A friend and fellow adoptee recently sent me the link to Voice of Love, a project to encourage the elimination of Korea’s international adoption quota in order for more children to be adopted overseas. The project is seeking Korean adoptees and their families to record a video of themselves discussing how their lives have been ‘blessed’ by international adoption. It is hoped that these videos will influence Koreans to change policy once they see how lives have been positively impacted by adoption.
I understand what this campaign wants to accomplish. And I understand why. The reality is that Korean society has not embraced the notion of domestic adoption. Yes, domestic adoption does happen. Organizations such as Eastern Social Welfare Society promote domestic adoption, but it’s largely a topic still stained by stigma. It is my understanding that many Koreans who adopt domestically try to adopt an infant as young as possible and may not even tell the child that they were adopted. Bloodlines are paramount. Korea, to this day, is one of the most homogenous nations. Single parenthood is looked down upon because it disrupts that patriarchal lineage which society works so hard to preserve. I think it is a culmination of these societal beliefs that leaves many Korean children in an orphanage or foster care. I can understand why Voices of Love wants to help them because their circumstances are certainly sad.
And yet, I hesitate at the thought of participating in the campaign. Voices of Love is one perspective and one potential solution to a social issue. It is not the only one or, necessarily, the right one. Then again, I have no clue what the ‘right’ one is. Does anyone? It’s complicated. I’m not sure that I would be comfortable turning my life into a PSA and, especially, such a one-sided one. The campaign is asking for 30 second videos. What can be said in half a minute? I love my family. They are, without a doubt, my family. In so many ways, I have had a good life so far. I have had opportunities to thrive and I have been loved deeply. I suspect these words are the kind of words Voices of Love is hoping an adoptee will offer to their effort. They’re all true words, too. The truth is that my life has been good.
But the truth is also that my life has been with struggle. It continues to be. This past year has been one of the hardest for me as an adoptee filled with hurt, frustration and questions. So many questions. There is both risk and benefit to being an adoptee. And maybe the hardest thing of all to accept is that we don’t get to choose to be an adoptee. It is something we inherit through the decisions of others. Of course, the extent of our struggles varies greatly. Some may never ask the questions that others grapple with their entire lives. Some adoptees have experienced terrible abuse and isolation at the hands of their adoptive families. What reason do they have to participate in something like Voices of Love? International adoption is not the only answer and it is not without errors.
There are no easy answers. And the questions I come back to in this moment are these: what do those children in Korea need? What decision will benefit them most? To be able to grow up in their birth country without a family in the traditional sense? To grow up across the ocean missing out on their birth country, but with a family? No matter what path is taken, there is always risk and always benefit.
Showing posts with label Korea. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Korea. Show all posts
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Angry Asian girl
Ever hear of culture-bound syndromes? They’re exactly what they sound like—a type of affliction specific to a cultural group. They can help to provide a context for why an individual experiences certain behaviors or symptoms. The first culture-bound syndrome that I ever learned about was hwabyung, a Korean syndrome generally associated with a suppression of anger. I don’t even remember how I came across it, but ever since the discovery, I have wondered if it’s even possible for me, a Korean American adoptee, to experience a Korean culture-bound syndrome. Us transracial and transnational adoptees are such a nature vs. nurture experiment. I don’t know if having Korean blood in your veins is enough to be considered part of that cultural group.
What I do know is that, lately, I am angry. A few days ago I had my first ever panic attack, one reported symptom of hwabyung. I should also mention that hwabyung is linked to han. Han is a kind of amorphous Korean concept encompassing anger, vengeance, sadness, despair.. Some say han is an ingrained part of all Koreans due to Korea’s lengthy history of oppression. The resulting emotion is convoluted—angry at being oppressed, yet also saddened by the inevitability of it. I am sure someone else could add more to my description of han. For me, it’s still not the easiest of ideas to pin down, perhaps because there is no literal English translation of the word. And yet, something about it clicks. The lingering sadness of it is familiar.
I had the panic attack following a phone conversation with my mom. She mentioned that one of my aunts thought I was angry with her. I had no idea what they were talking about. This aunt and I had chatted recently online, but I thought it was amiable. I told my mom I was fine and that I had nothing to be angry about. Then I got off the phone and knew that wasn’t true at all. In combing back through that talk with my aunt, she made a comment about wishing I was back home to find a job there. Like maybe I made a mistake by leaving. And that touched on a very sensitive spot. Between her and my mom, I made the sinking realization that they don’t understand the real reason why I left home.
My family thinks I’m choosing to live away from them simply because of job availability. And now that there are openings in my field there, my aunt wishes I would come back home. As if it’s that simple. As if my employment is all that matters right now. Don’t get me wrong—the job search is stressful and of course I want to have a career. But you know what the truth is? I would rather be unemployed and struggling here than living comfortably back in that sheltered little white suburb. To my relatives, that place is home. Do they even realize how small that world is? And how profoundly lonely it is for me? I don’t think they see any fault in my upbringing. Summer culture camp and adoption group parties at major holidays were deemed adequate. Bottom line: it wasn’t enough. But they weren’t taught this. And I, as a child, didn’t know any better. And it all infuriates me. It infuriates me that, deep down, I feel as though I have to choose between my family and affirming the Korean part of my identity. Both are important, but it seems I cannot have both in the same place.
It is what it is. No one can go back in time and infuse more of Korea into my history or my hometown. Or rewrite the adoption education my parents were given before bringing me home. There is no one specific person or source to blame. So, what I’m left with is anger and a lasting bruise that still hurts when pressed. It aches for all those forces beyond your control; for all that never happened, but should have.
What I do know is that, lately, I am angry. A few days ago I had my first ever panic attack, one reported symptom of hwabyung. I should also mention that hwabyung is linked to han. Han is a kind of amorphous Korean concept encompassing anger, vengeance, sadness, despair.. Some say han is an ingrained part of all Koreans due to Korea’s lengthy history of oppression. The resulting emotion is convoluted—angry at being oppressed, yet also saddened by the inevitability of it. I am sure someone else could add more to my description of han. For me, it’s still not the easiest of ideas to pin down, perhaps because there is no literal English translation of the word. And yet, something about it clicks. The lingering sadness of it is familiar.
