As we reach the top of the procession, I feel like the Queen trying to shake hands with every child and every teacher. Then I let go of the pomp and ceremony and start to dance along with the kids. I don’t care if I am making a fool of myself with my strange, white-lady moves; I’m happy—overjoyed, in fact! Everyone is, especially when I try to dance. The kids giggle but manage not to lose any momentum in the performance they are putting on for us.
I see the large sign outside, STARCHILD SCHOOL FOR CREATIVE ARTS. All the artists and people who supported us—we did it! We built this amazing school!
After a long prayer and dedication by the local pastor, Pastor Lawrence, I am taken by surprise when I’m asked to unveil a plaque on the wall dedicated to Frankie and to Starchild. I can no longer hold back the tears as Pastor Lawrence motions me to pull back the blue curtain and unveil a beautiful bronze plaque. Then I’m asked to cut the ribbon, which has the design of the Scottish Saltire Cross on it (Okay, I brought that with me.) The tongue trilling reaches a feverish height as I cut the ribbon and allow everyone in—all six hundred of them, including local dignitaries.
I am led through the large door by Pastor Sam along with Rony and my new Ugandan family. My brothers, David and Frank, are right beside me. The large partition walls have been pulled to the side and chairs for hundreds of people have been set up on either side. The children have painted pictures of Frankie and they are displayed all over the walls. Silver stars hang from the ceiling—the ceiling that should have been the floor, but all has been forgiven. Grandma Miriam has been waiting down at the front for me, sitting proudly in the new wheelchair that Starchild has bought her. She is elated.
Music, singing and drumming fill the air as ancient tribal celebration dances are performed for us until everyone is almost giddy. Many people take turns trying to teach Rony and me some of the dances. The children find great delight watching our futile muzungu attempts to keep up with the rhythm.
This is the kind of welcome and thanksgiving that keeps bringing me back to Uganda, that encourages me to keep going, despite the enormous challenges this country provides. This is what it is all about. Despite the immense poverty, there is such immense joyfulness. A joyfulness the likes of which I have never experienced anywhere else. And yes, neediness. A neediness that I and Starchild have somehow, miraculously, been able to help with. We did it. We built this incredible school and these children in front of us right now are learning the arts and thriving.
We are shown the art class, the music class, and the sewing class. The children demonstrate what they have learned and perform for us. It is a hub of activity. I can hardly believe the scene before my eyes. I am joyful and so is Rony, because there is simply no better feeling in the whole world than to know you have been able to help in some small way, to make a difference for even one person.
The Starchild School today
I stand alone outside for a moment, listening to the cacophony of sound coming from inside the school. I thank God for this day and I thank God that Rony is here with me and still in remission. It is one of those moments where I just breathe and think—we did it. I listen to the heartbeat of the school. Strong. Young. In its infancy. It will be here well after I am gone. I pray it will nurture thousands of children and give them an opportunity to learn the creative arts. I don’t think until this moment I realized just how monumental this project really is and the impact it will have on the lives of those who are lucky enough to come through its doors. I thank God once again for giving me the gift of Frankie as my brother. I will never understand why he was taken from us so soon, but I know his legacy is well and truly living on in a continent he never knew, with a family he never knew. The whole thing is just miraculous.
A Christmas Present
A few days before Christmas 2016, I decided to clear out my Facebook Messenger—something I rarely do. Much to my surprise, I discovered some messages that, for one reason or another, I hadn’t opened. I get a lot of personal requests from Uganda for help, and I have to ignore most of them. Unless I know the person or there is a mutual connection, I tend not to open the message. However, on this occasion I opened a message from a stranger, Christy Hill Puckett. I discovered she had actually sent it to me the previous year!
Much to my surprise, this stranger told me a friend of hers had randomly come across a video on YouTube of Rony and me with her son. She wanted to let me know she had adopted Lawrence, the little boy whose operation we had paid for on our first trip to Uganda. I was overwhelmed: what a great Christmas present!
Rony playing with Lawrence after his surgery
It was just fantastic to find out what had happened to Lawrence after all this time. Christy told me she lived in the States, in Mississippi, with her husband and two other children, a boy and a girl. She attached some beautiful pictures of them all together. Since then Christy and I have become friends on Facebook, and it’s always a joy when I get updates on Lawrence and his siblings.
