Son Shine

The first medical trip I went on was in 1994, and I was captured by the intrigue of the rainforest and the mightiest river on Earth—the Amazon. At the time, my two youngest boys were out of school and starting their own journeys. The lure of the Amazon Basin had started in my early childhood, fueled by books and magazines passed down by my family. I knew from the start I would be hooked by the place. What I hadn’t realized was how deeply I would be drawn to the people who called it home.

By 1997, I had four medical trips under my belt and realized I had to live there to better understand the importance of the people and the place that fascinated me. On my 1994 trip, I met a 15-year-old boy who asked if I would help him learn English. His name was Max. He had been teaching himself with a battered Spanish–English dictionary. He spoke enough to impress me with his drive to learn and his intelligence. I told him how impressed I was with his skills. He replied that I should meet his younger brother Edward, who was extremely intelligent. Max explained that Edward had left the family at a young age because the jungle schools were very poor and only went to the sixth grade. He told his family he was too intelligent to waste his gift and chose to go to school in Iquitos. I met him on a later trip, though my time in Iquitos was short, and we didn’t have time to talk.

In early 1997, I moved into a house I had previously arranged to rent. The neighborhood was interesting—in the same way a train wreck at a gasoline refinery might be. By the time I moved to Iquitos, Max had found work on a tourist boat, so I offered him a place to stay on his off days. The night I arrived, Max met me at the airport with a cab. With him were three of his brothers and a cousin. It was early morning after hours of flight time, and I was exhausted. They loaded all my luggage, filling the trunk and tying some bags to the roof. To my surprise, everyone piled into the cab. Max said his family wanted to stay at my place since it was late.

The cab was a Russian-made Lada, about the size of a Toyota Corolla. We all packed in. The cab driver cursed us, the guys returned the sentiment, and we were ready to leave—but standing outside was poor little Edward. There was no more room. Max yelled at some guys walking past. The next thing I knew, they grabbed Edward and passed him through the window to lie across our laps. The car never got out of second gear, but eventually, we made it.

It took a few weeks before I explained to the extra brothers and cousin that their original overnight stay was really over. Except for Edward—he got to stay. He was just this quiet little kid who got up early, prepared for school, and vanished into the streets of the Belén outdoor markets. We lived right at the edge of that teeming madness, which started at 6 a.m. and ran till 6 p.m.—or from sunrise to sunset, which near the equator is pretty much 6 to 6. I watched this dynamo of a boy plunge into the crowds and vanish until early afternoon when he returned. I worried about him safely navigating that mad crush of people.

The market sold everything from fresh food to clothing, natural medicines, and concoctions of strange stuff. All of it took place under a sea of blue plastic tarps with merchandise laid on plank tables, hung off ropes stretched from walls and poles. I worried about him, but Max quickly pointed out that this was safer than where Edward had been living and that he could take care of himself.

I had never lived in a town before and wasn’t comfortable in crowds. It proved to be no problem, and we settled into a routine.

Weeks became months, and Edward and I became closer. It’s always fun having a kid around, and Edward seemed to enjoy the stability of having a place to call home. I had raised sons, and my youngest boy was out of high school and on his own. With my kids grown, I had no one to care for—and it felt great. Yet I soon drifted back into nurturing this little dynamo. He was curious, bright, and craved challenges. He captured me before I knew it was happening.

The fun of buying T-shirts, jeans, and shoes was back. He needed to eat his own weight daily, so we became regulars at cafes. It just happened—we were in a dad-and-son relationship without having a name for it. I thought nothing of it. But one morning, reality exploded in my face.

I was asking him about breakfast. He had a new menu item he wanted. With all the sincerity a 13-year-old can muster, he looked me in the eye and said, “You need to adopt me.”

Unfazed, I asked, “What about the bread and fruit we were gonna get?”

“Later,” he said. “My family and I have been talking about this, and we think you should adopt me. They’re waiting outside. They want to talk with you about it.”

I knew I wasn’t going to get my bananas and bread.

