Name Game...

"Names" Written and Performed by R. Rostad

Thanks to my Facebook feed, I have been blessed to hear this poem by a Korean adoptee. If you didn't click on the link, Rostad discusses the names she has and the links which bind her to these names. I've watched it again and again. Over and over I think about this name thing...

When I was a child, I believed (as my parents had), that my birth name had been given to me by my biological mother. This name is Young Shin...you can see I use this name for the blog I write. My mother even cross-stitched this on a picture for my nursery. My other name, which I leave out since this entry is public, was carefully decided on by my parents and older sister. Interestingly enough, all three decided on my first and middle name, but decided to call me by my middle name, L--.

"When you name your daughter, it's a prayer for everything you want her to be."

The first time my parents laid eyes on me...face-to-face... they decided I wasn't a L--, but R--. My sister threw a fit. She became angry... the family had agreed to call me L--, not by first name, R--. My parents gave in to my sister's wishes, after all, they had all agreed upon R--- E---, and to call me L--. For three months I was called L--: the church nursery, the doctor's office, etc., all knew me by L--. After this time, my sister sheepishly recanted her objection. She decided she loved me enough to let me have a "prettier" name than she. (Seriously, this is a true story. I am not making this up... for the first three months I really was called L--... just as I was held back in the 3rd grade for being "too short.")

As I got older, I became curious about the cross-stitch. My parents never hid the fact I was adopted (seriously, how could they? I am Asian; they are white. Someone is bound to ask questions). The saga of my adoption was my bedtime story. I knew I had two different names; I saw it on the cross-stitched picture. From what I could tell, I was special. Not too many people had two names.

"The name 'Rachel' is a 'Made in America' sticker, slapped onto a Korean flag."

Later, I came to learn that "Young Shin" meant "shining beauty. When I looked in the mirror, I believed my birthmother had played a cruel joke. I wasn't beautiful, nor did I "shine" with anything except oddity. No, beauty was the other R-- in my class: the blonde with blue eyes, and a cute smile that made all the boys' heart go a flutter. She got A's in penmanship, laughed at the right time, and knew how to talk and play with others. Because of this, I felt as if I was given yet another cruel taunt. My parents had given me her name...they wanted me to be her. I wasn't her. I could never be her, not in a million years. I tried to change my name...something that was more suited to the person I saw in the mirror. None of the names I tried stuck.

However, there was something in my favor: I have the advantage of having a very common last name. Years later, I began finding solace in my name, after all, there are an abundance of women with my name, especially my last name. Somehow, I felt comforted... it was my way of lying in a sea of anonymity. At least on a list, I didn't appear different. Plus, I enjoyed the uncomfortable, sheepish look teachers got when they didn't realize I was R--- "common last name". My name soon became my prayer for everything I wanted to be: plain, not noticed... not stared at like an oddity in a sea of white faces.

"Sometimes I'm glad my first name is as apple pie and baseball as Rachel. But also kind of not."

I never used chopsticks until I was a Senior in high school. A 25-year-old white guy taught me how to chopsticks. I always get a sick kick out of telling people that. I began to think of my name and birth name as ironic. Both names were designated for beautiful people. I wasn't one. I found the plainness of my English name as a stark contrast to the obvious difference of me and others who had my name. I made people rethink their ideas. Again, this made me somewhat proud, I was reseting, redefining standards. Your average R-- and Asian race chick I was not. Soon, my philosophy in life was to be a walking contradiction. Why not? I had done that all my life, why not just own it?

"Kind of like knowing how to use both forks and chopsticks..."

In college, I began to wonder about this other side of me that I had denied for so long. I was Asian...I could no longer deny it. To deny it would be to continue in the self-loathing I had indulged for so many years. I started delving into Asian American literature, going to authentic Asian restaurants. I even went to hang out with people at a Korean church. Soon, I began to look towards Korea itself.

