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.

In the theme of Mother's Day (NOT my Mother's Day post)

Summer 2001

Dear Cho, Kye Rim,

You may know who I am and probably you think of me as often as I think of you. My blood and your blood are connected in a very special way. I am your birth daughter, Cha, Young Sin.

I am writing this to thank you for choosing to give me life and giving me up so that my life might be better. It must have been hard for you to give me up. I thank God for you and I pray that you are doing well.

Sometimes, I look at myself in the mirror and wonder if I look like you. I wonder if I have your temperament or smile. I promise you that I will not disturb the life you have made for yourself now. I have no intentions of doing so because I know how hard it is to go on with life. I only wish to thank you for giving me life. I also am hoping that this letter will allow you some closure. I am doing just fine. My parents are loving and wonderful. They have told me time and again that if I chose to look for you, that they would help me in any way possible. They have instilled within me the difference between right and wrong as well as respect. They gave me a new name. My name now is R***** *******, but they call me Cha-chi as a nickname.

I hope that you would be proud of me. I am now attending a private university in the state of North Carolina. I am in the honors program and received a scholarship to help pay for my college tuition. I am hard on myself, so I personally could not tell you my good qualities. I do hope that I am making my family proud, and that if you were to see me today, you too would be proud.

Are you a musician? If you are, then that is where I get all my musical talent from. I sing and play the cello. I have been singing for as long as I can remember and have been playing the cello since I was twelve years old. My last year in high school, I would have been principle (first chair) in my high school’s orchestra, but we moved before I was able to obtain the honor. In college, I do not have much time for the cello, but have begun voice lessons.

Again words cannot describe how grateful I am to you for allowing me life. I hope that I have used this gift wisely and well; not to mention continue to use this gift of life well and wisely. Thank you for giving me life and a chance to live better.

Sincerely, R***** (Young Sin)

"One of us"

I've always wondered about that phrase. The idea or concept that people of a certain grouping belonging together... that an individual can correctly assume they are with a crowd or family...some type of kinship. Even now,  in my head, I'm starting to draw lines that can only be described as strings tying to certain objects, zig-zagging--like the "spider web" that I made out of quilting thread and my family's basement when I was 4 or younger. Just like the spider web, people are tied to each other; connected by some of the oddest coincidences or even accidents that create a bond between them. Some eagerly seek out their connections, while others, like myself, often run from them.

This summer I have the chance of going to a Korean Adoptee conference. For me, it's a win-win situation: 1) Get to go to the South (family, sweet tea, Chick-fil-A, warmth, humidity, and central A/C) and 2) I can mingle with some of the people who are very renowned in my field of study: Deanne Borshay Liem, Dr. Sook Wilkinson, and many others. Of course, there is the other thing, and I began to slowly understand that as I read through the conference activities when my eyes fell upon one event: Mixer, "especially for first-time attendees and others wishing to make connections."

At first I thought "Alcohol is social lubricant, of course they have a mixer...Oh good! Maybe I can rub elbows with Ms. Borshay Liem or Jennifer Fero, who participated in the documentary Adopted." I read the description again, "especially for first-time attendees... wishing to make connections"--CONNECTIONS--not just friendly and career-oriented connections, but actual connections in the way that people have a common bond. What do these people have in common? Adoption, Korean adoptees to be exact. Panic seized my backbone; I have now willingly entered a place I intentionally avoided as a child and in Korea.

I've read adoptee literature. I've written my own experience. I've watched it unfold on documentaries, crying along with the adoptee. Good grief, I'm even making a career out of this! Why would actually meeting another adoptee be so unappealing to me?

When I was way younger and smaller (yes, it's possible for me to be both), my parents would take me to these adoption "support groups," where all the children would play with other adoptees and the parents would make small talk, probably leading to bigger adoptee issues. All I remember is that it was awkward at first and then I would make friends, only to have time fly by and my parents tell me it was time to go. Other encounters with Korean adoptees have been less than expected.

