Today I was invited to join McKenzie, age 6, for lunch at school.  While I am not a fan of cafeteria food, I am a huge fan of spending time with McKenzie.  She was already seated at the table when I arrived and the only open seat was across from McKenzie and between 2 of her friends.  It took less than 2 minutes for a friend I do not know to state the obvious. “How are you her mom?  She’s black and you’re not.”

And so it begins.  The adoption conversation with the entire table of 1st graders.

McKenzie, who does not and never has had any adoption issues to date, starts off by saying she was in foster care.  Wow.  This isn’t part of the script for our family.  I add the word adoption to the mix.  McKenzie explains she was born from someone else’s tummy and then I became her mom.  Looking around the table, I see wide eyes and open mouths.

“So why didn’t she live with her real mom?” asks a little Asian boy.

Me: Well, her birth mom wasn’t prepared to be a mom and needed someone who was able to be a mom to raise her.  That is how McKenzie became to be my daughter.  And I am unbelievably thankful I get to be her mom.

“So you’re not her REAL mom,” says chubby Hispanic girl.

Me: Of course I am real!  You want to touch my arm?  See, I’m real just like you.  I am her real mom.  I am not her birth mom or her tummy mom but I am definitely her real mom.

“I was born in my mommy’s tummy but a few days later I went to live with my Nana and Pop Pop.  And that’s who I live with my whole life.  That’s my family,” explains a little Hispanic boy.

Me: Exactly! Families are special and not all of them are the same.  Some kids live with a mom and dad.  Some kids live with 2 moms or 2 dads.  Some kids live with step parents or grandparents or single parents.  All of them are families.

Collective – COOOOL

“In my past life I was a cat,” announces little Indian boy.

I think we’ll call it a day, folks.  Kids are listening.  What are you saying?

I am fairly certain I have owned, at one point or another, every tape and then CD she ever made.  While I wasn’t a huge fan of the movie The Body Guard, I LOVED her re-make of I Will Always Love You.  And I LOVED her re-make of Chaka Khan’s I’m Every Woman.  Do you remember the video?  Whitney was pregnant and positively glowing.  Several years later while I was in the very painful struggle to come out of the closet, I listened non stop to My Love is Your Love.  It is perhaps my favorite Whitney song.

I followed her career over the years, even watching the train wreck of a reality show Being Bobby Brown for just a glimpse of her.  Whitney was clearly in a life and death struggle with the demons all too many regular people have as well.  I literally had the breath knocked out of me last weekend when I read on Facebook that she had passed.  The scab on the scar of my Aunt Kathy’s death 8 years earlier was pulled off in a split second.  Grief is a funny thing.  You think you’ve worked through it and then BAM!  A pop icon dies (most likely) as the result of drugs and I am back on the floor of our old house hearing the dreaded words over the phone, “Kathy is dead.” Drugs suck.

I was glued to the television for most of last weekend.  I couldn’t turn away.  It is like the grief needed to be fed.  I felt sad most of the week and clearly saw the effects of grief on my day to day routine.  I kept reminding myself I didn’t know Whitney and this wasn’t happening to me,  but in a way, it was.  I checked in with my mother and her sisters to see if they were feeling the same way and they were.  Finally, I started crying.  The sadness just became too big for my heart to contain and the tears spilled forth.  Maddie and McKenzie saw me crying and I tried to explain about Whitney and Kathy.  While they didn’t really “get” it, Maddie was able to see grief rather than just feel her own from the adoption wounds that plague her.  She comforted me, hugged me, and helped me think happy thoughts.  What an amazing child.

On Saturday, I purposely stayed away from the television, knowing I couldn’t handle the funeral.  Silly me.  I thought Whitney’s funeral would last an hour or so.  Boy was I surprised when I turned the TV on 2 hours later in time to take part in her Home Going.  This has to be one of the greatest African American traditions of all times.  Sitting in my living room in Austin, I took part in Whitney Houston’s home going.  I prayed with the congregation.  I wept with the congregation.  And I stood up when Rev. Marvin Winans preached.  I mean, he PREACHED.  I was hollering Amen and looked around for my Bible to follow along.  I even found him on Google to see where he preaches every Sunday.  I had no idea there were black people in Minnesota.