While I was in Italy, taking some time out to finish writing this book, I decided to message Christy and ask if she would be willing to speak to me about her experience of adopting a child from Uganda. She said she would be happy to talk to me about it. I imagined I might chat with her for around twenty minutes or something, but we spoke for over two hours. Thank God we have free mobile phone calls on Messenger now!
Before that call, I had doubts about this book and of telling some of the uncomfortable truths about Frankie and the adoption. I had asked Frankie to give me a sign that he was okay with me talking about him and, of course, my parents too. After that conversation with Christy, I was convinced I had to finish writing this book. You see, Christy was facing the same challenges with multi-cultural adoption that our family had faced. She spoke candidly about some of the daily issues they were having, and her fears for the future. She told me she wanted me to finish writing this book, that there was a definite need for it. Talking to Christy was a bit like talking to my mum. Some of her wounds were much the same, and so were Lawrence’s. I hung up, knowing in my heart I had to share my story.
A Letter from America
Dear Michaela,
I’ve just finished reading your book and I am completely in awe. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you! People say that life is full of coincidences, but I truly believe it’s just God using people as vessels and in this case, it’s you, Rony, and, of course, Frankie.
Abandonment and post-adoptive trauma is something that no one really talks about, so I thank you for sharing your mother’s feelings, and your own. You have been able to draw on your experience as a daughter, a sister and wife of adoptees.
You see, of all of the children in the world, Marty and I both knew that Lawrence was our son the very moment we met him. There is no way to describe it other than to say it was as if they’d handed me a baby I’d just birthed myself. We KNEW he was our son. He just happened to have been born to another woman on the other side of the world. And he just happened to be black. He also had a coconut-sized hernia that needed repair, but we were prohibited from sending money to the orphanage in case it was seen as trafficking because we so wanted to adopt Lawrence. We later learned he had also suffered a severe tongue infection and chronic, untreated, upper respiratory issues. We prayed continuously for healing for Lawrence (now called LP—this was HIS decision) and hoped that someone would care for him.
I emailed the babies’ home every few weeks to see how he was feeling. It is no coincidence to me that you and Rony ‘just happened’ to show up and pay for the very life-saving surgery that he needed and then cared for him as he sat in that dirty sandbox after that surgery. To me, that answered prayer started with Frankie. If it wasn’t for him, there’s a good chance Starchild would have never been born. If Starchild had never been formed, Lawrence may not be alive today. And if he were, it would probably be under very different circumstances, so I hope you and Rony both understand the magnitude of
my gratitude to you both.
From the outside looking in, I feel like God had far greater plans for Frankie than anyone could have ever known. Frankie may have only been granted twenty-seven years on earth, but because of him, hundreds of Ugandan children have now been cared for. Thank you for allowing his life to be shared through your writing.
Many children now have a future that they otherwise would not have been able to access. I’m speaking freely here, but in America, we say “the good die young” and Frankie was good. Although I will never meet him, his short life on earth has had a long-term impact on many children, including my own son, and that irony is not lost on me. Frankie may have been abandoned as a Ugandan in Scotland, but Frankie’s life has had a profound impact around the world.
Uganda is a beautiful country, full of life and joy in the simplest of things, but it is no place for an orphan to live. There is no free education, no healthcare, and no government programs to ensure that they are fed. Yes, there are some selfless, warm souls who are good and kind and honest, but the nation as a whole seems to be corrupt. As you point out in your book, it is a difficult country to navigate, but it’s so culturally rich that it’s worth the trouble. Children without families often find themselves in remand homes (a.k.a. child prisons). I can name exactly four that we’ve visited first hand and I still struggle with the things I witnessed six years ago. It is enough to make you wish you could adopt all of the children that resided in these homes, but that in itself creates an even bigger problem: “adoption tourism.”
Adoption tourism is something that I, myself, am guilty of even though it was not done intentionally. Because so many people are now adopting from Uganda and neighboring African countries, it has become a very lucrative industry. I can say with one hundred percent honesty that our adoption was done as ethically as we knew how, but we met other muzungus who admitted to paying “expediting fees” for visas and passports. But that is another story for another day.