When I went to Korea for the first time, I thought I would go by my birth name. After all, I had a Korean name, why not use it? But people wouldn't call me "Young Shin." I was R---. There was no reason to call me "Young Shin." I began to think of this name as a heart name...something so personal that to call me that would be to understand me. 

My host family, who became my Korean family, knew my birth name. They never called me by this name, but often went to great lengths to tell me what the name meant (we're talking pictures and diagrams...seriously). It appeared important that I knew what it meant. As my host father told me, "영신 means shining or light from within to the outside." I could see from the look on his face, my host mother's face, that they believed the name suited me well. Personally, I liked this interpretation better. It suited my philosophy of beauty being on the inside (yes, I've actually bought and fully believed this idea). 

I began to understand why my birth mother had named me Young Shin: it was her hope for me. I was not a joke. She did love me and her prayer was that I became a good person... a person with potential.

"A necessity given to me by the hospital, the foster home, really just a barcode."

When I lived in Korea for a year, I went to the Eastern Child Welfare office searching for my health records. As a child I had been sick for four years, so I wanted some background information about my genetic code before I thought about having kids.

There on the form, the truth was revealed. She never named me. My own maternal grandfather witnessed my release into the custody of the government. And because they had to call me something, I was given the name "Young Shin."

"When the very first word was written down, something must have been lost."

I won't go into detail about how I know she didn't name me. I also won't go into detail about my birth mother. What I will say is that I discovered two things, (other than the fact my birth mother didn't name me): 1) My adoption records aren't something I can keep and 2) rather than my birth mother's last name being "Cho," it was actually "Cha"... the same as mine. Someone made a mistake in translation. That wasn't the only thing lost in translation that day. I became lost. My past was as foggy as ever. When presented with a picture of my biological mother, I realized I looked nothing like her. Inwardly, I cringed. She was sick and depressed. What happened if she saw the recent picture I gave the agency to give to her? Would I remind her of my biological father? Why did I not look like her? Why did I not look like her?.... Was this my birthmother? Or was I one of those horror stories I had heard about...where a child was switched for another? Was my birthdate really mine, or someone else's? Who was I?

"When you name your daughter, it's a prayer for everything you want her to be."

In the year 2010, and the month of June, I got married. At this time, symbols were very important to me. I specifically wanted to get married in June because of a Victorian saying "Marry when June roses grow, over land and sea you'll go." Traveling was/is very important to me. By this time in my life, Korea was such a part of me, I told my husband that to fully know me, he would need to go to Korea with me.

As the wedding date crept closer, I anguished over the name change. My husband had never tried to get me to change my last name. He said it was my decision and that he wouldn't care either way. Everyone I knew had gone through with changing their name, replacing their middle names with their former last name. After all, it was just a name, right? When I was younger, before I grew to like the anonymity of my last name, I hoped that when I met the man who was to be my husband, he would have a good last name: not too unique, but unique enough that I would be rid of the plainness of my maiden name. But I just couldn't do it. There was too much history in my name...plain as it may have seen. I had grown into R-- E-- [common Last Name]...my identity was so shaped due to this name that I could not give it up at all. So, I did the thing that would "shock" my conservative family... I hyphenated. (Trust me, I know I didn't shock my family... I think they saw it coming.) After all these years, struggling with the differences between my name and my appearance, I had finally made peace with myself...my name.

Years later, I saw R. Rostad's performance. I posted the video to Facebook. My mother thought the performance very deep and moving. I then realized what I had opened... the nagging question in the back of my parents' minds... did they do the right thing by completely re-naming me? Nowadays, people keep the child's "birth name" in some type of keeping their biological heritage. I see nothing wrong with that; often times, I thought it very nice... a promise the adoptive parents would honor their child's biological culture.

I picked up the phone. I called my mother. I said to her: "Thank you for giving me my name."

???

