Paradise is . . . the bond of family.
I enter the doctor's office with my oldest daughter, and we both take a seat in front of the woman checking us in. She is seated behind a computer, asks for the name of my daughter, and then slides me a form. "We are updating our patient information," she says dryly. "Please fill this out." My daughter and I find two seats in the waiting room, and I begin filling out the paperwork. It's going along fine until I reach a question that asks for the race and ethnicity of my child. I start laughing. I turn to my beautiful, brown-eyed little girl and think, Now that's a great story.
I enter the doctor's office with my oldest daughter, and we both take a seat in front of the woman checking us in. She is seated behind a computer, asks for the name of my daughter, and then slides me a form. "We are updating our patient information," she says dryly. "Please fill this out." My daughter and I find two seats in the waiting room, and I begin filling out the paperwork. It's going along fine until I reach a question that asks for the race and ethnicity of my child. I start laughing. I turn to my beautiful, brown-eyed little girl and think, Now that's a great story.
A week ago, my daughter had never met her cousin, seated just to her right in the above photo. In fact, just a few weeks earlier than that her cousin had never been outside of his home country, Cuba. When they met for the first time, it was a special moment. Awkwardness and the barrier of language quickly turned to comfort and smiles when it was explained to my daughter, "This is your cousin. He is part of our family."
Years ago, all at different times and for different reasons, a group of people began a trek that would ultimately lead to this picture. They came from such diverse lands as Peru, China, Cuba, Ireland, the French Caribbean, Hungary, and Germany. The web of their lives continued to a dance floor in Atlanta, Georgia which eventually led to the birth of the young girl in the picture. How the three individuals ended up on that log, overlooking that waterfall, on a mountain in Southwest Virginia, is a great story. It's a story we all share. It's the story of family.
So, I take a look at those tiny boxes. Is she Hispanic or Latino or not? Is she Asian or White? I'm in no mood to do the math, to attempt to calculate percentages of the diverse blood running through her. I throw caution to the wind, ignore the directions to "select one" and smile as I check all the boxes.
Nurses come and go, names are called, and the waiting room fills up. My daughter scoots a little closer to me. I stare down into her eyes in awe at the thought of what brought us together. Everyone in this waiting room has a story, a remarkable story of family that is unique to him or her. A man enters, grabs a clipboard and calls my daughter's name. We stand up, and she takes my hand. My hand because life so miraculously planned it that way.
Years ago, all at different times and for different reasons, a group of people began a trek that would ultimately lead to this picture. They came from such diverse lands as Peru, China, Cuba, Ireland, the French Caribbean, Hungary, and Germany. The web of their lives continued to a dance floor in Atlanta, Georgia which eventually led to the birth of the young girl in the picture. How the three individuals ended up on that log, overlooking that waterfall, on a mountain in Southwest Virginia, is a great story. It's a story we all share. It's the story of family.
So, I take a look at those tiny boxes. Is she Hispanic or Latino or not? Is she Asian or White? I'm in no mood to do the math, to attempt to calculate percentages of the diverse blood running through her. I throw caution to the wind, ignore the directions to "select one" and smile as I check all the boxes.
Nurses come and go, names are called, and the waiting room fills up. My daughter scoots a little closer to me. I stare down into her eyes in awe at the thought of what brought us together. Everyone in this waiting room has a story, a remarkable story of family that is unique to him or her. A man enters, grabs a clipboard and calls my daughter's name. We stand up, and she takes my hand. My hand because life so miraculously planned it that way.
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