For the majority of my life, I never paid much attention to the word real.
I knew of The Velveteen Rabbit's famous line: What is real?
And I've known women throughout my life who have had nose jobs or breast implants and have been offended by people asking them if their alterations were “real.”
Prior to nine years ago, I had no attachment to the word real, nor was it a button pusher to me. But, nine years ago, we came home with a new baby daughter from China, and though we received hugs and smiles and many well-wishes, it wasn't long before strangers would come up to us, wherever we were, and ask me, in front of my new daughter, “Will she ever know her real mother?”
My son, who was 12 at the time, started reporting back to me that whenever he told people he had a new sister, they would correct him by saying, “Well, you mean an adopted sister. She's not your real sister, right?”
And, then, four years ago when we brought home another beautiful daughter, people would stop our girls out in public places and ask, “Is she your real sister?”
My family really started struggling with this. Were we not real? Were we surreal? Were we fake? Impostors?
What people mean, when they ask these questions, is . . . biological or birth or blood, but they rarely say that.
And, because I'm a little bit snarky, when they ask, “Will your girls ever know their real mother?” I sometimes answer, “Oh, yeah, and today they're thinking I'm a real bitch.”
And when they ask, “Are your girls real sisters? I typically answer, “Oh, they're really sisters, and they hate each other, but I think you're asking if they're biologically related?”
And once, just once, when a nasty woman at Costco looked down at my daughter and then said to me, “But, she's not your real daughter, is she?” I looked up at the woman's hair and asked, “Is that your real hair color?”
So, I struggle through this issue every day, and let me tell you, it's a real thing, but I had never encountered this being addressed in a book before.
And, here it is, the issue of real playing out in a book (hey, this is about a book after all!).
In Beyond the Bright Sea, a newborn baby washes upon the shore on the Elizabeth Islands and is taken in by a single man who goes by the name of Daniel. Daniel, without hesitating, takes in the baby and raises her. He names the girl Crow and she calls him Osh, and the reader is introduced to them as Crow is 12 and is wondering about her place in the world.
As a preteen Crow has become almost obsessively focused on her identity and her father is a man of few words. He's a loving man, but his silence provokes her to investigate her background on her own, and before long, she has information about her biological family. When she announces to Osh, “I think I know who my real parents are,” he becomes agitated and feels threatened and she doesn't understand his reaction to her words.
Osh is not terribly communicative, and he's inept at saying what he wants to say, which is. . . I am your real father.
But, despite his discomfort, he allows Crow to pursue her roots and draw her own conclusions, and, ultimately, this journey brings father and daughter closer together.
Crow unexpectedly learns through this process “that there are better bonds than blood.”
The author writes, in her Note at the end, “Writing this book reminded me that happiness is a matter of being where—and who—we want to be.”
And, I'd like to tell her. . . that reading this book and my own life experiences have brought me to the same conclusion.