I had the panic attack following a phone conversation with my mom. She mentioned that one of my aunts thought I was angry with her. I had no idea what they were talking about. This aunt and I had chatted recently online, but I thought it was amiable. I told my mom I was fine and that I had nothing to be angry about. Then I got off the phone and knew that wasn’t true at all. In combing back through that talk with my aunt, she made a comment about wishing I was back home to find a job there. Like maybe I made a mistake by leaving. And that touched on a very sensitive spot. Between her and my mom, I made the sinking realization that they don’t understand the real reason why I left home.
My family thinks I’m choosing to live away from them simply because of job availability. And now that there are openings in my field there, my aunt wishes I would come back home. As if it’s that simple. As if my employment is all that matters right now. Don’t get me wrong—the job search is stressful and of course I want to have a career. But you know what the truth is? I would rather be unemployed and struggling here than living comfortably back in that sheltered little white suburb. To my relatives, that place is home. Do they even realize how small that world is? And how profoundly lonely it is for me? I don’t think they see any fault in my upbringing. Summer culture camp and adoption group parties at major holidays were deemed adequate. Bottom line: it wasn’t enough. But they weren’t taught this. And I, as a child, didn’t know any better. And it all infuriates me. It infuriates me that, deep down, I feel as though I have to choose between my family and affirming the Korean part of my identity. Both are important, but it seems I cannot have both in the same place.
It is what it is. No one can go back in time and infuse more of Korea into my history or my hometown. Or rewrite the adoption education my parents were given before bringing me home. There is no one specific person or source to blame. So, what I’m left with is anger and a lasting bruise that still hurts when pressed. It aches for all those forces beyond your control; for all that never happened, but should have.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Spicy ramen
Over the past month or so, I’ve been making a concentrated effort to lead a healthier lifestyle. I’ve been working out regularly, cooking balanced meals and even taking a multivitamin. It feels good to know I’m actively pursuing my own wellness. I’ve noticed a difference in my overall mood and the positive feelings are motivation enough to stay disciplined. However, I’m only human and there’s one craving that I don’t think I will ever be able to shake for the life of me. As the title of this post would suggest, I’m talking about a tasty little snack called spicy ramen. Cheap and chock-full of MSG. Yum.
You might assume I developed this affair in college seeing as ramen is a poor undergrad staple, but no. If anything, college actually turned me off to ramen, particularly the chicken and beef Cup Noodles which I now feel nauseated by. I won’t eat any kind of ramen anymore except for the spicy variety. On rainy days I especially crave it, more than soup or a hot cup of tea. I just want a bowl of those fiery noodles with my name on it.
My body has a number of sensory memories stored in it, but the one associated with spicy ramen is maybe the strongest I have so far in my 25 years of life. It takes me back to Buan, my birthplace. In my entire life, I have spent less than 24 hours there. I was born in the evening and shuttled straight to Seoul, my omma relinquishing me immediately. It wasn’t until this past June that I finally went back to see the city for myself. A cheerful young guide accompanied me on a three hour bus ride and it was cloudy when we arrived. We only spent around four hours there and didn’t do anything too extravagant. It is not an extravagant place to be honest, but it was my entry point into the world. An imperative piece of my life. To simply be there with all my senses snapped on was enough. There was no joy or even deep sorrow for that matter, but some amorphous mix of emotion that I still fail to find a name for. I had initially hoped to purchase an item there to remind me of the experience, but as we passed stores on the street, the notion began to feel cheap. No single item could ever capture what it felt like to be there.
So, the souvenir I ended up bringing back with me is a love for spicy ramen. We missed our intended bus back to Seoul and ended up having a hurried lunch before catching the next available trip. By then the cloudy sky had burst with heavy rain, so we ducked into this small restaurant where a woman made us fresh kimbap and brought us large bowls of spicy ramen. I had never had spicy ramen before and my mouth was on fire after a few bites, but we didn’t have time to eat it slowly, so I kept shoving it into my mouth even as my nose started running. We were sitting at a wooden bar and I had my wet umbrella balanced between my knees. I realized that my time in Buan would be ending very soon and the only thing I had left to do there was eat well, so I did. When we were finished, we literally ran to the bus station and climbed onto the heavily air-conditioned bus all soggy and shivering. And just like that, Buan became a known part of my past.
I hope that I can go back again one day. Maybe stay for a more extended period and get to know the place better. Talk to people (or at least try to). I couldn’t resist the temptation to carefully observe the people, especially those who might look to be near my omma or appa’s ages. Maybe I could walk into a shop and the owner would exclaim my striking resemblance to someone they know. If only, right? For now, I am settling for a bowl of spicy ramen on a rainy day because it brings me back to Buan. I eat it quickly, too, even if I have the time to go slow. I set my mouth on fire because I don’t want to forget what it feels like. What I felt like finally back in the context of where everything began.
You might assume I developed this affair in college seeing as ramen is a poor undergrad staple, but no. If anything, college actually turned me off to ramen, particularly the chicken and beef Cup Noodles which I now feel nauseated by. I won’t eat any kind of ramen anymore except for the spicy variety. On rainy days I especially crave it, more than soup or a hot cup of tea. I just want a bowl of those fiery noodles with my name on it.
My body has a number of sensory memories stored in it, but the one associated with spicy ramen is maybe the strongest I have so far in my 25 years of life. It takes me back to Buan, my birthplace. In my entire life, I have spent less than 24 hours there. I was born in the evening and shuttled straight to Seoul, my omma relinquishing me immediately. It wasn’t until this past June that I finally went back to see the city for myself. A cheerful young guide accompanied me on a three hour bus ride and it was cloudy when we arrived. We only spent around four hours there and didn’t do anything too extravagant. It is not an extravagant place to be honest, but it was my entry point into the world. An imperative piece of my life. To simply be there with all my senses snapped on was enough. There was no joy or even deep sorrow for that matter, but some amorphous mix of emotion that I still fail to find a name for. I had initially hoped to purchase an item there to remind me of the experience, but as we passed stores on the street, the notion began to feel cheap. No single item could ever capture what it felt like to be there.
