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Shortly after we adopted our youngest child， a friend of ours 1）proffered that she didn’t think white people should adopt black kids.
She wasn’t being racist， at least not white racist， because she is African-American. She thought that taking him out of Haiti and immersing him in an all-white culture would destroy his identity as a black person and rob him of his culture.
When I went down to pick him up from the orphanage in a dusty quarter of 2）Port-au-Prince， he had a chronic eye infection that caused tears to stream from one eye and his nose ran continuously. His breathing came in raspy， wheezing gulps as if he couldn’t get enough air， and he 3）hacked like an old man who had been smoking all his life.
He ate 4）ravenously， picking every 5）kernel of rice from around the plate after he had polished the plate itself clean. At first， we would have to tell him to stop eating. He didn’t know how and would continue until his stomach was round and hard. Eventually， after much hands-on practice， he learned to stop on his own， but the impulse remains strong in him， the 6）compulsion to eat as much food as he can before it runs out.
A few weeks after he came home to live with us， my wife pulled a long white 7）tapeworm from his diaper， put it in a jar and triumphantly marched into the doctor’s office. “There，” she said. “I told you he had 8）parasites.” We all had to ingest 9）megadoses of antibiotics in case the parasites had spread to us.
The antibiotics did the trick. From that point on， our son grew stronger and healthier. The wetness in his eye disappeared， perhaps as a side effect of the drugs or perhaps because the air where we lived was cleaner than that surrounding the orphanage.
When he was about 3， I was tucking him into bed and he said， “When I turn white， I’m going to take the school bus with the other kids.”
I smiled down at him and said， “When you turn white？” He nodded his head， his eyes bright and hopeful. I let him say that for a while and then one evening， I put my hand softly on his chest and told him what I think he already knew but was hoping， magically， might be otherwise.
“You are a beautiful black boy， and one day you will be a handsome black man.”
“I’m not going to turn white？”
“No.”
He 10）scrunched his face and turned away from me， burying his head in the pillow.
On the bus one Saturday morning， he was perched on the back seat waving at the cars behind us when a young black man came and sat beside him. “Hey there，” the young man said， and there was a quiet 11）mirth in his eyes as they roamed from my son to me and then back again.
The look in my son’s eyes changed the 12）tenor of our silent conversation. It switched from laughter to 13）glacial in an instant， and it was more than just a child’s 14）reticence toward a stranger.
I had seen it before. About a year after his arrival in our home， we took him to a picnic in 15）Trois-Rivières hosted by the adoption agency. The woman who ran the orphanage in Port-au-Prince was there and when my son saw her， he let out an 16）ethereal 17）wail and buried his head in my shoulder， his fingernails cutting deep into my skin.
Other times， he would simply ignore black people when they came up to him on the street， a look of icy determination on his face as if he were steeling himself against something. Normally he is warm and 18）gregarious with a 19）preternatural ability to befriend others.
On a warm summer night when he was about 4， I sat down on the edge of his bed. “You know，” I said， “when you were a little boy， you had a very painful experience that hurt you badly right here，” and I tapped on his chest over his heart. I told him about his birth mother and how much she loved him， and how much he loved her， and how one day she walked him up the hill to the orphanage and left him there because she didn’t have enough money to buy food for him. And she never came back.
This is probably the most 20）excruciating pain you will ever experience in your life， I told him， using words that he would understand. It is a very， very big 21）owie. And it happened in a world where everyone was black. “I wonder if every time you see a black person， it makes you feel that sharp pain deep inside of you， and you turn away.” He stared up at me with dark， 22）soulful eyes and I knew he understood. “It is normal，” I said. “It hurts so much.”
A few weeks later， we were in line at 23）Costco， and my son was in the cart crouched between 24）bulging bags of milk and boxes of cereal. It was a long queue and at the end of it was a young woman whose skin was as dark and rich and brown as that of my son. “You see that cashier，” I said. “She’s going to be all over you and I want you to be nice to her. You remember what we talked about.”