I don't think that this "offer" is as generous as the news reports it. It is kind of the woman to offer, but it's not exactly what the population thinks it is. Fostering and adoption is a very messy business.

http://news.yahoo.com/video/woman-found-baby-vallejo-gas-083419719.html

Inside a tornado

Imagine you were falling....everything a downward spiral... You keep looking for a way to stop from falling into the abyss, but every branch snaps, rope burns, and landing caves in, giving way to the eternal darkness. You look up, see people, but every time you try to scream for help, your voice doesn't work...you don't say the right words. Everything becomes a blur. You don't remember how long you've been falling. Soon it feels like weeks, days... you have lost control. Meanwhile, life goes on with or without you.

My therapist calls it brain fog... you know, when you can't seem to remember things which happened with a few weeks...months, etc. I just remember being so lost. I was here, but I wasn't. This was depression. I knew it the moment I woke up and tried everything to clear the fog and gain control. This is the depression those stupid, cartoon commercials don't show you. There's an uglier side of depression that robs you of everything... not just keeping you from playing ball with your dog, smiling with your spouse, or enjoying gardening.

This is the type of depression that sends you into a downward spiral. Everything could go right, but then when something goes wrong, the world caves in around you. It doesn't even have to be life altering...actually, life altering...no wait...even a daily disruption would send you into a state of shock, leaving you in a comatose state. I'm talking little things: the restaurant running out of dressing or whipped topping ending up on your Starbucks drink when you asked for no topping whatsoever. You rage, you scream. Why? Because if you don't, no one will listen. During the outrage, you can't say a word. You feel you are being taken advantage of, but can't do a thing to stop it. So you rage. You throw things. You force people to hear you've been wronged. Can you name it? Can you fully explain why you are being so irrational over something so tiny as whipped topping or no dressing? No. There is no explanation other than you were wronged. You are helpless.

And that's the word: Helpless. You are a mouse...a tiny mouse. No one hears your words. So you have to rage. Who will hear you? You can't even hear yourself.

Suddenly, you wake up. You are calm. You realize the damage you've done: the things you [could] have broken, the words you said, the screaming, the [thoughts of] lashing out on your own body...it's out of body. Why did you act so irrationally? Depression.

Nothing set it off...you were fine and then one day you weren't. Maybe you were tampering with your meds, maybe you were in your zone... That's the scary thing about depression... you know it's lurking. You know it's there, but when does it strike? For me, it always happens at the most inopportune times.

What I do know is that when this happens it takes days...weekends...even up to a week to get me back on track. Even after I'm fully back on track, I still can't fully remember details of events during a depressive state which I would normally remember if depression hadn't taken hold.

So, why do I tell this story now? Why relieve such a horrible time?

Does this happen to you? Does this happen to your child? Your spouse? Significant other? Partner? Friend?

Maybe they are too embarrassed to talk about it...don't have the words...don't want to relive it. I just hope that by sharing this, someone doesn't feel alone. You may need help, but you're not the only one who goes through this. You don't have to suffer alone. If the first person you tell doesn't listen to you, find another one. It took me years before getting the help I needed. I didn't know how to ask...who to ask... As someone told me a while back, "Everyone needs a little therapy sometime."

Arrival Day

**Those of you who follow, family rooted in love's blog, this will be a repeat. I just couldn't help sharing this semi-revised version today**

“Gotcha Day”: an adoptive community slang for the day in which a family brought home their new family member. According to Kristi Brian, author of Reframing Transracial Adoption, a woman named Margaret Schwarts claims September 15 to be International “Gotcha” day. Though it’s so-called cute and catchy, the term has weighted meaning.

Some people believe those who take issue with the terminology are over thinking the term. However, this so-called “Gotcha Day” carries baggage which weighs so much, I cannot begin to explain it, but I will try. Imagine saying this to an adopted child: Gotcha! Yeah, we gotcha at another person’s expense (perhaps even you, the adopted person’s expense)… Gotcha, as in pulled you away from your culture… Gotcha, as in pulled the wool over your biological family’s eyes in order to get you over to the United States. After a while, it starts to sound like the cruel pranks played at school, were afterwards, the victim is surrounded by jeers, pointed fingers, and that dreaded phrase: “HAHAHA! Gotcha!”