So, the souvenir I ended up bringing back with me is a love for spicy ramen. We missed our intended bus back to Seoul and ended up having a hurried lunch before catching the next available trip. By then the cloudy sky had burst with heavy rain, so we ducked into this small restaurant where a woman made us fresh kimbap and brought us large bowls of spicy ramen. I had never had spicy ramen before and my mouth was on fire after a few bites, but we didn’t have time to eat it slowly, so I kept shoving it into my mouth even as my nose started running. We were sitting at a wooden bar and I had my wet umbrella balanced between my knees. I realized that my time in Buan would be ending very soon and the only thing I had left to do there was eat well, so I did. When we were finished, we literally ran to the bus station and climbed onto the heavily air-conditioned bus all soggy and shivering. And just like that, Buan became a known part of my past.
I hope that I can go back again one day. Maybe stay for a more extended period and get to know the place better. Talk to people (or at least try to). I couldn’t resist the temptation to carefully observe the people, especially those who might look to be near my omma or appa’s ages. Maybe I could walk into a shop and the owner would exclaim my striking resemblance to someone they know. If only, right? For now, I am settling for a bowl of spicy ramen on a rainy day because it brings me back to Buan. I eat it quickly, too, even if I have the time to go slow. I set my mouth on fire because I don’t want to forget what it feels like. What I felt like finally back in the context of where everything began.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Article time!
No post today, just an article to share over at the Awl written by KAD journalist Sarah Idzik: Return to the Motherland. The article discusses the KAD experience upon returning to Korea from multiple adoptee perspectives (including yours truly). Check it out if you get the chance! Happy weekend!
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
I don’t have a choice, but I’d still choose you
I want to talk openly about one of the most emotional parts of my trip to Korea. Although I have already discussed it with my mom, I feel compelled to share it here as well. It occurs to me how stoic I might come across on this blog at times and, truthfully, that has been intentional. I have always been guarded (if not overly so) with my emotions. However, I literally reached a breaking point on my trip which involved me crying in front of a group of people. I wasn’t an exception since everyone was crying, but for me it was a rare moment of vulnerability and has led me to face a difficult aspect of being adopted.
The context of all this emotion was at a maternity home where unmarried women reside during their pregnancy. Our group met with a handful of young women, most of whom were pregnant, and one who had recently placed her child for adoption. Also joining us were two older women (maybe in their 50s), both of whom placed their children for overseas adoption years ago. One had reunited with her child and the other had not. We were to have a discussion with the help of a translator and eyes were glassy before it even started. The girl sitting opposite me was 17—the same age as my omoni was when she gave birth to me and that hit hard. She was so much a child, speaking softly with averted eyes. To see her breathing, talking, crying right in front of me brought that which has always been so far away into startling focus. One of the older women could barely speak and simply held her face in her hands. She was the woman who had not reunited with her child, but desired to and her anguish spoke to the reality of adoption: one family has to come apart in order for another one to come together. The room was so heavy with sadness from everyone. We continued to cry throughout the discussion as people shared their stories of fear, rejection and uncertainty. It was both intense and surreal to be there. We were so drained that most of us slept afterwards on our bus ride to Busan.
I think we knew that this experience was destined to be a highly emotional one, but I don’t know if we were all crying for the same reasons and I realized that my tears were coming from a very specific place. It was actually another adoptee’s words that got me thinking. She commented on how, in a way, it was comforting to see the women crying over their decision. And I instantly understood what she meant. We saw it with our own eyes; their struggle that came with parting from their children or the thought of parting from their children. The choice of adoption for these women was not one easily or painlessly chosen. For the older women, their decisions still had a strong emotional impact so many years later.
Perhaps you think it cruel for someone to find comfort in their pain, but I don’t want you to misunderstand. I am not sitting here with a vengeful heart sticking pins in a voodoo doll. I am saying that some adoptees (or maybe more than some) would like to know that, on some level, we were wanted by the woman who gave birth to us. That she fought internally over us and cried over us. That she desired to be our mother even just a little bit. That she cared. Simply that she cared. The women we spoke to were having a hard time and it was almost a relief to see that. I don’t wish them a lifetime of regret and sorrow, but to see someone not hurt at all over letting her child go would be even more heartbreaking to witness. Because it begs questions you don’t want answers to, but do. Was I that easy to give up? Was I that easy to get over?
One of the women at the maternity home told us that we must know our birth mothers all hold a place for us in their hearts and love us. I understand that she was coming from a truly compassionate place in telling us this and I appreciate her kindness, but I don’t really know if that is how my own omoni felt/feels. It was not her voice saying those words. She did not even know she was pregnant with me. She went to the doctor complaining of stomach pain, found out she was pregnant and gave birth to me three days later. I was relinquished for adoption and brought to Eastern Social Welfare almost immediately. Did she ever want me? Did she have enough time to process even a thread of desire? She only had three days and she was probably extremely traumatized by the realization. Barely any time to bond with me, to cry and deliberate over what to do as the young women in the maternity home were doing. What was she thinking and feeling at that time? There are so many questions which may never have answers.. I am a person who has a place in this world and who is loved beyond description, but that doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to experience some hurt in all of this.
Even if she knew she didn’t have a choice, I hope some part of her wanted to choose me anyway.
The context of all this emotion was at a maternity home where unmarried women reside during their pregnancy. Our group met with a handful of young women, most of whom were pregnant, and one who had recently placed her child for adoption. Also joining us were two older women (maybe in their 50s), both of whom placed their children for overseas adoption years ago. One had reunited with her child and the other had not. We were to have a discussion with the help of a translator and eyes were glassy before it even started. The girl sitting opposite me was 17—the same age as my omoni was when she gave birth to me and that hit hard. She was so much a child, speaking softly with averted eyes. To see her breathing, talking, crying right in front of me brought that which has always been so far away into startling focus. One of the older women could barely speak and simply held her face in her hands. She was the woman who had not reunited with her child, but desired to and her anguish spoke to the reality of adoption: one family has to come apart in order for another one to come together. The room was so heavy with sadness from everyone. We continued to cry throughout the discussion as people shared their stories of fear, rejection and uncertainty. It was both intense and surreal to be there. We were so drained that most of us slept afterwards on our bus ride to Busan.
I think we knew that this experience was destined to be a highly emotional one, but I don’t know if we were all crying for the same reasons and I realized that my tears were coming from a very specific place. It was actually another adoptee’s words that got me thinking. She commented on how, in a way, it was comforting to see the women crying over their decision. And I instantly understood what she meant. We saw it with our own eyes; their struggle that came with parting from their children or the thought of parting from their children. The choice of adoption for these women was not one easily or painlessly chosen. For the older women, their decisions still had a strong emotional impact so many years later.