I left my living room that afternoon feeling renewed and refreshed.  I had sweated out the grief with the rest of America.  White people need to control everything.  There is always a time table and a right and wrong.  Everything is so constrained. I don’t want a white funeral when my time comes.  I want a Home Going in the African American tradition.  I want people to cry for as long as they need to cry.  I want people to sing for as long as necessary.  I want Marvin Winans to PREACH the eulogy.  Okay, I do realize that is a tall order – the Winans part, but I can dream.  Shoot if Marvin is coming, tell him to bring Cece to SING.

Whitney Houston’s Home Going was a process of grieving, celebrating, remembering, and then rejoicing.  We moved through the process together and I am so thankful Cissy Houston decided to bring the whole world to church on a Saturday afternoon.  I needed to be reminded of the Word.  I needed to feel the Word.  Because in the end, only the Word remains and we return to where we began.   This is what I want for myself and for the people who love me.  A Home Going – a process through which we remember and celebrate and grieve together without a time line.  I feel so blessed to have been a part of this process.  And now I think I can crank up the music again and dance.

Our family has had a rough couple of months. We have been riddled with medical problems, behavior issues, and adoption stuff. I feel pretty drained both emotionally and physically from my duties as Mom. So imagine my delight when I received an e-mail last night cancelling today’s board meeting! Do you know what this means? I have a free day!

Everyone slept in this morning, which was fabulous. It rained all night, complete with thunder and lightening, making for fantastic rest. The forecast called for rain all day long and the ONLY thing on the calendar, besides the cancelled meeting, was Madison’s basketball game. Wow! This doesn’t happen every day.

We dressed in a hurry and headed out the door to the basketball game. I’ve missed the last 2 games so I was excited to watch my girl play her heart out. We get to the basketball court and we don’t recognize a soul. There is no one from her team in sight. That’s when I realized the game was at 11, not 10. Holy smokes! We have a free hour in a bonus day! This never happens! Our weekends are carefully calculated and rarely left to chance.

We decided to drive around to kill some time until our game was scheduled to begin. We discovered a little do-nut shop and went inside for some delicious treats. We each chose an item from behind the glass case, laughing at Morgan who bumped her head on the glass with excitement over the sweets. The girls shared a strawberry milk and we simply enjoyed being together.

For once I wasn’t watching the clock or checking the schedule. The rain poured down outside and we sat warm and dry in a little do-nut shop. I was completely relaxed. If the meeting hadn’t been cancelled or had I remembered the correct game time, I would have missed this precious time with my kids. I sat in that tiny booth, delighting in each of my daughters.

I am proud to share Maddie’s team won the game 16-8 and we have enjoyed this unexpected day together tremendously. There were naps, books, phone calls to catch up with loved ones, time to meet the new neighbors, and even a chance to sell the last 4 boxes of Girl Scout cookies. This was a great day – unexpected and totally appreciated.

http://gritsforbreakfast.blogspot.com/2012/02/me-apd-and-babysitting-while-white-part.html

When I first read this story, which has gained national media coverage, I immediately thought of my father and how much he adores his granddaughters.  My oldest daughter is the first grandchild in our family and she most definitely set the tone for all other future grandchildren.  My parents adore all of them.  My father would have been crushed if this had happened to him.  #1 – Dad would have been humiliated #2 – Dad would have been beside himself with worry if he were separated from any of my children while police questioned their relationship.  My heart breaks for this blogger and grandfather.  And then my thoughts turned to this granddaughter and how terrified she must have been, not knowing what was happening.  The whole scenario is scary.

I can tell you first hand this is a HUGE fear of most multiracial adoptive families.  How can we prove our relationship in the blink of an eye?  Do we carry adoption papers with us wherever we go?  Maybe, but keep in mind those papers do not contain photographs.  I keep a substantial stack of baby pictures in my wallet in hopes this would prove to any authority figure that these are, in fact, my children.  I mean if I were kidnapping them, why would have their baby pictures?  My kids know that we do not play around with security at the airport and when asked their full names, they answer immediately.  They also know not to ever “kid” around about being our children while in line at the airport.  You see I am prepared for the airport, not the city park.

I shared this story last night with my fabulous friend, Gigi Bryant,  as we stood in line to meet Michael Oher of The Blindside and the Baltimore Ravens.  Gigi is tall and black and beautiful and we talk about race all the time.  We laugh together and share a level of honesty not many people can maintain.  Upon hearing my story about the grandfather and the 5 year old, she says, “Thank God he was white.”