After I got back from Korea, I wanted to talk about adoption, the loss of one culture that had just been revealed to me. I tried to talk to the one person I thought would understand: a fellow Korean adoptee. The results were less than satisfactory. I don't blame my friend, she had no idea what I wanted out of the conversation. And knowing both of our upbringings, our adoptions were something kept very close; a secret that only came out to real friends or accidentally "sprung" on to acquaintances at public events where parents show up. After all, one usually has to "explain" why one is of a certain race while her parents/family are of another. This isn't to say that I was ashamed of my family. I was proud of them. I love them. What pained me is that I had to apologize, or explain our connection*. When I explained the connection, it was like a flood gate opened and I had apparently acquiesced to an informal inquisition which led me down psychological paths I did not wish to express to close friends, let alone near strangers. So needless to say, she more than likely did not wish to discuss "differences" with me as we were not as close as we once were.

My next attempt at finding another adoptee to share my thoughts with was the internet. I found it lonely and, in all honesty like, we were a chat room full of whiners. No one likes a whiner, nor does a whiner want to see themselves reflected in other whiners. If this was what Korean adoptee socialization was about, you could count me out. Then I accidentally located another adoptee when I went to grad school at UA, and was really happy that I could have someone to relate to in the trans-racial adoption area. We met on a few occasions, and I enjoyed running things by him that I was going through and thought another adoptee would be able to understand. By now, I'm sure you're putting two and two together to realize why this friendship didn't work out. Apparently he was wanting more than friendship: Strike three. I was done attempting to find other adoptees unless they were on paper or documentaries. Yes, I realize this was a rather naive idea; however, when I read the politics behind Korean adoptees as a group, my head began to spin, and I wondered if I had taken on too much. I'm not a political person. To me, it's all a technicality that is loosely based on theories and ideologies, that when put into practice within the real world becomes completely imperfect. Let me hide amongst my books and theories as theories.

I slowly began to realize as with any good academic, I would have to learn to socialize with those in my field. More often than not, these people were Korean adoptees. When I heard about this conference, my first thought was of networking, finding out when the next documentary or memoir would be published. My inner academic was so happy to go mingle with other academics that I forgot the emotional side. The part where human beings want to belong. They look for others with similar lives, backgrounds, or past experiences to know they are not alone; that they too are part of an "us."

As I read the description of the Mixer again, my mind was filled with images of my past with Korean adoptee chat rooms, only this time, the room was filled with people who had mommy or daddy issues, who yearned to find the birth mother to fill the empty void left behind by a neglectful adopter; the angry adoptee who wanted all adoptions to stop, arguing with another adoptee who believed international adoption was a good thing and wanted it to continue. I then saw the issues of Nationality, negotiating race and identity mixed in with dual citizenship: all the things I wanted to deal with theoretically but not politically. I was terrified while simultaneously morbidly curious if the alcohol at the mixer was to get people to talk or shut them up by passing out while drowning their sorrows.

Stopping myself from hitting the "cancel" button on the reservations, I scanned the books and videos around me: Language of Blood: a memoir, First Person Plural, Birthplace: Unknown. These adoptees had spoken out to me when I felt alone. They showed me that I was part of an "us" and that my day dreams and theories weren't unfounded and crazy. When I watched Searching for Go-hyang, I cried with them, wanting to be there with the women and their family. Why had I pursued this field in the first place? I wanted to know I wasn't alone: my awkward feelings of sharing with interlopers, the discomfort I felt being the only minority in a room, explaining/defending my US citizenship. I shifted the arrow away from "cancel" to "confirm."

For better or for worse, I've chosen a field very close and personal. This means stretching out of my comfort zone in order to obtain answers. Yes, I may run into the "mommy and daddy issues" or "angry" adoptee but I will also encounter the adoptee I wish to be. The adoptee who had made peace with her identity and seeks out others who feel alone.


*I would like to point out at this time that there is a difference between the trans-racial/national adoptee and the adoptee of the same race as their parents. The trans-racial adoptee, being of different race, reveals herself to others as different. The adoptee of same race as parents does not reveal the difference, allowing a degree of privacy. I envy that privacy. Apparently my trans-racial adoptee situation lends itself to some sort of societal allowed for curiosity that apparently can be voiced, no matter how kind or harsh. However, this is not to say that the privacy allows for more comfort, it's just a note.

How?

I want to show you how lovely you are

How would you believe me, if you don't believe in yourself?
I want the world to see how smart you are
How do I show them if you don't know it?