As an adoptee, I’m appalled. Apparently, this is a phrase used throughout adoptive families. To me, ‘gotcha’ smacks of ownership and trickery. I wasn’t even aware of this term until I saw someone post of Facebook his/her nephews’ “Gotcha Day” celebration…complete with a Chinese meal at “Golden Dragon.” I wince. I burn. I twinge. Sure, the family is probably working with what they have, but I know they have the Internet. Surely someone in the Chinese adoptive community has shared that Chinese American food is not truly authentic Chinese food! (If you didn’t know until now; now you know.) If an adoptive family wants to introduce their child to the food of his/her heritage, great; however, please don’t falsify their biological culture. Do your research. Adopting parents/families should know better by now.

In today’s United States, I expect more of adoptive families. We have the Internet. We have virtual communities to learn from the past mistakes of others so we can make our own new mistakes. Please don’t mistake my words, I am all for celebrating the day in which a person joins a family.

In my family, it’s called Arrival Day. It’s the day I literally arrived to my family. The day is complete with a meal at a restaurant of my choice. During my childhood, there wasn’t too much diversity in my area and the only “Asian” cuisine available was a Golden Dragon-like venue. I would eat white rice, egg drop soup, and an egg roll. We didn’t have the Internet to inform us the so-called Chinese restaurant we were at was about as authentic as McDonald’s is an everyday meal for most American families. If there had been a Korean restaurant, I know my parents would have brought me there. In the present, I admit I still celebrate my Arrival Day. As a matter of fact, I am preparing for my outing now.

Today, I will eat at an authentic Korean restaurant. I will sit there, dressed in my hanbok*, with my husband and and friends, celebrating my life here: my family and friends. This day will also be bittersweet I also remember the mother I was taken from, the culture I involuntarily left. As I put on the earrings my biological aunt sent me, her written words will resonate in my head: "I can say to you only with my heart. I don't know how to say. Please be happy my niece."

Yes, I did “arrive” but when I did, I departed somewhere else.

As an adoptee, I highly encourage adopting families to celebrate the day their children entered the family. At the same time, please respect the fact when your children became your family, they were lost by another family. Respect your children. Respect their loss. Don’t trivialize it. Remember, when you gained them, your children lost something. Adoption is gain, but also loss.

*hanbok: traditional Korean dress.

Anger

I don't deal with anger too well. When anger hits me, I attempt to choke it down into my stomach...yes, it burns and I end up taking medication for it. The real issue is that I suppress my anger, turning it inward.

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.

November...Adoption Month

So apparently November is the "official" month for adoption. As an adoptee, I feel sheepish for not knowing this fact until stumbling across my church's bulletin announcement concerning a speaker's testimony concerning adoption. From there, I began to see commercials on television announcing the need of families and homes for children. This is where I'm starting to see a grey area.

I understand the need for great homes for waiting children. I believe adoption is a great gift for both parent and child. At the same time, my adult adoptee cynicism is coming out, claws not retracted. My biggest problem with the commercial? The commercial discusses states, "Did you know that many adopted children went on to become entrepreneurs, actors, even president of the United States?" Yes, this is true. However, this approach is extremely degrading in that it tries to argue the "usefulness" of adopted children... almost as if to say, "Hey! Adopt a kid... he's useful...he has as much potential as the next kid." The adoptee, as with any other individual has as much promise as any other human...the idea of promoting a subject as useful means rendering it useless at one point in time. The problem isn't the promotion of productivity of an adoptee body, but that it would be a subject of contention in the first place...as if the orphan child was a burden in the mind of the audience at the beginning. This reveals the adoptee body as a second class citizen who must prove his worthiness within society. Why should an adoptee be lesser than any other person? Does this mean an adoptee must achieve a higher greatness than the average person to become a productive member of society? Perhaps I am reading too much into this, but at the same time, I believe I have a point.

