishing feature. During adolescence, my Roman nose had earned me the nickname of spoonbill. Heino had dealt with his taunters in those days by wiggling his prominent ears upon request.

Even though we were born on different continents, our similarities were astonishing. As we got to know each other better, we found that we were both second-born children and were ethnically and culturally Scandinavian/German. Heino was born and raised in Kiel, a part of Germany that was once Denmark. I was born and raised for my first nine years in the tiny Norwegian village of Sacred Heart, Minnesota. My father was a second generation Swede, my mother a second generation German. The spire and cross of the Lutheran church dominated our communities, instilling Christian values, performing sacramental rites, and celebrating religious holidays. Both sets of parents had been married in the Lutheran church in their twenties. They stayed together until parted by death. My father and Heino’s mother were hard working types who owned their own businesses. As children, Heino and I had worked with our parents at home and at their business places.

We came from well furnished, orderly homes, structured around the Protestant work ethic. Radio waves of opera music set the mood on Sundays, when the table was covered with lace or damask, and excellent Northern European meals were served by our mothers on fine china. This was the traditional day of rest, when our parents caught up on their reading, or entertained.

Despite the similarities in our backgrounds, we were opposites in personality. I was quiet, reserved, and went about my life at a steady, moderate pace. Heino was high energy, assertive, and galloped through his days like a racehorse. I backed off from conflict; Heino stood his ground.

Why do you want to adopt? The social worker wanted only a few sentences. I could have talked about my reasons for days. A big, warm, loving family was all I ever wanted, I told the social worker.

Maria had such a family. She had their support in every venture. She wrote several letters to us. In one she told us the touching story of the twins’ eighteen-year-old unmarried mother when she visited her babies at the adoption agency. The social worker told her the twins were going to be adopted by U.S. citizens. The girl was happy for the sake of her babies. She obtained passports for the twins with her own money. Saying good-bye to the babies a second time must have been just as painful as the first time. My eyes burned with tears as I thought of it.

In another letter, Maria introduced us to a couple who would

be our hosts, Alberto and Claudia Gomez. Maria’s letter was quickly followed by many from Claudia. Efficient Maria had everything in readiness abroad. In the United States, however, we had reached an impasse. Our fingerprint charts were lost somewhere in Washington, D.C. Without notification of our FBI clearance, our local immigration office could not cable the twins’ visa approvals to the U.S. Embassy abroad. Without the visas we could not bring the twins into the United States. While we chewed our fingernails waiting for the charts to be found, the adoption agency told us that if we were not coming soon, we should return the twins’ birth certificates. We needed Hubert Humphrey’s kind offices a second time. And he came through for us, first at our local immigration office, and later at the U.S. Consulate in Bogotá.

Eight weeks after the twins had been offered to us, we were finally on the plane. I buckled myself into my seat like a zombie, not daring to believe I was really going to become the mother of those babies. I flew on fear. Heino flew on faith. We still didn’t have those visa clearances. Based on over-the-phone assurances that the cables would be sent to Bogotá in a few days, Heino had booked flights for the three of us. Kirk, one of the most easy-going babies in the world, enjoyed the trip far more than we did. He reveled in the attention his champagne-colored hair and china-blue eyes attracted from the flight attendants and passengers.

That evening we landed at Bogotá’s Eldorado Airport. As we stepped off the plane, we could see that we were on a mountain-ringed plateau. The cold, rarefied air made us puff with exertion. A grimy little street urchin helped us find our bags and placed them on the counter for customs inspection. I thought to myself—he was too young to be up so late. The child was so eager, so helpful. He even stood on our suitcase while an official taped it together because the clasps had broken during transfer in Miami. Heino and I looked at each other, wondering what to do for the boy. United States currency was illegal in Colombia, and we had only large denominations of Colombian bills. As we walked away, I saw him stamp his foot in disgust.

Alberto and Claudia waited for us at the street entrance of the airport. Alberto, a business executive, shook Heino’s hand and kissed my hand. He proudly drove us to their apartment in their new Colombian-assembled Renault—at top speed. A dozing watchman in a long gray ruana (poncho) scrambled to his feet to open the garage door.

Luci, their maid, a young woman of eighteen, demanded a password before opening the door. She wore a striped orange ruana over her nightgown. After a brief introduction, she disappeared in the direction of the balcony. Alberto explained that most Bogotanos don’t carry keys; pickpockets might snatch them and follow their victims home. Bogotanos left their household keys with their maids.

