Wish You Happy Forever (9 page)

THE ORPHANAGE HAD
a swank mirrored front. The Shenzhen director, a tiny spark plug in spike heels, was savvy enough to take advantage of the place's relatively upscale location and open a public kindergarten for the community. The tuition she collected helped support the institution, with the added benefit of potentially (in my mind anyway) allowing orphaned children to mix with those from town. There was nothing special about the care in Shenzhen, but this setup, along with an unusually large population of about six hundred children—maybe something to do with all those young migrant workers—made it look promising for a pilot program. Furthermore, the Shenzhen director seemed open to new ideas and promised she could blast through any potential government obstacles. She guaranteed absolute, 100 percent cooperation.

Perfect! We had our first pilot site. I was elated. We wouldn't exactly be saving the world on our first outing, but if the goal was to have a successful first year so that we'd be free to expand to more challenging areas, Shenzhen was definitely the place.

We still needed a second pilot site—someplace a little smaller, but with a large enough group of children to demonstrate positive impact. I asked Wen to return to Jiangsu Province, on China's more sophisticated (and hopefully more open-minded) east coast, while I returned to California to tackle the practical side of developing the dream.

Chapter 4

To Move a Mountain, Begin with Small Stones

No one had said no, but they hadn't really said yes, either.

No matter; I returned home without the slightest doubt that Half the Sky was on its way. I reported back to the board, and they were maybe a little surprised, but definitely pleased and excited, when I told them that we were actually going to do this thing!

A week later, Wen called to report that she'd found the ideal spot in Jiangsu Province for our second pilot site—Changzhou, a small city not far from Shanghai. There were about 120 children, which would make it a midsize orphanage. As in the majority of places we'd visited, the children's basic needs were taken care of, but that was it. Wen sent photos. When I saw the barren rooms and blank faces of the children, I agreed: Changzhou would be pilot site number two.

Now we began to make detailed plans. Wen started reaching out to her connections in China to identify a pool of young teachers for the preschools, and I set to work on a plan for the babies. Beyond adopting Malaguzzi's inspiration about children and caregivers learning together, I hadn't made much progress in thinking through how the infant nurture program would work. When I suggested to the orphanage directors during our recent visits that the residents of the adjacent senior housing could come over daily and cuddle the babies, out came the old China Smile. Fixed grin, eyes glazed over—no way was
that
idea going to fly.

So now I created an early childhood advisory group online. I invited adoptive parents who were child development professionals to help us plan our approach. Our first two volunteer nanny trainers were selected from that very committed pool. Even better, I met Janice Cotton, an early childhood professor, researcher, and practitioner who, although not available for this first outing, would not only design our infant nurture program, but one day oversee the development of an elegant and comprehensive child development curriculum for Half the Sky.

I informed the board that there would be a few other things to figure out quickly, before we returned to China. I explained that, on my trip, when I'd begun to see a few too many of those China Smiles, I may have made a few impromptu and rather bold promises:

“We will not only transform the children. We will turn orphanage rooms into playrooms of the highest international standards! We'll fill them with colorful and sturdy developmentally appropriate toys!”

It hadn't taken long to get the message that many of our potential Chinese partners (especially the men) were really into enhancing their real estate holdings. They wanted the shiny toys and plaques and other assorted symbols of success. So, of course, I obliged. Now we had to figure out how to deliver.

Lucky for us, we had talent in the house. Our good pals on the board, Daniel and Terri, were experienced designers. Daniel had been a cabinetmaker before becoming a screenwriter and professor; he'd even designed and built play equipment for the children's ward of a hospital. Terri was a painter with a gorgeous sense of color. They designed the play equipment, furniture, and color scheme that we still use in our children's centers today. And, best of all, they volunteered to lead our builds.

Paying for this grand plan would be tricky. We'd already tapped out friends and family. Not a single one of the very promising foundations I'd researched was willing to even look at a proposal. We had big ideas but had accomplished nothing yet, and Chinese orphans were not high on any funder's priority list—actually not on the list at all. Ours was not considered a pressing global issue.

Still, we launched our first public fundraising effort with great optimism. We collected names and addresses of anyone we thought might want to help the children. I wrote an appeal letter. Rob Reiner, a colleague of one of our board members and an advocate for early childhood education, helped us with an insert stating his support. By New Year's Day 2000, we were ready. We sent our first direct appeal off in the mail and held our collective breath:

On the July Fourth holiday last year, the first anniversary of our daughter Maya's adoption, I watched her playing in the backyard, exuberant with friends and family. I marveled at this little being who had taken over my life and so fiercely captured my heart. And I was overwhelmed with gratitude for the gift of her life in mine.

I know you'll understand when I tell you that my happiness that day was tinged with sorrow. I couldn't get the image out of my mind—the image that haunts me still: the babies lying alone on their backs, the toddlers strapped to walkers . . . all those abandoned little girls in orphanages in China who will never know families. Who will never know Maya's joy. . . .

Like many developing countries, China has extremely limited resources for its orphaned children. The main priority in welfare institutions is, and must be, food and health care. Everything else is an unaffordable luxury. Caretakers want to give the little ones more, but they are simply overwhelmed. So the children languish.