I want to fight your fights 

How would you realize your strength?
I want to hurt those who hurt you
How would I be any different from them?
So I scream, I cry, I pray, and in the end I know the hard, bitter truth.
You must be tested to show you how lovely, intelligent, strong, and resilient you really are.
In the end, you must prove yourself to you and you alone.
I painfully watch by sidelines, wanting to pick you up, carry you, fight it out for you...
And what would you gain by my doing it for you?
How would you gain by my doing?
Nothing.

Sometimes, you don't have to find the words...

...amazingly enough, someone already said them. What I've just said may seem like an easy way out, especially if you're an academic. There's always something to be said that hasn't, and you have to find it, right?

At the beginning of Fall semester, my director had me compile an extensive bibliography of Korean adoptee works: written by and written about adoptees, documentaries, movies, etc. At the end of the semester, she then looked at me and simply stated: "Have 90% of the bibliography read and/or viewed by the end of winter break." Wow....um, okay? What did I do? I did what I was told. I'm currently reading and viewing documents, articles, documentaries, and movies. Yes, it's been exhausting... yes, I have had a mental/emotional breakdown at one point in time...after all, this is a topic close to my heart and often times I do not speak of things I feel or experience. Pieces will resonate with me, and I am in a world of my own for days as I attempt to comprehend meaning.

I am not alone. There are others like me who understand me without ever meeting me. How do I know they understand? I read their words, and it's like they are describing me whilst they describe themselves and their attitudes, thoughts, feelings, about who they are.

I have struggled much of my life to understand the complexities of my identity. At one point I believed I was white. Soon however, racist comments destroyed that misconception, and I grew to loathe the mirror's reflection and it's seeming contradiction. After I grew to identify as Korean, I traveled to South Korea where I was promptly informed that I was actually American. In the end, I finally returned to the United States and became Korean-American...After such a complex path to self-discovery, I have now dedicated my life to helping redefined what it means to be "American."---Jennifer Ardnt 2001, qtd in Hubinette's chapter, "Asian Bodies Out of Control: Examining the Adopted Korean Existence" within Asian Diasporas: New Formations, New Conceptions

For years I was told "Your nationality is Korean." This is what I'd say when I was asked, "Where are you from?" or "What nationality are you?" I am now realizing that this "nationality" question was just a polite way of saying, "I know you're Asian, but what Asian are you?" Though I always winced at the question, it was always better than the person assuming I was Chinese.

When I was in Korea, I was asked, "What nationality are you?" And when I said "Korean" I was promptly told I wasn't Korean.... I couldn't speak Korean, so how could I be Korean. Logistically speaking, this totally makes sense. Just because someone looks the part, doesn't mean they are the part. If someone "looked" like a doctor, yet had no medical knowledge, would you want that person diagnosing you because he/she looked like a doctor? (If you answered "Yes," I seriously question your common sense right now =p)  I, of course, took to telling people I was an American, or just a foreigner if I didn't feel like fully explaining things. After my tenure in Korea, I came back to the US. One day, a woman asked me, "What is your nationality" I habitually told her "American." She looked at me as if I were a smart ass. I had to quickly explain why I had answered correctly!  It was then I realized that the American public does not fully understand the melting pot concept it upholds, reducing nationality to race. My work does question the idea of Nationality...I really do hope that one day, I won't have to explain my answer to "What is your nationality?" lest I be thought of as an ass.

Lately, I have had to confront a pastiche of labels: Asian, Korean, American, and adopted. A situation such as this has made me realize identity is not something that can be buried or ignored. I have too many hyphens to inter-connect what it is that supposedly constitutes my existence that I have given up attaching any kind of "label". Ultimately, there is no term that will explain entirely that which makes me. So, call me what you will, but keep it clean.--Mark Keats 2003,  qtd in Hubinette's chapter, "Asian Bodies Out of Control: Examining the Adopted Korean Existence" within Asian Diasporas: New Formations, New Conceptions

Recently, I've realized that I haven't had to explain myself at all. Fortunately, I'm in an area that carries a high Asian American population, so it is not really assumed that an Asian body is absolutely a foreigner. When moments do appear in which my identity is questioned, I bristle. My parents don't have to answer this...neither do my brother, sister, or husband, why should I? Keats has it quite right when he states: "Ultimately, there is no term that will explain entirely that which makes me..." This is true for all of us... we are not merely "American" or "adopted" or "white" or "black" there's too much history within us for that.