Perhaps you think it cruel for someone to find comfort in their pain, but I don’t want you to misunderstand. I am not sitting here with a vengeful heart sticking pins in a voodoo doll. I am saying that some adoptees (or maybe more than some) would like to know that, on some level, we were wanted by the woman who gave birth to us. That she fought internally over us and cried over us. That she desired to be our mother even just a little bit. That she cared. Simply that she cared. The women we spoke to were having a hard time and it was almost a relief to see that. I don’t wish them a lifetime of regret and sorrow, but to see someone not hurt at all over letting her child go would be even more heartbreaking to witness. Because it begs questions you don’t want answers to, but do. Was I that easy to give up? Was I that easy to get over?
One of the women at the maternity home told us that we must know our birth mothers all hold a place for us in their hearts and love us. I understand that she was coming from a truly compassionate place in telling us this and I appreciate her kindness, but I don’t really know if that is how my own omoni felt/feels. It was not her voice saying those words. She did not even know she was pregnant with me. She went to the doctor complaining of stomach pain, found out she was pregnant and gave birth to me three days later. I was relinquished for adoption and brought to Eastern Social Welfare almost immediately. Did she ever want me? Did she have enough time to process even a thread of desire? She only had three days and she was probably extremely traumatized by the realization. Barely any time to bond with me, to cry and deliberate over what to do as the young women in the maternity home were doing. What was she thinking and feeling at that time? There are so many questions which may never have answers.. I am a person who has a place in this world and who is loved beyond description, but that doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to experience some hurt in all of this.
Even if she knew she didn’t have a choice, I hope some part of her wanted to choose me anyway.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
My biological clock is NOT ticking, but..
I’m back in the states and finally un-jet lagged enough to write! However, trying to figure out what to say in my first post-Korea entry has been surprisingly daunting. Over the past few days I have attempted to sort out the memories and emotions to no avail. So, instead of summarizing the trip, my various thoughts and experiences will probably unfold throughout numerous entries.
Today I am thinking about a baby. On my final day in Korea, I spent the morning at Eastern Social Welfare’s baby home which is where a number of babies are cared for prior to entering a foster home (and then eventually an adoptive home). I played with and soothed babies for over an hour. Many of them were preemies. They were so delicate and vulnerable. I wanted to hug all of them close, but I fell in love especially with one baby boy who looked at me with these big curious eyes. He had been crying in his cradle and became instantly contented once I picked him up. I realized possibly for the first time how intoxicating it can be to care for an infant. The way they look up at you and need you fills your heart in the most indescribable way. I probably only held him for around 20 minutes, but it was enough to reduce me to mush. To say it was hard for me to leave that room would be an understatement. Looking at the number of workers compared to babies, I don't know how much individual attention they really get.. All that baby wanted was someone to pay him attention.
Now I am miles away and wondering if that boy’s mother ever got to hold him before he was brought to Eastern. And if she did, how on earth did she manage to let him go? Is she thinking about him right now? Because I can’t stop thinking about those sweet eyes. He is not yet a Korean adoptee, but perhaps he will be soon and, in some weird sense, I feel connected to him for that. I wonder what kind of life he will have growing up and what kind of feelings he will have towards being adopted. He will grow up in a different age than I did. Maybe he will get to avoid some of the frustrations and sadness that I experienced, or maybe he will simply experience them in smaller amounts. Or, worse, bigger amounts. But I so deeply hope that wherever he ends up, he finds home and some sense of peace.
As corny as this sounds, holding him inspired me. I know I want to contribute to the adoption field in some capacity. It’s one reason why I blog at all—because adult adoptee voices are needed and should inform adoption. Telling our stories, I hope, is one way of improving quality of life for the newest generations of adoptees. I still don’t really know where my niche will be in all of this, but I somehow feel one step closer to it.
Today I am thinking about a baby. On my final day in Korea, I spent the morning at Eastern Social Welfare’s baby home which is where a number of babies are cared for prior to entering a foster home (and then eventually an adoptive home). I played with and soothed babies for over an hour. Many of them were preemies. They were so delicate and vulnerable. I wanted to hug all of them close, but I fell in love especially with one baby boy who looked at me with these big curious eyes. He had been crying in his cradle and became instantly contented once I picked him up. I realized possibly for the first time how intoxicating it can be to care for an infant. The way they look up at you and need you fills your heart in the most indescribable way. I probably only held him for around 20 minutes, but it was enough to reduce me to mush. To say it was hard for me to leave that room would be an understatement. Looking at the number of workers compared to babies, I don't know how much individual attention they really get.. All that baby wanted was someone to pay him attention.
Now I am miles away and wondering if that boy’s mother ever got to hold him before he was brought to Eastern. And if she did, how on earth did she manage to let him go? Is she thinking about him right now? Because I can’t stop thinking about those sweet eyes. He is not yet a Korean adoptee, but perhaps he will be soon and, in some weird sense, I feel connected to him for that. I wonder what kind of life he will have growing up and what kind of feelings he will have towards being adopted. He will grow up in a different age than I did. Maybe he will get to avoid some of the frustrations and sadness that I experienced, or maybe he will simply experience them in smaller amounts. Or, worse, bigger amounts. But I so deeply hope that wherever he ends up, he finds home and some sense of peace.
As corny as this sounds, holding him inspired me. I know I want to contribute to the adoption field in some capacity. It’s one reason why I blog at all—because adult adoptee voices are needed and should inform adoption. Telling our stories, I hope, is one way of improving quality of life for the newest generations of adoptees. I still don’t really know where my niche will be in all of this, but I somehow feel one step closer to it.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
An American in Seoul
I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m only about two weeks away from departing for Korea! I know I haven’t really discussed this on the blog in many months. Too many things have been on my mind, but right now I am absolutely focused on my trip. After much debate, I chose to do an adult adoptee tour which will be for ten days. Coming to that decision was incredibly difficult for me and I may have to dedicate a different post to this later. I felt very conflicted for a while which is another reason why I failed to blog anything about it. At this moment, however, I am mostly excited to be going and busying myself trying to prepare.
