What is that tenuous path from breath
To death?
The soldiers, brave and noble, who went through hell
And fell
For us to gain peace
And make the conflict cease.

We honor you today
For entering into the fray.
You did not shrink back
Despite every vicious attack.
We will not forget.

We stand with your families and those left behind.
You are never out of mind:
Well done, well done.

It’s that time of year again, commencement, with starry-eyed students and sensational speakers crossing paths on the dais. But the fact is, obtaining a higher education may be injurious to one’s health. Whether suicide, mass murders, or individualized stalking-stranglings and decapitations, the sad statistics emanting from college campuses have skyrocketed. (And public high schools are running a close second….)

Many parents pay through the nose to send off our best and brightest for four years. I’m not sure that’s the smartest thing to do, anymore. It’s definitely dangerous to be a university student these days. No matter how high the SATs or GPAs, they matter little if the student ends up dead.

Korean killer Seung-Hui Cho wreaking havoc at Virginia Tech, a melee massacre that stunned the nation, followed by a Chinese male student decapitating a female Chinese student on the same campus a couple of years later, just the thing you want to see at your local Au Bon Pain. Gives new meaning to The Old Dominion State. Yale grad student Annie Le, murdered in the key-controlled campus lab just five days before her wedding, her body stuffed into a wall. Elite Cornell University, where six different students have committed suicide in the 2009-2010 school year. UVA senior and star lacrosse player, Yeardley Love, brutally murdered by an on-again, off-again boyfriend, another senior lacrosse player, only days before graduation.

These serious stats don’t include on-campus rapes, robberies, and violent attacks. And let’s not forget death-by-alcohol at those fun frat parties. Plus, Amanda Knox and her hard knocks changed forever how mothers and fathers would view a semester abroad in a peaceful place like chocolate-lovers’ Perugia.

I can only imagine those of us with adopted kids from Russia, should they want to study there for a year abroad. With dual passports, we were warned by Moscow Embassy workers not to bring any sons back to Russia from the ages of 18 to 28, make that 17 to 29 just to be safe, even though they would not technically be eligible for conscription since they did not live there permanently. Who wants their son to be the first test case?

The dangers on college and even high school campuses are on the rise. While random violence will always be with us, there are ways to prepare for the unthinkable. Ask your child’s intended school what is their emergency plan—do they have one and how does it work? How are other students contacted in the event that an incident is happening on another part of the campus?

Also, evaluate other aspects of campus security—do those with key-cards to dorms regularly hold the front door open for visitors behind them, in effect giving anyone access? Are there security cameras in parking lots with video kept on file for at least a week, and good lighting on walking paths at night? In case of an emergency, is there more than one exit door that may be easily unlocked with a push-bar?

Remember, there are top schools that engage in elaborate cover-ups. Crazy little quid-pro-quo: murders go up, enrollment goes down. Talk with other students from your area, or read the local police crime reports online.

I’m not so sure anymore about sending the kids away to university. Online classes are looking much safer these days.

Except for those pesky online predators….

Our older daughter, Mashenka, was turning twelve. This would be her very “first” birthday ever and I imagined that she would be on her best behavior in true orphanage wheedling style. How soon I forgot.

While the wheedling and ingratiating behavior happened on a regular basis when more computer or TV time was sought, our newer children had other issues that came to a head when it came to Major Life Events.

They were unworthy.

Try as I might with my daily motivational pep talks and filling them up with the idea that they were Somebody, when push came to shove, they would always revert back to the lowest common denominator: they were Nobody. And so it was that as Mashenka’s birthday loomed on the horizon, just a couple of weeks after mine, she tried to make everyone miserable, starting with deep-sixing my birthday and making a grand crescendo of ugliness building up to her own.

Suddenly, Baba Yaga, the wicked witch of Russian folktales, had come to roost in our abode. I was ready to chase her up the chimney and across the skies in her mortar-and-pestle-mobile. Ugly faces and even uglier attitudes were not coming to roost in our house!