I’d met his family on my first trip, and on subsequent visits, we’d talked several times. I had been bringing army duffel bags full of clothes, shoes, kids’ toys, flashlights, and peanut butter on each return trip. In return, I had been fed great, healthy jungle meals, taken to see places far from the tourist spots, and told many stories. We’d become friends. I had told them about my five adopted sons who were grown and living on their own. Never had I thought about adoption in Peru. I didn’t even know it was legally possible.

They had done the research—it could be done. And they loved their son so much they wanted him to have every opportunity for his best possible life. My brain exploded. Nothing of value was harmed.

After his family left that day, Edward and I talked in depth about what it would mean for both of us. We had already grown close, established trust, and without thinking much about it, we had already slipped into the father–son relationship. But once we talked about it and the reality dawned on both of us, things started to change. The joy of being a family blossomed. I already loved the bright-eyed boy, and he was figuring out what his own feelings might be called.

Peru had been infamous for quick adoptions of babies in previous years. Organized crime had obtained babies from impoverished families and, through corrupt judges, completed adoptions quickly—often with no screening of the prospective parents. By the early 1990s, the situation gained international attention. By 1997, the process had become extremely difficult and expensive.

The U.S. State Department required a screening process that involved an FBI investigation, a state police investigation, psychiatric evaluations, a Children and Family Services evaluation, reference letters from three unrelated individuals, and a physical health exam. An adoptive parent could expect to bleed money. The packet of paperwork weighed over a pound. It had to be translated by a licensed individual, then submitted to the Peruvian Ministry of Adoptions, which required its own series of evaluations.

To my advantage, I had adopted and raised five boys in the U.S., and as a Licensed Clinical Social Worker myself, I knew how to arrange evaluations and lean on bureaucracies to move paperwork. I also had a U.S. senator who wrote to the embassy in Peru encouraging them not to dawdle. I returned to the U.S. for one month and completed the entire process. With years of social work experience under my belt, I knew how to meet all the requirements—and I was also quite adept at writing checks.

Never in my career had I ever been so goal-driven—because thousands of miles away, my youngest was waiting for me to return. It was simple, really. He was my son. I was his dad. All the hoops and money-draining paperwork were just nonsense we had to push through to get back home.

The reality of the adoption changed everything we did after I returned from the States with the completed paperwork. Part of that change meant spending more time with Edward’s family. I wanted him to have time with them, and I wanted to learn more about what brought him joy. Separately, he and I explored more of Iquitos—parks, wildlife-refuge areas, some museums, a lake with a great swimming spot, and capybaras, tapirs, and giant anteaters that wandered around mooching back scratches and snacks.

We talked a lot—a pathetic mixture of my Spanish and his growing English. He had been quiet and a bit reclusive at first, but that changed quickly. More laughter was heard, more curiosity about the U.S. was expressed.

One day I accidentally angered him. I had a small radio and cassette player, usually tuned to the local rock station. This time, while he sat in the front room studying, I decided to play something different—a cassette of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons I hadn’t used before. I turned the volume down low to avoid distracting him.

Less than a minute later, a fired-up kid marched in, demanding, “What is this? Why you no play for me?” I turned the volume up and watched as this boy—swaying, transfixed—was caught by a beauty he’d never imagined. The music captured his soul, and study time was over.

I considered the joy that lay ahead of both of us as I opened doors to a larger world and experienced so many things afresh. A bright, hungry young mind devoured culture, concepts, and opportunities—and I went along for the ride.

By March, the U.S. Embassy in Lima called. We needed to report within one week—with our pound of paperwork. Nothing was certain. A misplaced report, a translation error, an old photo of my house—any of it could derail us. I had met other prospective parents who were on their third or fourth attempt. The embassy loomed like a chamber of bureaucratic horror.

His first plane trip was a whole new experience. Much of the plane remained unharmed as we passed over the steaming Amazon Basin—the most biodiverse area in the world. We flew over the second-highest mountain range on Earth, crossed a nearly sterile desert, and finally circled over the Pacific to land in Lima.