I've met many adoptees who have discussed a childhood in which they believed they had to act a certain way and achieve certain things for fear of "being returned." The idea is that their belonging, for some reason, did not feel entirely genuine. Though the family may have done everything in its power to show the adoptee belonged, the outside culture revealed a sense of outsider, a void of kinship that would allow for the adoptee to be "returned" to his original place of rejection and alienation. Though I have not felt this within family, I have certainly felt this in other areas of my life. Recently, I realize that I have been driven to overachieve for fear of being "found out" and being "put back" rather than be taken seriously. This fear-driven action caused me much suffering. I can only imagine the pain my fellow adoptees endured while trying to be the perfect child for fear of being "returned" since by cultural/blood standards did not fully belong to the family.

Though the commercial attempts to show the positive aspects of adoption by revealing how many families have been established through this type of kinship, it does irreparable damage as well. The implication of adoptees going on to successful lives also invokes the "shared understanding" of the viewers/audience, and dare I say writers of the commercial, is that of adoptees being useless members of society.

I do understand that adoption something most people forget or do not realize how amazing an option of family building it can be; however, there is something to be said for the way we attempt to relate this idea to the general populace. Why not let the adoptees speak for themselves? I am amazed to see how few organizations utilize the adoptee voice when promoting adoption. Is this because we still view the once orphan as a forever child? Why are our voices as adoptees not being heard?

Children

Babies...Offspring...Children...Little Ones...Kids...The concept of having one is so daunting that I want to scream. I fell more in love with my husband the day he said, "If you don't want children, I'm fine with that. I'd rather have you and no children rather than kids and a wife who wasn't you." My reply to him, "Of course I want children!"Back then, I thought that it was the least I could do. After all, didn't my parents want grandchildren? Didn't I want children?

Though I'm thirty years old, I still look at the concept of "having children" as a grown-up thing...something that is not necessarily I would do because, quite frankly, I don't necessarily see myself as an adult; except in moments of clarity in which I realize that I am, and there is no turning back (like the day my husband and I went to go get our marriage license). My time as a student keep me sheltered from daily life: the 9 to 5 job, and more importantly, the concept or social convention that after being married and at my age, I should have children.

By social standards, I should have children. My husband and I are in a good place, we've been married for a year, and I'm "not getting any younger," so my "biological clock" is ticking down (though I don't believe in such a clock, except the one that ticks the tedious hours towards menopause). Reason stands, we should be trying to have children. However, my aforementioned status as a student definitely keeps me shielded in a separate place. For example, with some women Koreans, the "standard" conversation with fellow women Koreans they don't know well goes something like this:
1. They ask if you are married.
     *If married, they ask you if you have children. If no children, they ask when you will have children.
2. If you are not married, they ask if you have a boyfriend.
     *If you do have a boyfriend, you are asked when you will get married.
     *If you don't have a boyfriend, they ask (my personal favorite question): "Why not?" then proceed to try to find someone for you.
All this to explain the reason why, during a visit to the Oriental Market, the owner asks me, "Do you have children?" When I told her, "No," I also interjected "I'm still in school." After this explanation, I was given the social "pass," as she said, "Oh. I see. Yes, a student is very busy. You'll have children when you're done?" To which I said, "Yes." It was such a simple answer to such a loaded question.

I can only imagine looking at a tiny bundle of a human being with the shocking realization that I am responsible for this life. The closest I've ever come to that is owning a dog, which may not be the same at all*. People with children keep trying to tell me that it's such a wonderful, amazing gift. That children are such a joy and make your bad days go away with a sweet smile and hug. Is it cynical of me to think that they want me to join the "Mommy club" so that I too can talk diaper changing, late-night feedings, and whiny, never-ceasing crying and  the like? Not that I don't not trust them when they say their children are a joy, and that it's different when the kids are yours. I've seen babies, cooed at them, and thought them the most adorable things on the planet. Children continue to amaze me with the things they say and do. However, if you know me, you know that I am terrified of commitment. It took almost a year before I would admit my husband and I were dating! A baby is 18 years of commitment; especially to something you don't know a whole lot about. With my husband, I knew his likes, dislikes; what would soothe him when he got stressed. I know nothing about this potential living being. Sure, I'll learn what she will like, but what if I don't? What if I don't like her?