It’s then that it dawned on us (again). You see, some of us adoptive parents are slow learners. We expect these kids to be excited, and happy, and thrilled with the idea of their Big Day coming up. Instead, we get Sullen, Sarcastic, and Stinky.

Why? Because they don’t think they deserve any of it. Self-sabotaging behaviors prevent them from relaxing and releasing the past. Never had a real birthday before—who says I get to deserve one now?

None of our kids was like this on a daily basis, but only when it really “counted”. When I had to give a post-placement report for Russia to the social worker, they would descend into the abyss. Someone wanted to take them out for social events like mini-golf or lunch and they would be fine… until the next day when we would all “pay” for it. Maybe it was too much stimulation or hormones kicking in, but I began reading something else into it.

A pattern was emerging. I remember our first visit out to meet the grandparents. Many plane rides later, up mountains, down mountains, sightseeing in historic environs, dining on the best homecooked Russian and Italian meals, after hugs and kisses and gifts from their elders, we spent our last couple of days decompressing and reflecting on our trip in a mountain-top lodge in a blinding snowstorm, just the six of us.

Once again, extreme ugliness surfaced from Mashenka. She simply could not handle goodness and graciousness surrounding her. Unless she had her high drama in high gear, she felt uneasy and unsettled. In order to feel good, she had to feel bad. I made sure to stay away from the edge of any mountain, lest I help her to an early demise.

At a time when others in the family felt like hiking to an indoor, heated pool, or watching fox and elk trot past our little lodge, or painting pictures by the roaring fire, she demanded our time and attention. Her goal, at times, seemed to be sucking the very life out of us.

Mashenka needed reassurance and reaffirming that she would fit into this family, this Russian-Italian-American family in which she presently felt so foreign, for reasons not at all relating to language nor culture. It was a class war in a way, a clash of sense and sensibility. She believed that she would never measure up… and she had me pretty convinced, as well.

There were times in her school work when similar patterns emerged. Bomb out on a spelling or math test and she would comment, “I didn’t try, anyway.”

Now that was bright. After all, if she “tried”, she would prove herself to be “stupid”….

But there, in the deep snows, surrounded by towering pines, Benedetto walked with the children and explored frozen streams and horse prints, and helped with a snegovik (snowman) or two. He talked with her, not to the exclusion of the others, but reaching out to her as to a lost person who had veered from the path and needed a friendly voice and strong hand to lift her to her feet. She eventually came out of it. Not soon enough for my tastes, but maybe I was on my own Higher Education course of sorts. I was suddenly thankful for our happy-go-lucky first son, Petya, who never had an “adoptive child issue” one minute of his life.

This past week was the same, Mashenka at last deciding to do a 180 and pull herself out of her funk, bringing me kisses a dozen times a day, just as her birthday was fast upon us. How convenient, I inwardly sighed. I was too weary to respond wholeheartedly, but thankfully, she didn’t yet know the difference between Good and Bad Acting. I stirred her cake batter methodically and monotonously, trying not to dwell on the undeserving injustice of making a big fuss for Miss Ugly Face turned Well-Behaved Fairy Princess, but instead, I pondered how this poor child had had to fare for herself and even take care of her younger siblings when she was much too young for any of the above.

I had heard of other adopted children mourning birth parents around the time of their birthday or anniversary of being adopted, but my kids were old enough to know the real score, and held no tremendous illusions there. No, there was a systematic self-esteem slump, the overwhelming sense of unworthiness every time something fun or lighthearted came her way. Beyond the unworthiness factor, there was the realization, also, that other children had enjoyed birthdays, or loving relatives, or special outings all their life. Rather than relax and revel in these new experiences, Mashenka delved deep within to conjure up anger. If she made us mad enough, maybe we would cancel the birthday and she would not need to face such thoughts. All we had planned was a special family meal at home, some of her favorites, a homemade cake, and a handful of presents, which still proved too much.