I am an academic scholar, Korean American, but not fully immersed in Korean culture since I do not speak the language, a Korean adoptee; a daughter/granddaughter/niece to a white family, wife to a white man, but this does not fully explain me...my wants, desires, wishes, hopes, dreams, etc. This merely scratches the surface, a mere government document as to what my identity is. As of now, and perhaps this is because I'm within the whirlwind of reading and processing...I will admit I am tired. However, I must say that Keats, again, says it best when he states: "So, call me what you will, but keep it clean."

Today's the Day: Arrival Day!

I keep thinking that today, of all days, I need to write a post. Though I admit, it is a little weird calling attention to one's special day that others may not have or even be able to understand. See, today marks the 29th anniversary of a small baby making the trip to America. She is one of many silent migrations from the East to West.

Today, December 2nd, was dreary, stressful, and at times, chaotic. Of all days, I thought this would be the easiest day. All I had to do was sit, talk to students, sit, listen to graduate students present papers. Well, I crammed too many students into a meeting time period, one student tested my limits of patience, while another seemed to be totally clueless as to where his paper was going, and basically wanted me to write the paper for him. Lunch was so rushed, I got a bagel (not toasted) with cream cheese... but things looked up because I got a free chocolate pudding!

After an extended period of office hours, I went to my graduate class, thinking I would have some form of reprieve. Instead, I was met with some frustrating peer presentation whose very existence and failure made me wonder if I could do better and how had I ended up in Binghamton. Surely my being here was a mistake... voices kept telling me that I would fail. I needed a hug. I needed to be told I was someone of worth; precious to at least one person.

I have many fears. I have many doubts. One thing in my entire life have I never doubted: my family loves and cherishes me. All my life, I have been told I am a joy, a gift. Today, I realized that without doubting times (such as today), we cannot fully appreciate the good, joyful times. Today, when my family told me they love me and that they are proud, I needed their approval, their praise. Today, I am not taking for granted the positives and knowing that someone...even a group of people believe I am capable, intelligent, and more importantly, someone worth loving.

Arrival Day: 29 years ago, I "arrived" in the US, not cognitively aware of the situations I would face, but now I realize that each Arrival day I continue to realize how far I have come, where I have been, and that some things, like my family's love remain a blessed constant.

Thankful

Thankful: the word keeps popping up this month. Obviously it has to do with Thanksgiving, and perhaps the idea that we should be thankful for the good things in life and the unsuspected happiness that arrives after a bad spell, though sometimes we don't think of these until years later.

Good things come out of bad situations. Me? I'm a product of a one night stand. My birth mother disregarded the easy way out (though she didn't know of my existence until she was 7 months along, so there were only 2 months of so-called social "shame" on her part... but from what I can tell, even 1 second of shame feels like an agonizing eternity, so what do I know?) and gave me up for a better life. She probably still wonders why she didn't know know about me until it was too late; that she could have taken better care of me while I was still developing. More than likely, her father and mother forced her to give me up...after all, my maternal grandfather's name is on the surrender sheet. It would have been her father who could have legitimized me by registering me under his family, not my birthmother. Instead, I was given away. Who knows? Maybe she did want to keep me... but without registration, I would be an outcast, if I weren't already an outcast for being brought up in a single family home. I may even be 훈헐 (houn-hyol)...of mixed blood; inferior. That would not have helped any matters for my future in Korea. What other choice was there but surrendering me in hopes for a better life?

If she had any hopes (not saying she didn't, but I cannot put words in her mouth), those did not go to waste. I have a family who loves me. There are several instances of this love, and those of you who have met my parents realize that I am loved. Those of you who know my brother and sister know that I am loved by them as well. Yes, we have all have had our moments of quarrels. In the end, when we look at the damage done, we realize we were actually communicating the same thing all along. For example: I went through this phase in which my physical insecurity had come to a head. I loathed myself, and I loathed myself for loathing myself if that's understandable. After all, my family kept telling me how proud they were of me... so in loathing myself, I was also loathing the opinions of those whom I held in high regard. When I finally voiced my self-loathing, the reaction was met with some abruptness. At first I was hurt, how could my family be so cursory towards me? Then I remembered...