Like Frankie, Lawrence will never know his biological family. Lawrence was abandoned outside of a hospital in the Kololo region of Kampala, near the embassy buildings. We don’t have any details other than he was “between one and two years of age, he was very sick, and that he was dressed in a green jumper.” When he was found on the bench, he’d been crying, “Father, Father.” My heart can’t even take typing those words. Lawrence has scar tissue on his vocal chords from all of his screaming and crying when he was young. It hurts me to know that those cries probably went unanswered. He has asthma and scarring in his lungs from chronic, untreated upper respiratory infections and pneumonia. He has burn scars down his forearm that we cannot explain and he underwent $26,000.00 (USD) worth of dental surgery when he came to America because his gums and teeth were so damaged, due to both neglect and tribal tooth extraction.
Lawrence is so loved, but he also struggles with the subconscious reminders of abandonment. He bonded to me and his sister, Brogan, very quickly. It helps that Brogan has the patience of Job and is very motherly and attentive. However, it has taken him years to form an attachment with my husband and our other son, Swaid. Despite this, I’ am the one who gets the brunt of his defiance. He adores me and will tell you that I’m his “favorite,” but he loves to push my buttons and test the limits of my patience. He needs me and he wants me as his mother, but he’s quick to see what he can get away with. I think it is his subconscious desire to know that my love is unconditional. Marty and I regularly tell him, “Mommy and Daddy love you. We will always be proud of you. And we will never leave you.” This verbal reassurance has helped tremendously with his attachments, but he’ll require long-term therapy for his Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and other disorders stemming from his early childhood and subsequent neglect.
You have verbalized some of what I could not express. Although it’s difficult to deal with, I find comfort in knowing that I am not alone. Everyone hears about the happy stories of the orphan that finally gets a family, but no one is prepared to talk about the often harsher reality of it. Adoption stems from loss and no one really understands how powerful that is unless they’ve walked through it. Adopting a child of a different race is a whole other issue. We’ve been fortunate that trans-racial adoption is becoming more common in Mississippi, but racism will always be evident and stupid people will always ask stupid questions. (I’m looking at you, super market cashier! And yes. I AM his REAL mother.)
I’m getting side tracked now, but it feels so good to be able to talk about Lawrence and the circumstances surrounding his story with someone who truly understands. Thank you for listening to me ramble, and thank you for your honesty in this book. Lawrence has a long way to go for healing, but he’s getting there. That would not be possible if it weren’t for you honoring Frankie. Your story is so deep and so moving that I almost cannot grasp the reality of it. Finding your brother’s family in Uganda and the coincidences surrounding that was nothing short of a miracle. As the mother of an orphan, I thank you for sharing your story. As the mother of Lawrence Agaba-Mukisa Puckett, I thank you for saving his life.
All my love
-cp
Christy Hill Puckett
The Magic in the Universe
The net of events that have brought me to this moment make me realize life is not as wild or as random as most people think. There is a refined, divine intelligence to it. I believe I have genuinely glimpsed the unfathomable genius of it all. I know I have experienced the magic in the universe.
The random chance of Christy’s friend finding me on YouTube and us being led to each other proves to me yet again just how crazy and wild synchronicity in life can be. Sometimes when these bizarre things happen to us it challenges the status quo. People can start to think it’s odd or I’m weird. Believe me, at first I felt a bit perturbed by it all. But I was also curious and therefore open to it.
Now I wake up feeling more like a child does, willing to let the universe, God, or whatever one wants to call it, lead the way. I don’t have the same need to control things in my life. I know the divine intelligence is one step ahead, planning it all in its own miraculous way. Some people might say things like this don’t happen to them. They never used to happen to me either, but since I’ve been open to it, the synchronicities have kept coming. I’ve also learned to trust my inner wisdom much more. It’s also beautiful and powerful to believe in the radical spontaneity of life. When ideas come, sudden impulses and opportunities, I don’t dismiss them—they might be divine nudges. I’m aware being open to movement and growth is supported in life, stagnating is not. But we have a choice. Being unwilling to breakout of our molds or merely responding to the molds of those around us does our true self no justice. I love days of radical aliveness, having a thought and acting on it in the moment can be so liberating. And, the more one recognizes blessings, even the tiny ones, the more blessings seem to come.