Well, she was going to have her muted and subdued first birthday if it killed us, and it was going to be pleasant.

All went well, and she was suitably impressed, jumping up and down and clapping her hands like a five-year-old over every simple gift. Her velvet party dress and Venetian necklace made her look the little lady. Benedetto’s gaze met mine across the long, black lacquered table, and we smiled, genuinely happy that she was happy. She was not a monster, but a young girl moving into the teen years, trying her hardest not to be adrift, yet not totally feeling comfortable in a safe harbor. We would help her and be her anchor through the storms, whether real, or of her own making.

That night, Sashenka-the-younger came to me after bedtime, tummy ache raging.

“Too much cake, maybe?” I hugged her, giving her an antacid and tucking her in bed, yet again. In the dim darkness, her little whispered voice began her mantra, speaking on and on about the horrors of her past, her favorite bedtime talk, as I rubbed her arm and smoothed her hair. For her, the terrible talk was as reassuring as rocking. She didn’t know how to talk about the weather, nor the events of the day, no matter how many times we had play-acted Polite Conversation for Polite Society.

Even she knew how to self-sabotage a nice day, following her in sister’s footsteps.

Pain for them always conjured up the Past, as did Pleasure. Either end of the spectrum spelled a safety of sorts for our adopted children—either the familiarity of what had always been, or the sudden and unexpected love lavished upon them made them feel free to chat and unload their heaviest burdens. It was the planned and scheduled and orchestrated love fests, whether birthdays, holidays, special excursions, or family reunions, that pushed them to the breaking point. I therefore tried to limit any information about upcoming events to notifyng them the day before, otherwise the pressure was too much. That way, we would simply suffer after the fact, and not before the event-! A birthday was kind of hard to hide, though, and we had to go through the funk of unworthy feelings ahead of time.

Here I was with Sashenka, whose constant talking about her terrors did not seem to prove very cathartic, at all. The older would act out her anger, and the younger would talk out her fears. We were on a constantly-looping tape that never ended. I tried to be understanding, and direct Sashenka’s thoughts beyond the same rehashing.

“And now you’re home,” I said soothingly, trying to wrap it up. “We don’t have to worry about that, anymore.” In my mind’s eye, I envisioned myself as the director, off-camera, making a “wrap” sign with my hand.

“Da, Mama,” and then she went right back to the loop, holding on for dear life, no time for a commercial break or a word from our sponsors.

The fact that someone else had been Princess for the Day was probably hard to bear. She needed me all to herself for now, in these fleeting moments near the midnight hour where all might disappear as in a cruel dream that was never really real.

The girls’ figurative cries for help were more plaintive and pitiful than my own comfort zone, but I reminded myself that they simply wanted what we all wanted: to know that we measured up in some small way, and that others cared enough to help us cross to the other side of wherever we might be tossed in the winds and waves of life.

I don’t know if anyone in Italy has ever tried Dr. Atkins’ diet. I doubt it, since carbs in that country reign supreme: pasta, pizza, e pane.

It begins in the morning at the corner café with a capuccino and cornetto. The coffee’s milk is frothed to perfection, often with decorative swirls across the top, reminiscent of a bookbinder’s carta marmorizzata, or marbleized paper. Combined with the caffeine, the cornetto croissant gives me the first carb crescendo of the day.

Misha and Grisha share in the moment, tails wagging wildly as a saucer of warm, white milk is placed before their tank-like black bodies. The Scotties could not love this morning snack any more than a self-respecting cat, but then they don’t care about any kind of diet plan.

No matter where I go for lunch or dinner, pasta, pizza, or pane will be found somewhere on the menu. But even the pizza in Italy is well beyond pedestrian, whether thin potato slices on dough drizzled with EVOO (extra virgin olive oil) and sprinkled with rosemary, or a cheese pizza with shavings of truffles and mushrooms… ahh… tartufi e funghi.