Beyond our guest room lay the Gomezes’ apartment, tastefully decorated in a blend of old and new. Modern furniture of rare polished jungle woods harmonized with Spanish colonial antiques. Vases of orchids and baskets of fruits greeted us: mango and papaya, soursop and chirimoya. The rooms were arranged very much like those in middle income apartments in Minneapolis. Automatic laundry facilities were lacking, but balcony-laundry rooms were included in each apartment. Next to the Spanish-style laundry sinks of concrete and tile were the maid’s rooms.

Claudia and I went into the guest room to put Kirk to bed. Then the four of us talked for hours. Sometime after midnight, Claudia told me—rather hesitantly—that Luci had released a baby boy for adoption at the agency where our twins were waiting. Luci, she said, wanted very much to come with us when we went to see our babies. The bom-bom-ba-bom of stereos grew louder as we discussed our plans for the morning. As we prepared for sleep, others were ready to dance until dawn.

I lay down resignedly. I could have been dancing at one of those parties. Then I drifted off to sleep, only to be awakened a few hours later by roosters crowing on the balconies, and rhumba and bambuco rhythms blasting from other apartments.

Exotic Bogotá lured me to the guest room window, then teased me by obscuring itself in a haze. I stayed by the window, lost in thought. As the sun slowly cleared away the fog, I emerged from my dreamy reveries. I turned from the window and faced the practical problems of the coming day. This was an excellent time to beat the Gomezes to the bathroom. Afterwards I would have plenty of time to nurse Kirk and find the clothes we were going to wear to the adoption agency—our best.

Later I heard the Gomezes shower, dress, breakfast, and leave for their jobs. Through our closed door I heard Claudia give some last-minute instructions to Luci, Call the agency and make an appointment for the Erichsens. In a few minutes Luci was banging on our door. "Señor Heino! Señora Jean! You have an appointment for nine o’clock this morning." By this time we were all dressed. Our appointment was in just half an hour. Luci dispelled any remaining myths we had of languid Latins by clearing away the breakfast dishes and locking all five locks on the front door in ten minutes flat. We rushed to the bus stop.

As we stood panting, an amazing procession swerved, strutted, and strolled by. Mercedes-Benzes vied for traffic lanes with heavily laden burros. Elegant society ladies brushed past peasant women in black bowler hats and ruanas. A city minibus lurched to our corner. Luci stuffed us into the tiny contraption. Kirk, from his vantage point in Heino’s back carrier, smiled merrily at the riders. Brown hands sought to stroke his shining blond hair.

Luci showed us a picture of her baby, adopted by a Swedish couple the month before. She could hardly wait to get to the adoption agency to ask about him. Sadly, Luci explained that he was the second baby she had released for adoption. Claudia had already told me Luci’s tragic life story. Luci’s mother had saved pesos to send Luci to school, but Luci’s student days ended when she became pregnant for the first time at age thirteen. Luci had never been told about sex and babies, and she didn’t understand what was happening to her body. Yet she was beaten by her mother and grandmother and thrown out of their shack. Luci had no father to turn to; she didn’t even know who he was.

By the time the Gomezes hired Luci, she had become an experienced sixteen-year-old cook, nursemaid, laundress, and housekeeper. In the Third World, poor, uneducated, homeless girls had few options. Life in virtual bondage as a household servant or prostitution. To her credit, she chose to be a maid. As is customary, the Gomezes paid for Luci’s medical expenses, including her illnesses as well as her ensuing pregnancy. She gave birth one day, and Claudia made an appointment for Luci at an adoption agency the next. Luci nursed her newborn Roberto for a few more days while she took him around to the

birth registrar and to a physician. Reluctantly, she carried Roberto into the adoption agency and signed the mother s release form. Then he was gone. During the hours and days that followed, Luci’s breasts became inflamed and engorged with milk. She thought she would die of pain and loneliness. Claudia, a childless woman, had not realized that Luci might need an injection to dry up the milk. She had let Luci suffer until the milk dried up by itself.

I looked at Luci bouncing next to me on the bus seat. She had changed out of her white maid’s uniform into her best dress for this occasion. It was as difficult for me to accept Luci’s fate as it was for me to accept Claudia’s and Alberto’s determination to conceive a child. Claudia had told me of her many painful tests and treatments at a fertility clinic. And she had undergone such ordeals in a city of thousands of adoptable orphans, because her husband did not want to adopt a child of unknown genetics, the riff-raff.