And then it hit me.  My white privilege allows me to be outraged about this story. If this grandfather had been black and the 5 year old white, more than likely he would have been not only cuffed, but also hauled downtown.  The police could have called DFPS to care for the child while all of this was sorted out.  He could have been assaulted by the police.  Shoot, he could have been tried and convicted before anyone slowed down to ask, “What were you saying again about a granddaughter?”  This is the world we live in.

Don’t get me wrong, I am thrilled the possible kidnapping of a child was taken seriously.  Had MY child been the suspected victim, I would have raised holy hell until every officer within radio reach was on the scene.  However, this situation was taken too far.  Cuffs were not necessary and surrounding the pair in the park with multiple squad cars and tasers drawn seems a bit much.  It shouldn’t have happened this way.  ON THE OTHER HAND, let us consider for just a moment if the tables were turned.  The scene would have been much uglier.  And it isn’t out of the realm of belief that shots could have even been fired.  All because a grandfather was walking his granddaughter through the park and someone thought it didn’t look right.

White privilege is alive and well in this country.  We, as Americans and even human beings, are not on an even playing field.  There isn’t much I can do about it directly but I can raise the level of consciousness and hope to God this never happens to my children or my Dad.

Dad and Morgan

Yesterday I took Madison to visit a pediatric surgeon to discuss an upcoming procedure.  When I made the appointment a few days prior, the scheduler asked if I was the patient’s biological mother.  I said no.  She asked if I was a step parent.  I said no.  She asked if I was an adoptive parent.  I said yes.  She then told me to bring the adoption papers with me to the appointment.

Uh, what?  Back the truck up.  Why do you need her adoption papers?  She explained it was to make sure the parent had the authority to authorize surgery.

Hmmmmm…. So does this mean biological parents need to leave a DNA sample?  What if I were divorced?  Would you need to see that documentation?  If I am responsible enough to seek out your services and bring her to the appointment, don’t you think I’m responsible enough to pay the bill?  These are just some of the thoughts racing through my head.  Since my kids were home while I was on the phone, I didn’t argue too much though I thought the whole thing was ridiculous.

Enter Kim from work and I tell her what I am required to bring with me.  Saying it out loud to another adult made it real.  Kim asked for the number to the office and said she would take care of it.  Kim started with the scheduler and moved onto the office manager.  She definitely went a full 9 rounds with the office manager and I am fairly certain both of them needed a blood pressure pill upon disconnecting the call.  Bottom line – I still had to bring the adoption papers.

I think this is a ridiculous requirement of a doctor’s office.  No matter how I look at this situation, I cannot see the point.  It clearly seems as if adoptive families are being singled out since birth parents are not having to prove paternity or maternity before an appointment.  What if the scheduler hadn’t told me in advance to bring the papers and asked for them in front of Maddie at check in?  I would have DIED because my daughter would have been put on the spot.

Our adoption is a legal matter that was settled many years ago.  It has NOTHING to do with Maddie’s health.  While we deal with adoption issues every week, the paperwork does not impact her health, our financial responsibility, or anything else when it comes to visiting a doctor.  If I weren’t such a lady, I would have crawled across that desk and used some language my daughter would need to look up in the dictionary.  Kim says I need to schedule an appointment with the office manager in order to plan a staff training on adoption.  Who knows.  For now, I need to focus on Maddie’s health.  But she better look out after that.  I plan to channel some Julia Sugarbaker!

The bone, you ask?

Yes, the bone that holds your teeth in your head was broken.  We are so lucky she didn’t break her neck, but now I have a toothless 3 year old.  Of course, she was eating Cheetos a few days later, which as you know is the universal sign for mental and physical health.  That was a scary week and I feel as though I aged 10 years in 7 days.  Fortunately, she is doing great 6 weeks later and I have grown to love that toothless grin.

Once I recovered from Morgan’s face plant in the back yard, my wonderful friend, Connie, came to visit from Mississippi.  Connie is the reason I came out of the closet.  She has been a good friend for a long time, even before Kim or the kids.  We spent a week refinishing furniture, celebrating my birthday, and reminiscing.  So much fun!  We all cried when she left.