By now, I have a feeling you as the reader are thinking or yelling, "But you will be okay with them! You will love that baby more than yourself!" Then there's the unspoken: "You're adopted. You have abandonment issues." Yes, I'm adopted. Sure, I probably do have some abandonment issues. Doesn't everyone? But that's not the issue at hand.

During the KAAN Conference, I was able to connect with a lot of adoptees. Though I had reservations, these were quickly swept away as I spoke with many people who had similar experiences. The comfort of not having to "explain" myself was wonderful! It was during this time I was again reminded I am an adult. The younger adoptees and I had barely anything in common, the older adoptees and I got along famously. The subject of motherhood kept finding its way into conversation. There were a number of adoptees who decided to have their own children rather than adopt. This wasn't because they had something against adoption. Instead, the women kept repeating what the previous woman had said: "I wanted to look at someone and see myself in them." I don't think I have ever heard this explanation before then...not even after all the documentaries, essays, and articles; not one mentions this revelation.

Personally, I had never thought of it. I never gave thought that in order to see someone who looked like me, I would have to give birth to the individual. Instead, I just thought if I could see other Koreans, I would see parts of myself in watching them. This chance came when I went to Korea for the first time. I watched the children with great interest...watching to see if any of them looked how I did. For the first time in my life, I had an abundance of people to mirror. I realized I wasn't ethnically odd: there were paler complexioned Koreans out there, Koreans who had my hair texture, eye color, face shape... I saw myself everywhere. So I was surprised when the general consensus of Korean Adoptees who are mothers wanted to a biological child to see themselves. I'm sure a study could be made of this (if it hasn't already); Freud could be used to explain the adoptee psyche and sense of self. Today, I'd rather not look into that...personally, I think this is something very private and not to be discussed. So why am I? Because I cannot get this out of my head. No matter how hard I try, I cannot get this particular reason out of my head.

"I wanted a baby because I wanted to have someone who looked like me." I mentioned this reason and my fears of motherhood to someone. I told her that I couldn't be a parent right now because I was too selfish. She told me that I felt society's pressure, but that I could do things on my own time. Luckily for me, I have an excuse. As a student, I am in special limbo, but I can't keep from thinking about all the people my age who have kids or expecting kids, and looking at my own life. I can't stand crying, whining, or even loud speech in public places. What kind of mother would I be? I mean, I already know I can't duct tape my child's mouth shut when he's in Target, nor can I simply leave her in a kennel as I can my dog. My reactions to children have varied from the shocked and jolts that end in throwing things, to the heart-melting "oohs" and "ahs." One of my reactions resulted in people warning me before the next time the kids came over to their place of business: as in they owned the business, their kids were coming over, and I was warned as well as asked if it was okay...and I'm the employee!

But I digress. After hearing my fellow adoptees, I realized something. What if I looked at that little bundle, and for some reason didn't like what I saw? Or worse, what if I saw that small, tiny human, and fell in love, spending the rest of my life so caught up in him that I lost myself? Motherhood, changes you. I don't want to dislike myself, nor do I want to lose myself. I've seen women give their entire lives to their children. This isn't to say that motherhood isn't noble... I have great respect for good mothers. But I've seen what "good" mothering takes, the sacrifices it asks of you, and quite frankly, I don't know if in society's eyes, my family's eyes, if I would be a "good" mother. I am not a martyr, nor am I a saint. I don't know if I can make the necessary sacrifice to be the "Mother" I believe society wants.

*I don't know, I've never been a parent. The closest I've become to being a parent are my pets.