Some people questioned my sanity when I told them I was going to build a school in Uganda, but I felt I was becoming saner than ever before. I was more awake and willing to take a leap of faith. That’s not to say I was impractical and had my head in the clouds. The challenges, as you’ve read, were real, as were some of my fears. No one waved a magic wand and did it for me. Just like writing my books.
This journey has taught me to love myself more. I have also learned to embrace a bit of the rebel in me when dealing with the challenges in Uganda, and discovered I could become a bad ass when it was needed. And yes, I pissed some people off—mainly the men in Uganda.
There will always be people out there who will want to shoot another person’s dreams down and can’t feel happy for others when they should. It’s probably because they are not following their own dreams. But I was delightfully determined, and knew I had Frankie and the magic in the universe with me, as I pursued my dreams.
Life is never the same after death. The loss is irreversible, final and terrifying. The grief of never, ever seeing someone
we love again is absolute agony. Our natural human response is to cling to what has ended. Death can become a dead weight. Eventually I was faced with a choice. Allow the weight to drag me down, or release the fear, believe in the impossible and reconnect with my passions. In so doing, I not only free myself, I free my loved ones. Frankie and I gave each other life after death.
Some people laugh when I tell them I talk to you, Frankie. But I can’t imagine not doing so. I wonder how you feel now seeing your school and everything that is being done in your memory. Can you believe all this! Would you have ever imagined there would be a charity named after you and so many children would be learning the arts, painting, playing music, and making things with their hands? I bet you’re laughing right now because you weren’t good with your hands. I’m smiling because you liked artsy things, and you did try, but let’s be honest, creativity was not your strong point. I won out in that department—although, you were pretty good on the trumpet but you had no patience to learn it. Football—that was your love, and being outdoors, running, and riding your bike. I couldn’t ride a bike. Remember when I fell off one at Grans. I was so black and blue! That was the last time I ever sat on a bike, but not you. You’d go for miles and miles. Uncle Jack was reminiscing recently and told me you arrived at their door one day in Cambuslang. He said you had biked it there on your own. That must have been almost ten miles away, and you were only about ten years old. I remember you ran the Glasgow Marathon. It was your birthday that day September 22. Stephen and Linda had a wee cake for you when you crossed the finishing line. I still have the medal you won. I also have a curl of your hair. Did you see me remove it from your blanket after you died? I slept with that blanket over me for a while.
So many lives have changed because of your legacy: vulnerable women and children have been able to keep a roof over their heads by learning how to sew and work their land with arable and livestock farming. Orphaned children are being given a chance of secondary education, and marginalized groups are being given a voice and opportunities because of your life and your death. I can hardly take it all in at times. You alone know the times I’ve had my head in my hands and wanted to walk away from Starchild. Some days it’s all been too much: the need is too great, the funds too little, and the work too hard. But I can’t. So many of the children remind me of you. I reckon God must have had a bigger plan the day Mum and Dad saw you in Tanker Ha’ and eventually brought you home for keeps. I can’t imagine how my life would have been if they hadn’t. I loved having you around—even when we were fighting. But we always had each other’s backs. I sense you still have mine. I can still hear you pushing me on just like you did when I was scared to go to school and you’d tell me it would be okay. We always stuck up for each other in the classroom, if not at home. Remember how we always told everyone we were twins! After you died, a teacher wrote to Mum and Dad and said Miss Devsi had told her how she never forgot the way we came into her classroom together in primary one and told everyone we were twins. She laughed but agreed we really were. Oh, how you were loved! No one who knew you has ever forgotten you. We all love you, Starchild. That’s what’s written on your plaque at your tree. The tree we planted in your memory and scattered your ashes under. That great big wonderful Weeping Copper beech tree at Pollok Country Park where you loved to play football. I swear that tree rules the park. It’s like something out of a Tim Burton movie. I think it comes to life at night and wanders around the park like it owns the joint. It’s the most unusual magical tree in that whole 360-acre country park, but then it has you and now Dad and Mum under it. What else could I have ever expected it to be but magical?
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