A Southern Girl (2 page)

I owe a sacred debt to Jonathan Haupt, director of the University of South Carolina Press. His editorial suggestions proved invaluable, and it
is not too much to say that this would be a lesser book without his cogent insights and keen recommendations.

Martha Price Frakes was a year behind me at York High School and has been a friend ever since. A bridesmaid in our wedding forty-two years ago, she has come back into our lives to provide timely encouragement and support. Thank you, Martha.

I wrote the first draft of the manuscript in San Miguel de Allende, aided by my tolerant amigos in the writing group there—Donna Meyer, Roy Sorrels, and the late Barbara Faith de Covarrubias. Moral support and sunset planning in Mexico came from dear friends Federico and Barbara Vidargas, along with the late, indomitable Dotty Vidargas. Margarite’s Haiti room in the novel came courtesy of Anghelen Phillips, a longtime resident there. Haiti’s loss is Mexico’s gain. Mi amiga Nanci Closson furnished encouragement when it was needed, then and now.

A special group of Virginians comprises my early readers—Wyatt Durrette, Christine Williams, Janice Harvey, Betsy Miller, and Doug and Tadd Chessen—whose advice and support I will always value. The Honorable J. Randolph “Randy” Stevens proved himself an avid and discerning reader, in addition to being a constant pal from my Yorktown days. A grateful nod goes to lifelong friends Ralph DeRosa, Palmer Lowery, and Howard Smith, Virginia gentlemen all. I abandoned my law firm by moving to Mexico, leaving said law firm most unhappy, so I must give a huge shout out to those who stayed behind and endured—my excellent and understanding partner Michael Mulkey, my office manager Charlene Smyth, Barbara Ferris, Cindy Norcutt, Jennifer Tobey, and Judy Allmond.

My Citadel family has done what Citadel people do—stand by those who stood with them in the long, gray line. A crisp and by-the-numbers Tango salute to Paul and Beth Green; Mike and Pam Steele; Jay and Jane Keenan; Ed and Sally Steers; Holly and Lois Keller; DG and Janie McIntyre; Steele and Molly Dewey; Peggy Bowditch and her late husband, John, “the Bowd,” whom I miss every day; Tom and Lynn Benson; Ed Murphy; Jim and Lynn Probsdorfer; Rich and Bunny Lloyd; John and Haley Sitton; Barry and Deanie Wynn; Clarkson and Mary Ann McDow; and Dan and Jane Brailsford.

To my Beaufort buddies, a giant thank you for your embracing me as you have—Pat and Sandra Conroy, Bernie and Martha Schein, the marvelous Patricia Denkler; Mike Harris; Trish and Van Irwin (who always
manage to root for the wrong team); David and Terry Murray; Wilson McIntosh and the staff at McIntosh’s Book Shoppe on Bay Street; Kit and Lewis Bruce; my M.D. Clark Trask and his lovely wife, Evy; Nancy and D. C. Gilley; the irrepressible John Trask III; Janelle and Bob Proctor; Wendy Wilson; Bill and Carol Carpenter; Teresa Bruce; Sean Scappelatto; Terry and Peter Hussey; Jack and Marilyn Sheehy; and Cathy and Mike Nairne. My classmate Scott Graber and his very talented wife, the artist Susan Graber, have shown unfailing and undeserved kindness. Wright’s pointers Duke and Angie Hucks, Bob and Marylou Cullen, and Tom and Daria Paterson set a new standard for great neighbors. My roots grow deep in 29902, and you made Beaufort bloom for me.

To Toller Cranston, the remarkable and gifted Canadian artist who lives in San Miguel, I owe a special debt for his efforts in the months prior to publication.

By the miracle which is the internet, I “met” Lee Farrand on-line and found his blog, leeskoreablog.blogspot, both entertaining and an excellent source of information about Korea. Lee; his wife, Heather; and her parents, Min Jong-Hee and Jung Jae-Won, gave needed insight into Korean families and culture.

A Southern Girl
is essentially about family, and family is essential. My love and thanks to the beautiful folks who have fostered my work—the Warley women, MB and Barbara; the Warley men, my sons, Caldwell, Nelson, and Carter; the spouses who make my children and me happy—Heather Partridge Warley, Drew Lockwood, Erin Gemma, and Nessa Snyder Warley; in-laws par excellence Bob and Jeanne Partridge, Nick and Shannon Gemma, Howard and Mary Anne Snyder, David and Christy Lockwood; and grandchildren Addie, Eli, Anna, Ellis, and Oliver. To my sister Shanny Satterstrom, my brother Rob Warley and his partner Jim Hare, brother Tom Warley and to the memory of our parents, John Caldwell Warley and Susannah Barnwell Warley. On Barbara’s side, Chris and Ann Duplessis, Matt Langenderfer, and the Hutchison girls: Rachel Langenderfer, Barbara and Helen Hutchison, and the memory of their mother, sweet Beth—without you all, what’s the point?

PROLOGUE

June 28, 1978

Dear Open Arms:

My name is Elizabeth Carter. I am a twenty-eight year old mother of two biological sons. This letter responds to Section 3(a) of your application: “State in five hundred words or less why you want to adopt a son or daughter from a foreign country.”

No question on a pre-printed form has cost me so much sleep as this one. My husband, Coleman, has been asking me this exact question for months (although he wisely did not restrict me to five hundred words—he knows better). My answers have not convinced him, and worse, they haven’t convinced me either. So I decided to put my desire in writing, in hopes that by the last period on the final sentence both you and I are persuaded that this adoption is best for everyone. If either of us remains doubtful, perhaps it was not meant to be.