Speaking of the day Connie left, her departure triggered something in Madison that ripped the scab from her adoption wounds.  The week that followed Connie’s departure was filled with calls from the school, visits to the therapist, crying,  repercussions from the before mentioned behavior at school, and so much heartache for this Pink Mommy.  I hate to see my children hurt.  It isn’t easy to sit in the pain with them.  It is like riding the biggest, scariest wave in an unfamiliar ocean.  You hold onto each other, you wait for opportunities to breathe and you keep looking for the beach where you know there is safety and stillness.  All the while you are tossing and turning with fear and anxiety gripping your heart.  This was my week with Madison.

I have learned to hold fast when these times come.  I can’t change the fast that she is adopted.  I was naive in the beginning to think she would be unaffected by adoption since she came to us at 13 days old.  I was wrong.  Dead wrong.  The wounds of abandonment are fresh and real.  I can’t fix them.  I can only hold her hand and plunge forward with her.  This incredibly confident, out going young lady whispered in my ear several nights that week, “I just need to be near you.”  Talk about breaking your heart!

So we talk about it.  I no longer wait for her to initiate conversations because she won’t.  I ask carefully calculated questions and then I wait.  I hold her like a baby sometimes.  I offer praise.  I remind her frequently how much I love her.  I talk about birth mom and I say her name.  I encourage Maddie to say her name.  None of this is easy and I would be a liar if I said it doesn’t hurt because it does.  The truth is there would be no adoption in a perfect world.  Every adult who wanted to would have a child to parent and the adults who didn’t want a child wouldn’t.  Children wouldn’t experience the trauma and pain of adoption.  Isn’t it funny that I grew up thinking adoption was all rainbows and unicorns?  While adoption fulfilled my need to be a parent, there is a dark side and I live with it frequently.

So it is now February.  The roller coaster ride known as January has ended for now.  It is 1 Pm and I have not received a single call from the school thus far today.  This is a good sign.  I look for the signs every day.  For instance, Maddie was playing with her good friend and neighbor in the game room, which is across the hall from my office.  I heard them roll playing some kind of pretend game.  They each assumed new names.  I beamed when I heard the neighbor call Madison by her mother’s name.  You see, Maddie had assumed birth mom’s name in this game.  She felt comfortable enough to say it out loud, share it with a friend, and use it in normal conversation.  Maddie likened herself to birth  mom and that is a good thing.

After such a rough few weeks, you have to look for the silver lining.  You have to find the signs that life will go on and we will all survive the pain in our hearts.  Maddie has made a last-minute decision to enter a Black History Writing Contest at her school in which she researches an influential black woman in history.  The project is due tomorrow so tonight will be busy.  Do you see the sign?  Do you get it?  My daughter knows she is black.  And she’s proud.  That makes me smile.

Where are your signs? Keep looking.  They are there.

In our house, we are counting down to the arrival of Nanny and Pa (my parents) and Aunt Gail to arrive on Friday followed by the arrival of Aunt Spence and Uncle Mark on Monday.  The kids are nearly as excited about Nanny and Pa as they are about Santa! I am truly blessed as a mother to have such wonderful children and to have such an awesome extended family.  My children are not just accepted but adored in this family and that makes me happy beyond measure.  I remember wondering (long ago) if my parents and their siblings would embrace my diverse family and now I laugh thinking of those doubts.  We are truly a multicultural family and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

So, Santa is gearing up for his big night and my kids are super excited.  Madison has me drowning in questions about Santa and I am struggling to craft the correct answers.  This year I was able to “land” a black Santa, or rather an African American representative of Santa Claus, for an appearance at the Parenting Across Color holiday party.  My kids had never seen a black Santa, which brought about a great number of questions.  This is ironic since we have so many images of black Santa and black angels on our Christmas tree, but seeing an actual black Santa was exciting.  Thankfully, I had the decorations at home to fall back on.

It took some time to assemble this collection of Christmas decorations that reflects the ethnicity of my children.   I hope all parents will take the time to seek out black Santas and angels.  Of course, I don’t wish the awkward conversation with the white four year old next door regarding the ethnicity of Santa Claus on anyone.  I think this child has a promising career as an investigator in the military.  He was so intense with his questions about black Santa!  All I could come up with was my name, rank, and serial number.  Eventually I regained my composure and said all the right things about Santa being every man, children around the world are able to see themselves in Santa, and then I think I hummed a little Shaka Khan.  No wait, that is I’m Every Woman.  Anyway, four-year-old-know-it-all is now enlightened and if I could have recorded the conversation for duplication by other adoptive parents, I would make a ton of money in distribution fees.