He nodded his head. When it was our turn， he allowed her to coo over him， over his beautiful eyes， over his dimples that flash inward when he smiles， and it was the first time I saw him open the door a crack and allow himself to acknowledge his familiar reflection in the face of a stranger bound to him by nothing more than colour. 在我们收养了我们最小的孩子之后不久，一位朋友提出质疑，她认为白人不应该收养黑人小孩。
她并非种族歧视，至少她不是白皮肤的种族歧视者，因为她是一个非裔美国人。她认为，把那个男孩从海地带走，让他沉浸在一个全白人的文化世界里，会摧毁他作为黑人的身份，剥夺他的种族文化。
当我去到海地太子港，从那所位于邋遢尘灰之地的孤儿院将他接走时，他患有慢性眼疾，导致他一只眼睛不停流泪，鼻子也不停流涕。他大口大口的呼吸总是带着刺耳的喘息声，就像空气吸入不足似的，他还像个老头那样咳个不停。
他吃起饭来狼吞虎咽，在把盘子里的菜吃光舔净后还会捡起周围的米粒吃掉。起初，我们不得不叫他别吃了。他不懂得停下来，总是一直吃到肚子圆鼓鼓又硬邦邦的。最后，经过多次亲身实践，他学会了自己停止进食，然而想吃的冲动在他的体内依然强烈，那是一种在食物匮乏之前强迫自己尽可能多吃的冲动。
他过来跟我们住了几个星期之后，我的妻子从他的尿片上抽出一条又长又白的绦虫，放进一个罐子里，得意洋洋地踏进医生的办公室。“给，”她说。“我早就跟你说过他长寄生虫。”我们所有人都不得不吃下大量的抗生素，以防被传染到寄生虫。
抗生素发挥了作用。从那个时候起，我们的儿子长得越来越强壮，越来越健康。他的眼睛不再流眼泪了，这也许是药物的副作用，也或许是我们所居住的地方的空气，比孤儿院周围的空气要干净得多。
当他快到三岁时，有一天我在帮他掖被子，他说：“等我变白了，我要跟其他小孩一起乘校车。”
我低着头，对着他微笑，说道：“等你变白了？”他点了点头，眼里闪烁着希望的光芒。我由着他这么说了一段时间，然后有一天晚上，我把手轻轻地放在他的胸口上，告诉他一些我觉得他已经知道但却希望也许会出现奇迹般逆转的事情。
“你是一个漂亮的黑人小孩，有一天，你会成为一个帅气的黑人男子汉。”
“我不会变白吗？”
“不会。”
他紧紧地缩起脸蛋，转过头不想被我看到，把头埋在枕头底下。
某个周六上午，在公交车上，他坐在后座上朝着我们后面的那辆小轿车招手。这时，一个年轻的黑人走了过来，坐在他旁边。“你好啊，”年轻人说，当他的双眼在我和儿子之间来回游移时，眼中有一种无言的欢乐。
儿子的眼神改变了我们无声的对话。那眼神一瞬间将欢笑转为冷漠，而这远超过一个孩子对于陌生人的沉默。
我以前见过这个场景。在他来到我们家大概一年后，我们带他去三河城参加一个由领养机构组织的野餐活动。打理太子港那所孤儿院的女士也在其中，当我的儿子看到她时，他发出一声轻轻的哀号，把脑袋埋进我的肩膀，他的指甲深深地掐着我的皮肤。
有些时候，在街上，他干脆直接无视那些走过来跟他打招呼的黑人。他脸上那种冷酷决然，就像要让自己变得坚不可摧以对抗某种东西。而平常，他是个热情合群，能轻松自然地结交朋友的孩子。
儿子约四岁时的一个温暖夏夜，我坐在他的床边。“你知道，”我说，“当你还是个小宝宝的时候，你曾经有过一段痛苦的经历，深深地伤透了这里，”我点了点他的胸部——心脏的位置。我给他讲，其亲生母亲是多么地爱他，而他也深深地爱着她。我也讲述了有一天他的母亲是如何带着他走到山上的那所孤儿院，把他留在了那里，只因为她没有足够的钱为他购买食物。那次之后，她再也没有出现过。
我用他能理解的词句告诉他，这也许将会是你一生中最痛苦的经历。这是一个很大很大的伤口。而且它发生在一个周围全是黑人的世界里。“我在想，会不会每次你看到黑人，内心深处那股强烈的刺痛就会激起，然后你才故意避开。”他用那双黑色的充满感情的眼睛望着我，我知道他听懂了。“这很正常，”我说。“太痛了。”
几个星期后，我们在好市多超市排队等候，我的儿子坐在购物车里，蜷缩在鼓鼓的袋装牛奶和一盒盒的麦片中间。队伍很长，而队伍的末端是一位年轻女士，皮肤跟我的儿子一样郁黑发亮。“你看看那位收款员，”我说。“她可能很喜欢你，我希望你能对她友善一些。你应该记得我们谈过的话吧。”
他点点头。当轮到我们结账时，她对他呢喃低语，赞美他美丽的眼睛和那对笑起来会往里凹陷的小酒窝，孩子都坦然接受了。这是我第一次看到他将心门打开一道缝隙，在一个仅与他有着相同肤色的陌生人面前，接纳自己熟悉的映照。
She wasn’t being racist， at least not white racist， because she is African-American. She thought that taking him out of Haiti and immersing him in an all-white culture would destroy his identity as a black person and rob him of his culture.