Luci put away the picture and pulled on the bell-rope. We pushed our way out of the bus into a melange of sights and sounds. Mauve-tinted mountains embraced Spanish colonial churches, skyscrapers, modern ramblers, and squatter’s huts. Nearby, a huge apartment complex was under construction. In the tufted field of long Japanese grass beside us, grazed three large sheep, the proud possession of a family living under an open lean-to. The crude huts were attached to the rear of a modern building which turned out to be our adoption agency. A fighting cock was tied by one leg under the rafters of the shack. Luci pointed at the mother, father, and two small children who lived there. Pobres ("poor people"), she told us. Then she pointed out the beautiful, landscaped brick building ahead of us. Casita de adopciónes ("little house of adoptions"), she explained. She pounded the wrought iron door knocker.

A secretary looked us over through a peephole. She let us in and told us to sit down in the waiting room. Luci caught the secretary on her way back to her office and asked if the Swedish couple had sent any news or pictures of her baby. I’m sorry, Luci, the secretary said, like so many other adopters, they think they are too busy to write, but I know they are taking good care of Roberto. Our directress said they were the nicest Swedes she had ever met.

The waiting room began filling up with adopters from Holland and Sweden. A few señoras with pregnant maids were waiting, too. One couple already had custody of their son and were waiting for the maids to get their baby dressed. When the social worker laid the baby in his new mother s arms, Luci frantically ran over to take a look. It was not Roberto. Luci’s life experiences had taught her not to trust anyone. She needed a letter, a new photo, some kind of proof before she could believe that Roberto was cared for in a home of his own.

An hour later we were ceremoniously ushered into a private waiting room. We had never seen a picture of our babies before we met them; we had not even been told what race they were. We had no idea of their genetic, medical, or social history. We both carried a picture in our minds of exotic Spanish/Indian babies. I paced like an expectant father. We heard crying. Then silence. Finally a door opened and a social worker, a smartly dressed lady-in-pink, walked in with a maid behind her. Both were carrying gorgeous infants dressed in long white baptismal gowns. She introduced them by lightly touching the babies’ dark hair, Tatiana, the baby she held, "y Rosana," indicating

the infant held by the maid. The lady-in-pink motioned us to sit down, placed the infants in our arms, and with the maid, left the room, "solamente una hora" ("only an hour). Eyes the color of mocha velvet searched our faces; Tatiana greeted us with a tiny tentative smile. Love us, please love us," the expressive olive faces said. Every cell of my being cried out to love, comfort, and cherish them.

An hour later, the señora returned. Do you like them? she asked. We love them, I replied, amazed at such a question. Later I learned that this was the most vital question in an adoption—the basis of whether or not to proceed.

The señora told us to come back the next day with a pediatrician to examine the twins. Then, she said, we would meet the attorney and sign the custody contracts. She reminded us to bring going-home clothes for the twins.

Next day we brought Claudia with us to translate the pediatrician’s evaluation. He met us in the infirmary and examined our babies. They lay side by side, gazing trustingly at the doctor. Older babies toddled into the room, rubbing against us and and wanting to be held. Their appearance reminded me that a friend had asked me to find a daughter for her. There she was, tightly gripping my skirt. Pretty face, curly hair, runny nose, droopy pants. That’s how I remembered Rita. She became the cherished daughter in my friend’s family of four robust boys. A maid chased the toddlers out of the infirmary, and the pediatrician commenced his consultation. Though the twins were malnourished, he said, affection, individualized attention, and improved diets with iron would rapidly improve their condition. I’m an affectionate person myself, he said, as he eyed Claudia.

Heino and I were directed into another room where our

social worker gave us a short written description of the twins’ parents: height, weight, color, and education. She also handed us a brief medical history of the twins. Then we met the attorney and signed the custody contracts. Tatiana and Rosana were our children now. Our daughters were far too small for the six-month-old size clothing we brought for them. At two months, they weighed about six pounds each. We had bought embroidered dresses, white sweaters, bonnets, tights, booties, and Belgian shawls. As the maids struggled valiantly to put it all on, they talked about the beauty of the clothes.

I could hardly wait to take my beautiful daughters home and slip them into something more comfortable. Heino called a taxi for the ride back to the apartment; we needed a big car for our new family. On the way back to the apartment, we saw a billboard picturing a mother, father, and three children holding hands. PARENTS DO NOT ABANDON YOUR CHILDREN. THEY NEED YOUR LOVE AND YOUR CARE, it proclaimed in huge scarlet letters. Heino and I wondered how many desperate parents could even read signs like that, since the rate of illiteracy was high.