When I was a little girl, my mom and I were in line at K-Mart. The lady at the register kept looking at me and then at my mom attempting to get it through her tiny pea-brain head that she was actually seeing a mother with her daughter. After a few moments, curiosity got the better of her and the cashier says to my mother, "What a beautiful child! She must look like her father!" as if mom's and my looks were the judge of our relationship rather than the emotional bond. My mother, very bluntly states: "Well, I wouldn't know." and walks off. 

My family is very loyal. We love each other and hold each other fiercely and want to protect each other. What happens when the person we try to protect the other from is the self? My family wasn't being harsh to me... they were insulted for me...that I could not see my own belonging within their circle even after all this time. Even now, I am reminded everyday, even through arguments how my family does fight to be together; help each other... even when we, the individual, don't want the help. I know how loved I am... I hope my siblings and parents know how loved they are. That even in our disagreements, our silences, and in our periods of absence we still love and support other.

Sometimes, I wish 차계림had a mirror to which she could see how happy I am... how supported I am... how her hope for me came true. 

나는 행복하다, 어머니! 

나는잘있다,어머니! 

어머님,당신은 불 수 있는?

Birthmother: clarification apparently needed

Well, I think my last blog caused quite a splash... apparently, I'm whining or something... I guess I need to make the purpose of this blog clear....

Yes, I am adopted, no, I don't think of it as any hinderance... I think of it as something that happened as if someone were born into a family... I was brought into a family. I'm not begrudging of this fact or happenstance...it's something that happened, and if you want my personal opinion and not academic opinion, this was a gift given to me by God since He knew my birthmother could not take care of me (there are multiple reasons why she could not, if you want the full list, please feel free to email me).

As of now, I'm studying the idea/concept of adoption through the lens of adoptees...specifically Korean American Adoptees... and the way I do this is through literature: first-hand accounts of the adoptee him or herself. See, when I was younger, I wanted to know about other people like me...who were adopted...and could not help but notice they were different thought of their situation. Perhaps this is a little narcissistic of me... all I know is that I wanted to see what other people in my particular situation thought of their situation as well. While growing up, I was told I was special, chosen since I was adopted, now that I discuss my experience, I am shocked to hear people telling me to quit whining and that I should cease discussing aspects of the international adoption phenomena since it's something that just "Happens" and my pointing it out would do something to defeat the purpose of "norming" the situation of international adoption.

Personally, I believe that if the Native American and African American community can protest the idea of interracial adoption on the basis that it's "Cultural Genocide"* or that some of fellow International Adoptees can protest the idea of International Adoption on the basis of "International Kidnapping" or "Western Imperialism,"* surely I can put in my own ideas of Interracial and International adoption with a positive attitude, light, and reveal how I personally feel about my own situation, which is not bad at all... actually, if you ask me personally, I say that I have a very good life and am very blessed.
     *(This has actually happened... I have textual proof of both of these)

With this said, I will now clarify some of the things I was trying to say in my last post. First I will list them and then if you need further information, you're more than welcome to ask for it:

1) Never did I say that the Birthmother would impose herself on the child she gave up. What I said is that there are well-meaning people surrounding both the birthmother and adoptee, who may unintentionally force something, a relationship or "reunion," that one or both parties may not want at that particular point in time in their lives.

2) When I said "real," I meant the mother relationship as identified by the adoptee. If I were to meet my birthmother, I would call her Mother, but to me, she would not be my "Mommy." In other words, due to my situation, my birthmother never had a chance to give any parenting to me, and therefore, she does not hold title of mother... perhaps this would change over time if I were to meet her, but I since I have not experienced her as a mother figure, I cannot say that she is a tangible mothering type to me...other than the fact she gave birth to me. This may sound harsh, but I'm putting this in as simplistic terms as possible.

3) Never did I say that this is every adoptee's perspective. This is my perspective, my lens, and how I am processing information that I have recieved. Everyone is entitled to their own opinion. I just happen to post mine on a blog, that I thought some would be interested to read since people keep asking me what I think. I am posting MY thoughts... MY feelings... not everyone's view. If you all would like to see how other adoptees feel about their situation, I'd be more than happy to give you their works, and see how their particular views compare to mine.

4) I do not judge my birthmother; I highly respect her, despite my seemingly curt summaries/explanations of my relationship with her is now. What I am judging are people who believe they are acting in the best interest of the birthmother and adoptee, and forcing or contriving a reunion with the two. What I am judging are people who tell the birthmother or adoptee how to feel or what they are feeling. I've had this happen to me, and the result was not pretty... it ended in 3 years of therapy... which I admit, could have been worse, but I digress.

