my mother/daughter is an orange

Apr 5

Written By Charlotte Carbone

我的女儿是橘子

My name is 文菊

and I am a mother.

I live in 南丰

with my family who has grown oranges for generations.

When I was young, I had a baby.

Surrounded by village mothers

Who wished for me to be a mother too

But they all quietly worried,

“What if its a girl after all”

It indeed was a girl.

Abandonment

Murder

A 黑孩子

Those were the options

And I get one.

But none of them I wanted.

the family planning police came to my home,

and promised me,

“She will be taken to an orphanage and be adopted by a wealthy family in the city. She will be a princess because of your sacrifice”

I will never know if that is true.

And I doubt it is.

But regardless of where she was taken,

they ripped my baby from my arms.

And I screamed.

I would rather have died.

Today I am 50 years old.

Caring for my oranges

Caring for my son, my grandson

Caring for my land

All my blood.

But I still ache for my baby girl

How do I treasure my daughter when I don’t know if she will treasure me back?

I cry simply thinking about her.

My tears water the oranges in our orchard.

And they remind me of my daughter

So I hold the oranges like I would hold her right now.

The oranges blossomed, fruited, died, returned to the soil.

And conjure my daughters face,

Because I realize it is mine:

A Chinese woman aged by the sun, hardship, and love.

So much love, because I’ve loved her longest

So I must stay here and protect my oranges.

So I don’t miss her when we meet again.

I will search the big cities

上海, 重庆, 广州市

And I will find her

To bring her home

So she will feel this is still her land

If I don’t find my daughter, which most likely, I accept that

Because I see her in my bright, young, sweet oranges.

I pick her from the orchard tree

And know we are bonded forever

Regardless if my skin touches her again.

She knows I am with her

my orange,

My daughter.

My MOTHER is an orange

My name is Charlotte and I am an adoptee.

I was supposed to live in China

With a family who was never coerced/forced to separate.

When I was young, I had a deep pain.

Surrounded by suburban whites©

Who wished for me to be a White© too

But they all clearly worried,

“What if it’s an Asian after all”

I indeed was Asian.

Assimilation

Isolation

Racism

Those were the options

And I got all.

But none of them I wanted.

The whites© came to my crib,

and promised me,

“You would have been a poor country girl so you are lucky to be adopted by us. Your birth mother is happy because you were saved”

I will never know if that is true.

And I doubt it is.

But regardless of why I was taken,

Then forced this story in my psyche

And I couldn't scream.

I would rather have died.

Today I am 30 years old.

Caring for my story

Caring for my wife, my cats

Caring for my community

Not my blood, but we all bleed.

But I still ache for my birth mom

How do I claim ancestors when I don’t know if they will claim me back?

I cry simply thinking about her.

My tears transform the oranges in our kitchen.

And they remind me of my mother.

So I hold the oranges like I would hold her right now.

The oranges washed, peeled, digested in the body.

and conjure my mother’s face,

because I realize it is mine:

A Chinese woman aged by the sun, hardship, and love.

So much love, because I’ve loved her longest

So I must stay alive and protect my stories.

So I don’t miss her when we meet again.

I will search the Chinese towns

Nanfeng, Nanchang, Fuzhou

And I will find her

to bring her close

So she will feel this is still her baby

If I don’t find my mother, which is most likely, I accept that

Because I see her in my speckled, wrinkled, tangy oranges.

I pick her from the kitchen table.