I’m preparing in some pretty standard ways, like finding travel-sized containers for toiletries and getting a converter plug, but the biggest thing for me has been preparing to adapt to Korea. There is so much I don’t know. I am a foreigner to my birth culture. However, I won’t look like a foreigner in Korea at all. My mentee even told me that I am the average height of a Korean woman. People will expect me to be like them when I’m just not in so many ways. It’s already happened to me multiple times in the US, so in Korea I can only imagine it will happen tenfold. And Korea really does have such a homogenous population. How can I blame them for assuming? To come across an ibyang (Korean word for adoptee) is probably not a typical experience.
So, really, preparation for me has been about learning to be ‘more Korean’. I’m not going to lie: a big part of me wants to fit in. Maybe that is a juvenile thing to say, but it’s honestly how I feel. I do not want to be stumbling through every day in Korea as this glaringly American foreigner having no idea about language or cultural norms, especially when I am Korean myself! I’ve been cramming Korean language lessons into my head, learning about manners and even put my ears on a strict diet of Korean music only. If this sounds a little ridiculous, it probably is. I kind of feel like this is middle school all over again when I had to have gel pens, wear flared jeans and watch South Park just so I could discuss it with other kids at school.
The thing is, TV shows and fashion are just trends that fade away, but Korea will always be a part of me. Maybe all this determination to learn about the culture is a phase. Or maybe it’s something more than that. Maybe it’s a path leading to a better sense of who I am. Some KADs seem so confident and grounded in their sense of self while others seem to be in a perpetual identity crisis. I’m….somewhere in that fray. Learning Korean is getting a little frustrating, but I have always loved learning languages. And k-pop over the past year has slowly made its way into my regular music rotation. There is definitely a pleasure that comes from having these pieces of Korea in my life. I don’t pursue these things solely out of obligation, but because they bring an extra level of joy to my life. They might not necessarily make me ‘more Korean’, though, whatever that even means. And, at the end of the day, what’s wrong with me being American? I am American and that’s not something I can simply erase when I arrive in Seoul. Like Korea, America will always be a part of me, too. It’s always been my dominant culture and, while it’s certainly not perfect, there are things about being American that I love.
I am a Korean American adoptee. It’s only taken me up to this point to really stand back, look at each word and think ‘what the heck does that mean, anyway?’. I have a feeling it’s a question I will spend my whole life answering.
I’m preparing in some pretty standard ways, like finding travel-sized containers for toiletries and getting a converter plug, but the biggest thing for me has been preparing to adapt to Korea. There is so much I don’t know. I am a foreigner to my birth culture. However, I won’t look like a foreigner in Korea at all. My mentee even told me that I am the average height of a Korean woman. People will expect me to be like them when I’m just not in so many ways. It’s already happened to me multiple times in the US, so in Korea I can only imagine it will happen tenfold. And Korea really does have such a homogenous population. How can I blame them for assuming? To come across an ibyang (Korean word for adoptee) is probably not a typical experience.
So, really, preparation for me has been about learning to be ‘more Korean’. I’m not going to lie: a big part of me wants to fit in. Maybe that is a juvenile thing to say, but it’s honestly how I feel. I do not want to be stumbling through every day in Korea as this glaringly American foreigner having no idea about language or cultural norms, especially when I am Korean myself! I’ve been cramming Korean language lessons into my head, learning about manners and even put my ears on a strict diet of Korean music only. If this sounds a little ridiculous, it probably is. I kind of feel like this is middle school all over again when I had to have gel pens, wear flared jeans and watch South Park just so I could discuss it with other kids at school.
The thing is, TV shows and fashion are just trends that fade away, but Korea will always be a part of me. Maybe all this determination to learn about the culture is a phase. Or maybe it’s something more than that. Maybe it’s a path leading to a better sense of who I am. Some KADs seem so confident and grounded in their sense of self while others seem to be in a perpetual identity crisis. I’m….somewhere in that fray. Learning Korean is getting a little frustrating, but I have always loved learning languages. And k-pop over the past year has slowly made its way into my regular music rotation. There is definitely a pleasure that comes from having these pieces of Korea in my life. I don’t pursue these things solely out of obligation, but because they bring an extra level of joy to my life. They might not necessarily make me ‘more Korean’, though, whatever that even means. And, at the end of the day, what’s wrong with me being American? I am American and that’s not something I can simply erase when I arrive in Seoul. Like Korea, America will always be a part of me, too. It’s always been my dominant culture and, while it’s certainly not perfect, there are things about being American that I love.
I am a Korean American adoptee. It’s only taken me up to this point to really stand back, look at each word and think ‘what the heck does that mean, anyway?’. I have a feeling it’s a question I will spend my whole life answering.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Stuck behind glass
Learning how to live with loss is an ongoing process and those rocks that I trip on crop up at the most unexpected times. I think I mentioned in passing that I am mentoring two international students from Korea this semester. It has been such an interesting, fulfilling experience, but things took a scary turn a few weeks ago when one of the girls had trouble breathing. She was hospitalized for pneumonia and is still there as I write this. Fortunately, her parents came here about a week ago and have been visiting her daily. My other mentee and I have gone to visit her a few times as well. Everyone has been concerned, though I am glad to say that she is gradually on her way back to good health.
Our most recent visit was a few days ago and happened to be the first time we ran into her parents. To be honest, meeting them made me slightly anxious. My mentee taught me how to properly greet them and explained to them that I don’t speak Korean. They don’t speak English, so our interaction largely consisted of exchanging smiles. There was an inherent kindness in their faces and I really just wanted to talk to them, to better know the minds behind those faces, but I couldn’t. Among my mentees and the parents, I felt distinctly like the ‘other’. I mean, they were all great and no one was trying to make me feel like an outsider, but the reality is that I am. Maybe I should have an ‘A’ like Hester Prynne, except that it stands for ‘Adopted’. Any stranger passing by would likely assume that we all share a language and culture.
And then there it is, that pang of loss. It’s like being stuck behind glass. I can see them, hear them, but my skin keeps hitting that hard barrier and I am not equipped to break cleanly through. I’m one of them, but I’m not. And then I think of my own Korean parents. Do they know any English? Maybe they know about as much as I know of Korean and that is not nearly enough. If we ever meet, how can we have a conversation? How can a translator possibly process the years lost between us? The emotions? Omoni, the woman who gave birth to me, whose face mine might be modeled off of, and I could not speak freely and easily to each other. There is something unjust about it.