This is a magical time for anyone who believes and I love it!  I love the lights and the smells and the color of Christmas.  My children have as much right as the neighbors to celebrate the season and to see themselves reflected in the images of the holiday.  Even Hallmark is carrying black angels this year and they are beautiful!  Some other great suppliers are Hobby Lobby and Wal Mart.  Find what you need and don’t stop until you do!  Your children will thank you.

Speaking of children, I have to give a shout out to my childhood friend, Melissa, and her husband, Paul, who welcomed first born son, Henry, into the world on Saturday night.  Melissa is my age and has already lost both of her parents.  I get choked up every time I think about making my way in this world without the physical company of Mom and Dad.  Melissa’s father passed away when we were in college and then her mother passed of breast cancer a few years ago.  Melissa and Paul took their time in finding each other and settling down, but were quick to create the miracle of Henry.  Of course, Henry took his own sweet time coming into the world.  Melissa was a week overdue and Henry was in no hurry even when labor was induced on Saturday morning.  I like to think he wasn’t ready to leave his grandparents to meet his parents.  Whatever the hold up, I am so thankful Henry is part of this world and I can hardly wait to meet him.  Melissa and Paul are going to make wonderful parents and I am blessed to have known this sweet friend for nearly 30 years. Congratulations!!

I usually reserve gymnastics night for Mommy and McKenzie time; however Kim was at the grocery store with Morgan so Madison came along with me to gymnastics.  She immediately made a friend in a young African American girl similar in age whose class didn’t start for a while.  They ran around the gymnasium talking, playing, and cutting up.  I kept an eye on Maddie while watching McKenzie practice.  Eventually the two girls found their way to me and I asked Maddie if they had introduced themselves.  Not surprising, the new best friends had no idea of the other’s name, so I suggested they exchange names.

The young gymnast gave Madison her name and then Madison said, “My name is Madison.  That’s the name SHE gave me.  My real name is Jamie**.”

Wow.  Wow.  Wow.

Madison has known her birth name for some time.  At different points, she has been more interested in her birth name than others.  She has always been a self aware, precocious child.  When Maddie was 2, she was practically delivering monologues on the coffee table.  I thought that’s what every kid did at that age!  In the first grade, she became profoundly aware of her adoption and struggled in the most painful ways with the belief that no one wanted her.  It was heart breaking.  We talk openly and honestly about adoption, though the story is not a pretty one and some “spin” has always been applied.  At age 9, we are getting more honest.  We say her birth name a lot these days.  Sometimes she asks me how to spell it.  Speaking the name gives her comfort.

9 years ago I was a  naive mother, madly in love with a baby.  I didn’t consider the power of the name or the lasting gift of a name from her birth mother.   I remember the many conversations we had about her name.  We wanted her to have a name that would open doors, have calls returned, and get her resume a second look.  We also wanted a name that meant something to us.  We spent a great deal of time selecting her name and if I knew then what I know now, I probably would have included part of her birth name in the new name.

Now I have a little girl struggling with the question Who am I? I can see her wheels turning to reconcile the person she is today with who she was as an infant.  Maddie is fascinated with her birth mother and she desperately wants to know more.  I do too.  Today she saw a piece of paper on the kitchen counter with her birth mother’s first name on it followed by a list of desired Christmas gifts.  She grabbed the paper and said, “You found my birth mom!”  Looking over her shoulder, I saw the paper with the identity of Kim’s secret Santa for work.  It hurt  my heart to hear the desperation in her voice.

And then a few hours later, Maddie introduces herself to a new friend with both of  her names.  I have an amazing daughter.  I know I have only scratched the surface of what this identity struggle means.  I am sure we will talk about this with our therapist next week. My heart hurts to see my daughter’s pain and yet, I am proud of myself for accepting Madison as a whole person.  The mention of her birth name or that of her birth mother does not make me flinch.  I can talk openly with Maddie about adoption. My only stumbling block is knowing how much to tell her and when.  Children adopted from the foster system were taken, not given away.  The stories are hard for strangers to hear much less the children at the center of them.