I love my family. I love my friends. I love my life. This blog is meant to process my own thoughts as an adoptee, not to judge. As with most blogs, what you can read is my opinion, not absolute fact. You're more than welcome to disagree with me, but I ask that you refrain from telling me how to feel; it's something I've been combating since the preacher told me to stop inquiring about my birthmother because it was hurting my parents' feelings and revealing the fact I was not a grateful child.  Thank you.

Birthmother: One adoptee's perspective

Birthmother: (noun) the biological carrier for a child through the gestation period; one half of the genetic donor towards a whole human being.

During my life as an adoptee, I realize that much attention has been paid to the birthmother. There are several reasons for this: the main one being she chooses to carry the child to term, bond with the being in her uterus, only to part ways with him/her once he/she is born or later on, as it is in a lot of cases. And the birth or biological father? Well, even though he may be emotionally attached to the child, no offense, stereotypically, the biological father "donates" his genes and then goes on his merry way either choosing to ignore his donation completely, or in some cases (like mine), not know about the child at all. I'm sure in many ways I shaft my biological father in the sense that I call him 'Bo-bo the sperm donor' despite the fact he is ignorant of my existence. But I'm getting off topic.

Apparently the subject of birthmother has become a hot topic, and as I attempted to nap today, I kept thinking about the entire issue/subject. During my readings of other adoptees, there is much emphasis placed on the birthmother; finding her, hoping to get missing "pieces" from seeing and interacting with her. Oddly, in my adult life, I've never considered meeting my birthmother as putting together a missing piece. As a child, I fantasized about her merely because I was the only one who was Asian within a 100 mile radius (I'm sure I'm exaggerating here, but as a child, 100 miles was hard to imagine). The idea of meeting another human who had black hair, almond shaped eyes, and fair skin was something of a dream. Everyone around me was blonde, brunette, or even red-headed. They had blue eyes or hazel eyes. Heck, all I really wanted was for someone, anyone to look like me!

The cornerstone of my birthmother memories was when a religious authority figure found out I was seriously inquiring about my birthmother. His way of dealing with it? Pulling me out of Sunday School to tell me that I was making my mother feel sad and unloved by asking about my "other" mother. And that in order to show my parents I was "grateful," I shouldn't mention it again. I never did. I kept it to myself. When I mentioned this encounter with my mom, she was upset because she never said anything to that particular person, nor did my father. She couldn't believe that the authority figure had said anything to me at all.

Perhaps it was this encounter with the religious authority figure that kept me from talking about my birthmother. Maybe I lost interest because I wanted to "fit in" and be a "real" American by everyone's standards, including my own. Either way, I stopped thinking about my birthmother because, in my mind, she was happy and I was happy. I thought any search for her now would disrupt her life and the life of the children she probably had.

The first time I went "back" to Korea, (I use the term "back" only technically since I was born there, but for me it was the first time I remembered it), I just wanted to see copious crowds of people that looked like me; what it felt like to blend in for once instead of looking like an easy "What doesn't belong in this picture" Highlights magazine game (which by the way, I hate those types of children's games now). I was told, "this is your homeland." In some ways, those who told me that were right. I was born there, I gestated there. But, I didn't grow up there. My family was in the States.

See, this is what I don't get about the adoptees and other people who insist the "real" mother is the biological mother. Personally, I believe these adoptees and other people have a poor idea of what adoption really is in an ideal situation. I don't know their situations, and I'm not here to judge them. What I am here to say is that from my perspective "real" is in how you define the term. "Real" to me is something tangible, you can touch it, you've experienced it. Sadly and humorously enough, I've almost decked a guy twice my size in church because of his blatant and substantial ignorance of my idea of "real" no matter how I attempted to explain it to him. To him, and others I have encountered, my real mother should be my biological mother...as if blood always took precedence. I'm here to tell you, blood doesn't mean a darn thing sometimes.