Somewhere inside, I had a feeling ‘stuff’ would come up during my mentoring experience once I realized I had two Korean students. And I even had the foresight to remind myself that if it happens, it’s okay as long as I figure out how to handle it so that I can continue to meet my mentees’ needs. I just didn’t expect it to come up like this and never thought I would be meeting one of my mentees’ parents. We are so utterly foreign to each other. I don’t want to feel foreign to my own flesh and blood, but I am. We are. I still want to start my search this summer. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t scared about it. Even if we reunite, there will still be barriers to overcome. There is both a sadness and fear in me as to what could get lost in translation.
Our most recent visit was a few days ago and happened to be the first time we ran into her parents. To be honest, meeting them made me slightly anxious. My mentee taught me how to properly greet them and explained to them that I don’t speak Korean. They don’t speak English, so our interaction largely consisted of exchanging smiles. There was an inherent kindness in their faces and I really just wanted to talk to them, to better know the minds behind those faces, but I couldn’t. Among my mentees and the parents, I felt distinctly like the ‘other’. I mean, they were all great and no one was trying to make me feel like an outsider, but the reality is that I am. Maybe I should have an ‘A’ like Hester Prynne, except that it stands for ‘Adopted’. Any stranger passing by would likely assume that we all share a language and culture.
And then there it is, that pang of loss. It’s like being stuck behind glass. I can see them, hear them, but my skin keeps hitting that hard barrier and I am not equipped to break cleanly through. I’m one of them, but I’m not. And then I think of my own Korean parents. Do they know any English? Maybe they know about as much as I know of Korean and that is not nearly enough. If we ever meet, how can we have a conversation? How can a translator possibly process the years lost between us? The emotions? Omoni, the woman who gave birth to me, whose face mine might be modeled off of, and I could not speak freely and easily to each other. There is something unjust about it.
Somewhere inside, I had a feeling ‘stuff’ would come up during my mentoring experience once I realized I had two Korean students. And I even had the foresight to remind myself that if it happens, it’s okay as long as I figure out how to handle it so that I can continue to meet my mentees’ needs. I just didn’t expect it to come up like this and never thought I would be meeting one of my mentees’ parents. We are so utterly foreign to each other. I don’t want to feel foreign to my own flesh and blood, but I am. We are. I still want to start my search this summer. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t scared about it. Even if we reunite, there will still be barriers to overcome. There is both a sadness and fear in me as to what could get lost in translation.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
A meaningful experience
Do you think a transnational adoptee needs to acknowledge their birth culture?
Maybe this sounds like a ‘duh’ question, but I like thinking about these types of questions because they can be so easily taken for granted. I pose this question because, through the blogosphere and various media, I have noticed many APs or future APs eager to integrate their child’s birth culture into the child’s life as much as possible. I’m neither agreeing nor disagreeing. I’m simply curious. What informs us that this is the ‘right’ thing to do? What is a parent’s best hope for their child in making that decision?
My mom started integrating Korea into my life seemingly from the start. We were attending a local adoption group before I was out of diapers. The group was open to any family with adopted children, but ended up largely composed of KADs. We had parties at holidays, celebrated the Lunar New Year and many of us went to culture camp together during the summers. For us kids, it was really just time to have fun with friends. Or, if I’m being very honest, it was time for us to all feel awkward together trying say words in Korean and do a fan dance. By the time I was in middle school, most of my ‘generation’ had dropped out of the group and I didn’t want to go anymore, but my mom kept dragging me until I was about 15. I think she had a harder time letting go of it than me. I really didn’t care anymore. A parent might see this adoption group as a positive thing, but from the adolescent’s perspective, I didn’t see the point (and I really didn’t enjoy how wearing hanboks further flattened my nonexistent chest). If my mom had shoved Korean culture down my throat every day, I think I would have become highly resentful.
Today I am very interested in my heritage, but when I look back, I have to wonder if my mom’s choices to keep me involved in the adoption community affected where I stand now. I’m not really sure that it does. I don’t think that integrating a child’s birth culture into their life is necessarily a predictor for how they will feel about that culture as an adult. And for those who don’t recognize their heritage, are they any worse off than someone like me? Does it matter? I know one other KAD who stayed in the adoption group as long as me and today she’s rather indifferent. She’s married with a family, teaching and comfortably settled in suburbia. She has a good life. Never been to Korea, no plans to go or search for birth family. Does she need some more Korea in her life? I know other KADs just doing their thing and I don’t see anything wrong with it. Maybe one day they will feel differently. Maybe they won’t. I think we have just as much a right to pursue our birth culture as we have a right not to.
At the end of the day, I think we’re all just trying to find some measure of acceptance. Of belonging. The activities I did in adoption group didn’t mean nearly as much as simply being with other Asian kids with white parents. As for playing yut, making mandu, knowing how to write my name in hangul.. Some KADs just don’t give a damn about those things and I say it’s okay! Exploring my Korean heritage is turning out to be meaningful for me, but I’m only speaking for me. Adoptees, like anyone else, all find their own paths to fulfillment.
Maybe this sounds like a ‘duh’ question, but I like thinking about these types of questions because they can be so easily taken for granted. I pose this question because, through the blogosphere and various media, I have noticed many APs or future APs eager to integrate their child’s birth culture into the child’s life as much as possible. I’m neither agreeing nor disagreeing. I’m simply curious. What informs us that this is the ‘right’ thing to do? What is a parent’s best hope for their child in making that decision?
My mom started integrating Korea into my life seemingly from the start. We were attending a local adoption group before I was out of diapers. The group was open to any family with adopted children, but ended up largely composed of KADs. We had parties at holidays, celebrated the Lunar New Year and many of us went to culture camp together during the summers. For us kids, it was really just time to have fun with friends. Or, if I’m being very honest, it was time for us to all feel awkward together trying say words in Korean and do a fan dance. By the time I was in middle school, most of my ‘generation’ had dropped out of the group and I didn’t want to go anymore, but my mom kept dragging me until I was about 15. I think she had a harder time letting go of it than me. I really didn’t care anymore. A parent might see this adoption group as a positive thing, but from the adolescent’s perspective, I didn’t see the point (and I really didn’t enjoy how wearing hanboks further flattened my nonexistent chest). If my mom had shoved Korean culture down my throat every day, I think I would have become highly resentful.
