What a free, easy, loving skate of a read this is! I mean this only in the best way, as in the way that the classic memoir Wild reads. I could read this memoir in bed in the morning, put it down, and whenever I passed it during the day, it would be calling to me. I would pick it up and read a few pages and realize it had been living inside me even when I wasn’t reading it. It’s just that kind of book.
This is the story of an open adoption, of course, but it’s also the story of what happens when you invite homeless people into your life. I think a good subtitle for this book might be, alternatively, A Memoir About a Perilous Adoption, because really, this adoption hangs over a cliff ready to be pushed off, and that cliff is named Bill and Bridgett, the aforementioned homeless birth parents. The conventional way to become an adoptive parent, of course, is to block the birth parents out of your life completely, like a wartime censor with a Magic Marker. But author Vanessa McGrady was too honest and full of hope to blot things out. She was one of those brave types, inviting the birth parents into the process. And that is what makes this narrative riveting.
McGrady’s predicament, if that’s what it was, had understandable origins. When she took the child, the birth parents were trying to make it as rockers and living in the cheapest SRO in downtown Los Angeles. A couple years on, she invites them over for Thanksgiving, and after dinner, she looks out at the dark, cold night and shivers.
“Do you guys want to just stay over?” she says.
“Sure.”
They take a 45-minute shower together, as homeless people might. The next week, it starts pounding rain, and McGrady invites them to stay until the rain lets up. And a secret thought occurs to McGrady:
Jesus, what have I done?
Does a miracle happen, or do they disappoint her? McGrady is so naked in the way that she describes her faults, her missteps, her insecurities, that you want to read on and on.
“I’m not a perpetual do-gooder,” McGrady writes. “An uncomfortable proportion of my thoughts are impure and judgmental. When I was a kid, my UNICEF Halloween change found its way only to the closest candy store, never as far as the starving African children for which it was intended….”
While reading this book, I recognized this woman. I know women like this. I like women like this better than I like censors and heart misers. McGrady’s predicament stemmed from a surfeit of both ideals and love, and I can’t bring myself to blame her for any of that. Readers with small minds might call her naïve, but here’s a woman who is brave enough to want both, strive for both, work for both, and that impulse lifts the heart. Her ideals told her that she couldn’t just shut the birth parents out. What would she tell her daughter years later? How could she justify her cold, cold heart? So she invited them in. Suddenly, McGrady had a homeless couple living under her roof.
McGrady’s ideals told her, furthermore, that she had to offer more than just shelter. Don’t just give somebody a fish; teach them how to fish. So she offered Bill and Bridget advice on how to get off the street, for example, plus phone numbers to social-service agencies and such. And when you help a homeless person, can they be saved?
This memoir is mostly about bravery and love. It’s about how love manifests itself. The choices she made were all out of love. How do you have an open adoption with homeless loser parents (my phrase, not hers)? How do you refrain from saying bad things about them to their natural child? (Seen from another viewpoint, though, how could you say bad things about them to their natural child?) Even more alarmingly, how do you raise a child so as not to turn out like their loser homeless parents?
Perhaps the most stunning thing about this book, though, is how naked McGrady allows herself to be to the reader. When she’s young, it’s all those things she did that ended badly. The dumb actor boyfriend who cheats on her. The relationship in her thirties in which “we had become each other’s leftovers.” One chapter is titled, “When You Know Where You Want to Go But Can’t Figure Out How to Get There,” which is pretty humble. I know people like this. She was a conceptual artist, as evidenced by her critically acclaimed body-image multimedia productions, busy mining her soul for art. She was a searcher, spending several years in her thirties living out in the woods in a cabin on five acres, taking showers from an oversized kettle on a rusty iron stove. Every decision she made reeks of trying to do the right thing—well, almost every decision.
Once she becomes a Mom, she’s just as naked about that experience. She meets the man of her dreams, and even though she would divorce him three years later, she’s brave enough to describe their romance in glowing terms, the way the stars shone in her eyes at the time. And when she realizes he’s an alcoholic, she’s honest enough to kick herself for not seeing it earlier. And when she divorces him, the safety of her beloved child Grace is a large part of the decision.
Of course, nakedness comes in a variety of forms. There’s one particularly entertaining scene when, early in the adoptive family story, she, her husband Peter, and her daughter Grace have all caught a bug and are puking and pooping uncontrollably at the same time in only one bathroom, and like a game of Musical Chairs, she turns out to be the odd one out. Her solution is the most hilarious thing you’ll read this year.
Don’t worry, though. There’s very little poop in this memoir. She uses the word motherfucker only once. Mostly, it’s the story of an honest and yearning woman who has walked a brave path. It’s a modern story, and a charming one.