Che buona! Who can think of Atkins at a time such as this? Take three bites and call it a day. Everyone knows that walking on cobblestones burns twice as many calories as normal.

Make no mistake about it, I’ve been numbered among pazza (crazy) people counting carbs in Italia: eggs for la prima colazione, salad for il pranzo—how many carbs are there in la mozzarella di bufala, anyway?, and sole, veal, or bistecca alla Fiorentina for la cena. Problem is… the ubiquitous bread basket beckons.

Whether sliced Italian rustic bread, or the hard and crusty white rolls, or the long and snappy Grissini breadsticks, one form or another would be sure to be lying in wait on the table.

Most of my life is spent on the run, wherever we are. And what does everyone gobble on the Italian autostrada? Panini—sandwiches—usually made from focaccia bread, and grilled in a flat iron. Unless I bought a salame and stuck it in my Prada purse, fascinating and fragrant an idea as that may be, there’s no hope to dodge the carbs.

Arrivederci, Dr. Atkins. The perils of Italian pane fresh from the oven have proven too strong to resist.

I had a no-nonsense type of mother who came from rugged Russian immigrant stock and worked at a university where many youth of the 70s had the luxury of “identity crises”.

“You ever want to know ‘who you are’?” she would tell me, “I’ll show you your birth certificate.”

Case closed, simple as that.

Yet, for my older children adopted from Russia, identity has many facets. The adjusted birth certificates are as plain as the long Russian nose on my face: I was in Krasny Krai twice in 1996, and in Sweaty Starii Krai in 1998 and 2000 pushing out four babies. Their birth certificates tell very little of their actual stories, their real life history that most kids are eventually hungry to hear.

There are many labels we could slap on them to make sense of a chaotic past. Like mounting butterflies, stick them through the middle and pin them to the board for all to see. Apply label, big and bold.

No, thanks. I would rather they spread their wings, show their innate grace and beauty while flying…or at least flapping for all they’re worth.

Every day, I engage in the delicate art of brainwash, a cathartic cleansing, a despicable destiny detoured by design. They were once convinced that they were unwanted, stupid, cast off, forsaken. They felt undeserving of kindness, love, and unconditional acceptance. Mix that up with a false sense of bravado, and daily drama ensues.

I match their post-traumatic hyper-vigiliance tit for tat with heightened vigilance of my own. When they huff and bluff, resorting to put-downs, comedic clowning, or the sure-fire, zombie-like shut-down, I try to curb my own anger or disappointment. Instead, I swoop in to reassure, regroup, and redirect.

“You are somebody. You’re smart. Look at you,” I encourage. “There’s a great future ahead of you. Use every minute. Years were wasted in the orphanage, but that was preparing you to be able to run today. Don’t sit still or fall back. Don’t waste time by getting upset or feeling less-than. Get going. Be your best. You don’t want to act like this. Come on, what should we do? Do you need to apologize? Do you need help with your schoolwork?”

Naturally, it helps to tag-team with Benedetto. If they have been disrespectful or uncooperative with him, I come to clean-up and deal with the situation, and vice-versa. We feel fresh, rather than furious. It allows us to clear the air.

Slowly, slowly, like waves lapping away at an immoveable shoreline, change happens. The children are reshaped and renewed. Their self-images and impressions of the world around them are transformed.

Mashenka seeks me out after a rough day.

“Mama, no one has ever treated me like you and Papa,” she hangs her head, remorseful. “Sometimes I don’t know how to act.”

“I know, Sweetie, I know.” I draw her close to me and hold her tight. The stress seeps away as she sheds her cocoon, her mask, and becomes authentic and adequate in her own right.

No one will be able to pin down these butterflies experiencing their own mighty metamorphosis. Semantics serve little purpose. Call it a Monarch, call it a Viceroy, give them every alphabet-soup diagnosis. The point is, they’re flying and free for the very first time. The struggle that brought them out of their confining cocoons gives strength to their wings to take them higher than once imagined.