But They Look So Happy by Xanti Bootcov

Chapter 1: The Man in the Grey Truck 

It took five police cars to escort us like criminals to the police station in the centre of Mexico City. It was the 5th of September. The Engineer and I had started the day with a slow race into the city to buy two pairs of kids’ Converse shoes. The traffic was particularly chaotic closer to the Zocalo, where the local market had thrived since the days of the Aztec.

We were not far from the parking lot when a man driving a grey truck covered in dust overtook us and then blocked our way.

‘I wonder what that is all about.’ The Engineer slowly manoeuvred the car around him. The driver frowned at us through bushy eyebrows.

‘He’s calling the policeman standing on the corner.’ I answered, leaning out the window to see what was going on. I’d skipped breakfast and I hoped we had time to get an empanada from the food stand around the corner. The man in the grey truck was gesticulating furiously.

As we slowed to turn into the parking lot, I noticed the policeman with his flamboyant uniform walking nonchalantly towards us licking his lips. He knocked on the car window.

‘Driver’s licence, Señor.’ He looked like a model with his oblong Ray-Bans.

‘What is the problem officer?’ The Engineer carefully showed his driver’s licence through the barely opened window. We’d lived in Mexico long enough to be familiar with the prevalence of fabricated traffic violations. It had been a cultural practice since the days when policemen collected money for the Viceroy’s false teeth. The familiarly used phrase for this was “mordida” which means “bite”:  a bite out of your wallet.

‘Show me your driver’s licence.’ the policeman distributed his weight evenly between widespread feet and rested his hands on his belt.

‘What have I done?’ The Engineer held on to his licence. He knew that once the officer had it in his hands, we would be ensnared.

‘You committed an infraction. Drivers licence por favor.’

By now a few more uniforms had gathered around our car. One of them was pointing to the two six-year-old boys.

‘Get out, Señor. The rest of you stay in the car por favor.’ I got the feeling Oblong-glasses was working out how big a bunch of flowers this mordida would buy his wife.

As the Engineer got out the car, the man in the grey truck could no longer hold himself back.

‘Hey, I’m the guy who called the poli on you, buey.’ swore the man from the grey truck. He stood nose to nose with the Engineer, potbelly peeking out from under a T-shirt which had once been white. As he spoke, his moustache flapped over his bottom lip.

‘I won’t let you get away with this.’ he proudly said, as if he was a hero. He had a big smile on his sweaty face.

Uniformed men began shouting questions through the open windows to the two kids sitting in our car.

‘Do you know these people?’ One uniform shouted toward the backseat. He removed his gloves.

‘Where do you live?’ Another yelled into the car.

‘What are you doing with these gueros?’ Bellowed a third.

‘Guys be calm and just answer the nice poli.’ I said softly.

‘Señora, we are not talking to you. Be quiet.’ When I’m scared, my mind becomes focused and calm, but I was worried about the children in the back. Our children. Our Mexican children. Our adopted – Mexican children.

‘These are my parents.’ Isaak said as he looked the uniforms straight on. Most of the time Isaak was dazed, quiet. But in this situation he was awake. Alert. In form. Alive. Miguel, usually the angry one, had been stunned into silence.

‘How can they be your parents? Where are they taking you?’ The questions shot out and the answers created more confusion.

Outside the car, the Engineer struggled to stay on his feet as the policemen began to push and shove him. The conversation was going too fast for me to pick up anything but the expletives I’d learnt.

‘I want Los Derechos Humanos.’ The Engineer said as he adjusted his clothes and took a deep breath. Silence exploded around us. He had used the golden words; the human rights representatives were the only ones the cops were afraid of.

‘If you want them, Señor, we have to take you to the station.’ Oblong-glasses said as the aggression left him.

‘I’m ok with that. I think that my human rights are being violated, so I want Los Derechos Humanos.’ the Engineer said loudly enough for the onlookers to hear.

‘We’ll have to escort you, Señor.’ Oblong-glasses said as he waved goodbye to his wife’s flowers.

As the blue lights chaperoned us and we drove, I noticed a dirty street child on the side of the road wipe her nose on her faded purple sleeve. Pollution hung in the air. Life went on for other people as I held my breath and wondered how this was going to unfold.

‘Don’t give them an excuse to ratchet up the situation.’ I said ‘We know that according to the Mexican constitution, residents have rights and we have done nothing wrong. We need to get through the next few minutes together. Calmly. We can’t allow them to separate us while they decide what to do. Just stay composed.’ I was talking in Spanish so the boys could understand but I was speaking to The Engineer. I saw his shoulders relax.

‘I know,’ he said, ‘but they think we’ve kidnapped the boys.’

‘This must be how black kids in the US feel when the cops stop them randomly.’ I remarked. We had switched to English not wanting the boys to fear the prospect of us being arrested.

‘We need to show respect and be flexible.’ I continued. ‘Our rights won’t mean a thing if we give them an excuse to arrest us.’ I was worried that something could happen to the boys during the time it would take to reverse a false arrest.

Blue lights flashed. Hawkers watched, hoping we would make a break for it. Tourists, confused by the kerfuffle, huddled around whispering. Street kids pointed to the two children sitting on the back seat of our car. We drove in silence the rest of the way with the police escorting us. As we approached the police station we had no idea what would happen next – in Mexico, these scenarios were unpredictable. But one thing we knew for sure is that after all we’d been through to get them, we would do anything – and I mean anything - to protect our boys.

Since we’d adopted Miguel and Isaak, we’d discovered a resilience we had not needed before. It had been a slow and arduous process. I knew that we needed to draw on inner-strength and adaptability to get us through the next hour. Once again, we were about to be cross-examined regarding the origin of our family. Even though the courts had finally declared us as kin, we were never allowed to forget, not even for one moment, that we were not a naturally born family.  Trivialities such as going to the shops, finding a school or walking in the parks - even buying shoes - would never be simple for us again.

We had no idea how many challenges these adoptions would put in our path. We had thought it would be easy because, for one thing, the Engineer and I were not adoption virgins. He and his sister are both adopted. As a child, I had fallen for the common adoption tale. I lied to my friends and told them that I was adopted. I loved the idea that mummy and daddy had chosen me out of all the little children in the world. It didn’t matter to me that my sisters and I had an undeniably common look, and I had a place in the family I was born into. I had many friends and some cousins who were adopted too. With our collective adoption experience, we thought that we knew what we were doing. We thought we could rescue our children, and they would learn to love and trust and be safe.

We were wrong.

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