In a situation with adoptees, there is no black and white. Every experience is different. For me, blood doesn't mean a darn thing. Though I am grateful to my birthmother for life and selflessly giving me up, she is not my "real" mother. My "real" mother sat by my hospital bedside as I lay in ice in the doctor's last-ditch effort to get my fever down; my real mother kept a fever-induced hallucinating me from jumping out of a moving car I thought was on fire; my real mother sat with me and talked about my sorrow from breaking up with a boyfriend, my real mother taught me how to make cookies, laughed with me, cried with me, held me, and kissed my boo-boos. My real mother disciplined me when I was screwing up big time and needed to be straightened out (which, by the way, happened way more than either of us really like to remember).

This isn't to say that my birthmother wouldn't have done the same thing had she kept me. The difference is, my birthmother could not do those things. She was economically, physically, emotionally, and mentally unable to do these things for me. This is why she gave me away. This one choice alone is why I have a tie to my birthmother: the one selfless act on her part that would change both of our lives forever.

There are those adoptees who will scream: "But I didn't have a choice!" Well, do biological children have a choice when their biological mothers selflessly decide to let them gestate, then keep them and take them home, thereby changing both their lives forever? Does anyone really have a choice in where they are born, what situations they get themselves into? Some would argue yes, but I would say no. Instead, we only get to control how we feel and how we will react in these situations. Some would argue with me, but hear me out.

When I went to Korea for a second time, I decided to call the adoption agency and ask to see my medical records. After all, with my childhood illness, I thought I'd play it safe and try to learn biological family history for my future children. Though I made it very, very clear that I wanted only my medical records, within a week's time, I was informed by a welfare agent that she had found my birthmother and that a meeting was being set up. Did I have control over this situation? No. Did I try to? Yes, I had dictated very clearly I wanted only my records, not my birthmother. I'm sure there are many adoptees out there screaming, "I would kill to be in your shoes!" I heard their voices in the tone the welfare agent took with me when she asked why I didn't want to meet my birthmother.

In all honesty, I didn't want another mother. I had all the mothers I needed: my mom, my sister, and my host mom. That's three mothers, why did I need a fourth? I think that's something any birthmother needs to realize and understand about their birth child if they ever want to re-unite with them. Perhaps they want to see and hug their biological child, but no one can change the past. No one can truly make up for lost time. The selfless act has already been done, and there's no turning back. The child has all the mother(s) he/she needs. But keep in mind, if this is the case, you chose to do the right thing. The child had the mother(s) he/she needed or wanted and doesn't need another. I think that's something many of the adoptees I've read have the most issues: their mother. They want to find a mother replacement and see that in their birthmothers. Those who don't need another mother, have peace and have no reason to seek a mother replacement.

Now, this isn't to say that if I were to meet my birthmother, I wouldn't be friends with her, or not want her to be proud of me. As it turns out, I think the welfare agent wanted us to meet and guilted my birthmother into meeting me; I in turn felt guilted into meeting her. In the end, the "reunion" was stopped by my biological Aunt, who deemed my birthmother "unfit" to travel. I have to say that after 5 or so years and 3 years of therapy later, I now am grateful to my biological Aunt from keeping the reunion from happening. Sure I felt abandoned again... as I remember telling my brother, I went to therapy because I didn't meet my biological mother. But now, I realize I misspoke. I went to therapy because it was all forced by an outsider. Perhaps my birthmother did want to meet, but I wasn't ready for it.... and yet, I said "yes" because I felt it expected of me. The end result for me? Therapy. After all, who wants a reunion in which both or one party feels forced to be there? Remember how disastrous your last family gathering went when everyone or someone felt like they "had" to be there? And we all know that families (tied by genetics or not) will oftentimes send people to therapy (joke by the way).

One day, I hope to meet my birth mother on our terms; not some media-frenzied welfare agent looking for a so-called "happy ending." At the same time, I don't want to meet my birth mother if she doesn't want to meet me. After all, who would force someone they have a complicated, special tie to, to meet them? In this case, I would say it would be similar to a hostage situation in which one of the people would have a case of "fight or flight" syndrome.

Needless to say, the connect between birthmother and child is complex. Though the birthmother is not the "real" mother, there is that selfless act which binds them; not blood. Any outsider looking into the situation really needs to do so without interfering. After all, I'm sure the welfare agent had good intentions, but missing out on what she thought to be her one and only chance to see her only child could not have been good for my birthmother's psyche. Nor was it healthy for me to make a life-altering decision based on being pressured by a total stranger.

