Writing my novel Stepchildren
08/31/2009

One of the most tragic consequences of my marriage to “Domingo,” whose family inspired Family of Strangers, is the relationship I had, and abandoned, whom I fictionalized as Ramon and Mariana.

Ramon and Mariana were six and four when I met them and, along with Mami Luana, part of the package I fell in love with.  Ramon was, and remains, a slender, serious young man; Mariana was, and remains, a rounder, irrepressible young lady.  Along with the other children of Quisqueya they treated me like a fairy godmother—a blonde Americana bearing gifts.  The littlest ones sat on my lap while the older girls played with my hair.  I sang and taught nursery rhymes to the toddlers.  The older ones tried to teach me to dance and dress.  Collectively, the children gave me my most precious memories of the Dominican Republic:  riotous baseball games played in the dusty street, where the scores were based as much on winning arguments as crossing home plate; and a magical 40^th birthday present consisting of a moonlight tour of their barrio—excited voices and gentle hands guiding me over the rough stones and darkened pathways as buoyantly as a brook carrying a leaf.

Domingo and I worked hard to obtain visas to bring his children to this country.  Economist Hernando de Soto has documented the towering bureaucratic hurdles governments impose on their poorest citizens trying to fight their way out of poverty.  In the Dominican Republic those include a daunting itinerary of visits to government agencies scattered all over the countryside to obtain birth certificates, paternity proof, photographs, fingerprints, and other documents prior to securing passports, let alone visas.  Even with my ability to pay for bus fare and document fees, the process was exhausting.  And, as luck would have it, we were at first successful at obtaining a visa only for Mariana.  Poor Ramon had to face the disappointment of watching his younger sister fly off to her new life, leaving him with only the promise that his visa would be coming “soon.”  Countless would-be immigrants know how long that “soon” can turn out to be.

I was thrilled to have a daughter to care for after giving birth to two sons.  Mariana was a delightful, spirited child—full of infectious laughter—and also full of her own agenda.  I soon discovered that she considered me simply the means—or more often the obstacle—to her own ends.  Thwarting her, as I often did, I found myself recast in the role of evil stepmother. 

When Ramon arrived six months later, things smoothed out a bit.  Ramon was shocked at the rapid-fire English Mariana trilled at him—and at the fact that she had so quickly forgotten her Spanish.  But in no time, he too was speaking his new tongue—even though Domingo and I frequently spoke Spanish at home.  Their classmates and neighborhood friends spoke this new idioma, however, and this was the audience they most wanted to communicate with. 

We lived a middle-class lifestyle that was far more luxurious than anything the kids had experienced—or even imagined—back in the Dominican Republic.  Nevertheless, it was less affluent than other kids had access to, and Ramon and Mariana felt cheated.  I was stunned at how quickly background amenities such as indoor plumbing, 24-hour electricity, air conditioning, two cars, and three bounteous meals a day could pale compared to other kids’ swimming pools, soft drinks, and McDonald’s hamburgers and French fries delivered to school by their Moms.  Nor was I particularly patient when confronted over it.  My own kids had grown up knowing not to cross me about junk food and designer tennis shoes; my stepkids had no way of anticipating I would be against such all-American folderol.

Despite these inevitable culture collisions, we did become a mostly happy family—filling our days with school, soccer and dance lessons; our weekends with trips to soccer tournaments, Ship Island, and one memorable vacation to Devil’s Den State Park in Arkansas—where the kids were impressed with the friendliness of Arkansans, the adorable boldness of marauding raccoons, and the terror of caves hung with mini-mouse-sized bats.  Each morning began with a cheerful wake-up call; bedtimes included stories, songs, and good-night kisses.  I told Ramon and Mariana that I loved them.

When I found out my husband was cheating on me, though, and claiming to raise his two children alone, I put him out of the house and insisted that he take his children with him.  I gave him time to find a suitable apartment, then packed them up and sent them off with their father.  Mariana seemed fine with it; but Ramon was heartbroken.  The four years we spent as a family were probably the most secure and hopeful he’d ever known.

My actions seem incomprehensibly heartless to me now.  Knowing that Domingo used his children as pawns to elicit the sympathy of women, how could I sacrifice them to his negligence?  What did I teach Ramon and Mariana about the meaning of the word “love,” when I so easily gave them up?  Surely that love was a crock of crap.

At the time, I thought I had no choice.  Continuing to raise Domingo’s children would forever tie me to their father and enable him to keep playing his game.  Letting them go, however, did nothing to break his pattern; it just made Ramon and Mariana the continuing victims of it.

It’s been nine years since our family fell apart.  Ramon and Mariana now email me from time to time.  They still call me Mom; still say they love and miss me.  Ramon has dropped out of school and been once to jail, according to his sister; I don’t know the reason.  Mariana is in 10^th grade this year and on the ROTC drill team.  Ramon plans to get his GED and perhaps become a firefighter.  Mariana isn't much for planning ahead.

Although Ramon has hinted he would like to come and visit me, on the two occasions I’ve been to New Orleans and had a chance to get together, neither he nor Mariana have returned my calls or text messages.  Perhaps they’re protecting themselves from additional disappointments.  Perhaps they're wise.

I’d like to think I could make a positive difference in their prospects but at this point, even I don’t trust my ability to follow through.  Fifteen years ago when I involved myself in their lives, it was with hopes of giving them love, security, and opportunity.  For now, those hopes are dashed; those dreams in limbo.