When I went down to pick him up from the orphanage in a dusty quarter of 2）Port-au-Prince， he had a chronic eye infection that caused tears to stream from one eye and his nose ran continuously. His breathing came in raspy， wheezing gulps as if he couldn’t get enough air， and he 3）hacked like an old man who had been smoking all his life.
He ate 4）ravenously， picking every 5）kernel of rice from around the plate after he had polished the plate itself clean. At first， we would have to tell him to stop eating. He didn’t know how and would continue until his stomach was round and hard. Eventually， after much hands-on practice， he learned to stop on his own， but the impulse remains strong in him， the 6）compulsion to eat as much food as he can before it runs out.
A few weeks after he came home to live with us， my wife pulled a long white 7）tapeworm from his diaper， put it in a jar and triumphantly marched into the doctor’s office. “There，” she said. “I told you he had 8）parasites.” We all had to ingest 9）megadoses of antibiotics in case the parasites had spread to us.
The antibiotics did the trick. From that point on， our son grew stronger and healthier. The wetness in his eye disappeared， perhaps as a side effect of the drugs or perhaps because the air where we lived was cleaner than that surrounding the orphanage.
When he was about 3， I was tucking him into bed and he said， “When I turn white， I’m going to take the school bus with the other kids.”
I smiled down at him and said， “When you turn white？” He nodded his head， his eyes bright and hopeful. I let him say that for a while and then one evening， I put my hand softly on his chest and told him what I think he already knew but was hoping， magically， might be otherwise.
“You are a beautiful black boy， and one day you will be a handsome black man.”
“I’m not going to turn white？”
“No.”
He 10）scrunched his face and turned away from me， burying his head in the pillow.
On the bus one Saturday morning， he was perched on the back seat waving at the cars behind us when a young black man came and sat beside him. “Hey there，” the young man said， and there was a quiet 11）mirth in his eyes as they roamed from my son to me and then back again.
The look in my son’s eyes changed the 12）tenor of our silent conversation. It switched from laughter to 13）glacial in an instant， and it was more than just a child’s 14）reticence toward a stranger.
I had seen it before. About a year after his arrival in our home， we took him to a picnic in 15）Trois-Rivières hosted by the adoption agency. The woman who ran the orphanage in Port-au-Prince was there and when my son saw her， he let out an 16）ethereal 17）wail and buried his head in my shoulder， his fingernails cutting deep into my skin.
Other times， he would simply ignore black people when they came up to him on the street， a look of icy determination on his face as if he were steeling himself against something. Normally he is warm and 18）gregarious with a 19）preternatural ability to befriend others.
On a warm summer night when he was about 4， I sat down on the edge of his bed. “You know，” I said， “when you were a little boy， you had a very painful experience that hurt you badly right here，” and I tapped on his chest over his heart. I told him about his birth mother and how much she loved him， and how much he loved her， and how one day she walked him up the hill to the orphanage and left him there because she didn’t have enough money to buy food for him. And she never came back.
This is probably the most 20）excruciating pain you will ever experience in your life， I told him， using words that he would understand. It is a very， very big 21）owie. And it happened in a world where everyone was black. “I wonder if every time you see a black person， it makes you feel that sharp pain deep inside of you， and you turn away.” He stared up at me with dark， 22）soulful eyes and I knew he understood. “It is normal，” I said. “It hurts so much.”
A few weeks later， we were in line at 23）Costco， and my son was in the cart crouched between 24）bulging bags of milk and boxes of cereal. It was a long queue and at the end of it was a young woman whose skin was as dark and rich and brown as that of my son. “You see that cashier，” I said. “She’s going to be all over you and I want you to be nice to her. You remember what we talked about.”