In the end, there isn't a right or wrong answer. I don't really know how to end this...perhaps there isn't an ending. I think I like it without an ending... because there is no ending. There's a decision that leads to another one and another; just a beginning to a beginning to a beginning.

Marriage...

Marriage... two shall become one... blah blah, etc. Don't get me wrong, I love being married. I don't regret one thing about marrying my husband... hehe, yeah I realize it's only been a month and I should give it time, but I already know I don't regret it.

While many children were dreaming of their wedding, I dreamt about the groom. I never just said that he was "Mr. Right" or "Mr. Perfect." His face was always changing... as was his personality, height, and other random things...including race.

In all honesty, when I was younger, I always thought of the groom as white. Never did I really consider anything else... I mean, at some point in time, every girl dreams of having someone who looks similar to her father. Growing up in a white family, the color issue was never an "issue," it was just that white was the "norm" and what was in my "bubble" of a world.

What's funny is that people took my appearance into consideration every turn I made. When I was in 5th grade, kids tried to pair me up with the only Asian boy in the class. Come to think of it, my first Asian best friend (until then, I was always the ONLY Asian at school!) was the one who did that, and I think she did it to me so people would stop doing it to her!

The question of "Do you think you'll end up with someone white or Asian?" always seemed to be a key point of interest... truth be told, when I was in Korea, I avoided white guys like the plague 'cause I kept getting the sense they all had "yellow fever" (where you are attracted to the Asian female stereotype more so than the Asian woman herself). The one white guy I did hang out with, probably had "yellow fever" but not for me, so I didn't consider it... though I did tell him that term creeped me out! I am far from the type a "yellow fever" guy would want: I can barely cook, never subservient, stubborn as hell, and will never think of any guy or girl as "my saving hero."

However, in Korea, I began to realize that, yes, an Asian guy could be a possibility. Heck, I think in college I realized that to be a possibility as with any race. Why not? I hated it when guys passed me by just because I didn't look the part of Southern girl... far be it from me to do the same to anyone else!

Before I ended up dating my now husband. I told my mom that the Southern boys in Alabama would never date me, because I didn't look like someone they could bring home to meet Dad, Mom, and the Grandparents. Mom then reminded me, "if your looks will be a problem, why would you want to date them?" Very true, Mom. Very true.

My ex-boyfriend worried about me meeting his grandfather...and I never did meet the grandfather...my ex didn't think his grandfather would like the fact I was Asian. To my ex's credit, he did say something about how he would have stood up for me...but why should he have to?

Looking back at it, I am reminded again how wonderful it is to have the husband I have. When he met me, he thought, "Cute girl." When he found out I was adopted, it didn't phase him: his cousin is adopted from Korea. His family was used to the idea of adoption, so the questions that normally came from inquiring minds had already be satiated. When they met me, they saw me... sure they noticed I was Asian, but there wasn't the odd stammering or "Where are you originally from?" I felt at home with his family... thank goodness, 'cause all 20-something of us were in one house for a week!

When I met my husband, I didn't think "white guy." I thought "sweet guy... guy who's paying attention to me WAY more than my current boyfriend... guy who's proving himself to me." Now, I'll admit, I did wonder what other people saw when they saw him and me together. I know I shouldn't, but it's natural.

I mean, put yourself in my shoes... you are walking down the street, you see an Asian couple walk by, do you look twice when you hear them speaking perfect English? Or what about the interracial couple: they could be black and white, black and asian, white and hispanic, etc., what do you think? This was something I've dealt with my entire life. I wondered what people thought of my parents and I walking around, or me and my sister, or my brother and me. But in the end, I realized something: What does it matter? I know my parents are MY parents....not a white couple showing around a foreign exchange student... that my sister is my sister....my brother is my brother!

Why should other people dictate who I end up with? So what if they assume things? You would think this would be a DUH! But it did take me a while work out in my head. The end result?

I know there will still be people who ask me if he and I met while he was stationed in Asia... I know there will be people who will stare just because they think it's odd... but I realize that people will stare in other ways too. People will stare in jealousy that a couple could be so happy together... people will stare in awe of how he looks at me with such admiration... people will smile at us because we can be goofy and laugh at each other....

People will stare at our children... People will ask questions both in their minds and out loud. I've realized though, that only we and the people we hold close will have the answers; the true answers. Since he and I already know, what's it to others? Let them stare...