I cannot address the question without telling you something of my early life. As you know from responses to other questions on this application, I was born in Topeka, Kansas, on July 14, 1950. As a child I attached no significance to that date—the middle of summer heat when no one felt like doing much and my friends were either at camp or traveling, so the few birthday parties I remember were poorly attended. In high school, I learned I was born on Bastille Day. I liked the sound of it. Peasants storming a prison to liberate people who should never have been there in the first place spoke to me. I searched for some ancestral tie to France, but never found one. My folks were of Polish and German descent, and their parents were the outer limits of their genetic curiosity.

So many of the girls I knew had parents just like mine: second generation eastern European, middle class, church-going, tax-paying, hard working. But somehow those families succeeded in areas where my family seemed predisposed to fail. My friends adored their parents, whereas I found mine rather stiff and removed. My friend Janet told me her three brothers were her best friends, but my two brothers just happened to live in the same house. I knew from visits to my friends at Christmas that certain traditions predominated, yet my family observed very few of those. In a real sense I grew up without the identity felt so strongly by those I spent my time with.

Things only got worse when I reached high school. I was skinny, flat-chested, and bookish; hardly the attributes that got a girl elected homecoming queen. I had a few girlfriends, but they focused more on boys than anything else. By the time we graduated, a couple of them were already engaged. I, on the other hand, couldn’t wait to get away from Topeka, to run toward a special and exciting future that I was sure awaited me in some other place. I chose Hollins for college because it was in the East, had a strong English department, and promised some sophistication I hoped would rub off on me. My parents were none too happy with the price of tuition, but they reluctantly supported my choice. I filled out there, both physically and emotionally.

I first met my husband on a blind date, then again just before he finished college at the University of Virginia. He is a true son of the South, but without that sappy drawl I find grating to the ear. He is an only child, the “golden boy” his parents doted on, in much the same way he dotes on our two sons, Steven and Josh. He is an excellent father, which is why I have been surprised at his attitude about this adoption. I probably shouldn’t be telling you he has reservations, but he does and I want to be honest even if it dooms my application; our application, because he has signed it despite those reservations. He says he doesn’t think he can love an adopted child the same way he loves our biological boys. I think he is wrong. In important ways I know him better than he knows himself, and once he gets past his fear of the unknown, he will be a great father to her (we want a girl, as specified in response to question 2(c)). He also says a foreign adoption will upset his parents. He is probably right on that one, as his parents are old school and quite conservative. I’ve come to learn that in the South, blood is everything. But as I say, he will come around. Whether they will remains to be seen.

So I come back to my reasons for wanting this child. Part of it is altruism, no doubt. So many children are born into dire circumstances dooming them
from birth. Rescuing one doesn’t solve that, but if our family is in a position to help, we should do it.

Altruism aside, I sense that out there somewhere is an infant whose life will be radically altered for the better by what we do. I am speaking here beyond the generic benefits of a loving family to a child without one. My own upbringing came with a liberal dose of alienation, and I know firsthand how painful that can be. A child adopted into a strange culture in a land foreign to her birth may feel that same alienation, particularly here in the South. I can relate. I can ease that pain. I can make the difference. I know I can. Somewhere out there is or will be a girl who with my help will grow up safe and secure and with the same sense of belonging our sons feel. And with those advantages, she will soar.

I have used more than five hundred words, but this is too important to skimp. Please let us know your decision soon.

Very truly yours,
Elizabeth Carter

Part 1

CONFLUENCE

O, Captain! Is there golden shore

Beyond this golden sea?

And will those curving, spotless wings

Keep company with me?

I know, I know the land I seek

Lies far away to lee,

And we are sailing with the wind

Across a golden sea,

But tell me of the golden shore,

The world that is to be.

And will these saintly, angel wings

Be given even me?

ROBERT WOODWARD BARNWELL, SR.

“The Emigrant,”
Realities and Imaginations

1

Jong Sim

My sweet gardenia, today we will go into Seoul, a city I myself have never seen but one we can visit together. What a day we will have. Everything will be new, as you are new. Oh, do not worry about getting lost. Min Jung gave detailed instructions. This bus carries us to the edge of the city, where we will take another. The sights and sounds and the aromas will welcome us there. They will forever live in our pooled memory. Little flower, we will remember this day always.

Am I holding you too tight? It is because the bus lurches from side to side and hiccups when the potholes find the wheels, and at any moment you may be jarred from me. Can I loosen your
pojaegi?
There. You may move your arms for greater comfort. Your perfect little arms.

I have a surprise for you. Later. Surprises are best when you must wait for them. I should know. You yourself were a surprise. Imagine my happiness when the midwife held you up. When she cut the cord, you turned from blue to pink and you cried and I cried with you.

When we boarded the bus, the aunties in the front seat swooned when they saw your perfect skin, so like a peach. We cannot fault them for jealousy. Perhaps they have daughters who do not have your endless smile; the smile reflected in the pearl-backed mirror. Yes, I brought it with me. But I will bring it out later, because I must keep my eyes open for the tall sign with the green dragon. That is where we must get off to wait for the next bus. Min Jung told me three times: “a tall sign with a green dragon.” I hope there is not more than one such sign, but she would have told me if there was a chance for confusion. She is such a good friend.

Are you warm, little one? Let me loosen your blanket. Better? The heat on the bus is set for winter, but today is so mild I may open a window. Min Jung said we must make this trip soon, as the mild weather cannot last. I wish the flowers were in bloom for you to see and smell.