Today, the Friday before Memorial Day, happens to be my daughter, Annie’s birthday. Though it may seem strange to you, I associate those two days. Annie left Russia to join our family in the fall of 2006. She was fourteen at that time.

In December of that year, Annie was fascinated as she witnessed two family birthdays. My daughter couldn’t believe that individuals were celebrated. She was amazed when she learned that she had a birthday as well.

Of course birthdays are celebrated in Russia, but according to Annie and two of her biological sisters (all three and one more are now my daughters), birthdays were never celebrated in their orphanages. It took a while for my daughters to understand that birthdays were anything but a celebration of an individual. Sarah even came home from school when she was preparing for her tenth birthday, her fifth in the United States, and asked her mother how you knew when your birthday was. One of her friends had actually been born on her birthday. How cool was that?

Annie is moderately intellectually challenged and she still calls her birthday her “happy birthday.” While my daughter turns twenty-two today, she’ll tell you it’s her “Eight Happy Birthday.” When we try to correct her, she is adamant that we are wrong. “Een Russia I no have happy birthday,” she says.

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

As Annie and her older sister, Emily, first entered the United States on the way to their new home, we flew into JFK Airport. I had brought in a translator to spend one day in the city with us before we went on to Utah. We toured the city. We visited Ellis Island and talked about emigration to the United States; how it was not a new thing and how all but a few of this country’s people had themselves, or by ancestors, originated in other countries.

As I took pictures of Emily and Annie under the Statue of Liberty, I thought about the plaque hung on the wall, inside. “Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed, to me: I lift my lamp beside the golden door.” My daughters, who were social orphans taken from a horrifically abusive home and placed in orphanages, were nothing but a burden to their native country. There, they were wretched refuse.

Not here. My daughters were not only adopted by a family, but also by a new country. Here, they are raised by a village of people who love and care about them; who sacrifice for them.

I know I don’t say it enough and it shouldn’t take a weekend like this for me to thank our veterans, but sometimes it does.

We do not have a huge military tradition in our family, but my Dad served in Korea and my son will be sworn into the Marines next month. Whether or not we have earned our place in this country, my family recognizes those who have.

I cannot get through a visit to New York, or even Memorial Day weekend, wherever I am, without remembering those brave souls who sacrificed so much for their beloved country. When I do that, I always shed a few tears.

I know I don’t say it enough and it shouldn’t take a weekend like this for me to thank our veterans, but sometimes it does.

To those who are serving in the U.S. Armed Forces; to those who have served; to those who gave all; thank you from the bottom of my heart. Thank you for giving me a country like this to bring my children home to. Thank you for providing us with a chance to reach the dreams we have.

Thank you for Happy Birthdays.

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