The lucky ones find families. For those who don't, the future looks bleak. Chinese society is rooted in the family. Life for a girl-child in China is not easy. Life for a girl-child with no family is unspeakably tough. Education is their best hope . . . for most, their only hope. But many of these little girls will get no education.

Although mandatory to ninth grade, school in China is not free. But even when the orphanage can raise the funds to send its children to local schools, they face obstacles. Deprived of the nurturing and stimulation they need to develop normally, the orphans learn to speak late, walk late. They suffer so many developmental delays that, by the time they reach school age, many local schools refuse to admit them.

There is a clear and simple way we can change all this. A way people like us, on the other side of the world, can give China's orphaned babies and small children a shot at a better future.

We can set up and support high-quality, caring enrichment programs right in China's orphanages. We can prepare those children to enter the world. . . .

And just as I dreamed it, the money rolled in. We raised almost 100,000 dollars! Checks and faxes and phone calls flooded our dining room. The three thousand names of potential supporters I'd collected in the first year had multiplied as those people shared our story with family and friends. By the year 2000, there were perhaps thirty thousand families around the world who'd adopted children from China, and few did not ache at the memory of the children they'd left behind. I knew now, for sure, that we were not alone.

Then, days after the mailing went out, and six months after my visit, we received semiofficial approval (nothing in writing yet) from the Ministry of Civil Affairs. Half the Sky would (probably) be allowed to create its two pilot programs. We would have one year in which to prove ourselves. I don't know if other nonprofit organizations typically begin on such a high note, but I was pinching myself every day.

I announced that we would launch our programs in the summer and invited volunteers to come to China to help us do the job. It began to sink in that I wasn't just telling a story anymore. It wasn't just another adventure; I wasn't just making a movie. The story I was writing was about to affect real lives—real little girls tied to chairs and cribs on the other side of the world. Nothing would stop us.

As plans took shape and it all became more real, some on our board grew nervous. I, on the other hand, felt strangely calm. It was time for a return trip to photograph and measure the rooms we'd be renovating, to recruit teachers and nannies, and most important, to meet the children whose lives we were about to change.

I couldn't leave Maya behind again. Dick managed to rearrange his life, and in March 2000, eight months after my first official visit, the three of us headed back to China.

ZZ MET US
in Shanghai. Dick and Maya loved her instantly, and it was clearly mutual.

“There is some news,” ZZ said over breakfast the first morning. “The Ministry of Civil Affairs informed me that the coordination of the Half the Sky programs is being shifted to the China Social Workers Association, which is a new NGO under the ministry.”

“There are social workers in China?”

“I don't think so.”

“Right. Okay. Well, will we still work with CPWF?”

“Yes. Should be. Maybe.”

“Okay.” Not that I had a choice.

“On the telephone they sound nice. The new vice president, Mr. Shi, is a good friend of our friend at the ministry. Next week we will visit Mr. Shi and bring some nice gift according to our Chinese custom.”

“Definitely.”

What would I do without her?

We took a train from Shanghai to Changzhou. As we settled in our seats, ZZ got a call from Shenzhen. A high-energy, high-volume Chinese debate ensued. I wished I'd paid more attention to my teach-yourself-Mandarin CDs.

“The Shenzhen director apologizes that she can't prepare name list of children for us,” ZZ said, snapping her phone shut.

Swell. To help fund the programs, we'd decided to offer donors the opportunity to sponsor individual children. We would provide each sponsor with basic information on the assigned child, along with a photo that Dick would take. We knew that, as in all Reggio-inspired programs, documentation of the child's progress would be an important component of our work, and every child would have her own “memory book,” her own history. It would be an easy matter, we thought, to share regular progress reports with sponsors so that they could feel connected to the children they were helping. Without even the children's names, this would be tough.

“Did she tell you why?”

“She says that she needs more formal written instruction from Beijing. I'll call our new friend, Mr. Shi.”

Mr. Shi promised to fax something to Shenzhen immediately. Even before meeting him, I already liked Mr. Shi! But now I wondered if I should be just a little bit nervous about that promised 100 percent cooperation from the Shenzhen director.

 

DEPUTY DIRECTOR ZHANG
Yunyun, or “Small Cloud” Zhang (
yun
means “cloud”), met us at the Changzhou train station and whisked us off to the orphanage. Small Cloud Zhang was a super-competent pint-size dynamo with painted-on eyebrows and close-cropped hair. Her boss, the actual director, whose name I don't remember, couldn't be bothered to spend time with us. He was one of those I came to call the
ganbei
guys (
ganbei
means “dry glass/bottoms up”)—the minor officials who, when they're not drinking tea and reading the newspaper or napping, spend all of their time toasting each other at banquets.

But the person who actually ran the place was Small Cloud Zhang, and although a bit nervous about what we had in mind, she seemed agreeable. Even better, she actually knew the kids—knew their names and a little bit about each one.

We photographed and measured the rooms and made lists of supplies we'd need to buy. Small Cloud Zhang followed us around on her spindly high heels.

“Do you think we could use
these
rooms instead of the ones you've chosen, Deputy Director Small Cloud Zhang?” I asked as we walked through a space that seemed inviting. I wasn't quite sure she understood my request, but it seemed to me that she nodded her head. Wen and I conferred.

“And do you think we could knock a hole in this wall to open up the space into one big room?” Small Cloud Zhang hesitated a moment. Then nodded, perhaps with less enthusiasm.