Today I am very interested in my heritage, but when I look back, I have to wonder if my mom’s choices to keep me involved in the adoption community affected where I stand now. I’m not really sure that it does. I don’t think that integrating a child’s birth culture into their life is necessarily a predictor for how they will feel about that culture as an adult. And for those who don’t recognize their heritage, are they any worse off than someone like me? Does it matter? I know one other KAD who stayed in the adoption group as long as me and today she’s rather indifferent. She’s married with a family, teaching and comfortably settled in suburbia. She has a good life. Never been to Korea, no plans to go or search for birth family. Does she need some more Korea in her life? I know other KADs just doing their thing and I don’t see anything wrong with it. Maybe one day they will feel differently. Maybe they won’t. I think we have just as much a right to pursue our birth culture as we have a right not to.
At the end of the day, I think we’re all just trying to find some measure of acceptance. Of belonging. The activities I did in adoption group didn’t mean nearly as much as simply being with other Asian kids with white parents. As for playing yut, making mandu, knowing how to write my name in hangul.. Some KADs just don’t give a damn about those things and I say it’s okay! Exploring my Korean heritage is turning out to be meaningful for me, but I’m only speaking for me. Adoptees, like anyone else, all find their own paths to fulfillment.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Prices we pay
Moment of truth: being a transnational adoptee who wants to explore your roots costs money. The culture camps I attended growing up cost money. The events my adoption group held cost money. Going back to Korea costs money. Searching for your birth family costs money. Money, money, money. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t stress about money. Does being an adoptee cost more? Maybe not for those who aren’t interested in their heritage, but for those of us wanting that connection, it’s time to pay up.
I would save a lot of money if I didn’t go to Korea this summer, but I’m still choosing to go. One could argue that we have the freedom to spend our finances however we want and I would agree with that. No one is forcing me to go to Korea. I made the decision 100% on my own. I decided of the many things in this world I could spend my money on, visiting Korea is the most worthwhile option for me. I have one aunt who is disgusted with me and thinks I’m wasting my finances on some frivolous adventure. She can think whatever she wants. I’m just done explaining myself where no explanations are owed.
Right now, I am fortunate enough to be in a position where investing in a trip to Korea is feasible, but I don’t know so much about the future. I chose a profession which is significantly underpaid. As in not the kind of salary you can travel the world on! I also chose a profession which, at least in some cases like a counselor, can require great consistency and no lengthy vacation times. Although I have deferred my birth family search for now, I do want to search and I would love to go back to Korea multiple times. Especially if reunion works out for me. I’m beginning to worry that my lifestyle choices won’t leave enough room for Korea and that is highly frustrating. Is there a way to have both? I am so thrilled to be going to Korea this summer, but also thrilled to launch my social work career! I want to be the self actualized KAD and the successful, even if poor, career woman. No matter what choices I make, it feels like I am paying the price in some way.
I would save a lot of money if I didn’t go to Korea this summer, but I’m still choosing to go. One could argue that we have the freedom to spend our finances however we want and I would agree with that. No one is forcing me to go to Korea. I made the decision 100% on my own. I decided of the many things in this world I could spend my money on, visiting Korea is the most worthwhile option for me. I have one aunt who is disgusted with me and thinks I’m wasting my finances on some frivolous adventure. She can think whatever she wants. I’m just done explaining myself where no explanations are owed.
Right now, I am fortunate enough to be in a position where investing in a trip to Korea is feasible, but I don’t know so much about the future. I chose a profession which is significantly underpaid. As in not the kind of salary you can travel the world on! I also chose a profession which, at least in some cases like a counselor, can require great consistency and no lengthy vacation times. Although I have deferred my birth family search for now, I do want to search and I would love to go back to Korea multiple times. Especially if reunion works out for me. I’m beginning to worry that my lifestyle choices won’t leave enough room for Korea and that is highly frustrating. Is there a way to have both? I am so thrilled to be going to Korea this summer, but also thrilled to launch my social work career! I want to be the self actualized KAD and the successful, even if poor, career woman. No matter what choices I make, it feels like I am paying the price in some way.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Reality
This search and reunion stuff is becoming increasingly hard for me to get a grasp on. I still intend to go back to Korea this summer, but now I’m thinking of putting off my birth family search, especially because I will travel without family or friends. The odds are not entirely predictable. It could be that my relatives are never found. Or it could be that they are which could make meeting one or some of them this summer a full-blown reality. And that scares me! How peculiar that must sound..that I’m intimidated by the idea of meeting someone who looks like me and shares my blood. But there you have it. Of the many possibilities, am I ready in the case that this one comes true? I’ve always felt more prepared for the possibility of never reuniting with birth family. They’ve never really been a tangible part of my life. Living without them is the only way I have known how to live. But I also know that a person can miss what they never had. Feeling like an outsider to my birth culture most of my life paired with the sudden death of my dad as an infant make me no stranger to ambiguous loss. You do not have to thoroughly know something or someone to long for their presence in your life. If I never at least try to search for birth family, I know I will regret it. Maybe for me the search process, regardless of outcome, is about closure. About knowing that I did everything I could.
I just don’t know if I can do it right now. Part of me thinks, well, if there is reunion and we maintain contact, wouldn’t I want to have as much time as possible knowing them? Being a part of their lives and me a part of theirs? I don’t think I could face meeting any birth family this summer by myself. The experience would be nothing short of surreal. Can a person even prepare for it? I cannot begin to fathom standing in the same room with my omma, studying her face, hearing her voice, embracing her.. It doesn’t seem real, but it could be. It’s something so completely powerful and beyond words. Something that would change me forever. I don’t feel ready to put myself through those emotions..or at the very least I cannot imagine doing it alone. If I ever go to Korea and meet my birth family, I don’t want to be alone. After that experience, I would want to be talked to and held by someone who loves me. Maybe that’s just me. I even sense myself feeling emotional as I write this. I don’t think I would be able to experience a reunion without the company of someone I know intimately with whom I can process and cry. At this point in time, any people I would wish to accompany me this summer cannot do so. I don’t want to do this by myself. The reality of it all is heavier on me than I thought it would be and I have not even officially initiated my search! It’s possible that even if I started the search now, no one would be found by time I travel to Korea, but there’s still that small chance, isn’t there? Maybe the best thing I can do for me right now is wait. And keep breathing.