When we settled ourselves in the apartment and changed the twins’ clothes for the first time, I saw what the pediatrician had been trying to tell me. I was scared to death. Thank heavens Maria was still in Bogotá. I dialed her number and sobbed out my fears. Her parents were having a party, and we were invited. Bring the babies along and my brother will examine them, she said.

The party was in full swing when we arrived. Dr. Lopez led us into a bedroom where he helped Heino and me undress the twins. His movements were gentle, and he spoke to the twins

in soft, affectionate tones. As he explained their problems to me, he kept reassuring me that they would be all right. The twins’ stomachs were distended from malnutrition, and their arms and legs were as thin as pencils. Both had bad colds, thrush (a fungus infection), and eye infections. On their backsides were Mongolian stains, which I had thought were bruises because that was what they looked like. The doctor assured me they were common among babies with pigmented skin and would fade with age. The twins’ health condition was typical of homeless babies in Latin America. Upon their arrival at Casa de la Madre y el Niño, the girls weighed a scant five pounds. They were anemic, had colds and infections, and suffered from lactose intolerance (the inability to digest milk sugar found in formulas and cow’s milk). Even with nursery care provided by the adoption agency, the tiny twins had not yet recovered from these early difficulties.

Tatiana nursed well but had diarrhea. Because of dehydration resulting from her diarrhea, her skin had lost elasticity and hung in loose folds. She was two years old before the skin on her little brown legs looked like skin instead of old wrinkled stockings. Rosana refused to nurse because of a thrush-caused split lip and a stuffy nose. She had a fever and was close to pneumonia. Whenever any of these problems bothered her, she emitted shrill, poignant cries.

Both girls had horns, bumps on each side of their heads from the Latin American custom of laying babies flat on their backs. Dr. Lopez told me how to watch Rosana for symptoms of pneumonia. He advised me to stop nursing Kirk and give my breast milk to the twins, especially Tatiana, since they needed it more. And he wrote prescriptions for their infections.

Dr. Lopez kept trying to soothe me. Their problems are nothing compared to what I see every day, he told me. These babies are lucky. Many motherless babies die of amoebic dysentery, starvation, or both—before they get the chance to be adopted. He refused to accept payment. It is the very least I can do, he said, as he backed out of the door.

I sat on the bed, emotionally and physically exhausted. Party guests started coming in the door to tell me the babies were going to be fine and that I should be happy. I was crying like a fearful child. The infants had triggered an ancient response deep within me—a feeling of emotional abandonment. Maria’s aunt rolled in a cocktail cart and mixed a strong drink. I gratefully accepted. Soon the bedroom was full of people admiring the sleeping twins and giving me encouraging pats and hugs. I pulled myself together. Our situation became an occasion to be celebrated, like a wedding or a birth. We were on the threshold of a new life—with all its joys and pitfalls.

A maid brought in a huge tray of a delicious chicken concoction wrapped and steamed in banana leaves. Youngsters, who were always invited to parties along with their parents, came to peek at the babies. The children were having a wonderful time, eating, dancing, and drinking sips of watered wine.

We left the party early—at midnight—and went back to the apartment. The twins were very sweet and very hungry. Fortunately, the Gomezes and Luci were sound sleepers. When the twins slept beyond their usual three-hour period, I got up again and again, putting my ear to their tiny chests to check their breathing. The next day Tatiana cooed and even smiled. Rosana appeared resigned to feeling uncomfortable. Once in awhile she looked pleased, but we didn’t see her smile for quite awhile. The maids at the agency had said they had never seen Rosana smile.

Casa de la Madre y el Niño knew, and we should have known, that babies need parents if they are to thrive. The adoption agency had even tried to find foster parents for the twins after the directress had found out that we would be delayed in coming to Colombia. Unfortunately, the directress could not find a foster mother willing to take the twins at that time. The first question she asked us when we entered her office was, What took you so long? If only we had completed our U.S. pre-adoption requirements before the twins were assigned to us, we could have flown to Bogotá immediately. If only we had known that adoptive parents must meet the requirements of their state and of U.S. immigration before applying for a baby. If only….

Lying awake the following night, I shivered in bed with my bathrobe on; there was no central heating in chilly, high altitude Bogotá. I kept thinking of all the children I had seen sleeping outdoors, alone under newspapers or in family shacks. The abandoned ones must have been hungry, sick, or both. Survival of the fittest, an old maxim I had used lightly in the past, took on a far harsher meaning in this stark new reality. I would never use the word poor lightly again, either. I had never really known what poor meant until I saw the Third World.

The pandemonium