When I was little, I was taught that I could control my anger. However, for some reason, I misinterpreted this and turned it into a warped ideology of anger to be a horrible thing that should not be experienced. In all honesty, as a child, I experienced a lot of things which made me angry. However, rather than face the anger and hurt, I kept it inside. (FYI: Not something I would advise) On the outside, I was a happy, smiling girl who tried her hardest to show that nothing was wrong and that I was a great person...a person who wasn't bad or ugly on the inside. I was grateful, polite, sweet, and obedient, striving to make everyone who mattered to me happy.
Inside, I was hurting. I was being nice, so why wasn't everyone else? Why were they rude? Why did they make fun of me for being different? Whats more, it didn't appear that anyone was upset that I was hurt. I was told to explain the situation. As if logic was going to work on bullies. Sure, I understand taking a "verbal resolution," but what happens if the person is just a brutal idiot?! Yes, I can say that the bullies were tenaciously complying to racial stereotypes even when confronted with the truth, but how can an elementary student have the verbal capacity to explain such things? Also, keep in mind, I'm not blaming anyone who cared about me and my well-being. How could they know I was going through such things? How could they when I lacked insight to share how bad things were?
So, here we have a helpless situation in which authority figures had no idea how bad things were, while I could not explain how things were. I did the only thing I could do: repress it, hoping that things would just sort out if I just left it alone. Things did sort themselves out...the anger grew. There were people who saw it. The first clue should have been my foster mother's description of me "Mild, but somewhat hot tempered." My parents laughed at this description...until my first temper tantrum. During college, my sister observed and warned me, "You have a deep seated anger about you." Sometimes people outside of my immediate family saw glimpses of it when I threw temper tantrums (the time in which I got sunburnt really badly at the beach) or got frustrated and just couldn't keep the anger in any longer. However, for the most part, the grateful girl pretty much stayed in tact.
In my teens and college years, I gave up the happy girl routine. I surrounded myself with what I considered a realistic attitude...some people thought it was sarcastic and dry wit while others saw it as being a smart ass. People, I learned, could be escaped...when I didn't like living the reality, I simply switched to a new setting. It was easy enough. My family moved a lot when I was a child and every move seemed to coincide with me reaching the limit of what I could take before fully erupting. The facade was cracking...pretty soon those close to me began to understand my habits, my coping mechanisms. As I sat there explaining to my parents why I wanted to move to Korea for a year (the lame "so I could start over" excuse), my father looked me in the eye and said "Where ever you go, there you are." I rolled my eyes. Whatever. I could find a new me and let that me be accepted into the group. When I got tired of the "new" me, I would move again. As an adoptee, I was an expert chameleon. If we want to use the psychology behind this, it could be said that as an adoptee I feared being abandoned and became what I thought people wanted in order to be accepted. I told everyone I needed this trip to find out who I am. And in a lot of ways, I needed that time away from everyone else's expectations to figure out who I was. However, in the end my father was correct. I couldn't run from myself. Where ever I was, there I was.
Korea helped me in a lot of ways. As stated before, I was away from the well-intentioned expectations of those who care about me so I could understand who I was without fear of my loved ones being disappointed in me. At the same time, all those problems with me...all that sorrow and anger...it was still there. No matter what I did, no matter how hard I prayed, no matter how many very long walks around Suwon and Seoul... all my problems were there. Finally, I realized that I needed help... I had to come home. Later, I realized my issues would take more than love and family to resolve. Enter prozac and therapy. Dad didn't understand why I told people about me being medicated and seeing a therapist. I have to admit, part of me enjoyed explaining that despite what I've projected my whole life, I am broken. The other part of me began to realize that there were probably others out there who were like me...people who were broken and desperately trying to prove they weren't.
Mom thinks my depression/anger issues stem from the forced meeting with my birthmother than ended up not happening. And after typing this statement, I realize that most people are thinking "Wow, abandoned twice by her biological mother, no wonder she's this way."You. Are. Wrong. My anger and depression began before that...it began as a small child wondering why she always had to justify her existence. Wasn't love enough? Couldn't people see that she belonged with her family? See how much she loves them? See how much they love her? Why couldn't people just accept it? Why was it okay for them to intrude on my personal life? Why was it okay for me to explain myself, but I wasn't allowed to ask anything of them? It was curiosity for people to ask where I was from or if I wanted to meet my "real" mother, but rude of me to ask them if they were adopted or if they came from a different family. Why was it okay for them to ask me if I was Chinese, but I couldn't ask them what type of American they were? Why was it okay for people to intrude on my privacy, yet I couldn't invade theirs?
Years, decades later, I would finally discover the truth. It. Was. Not. Okay. It was not okay for them to ask me if I spoke English. It was not okay for them to push their eyes into a slant, point and laugh at me. It was not okay for them to question my nationality, or intrude on my privacy when they would balk at reciprocation. It was not okay for them to ask such personal questions about my birth mother, her name, or if I wanted to find her again. It was not okay for the preacher to tell me I was ungrateful for expressing curiosity at my adoption or asking my Sunday School to pray for her (A story for another time, or perhaps I've mentioned it in previous posts. Basically, my Sunday school teacher didn't know what to think of me bringing up my adoption and went to the pastor instead of my parents.) I had a right to be angry, hurt, and intruded upon as if something was forcefully taken from me without my permission. I didn't have to be passive. I could use my voice I could say no. I could choose not to engage in dialogue I didn't want to have.
Yet, for some reason...even though I had a right to be angry and use my voice, I still didn't know what to do with the anger. When I attempted to use it for something, I was demeaned. I was told I was resentful, that I was a smart ass. Even "better" I was told people are naturally curious and that it was my job to educate people since I am transracially and transnationally adopted. After all, isn't that what I chose to work on for the rest of my life with this PhD? As I sat paralyzed by my frustration, I recalled this Ani Difranco song:
"i am not an angry girl
but it seems like i've got everyone fooled
every time i say something they find hard to hear
they chalk it up to my angerand never to their own fear
and imagine you're a girljust trying to finally come clean
knowing full well they'd prefer youwere dirty and smiling"
--Ani Difranco, "Not a Pretty Girl"
Thing is...I am an angry girl. I didn't decide to study Korean adoptees in order that I may lay myself bare, bleeding for anyone who decided to take a peek at what was inside. No. I decided to study this so that my situation wouldn't be another Asian adoptee's. I cannot go back and hug my younger self, telling her it is okay for her to be angry...that it is okay for her not to answer people. I cannot go back and advocate for my younger self to those who care about her so that they understand her. What I can do is advocate for the ones who are now where I was. That is why I am doing this; not to be a side show act or a corner side speaker who people take note of, satisfy their own selfish curiosity and then continue living their lives. Sure, this may mean educating non-adoptees, but not people who tenaciously cling to their ignorance...if I have learned anything in this world, I have learned that willfully ignorant people should be left alone (but that is another post for another time). And, yes, I have to admit that I went into this particular field for my own selfish reasons. Again, I quote my father, "Where ever you are, there you are." I am finally facing myself... everything about me. This includes the anger.
I am not saying that this isn't hard. Studying something so personal has come at a cost. Yes, I am behind my cohorts...yes, I am running out of funding. Who knows? I may not even complete the requirements for the PhD. One a separate note: yes, I will be disappointed in that. I have never failed to complete something I set out to do. However, I am getting away from my point.
I am trying to face my anger. My anger isn't good. It isn't bad. If I try to run from it, it will be where I am. However, no one, including me should dismiss my voice because I am angry. After all, I am angry for a reason.
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