I don’t know who Madison will be in the world.  I have some ideas, but nothing concrete.  I just love  her – no matter who she becomes.  I often tell her, I love you no matter what.  I loved Jamie and I love Madison.  I pray she will someday realize her identity is the sum of her parts.  Regardless of her name or who gave it to her, she has always been and will always be a child of God.  I am confident He has been with her from the first spark of magic within the womb and will never leave her.  Perhaps today’s conversation is a timely reminder for me that my identity rests in God rather than what I do, who I love, how I live, or my name.

As always, thank you, Madison, for being my teacher.

So my guard was up when neighbor “Betty” (names have changed to protect the innocent) called last night with a story about her son, “Evan”, and my daughter, Madison, who are in the same class. “Evan” is a good looking boy and a kid I would label as part of the “in” crowd. He wore a Santa hat to school yesterday, which I am sure only added to his cute factor.

When Madison sees “Evan” in the Santa hat, she sits in his lap and begins telling him what she wants for Christmas as if he is really Santa!

I know! I nearly died as “Betty” tells me this story. I am cringing with a hand actually over my face as “Betty” continues.

Madison, planted on “Evan’s” lap, tells him she wants an iPod, some mistletoe and a date for Christmas.

Seriously people, I am going down on one knee at this point as “Betty” howls with laughter. MY 3rd GRADER IS HARD CORE FLIRTING WITH A BOY AND IN AN ALMOST INAPPROPRIATE WAY. I am dying.

“Betty” goes on to say the best part of the story (oh God can it get any worse?) is that “Evan” says he plans to wear the Santa hat every day to school from now on. That is funny!

Being the kind of mom I am, I can’t resist asking Maddie about her chat with “Evan” at dinner. She turned as many shades of red as it is possible for a brown girl to turn and then owned it. All the while swearing she doesn’t have a crush on “Evan”. When asked where two 3rd graders in the suburbs would go on a date, she responded with “for a long walk on the beach.”.

“I’m sorry, where exactly is there a beach in Austin?” I want to know.

Laughing her head off, Madison admitted this was a far fetched scheme. All the same, I think we will consider canceling the Disney Channel and Nick. My girl is growing up too fast!

All of this makes me wonder about the future and who my girls will choose as mates. For the white adoptive mother of 3 African American daughters, having my daughters marry someone of color would be the ultimate. This would mean we have raised them to feel comfortable and confident among people of their own race. Of course, they may choose Anglo mates and that is fine but I am always scanning the crowd for the brown boys in the neighborhood. And yes, I assume they will choose boys until they tell me otherwise since the majority of the world is straight. I secretly hope I walk a daughter down the aisle to meet someone tall, dark, and gorgeous at some time in the distant future. More than anything, I hope she is adored and cherished.

Until then, I better keep both eyes open, especially for anyone wearing a Santa hat!

And then I realized I am gay. While my feelings about church never changed, the church changed how it feels about me. Raised as a proud United Methodist, I never heard the message that God hates fags, but I was quickly told I would need to “change back”. I searched high and low for a church home. Where does a gay Christian go to worship? There aren’t too many options.

Fast forward several years and there is the addition of 3 African American daughters to the mix. We need another new church. I have been shopping for a church for a long time. Several times I believed we found “the one”. Here are the requirements:

1) Open and affirming that welcomes gay people.
2) Diversity of ethnicity
3) Not too far away (I say this because we are members of Metropolitan Community Church of Austin and it takes 35-45 minutes to get there. Long drive with 3 kids)

Well I think we’ve found a winner! United Christian Church of Austin is only a few minutes away and welcomes our family. The children’s program is great and we really enjoy the service. However, there aren’t any people of color. This is a tricky one since surrounding my girls with black people is super important to me. So I prayed about it. And I’ve made a decision. We will bring our own people of color!

I have called several families like my own to invite them to try our new favorite church. If all goes well, we will bring 11 guests with us on Sunday. This may be a win/win for everyone! I am very excited and thrilled to have a place to call home during Advent. The girls have even decided to join the Children’s Choir in time for the Christmas pageant!!

Maybe some day, people who follow the teachings of Christ can find enough common ground on which to worship together. Until then, we’ll probably be at United Christian Church of Austin. Feel free to meet us there!! And, yes, the brown ones belong to us.