The Russian Word for Snow

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"The Russian Word for Snow: A True Story of Adoption"

by Janis Cooke Newman

Publisher: St. Martin's Press
ISBN: 0312252145
[Review of advance copy]

  Adopt in California
I don't know when a book has gotten me so upset along with the author and because of the author at the same time.

In "The Russian Word for Snow", Janis Cooke Newman tells her own story, one punctuated with humor, wry insightfulness, and painful honesty. It is the story of the journey she and her husband embarked upon that culminated in the adoption of their son, Alex, from a Russian orphanage (which originally named him for the Russian word for snow, hence the title) - a journey that begins with attempts to conceive a child using methods approached with logic and those grasped at in desperation: machinations and manipulations that sound like something advertised in sleazy magazines.

For those who have never had fertility or pregnancy problems, solutions like the "urine of post-menopausal nuns" bring a hoot of laughter; for those who have raced or been dragged, along with the Newmans, to every practitioner of every traditional, alternative, and flat-out bizarre treatment, the pursuit of a fertile moment may also bring laughter, but only because the author has managed to capture the humor that comes with hindsight. They know how un-funny the reality can be.

Newman relates what many adoptive parents express: an almost spiritual connection with a child that forms from just a brief glimpse. A sense of knowing this child will be part of their family long before any possibility that this might be the case is confirmed. Attending an adoption presentation, she sees a video. She writes, "I could not pull away from the dark eyes Maggie had thought so much like mine, and I felt a pressure in my chest, as though my heart had become too large for the space that contained it." She takes the video from one evaluation specialist to the next, listening to their discouraging words, terrible medical terms for what might be causing that crooked smile, the lack of responsiveness, knowing they're wrong. And then she finds a doctor who sees what she sees.

Newman has a wonderful flair for using a few words to create strikingly vivid images that stay with the reader long after the book is read. I don't know how long it will be before I see another boy-child fresh from the bath with his hair slicked back without recalling her description of "a small, smooth-skinned businessman," or visit another Eastern Orthodox church without hearing her ask "a painted icon in whom I do not believe for my son." Her descriptions of stacks of file folders with dozens of copies of documents - stamped, authorized, and apostilled - sweep the reader through the frenzied "paper chase" with a sense of urgency that had me talking aloud, telling the INS to answer more quickly, urging the facilitator to get her act together.

Yet, with all the imagery, the humor, the detail devoted to paperwork and procedures, the accounts of Moscow during that tumultuous time, I found myself getting upset with the author and her husband. Upset on a personal level. Upset that these two bright people hadn't researched the facilitator's experience and track record. Upset that, once they realized they were being jerked around, they didn't change facilitators, find an agency. Upset that they didn't seem to push hard enough for more information about their son's biological family, hadn't perhaps taken steps I might have taken (all steps which could potentially have caused the adoption of this particular child to fall through). As I read on, my frustration and upset evaporated. You see, I wasn't there. I wasn't the one who, from the moment the choice was made to be a parent, had lost control over a large part of my life and privacy to doctors, specialists, social workers, the INS, unseen bureaucrats, the facilitator, political unrest, and the Russian way of doing things. And I wasn't the one who had fallen in love with the picture of a small boy with a crooked smile, named for snow.

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