We checked into a handsome old pension, redolent of colonial years. Two days later, we rode for miles through the city and suburbs until we started seeing tanks, APCs, and defensive installations. The line to get into the embassy stretched from the squat fortress all the way into the street. It inched forward. Finally, we ended up in a room that would make a funeral parlor feel cheerful. Scared people, restless babies, and older kids awaited their audience with the consular officer. People quietly exchanged tips and stories about how many attempts they’d made.

Edward looked around at the gloomy faces, studied the fortifications, the three-inch-thick glass, the metal shutters that could drop in an instant. I sweated in the morgue-cold room.

My name was called. I passed the paperwork through a chute. The consular officer looked just like a human being—kind of pleasant. He told me he’d already reviewed the advance copy I’d sent. He complimented me on the quick turnaround time. Then he leaned in toward the indestructible glass.

“If you ever do this again, just call for me in advance,” he said. “You have no idea the weight of a senator’s inquiry.”

I had a damn good idea, which is exactly why I called in the first place—but I acted contrite. “Oops, sorry.”

“No problem,” he said. “You’ve got it all done well.” He picked up a rubber stamp, brought it down on the top of the stack—and smiled.

I lost it. I babbled, “That’s it? I got my son?”

Screw macho—I was in tears. Voice breaking, I turned to my son.

“We got it, son. We did it.”

I pulled him close while the room applauded. People congratulated us. With one arm over his shoulder and the small packet of legal documents that would change our lives forever, we walked out the nearest exit.

We spent a couple more days in Lima waiting for our flight—first to Miami, then Nashville. People entering the U.S. with immigration documents were shunted to one side, into a room where everything was reviewed again.

At Nashville’s small airport, my mom and one of my sons were waiting for us. Like any polite gentleman, Edward greeted my mom by standing on tiptoe to kiss her on both cheeks and telling her he was pleased to meet her. Mom looked over his shoulders, eyes full of overwhelming delight at her newest grandson. He charmed her completely and was rewarded with a loving embrace. They were best buddies from the first moment on. They would go on to years of adventures and exploits—usually with a group of Mom’s friends. Without knowing it, Edward had initiated his first fan club.

English was still new to him, so I asked a linguist friend for suggestions. His advice? Total immersion. Hanging out with Mom and her friends, watching movies, being around peers—that was the best classroom.

Edward entered high school a few months later and excelled. By junior year, he was voted class president. Perhaps more than most of us born in the U.S., an immigrant feels the rich opportunities we take for granted.

We never gave much thought to our relationship. What was there to think about? We were just a kid and his dad. He was hungry to experience life—any and every aspect. Fearless and adventurous, he made friends easily and seemed to possess an innate sense for connecting with good people—those with strong values and vision.

In his sophomore year, he joined the wrestling team. He took to it naturally—quick and physically strong out of proportion to his compact build. Not only was he good at it, but he enjoyed himself, winning more often than losing, and showing graciousness no matter the outcome. He charmed most teachers with his politeness and thirst for knowledge. A school-sponsored opportunity sent him on a trip to Europe, which only further fueled his burning wanderlust.

He easily bridged age gaps too—making friends with adults as easily as with peers, giving as much to relationships as he received. In short, he embraced life to its fullest.

We returned to Peru around the time of his junior year, reconnecting with family and friends. It was amazing for all of us and deepened relationships that had existed for years. The opportunity of adoption is often not fully appreciated. People assume it’s a one-way connection, but in truth, I was adopted every bit as much by Edward’s family as he had become part of mine.

Years before Edward was born, I had adopted three brothers, and in time grew close to some of their siblings as well. Later, two more brothers gave me the opportunity to be their dad. As Edward entered his university years, circumstances in Peru brought Edward’s youngest brother into our lives here in the U.S. His journey has been more complicated but remains a work in progress.

After Edward earned his license as an RN, he continued to feed his appetite for education and travel. He graduated with a Bachelor of Science in Nursing and began participating in medical missions—filling even more pages in his passport.

During those years, he met the person who would stand with him in life. From their union, two bright-eyed, curious kids joined them in their journey.

It’s a story still being written, as their roads unfold before them.

- Steve Heath