He nodded his head. When it was our turn， he allowed her to coo over him， over his beautiful eyes， over his dimples that flash inward when he smiles， and it was the first time I saw him open the door a crack and allow himself to acknowledge his familiar reflection in the face of a stranger bound to him by nothing more than colour. 在我们收养了我们最小的孩子之后不久，一位朋友提出质疑，她认为白人不应该收养黑人小孩。
她并非种族歧视，至少她不是白皮肤的种族歧视者，因为她是一个非裔美国人。她认为，把那个男孩从海地带走，让他沉浸在一个全白人的文化世界里，会摧毁他作为黑人的身份，剥夺他的种族文化。
当我去到海地太子港，从那所位于邋遢尘灰之地的孤儿院将他接走时，他患有慢性眼疾，导致他一只眼睛不停流泪，鼻子也不停流涕。他大口大口的呼吸总是带着刺耳的喘息声，就像空气吸入不足似的，他还像个老头那样咳个不停。
他吃起饭来狼吞虎咽，在把盘子里的菜吃光舔净后还会捡起周围的米粒吃掉。起初，我们不得不叫他别吃了。他不懂得停下来，总是一直吃到肚子圆鼓鼓又硬邦邦的。最后，经过多次亲身实践，他学会了自己停止进食，然而想吃的冲动在他的体内依然强烈，那是一种在食物匮乏之前强迫自己尽可能多吃的冲动。
他过来跟我们住了几个星期之后，我的妻子从他的尿片上抽出一条又长又白的绦虫，放进一个罐子里，得意洋洋地踏进医生的办公室。“给，”她说。“我早就跟你说过他长寄生虫。”我们所有人都不得不吃下大量的抗生素，以防被传染到寄生虫。
抗生素发挥了作用。从那个时候起，我们的儿子长得越来越强壮，越来越健康。他的眼睛不再流眼泪了，这也许是药物的副作用，也或许是我们所居住的地方的空气，比孤儿院周围的空气要干净得多。
当他快到三岁时，有一天我在帮他掖被子，他说：“等我变白了，我要跟其他小孩一起乘校车。”
我低着头，对着他微笑，说道：“等你变白了？”他点了点头，眼里闪烁着希望的光芒。我由着他这么说了一段时间，然后有一天晚上，我把手轻轻地放在他的胸口上，告诉他一些我觉得他已经知道但却希望也许会出现奇迹般逆转的事情。
“你是一个漂亮的黑人小孩，有一天，你会成为一个帅气的黑人男子汉。”
“我不会变白吗？”
“不会。”
他紧紧地缩起脸蛋，转过头不想被我看到，把头埋在枕头底下。
某个周六上午，在公交车上，他坐在后座上朝着我们后面的那辆小轿车招手。这时，一个年轻的黑人走了过来，坐在他旁边。“你好啊，”年轻人说，当他的双眼在我和儿子之间来回游移时，眼中有一种无言的欢乐。
儿子的眼神改变了我们无声的对话。那眼神一瞬间将欢笑转为冷漠，而这远超过一个孩子对于陌生人的沉默。
我以前见过这个场景。在他来到我们家大概一年后，我们带他去三河城参加一个由领养机构组织的野餐活动。打理太子港那所孤儿院的女士也在其中，当我的儿子看到她时，他发出一声轻轻的哀号，把脑袋埋进我的肩膀，他的指甲深深地掐着我的皮肤。
有些时候，在街上，他干脆直接无视那些走过来跟他打招呼的黑人。他脸上那种冷酷决然，就像要让自己变得坚不可摧以对抗某种东西。而平常，他是个热情合群，能轻松自然地结交朋友的孩子。
儿子约四岁时的一个温暖夏夜，我坐在他的床边。“你知道，”我说，“当你还是个小宝宝的时候，你曾经有过一段痛苦的经历，深深地伤透了这里，”我点了点他的胸部——心脏的位置。我给他讲，其亲生母亲是多么地爱他，而他也深深地爱着她。我也讲述了有一天他的母亲是如何带着他走到山上的那所孤儿院，把他留在了那里，只因为她没有足够的钱为他购买食物。那次之后，她再也没有出现过。
我用他能理解的词句告诉他，这也许将会是你一生中最痛苦的经历。这是一个很大很大的伤口。而且它发生在一个周围全是黑人的世界里。“我在想，会不会每次你看到黑人，内心深处那股强烈的刺痛就会激起，然后你才故意避开。”他用那双黑色的充满感情的眼睛望着我，我知道他听懂了。“这很正常，”我说。“太痛了。”
几个星期后，我们在好市多超市排队等候，我的儿子坐在购物车里，蜷缩在鼓鼓的袋装牛奶和一盒盒的麦片中间。队伍很长，而队伍的末端是一位年轻女士，皮肤跟我的儿子一样郁黑发亮。“你看看那位收款员，”我说。“她可能很喜欢你，我希望你能对她友善一些。你应该记得我们谈过的话吧。”
他点点头。当轮到我们结账时，她对他呢喃低语，赞美他美丽的眼睛和那对笑起来会往里凹陷的小酒窝，孩子都坦然接受了。这是我第一次看到他将心门打开一道缝隙，在一个仅与他有着相同肤色的陌生人面前，接纳自己熟悉的映照。