I just don’t know if I can do it right now. Part of me thinks, well, if there is reunion and we maintain contact, wouldn’t I want to have as much time as possible knowing them? Being a part of their lives and me a part of theirs? I don’t think I could face meeting any birth family this summer by myself. The experience would be nothing short of surreal. Can a person even prepare for it? I cannot begin to fathom standing in the same room with my omma, studying her face, hearing her voice, embracing her.. It doesn’t seem real, but it could be. It’s something so completely powerful and beyond words. Something that would change me forever. I don’t feel ready to put myself through those emotions..or at the very least I cannot imagine doing it alone. If I ever go to Korea and meet my birth family, I don’t want to be alone. After that experience, I would want to be talked to and held by someone who loves me. Maybe that’s just me. I even sense myself feeling emotional as I write this. I don’t think I would be able to experience a reunion without the company of someone I know intimately with whom I can process and cry. At this point in time, any people I would wish to accompany me this summer cannot do so. I don’t want to do this by myself. The reality of it all is heavier on me than I thought it would be and I have not even officially initiated my search! It’s possible that even if I started the search now, no one would be found by time I travel to Korea, but there’s still that small chance, isn’t there? Maybe the best thing I can do for me right now is wait. And keep breathing.
Friday, January 21, 2011
The mythical sesame paste
I just got back from a Korean grocery store where I confused the heck out of its owners. Today being my actual Airplane Day, I was feeling a sense of occasion and decided to invite one of my close friends over for some nice home cooked Korean food. I picked my personal favorite dish--japchae (stir fried noodles with beef and veggies). Now bear in mind that I'm crazy. I've never made japchae before. The only Korean food I've made to date was some mandu dumplings in Korean culture camp when I was a kid and then one semi-experimental grilled beef kebab and kimchi dinner with (a lot of) help from my aunt Jan. So, not a lot of experience there. I don't even cook that much in general (hate to admit it, but it's true). The recipe calls for blanching spinach? What? Hopefully I don't burn the apartment complex down tonight. That would be swell.
Anywho. I stopped at this grocery store which I've been to a handful of times, but always felt kind of shy in. Today I was the only customer in there and one of the owners immediately greeted me in Korean. Although I understood what she said and knew how to reply, I just said "Hi" back not wanting to draw attention to my undoubtedly awkward accent. I browsed the store with my little list and found most of what I needed for the recipe. The one thing I couldn't find? Sesame paste. I went up to the man behind the counter and asked if they carried said item. He had absolutely no idea what I was talking about. We perused through the aisle with sesame seeds, sesame oil and various pastes, but no sesame paste. He went and asked his wife who also was unfamiliar with sesame paste. I told him I was making japchae for the first time and simply following my recipe book. He shrugged and said that he didn't know about cooking with the paste. I figured if he and his wife didn't use it, then my japchae should be fine without it. Now I am questioning the authenticity of my cookbook! I went to Wegmans for a few more items and they also did not carry sesame paste. I googled 'sesame paste' when I came home and it apparently is used in some East Asian cooking. Go figure. Sounds like I'm not missing out on much, though.. I need to go to that grocery more often. The man was nice and wished me luck with the meal. I found myself wanting to explain to him--being an adoptee and all, hence having to use a cookbook and not a Korean omoni's or halmoni's wisdom. But that could have been potentially awkward. It occurred to me that I don't really know what any Koreans or Korean Americans think about KADs..if anything at all.
Well, guess it's time for me to start on my cooking endeavor. Oh boy. I'm going to use Maangchi's recipe since she doesn't use any cooking terms that leave me completely nonplussed! Hopefully my japchae turns out edible, but we have a frozen pizza and alcohol if my efforts go south.
Anywho. I stopped at this grocery store which I've been to a handful of times, but always felt kind of shy in. Today I was the only customer in there and one of the owners immediately greeted me in Korean. Although I understood what she said and knew how to reply, I just said "Hi" back not wanting to draw attention to my undoubtedly awkward accent. I browsed the store with my little list and found most of what I needed for the recipe. The one thing I couldn't find? Sesame paste. I went up to the man behind the counter and asked if they carried said item. He had absolutely no idea what I was talking about. We perused through the aisle with sesame seeds, sesame oil and various pastes, but no sesame paste. He went and asked his wife who also was unfamiliar with sesame paste. I told him I was making japchae for the first time and simply following my recipe book. He shrugged and said that he didn't know about cooking with the paste. I figured if he and his wife didn't use it, then my japchae should be fine without it. Now I am questioning the authenticity of my cookbook! I went to Wegmans for a few more items and they also did not carry sesame paste. I googled 'sesame paste' when I came home and it apparently is used in some East Asian cooking. Go figure. Sounds like I'm not missing out on much, though.. I need to go to that grocery more often. The man was nice and wished me luck with the meal. I found myself wanting to explain to him--being an adoptee and all, hence having to use a cookbook and not a Korean omoni's or halmoni's wisdom. But that could have been potentially awkward. It occurred to me that I don't really know what any Koreans or Korean Americans think about KADs..if anything at all.
Well, guess it's time for me to start on my cooking endeavor. Oh boy. I'm going to use Maangchi's recipe since she doesn't use any cooking terms that leave me completely nonplussed! Hopefully my japchae turns out edible, but we have a frozen pizza and alcohol if my efforts go south.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Decisions, decisions
I want to preface this post by apologizing for its lack of organization as I have about five hundred thoughts running through my head. That's what happens when you make a life-changing decision, although it's not yet entirely made.
The decision? To go back to Korea this summer. At first it was just a little thought that casually drifted into my head and back out again. But then it came back again. And again. I don't know when I drank a glass of carpe diem, but here I am now and I want to--no--need to do this! In May I will graduate with my master's degree. I will then be expected to take my professional licensing exam and gain full-time employment. And then I will be a newbie with no vacation time accrued to even consider traveling..well..anywhere. No. This is not an excuse to defer my enrollment into the adult world. This is a chance to live out my life as an adoptee, to wrap myself in a culture which I never really had, yet somehow miss. Man, I really just need to do this. I haven't put any deposits down or anything, but internally I am already fully committed to this idea.
Unfortunately, it's already mid-January and I need to get my act together. I've been stressing myself out combing through the options, trying to decide what on earth I'm going to do. There are many different ways back. I'm incredibly torn. My first trip back was with a tour. While I was satisfied with that experience, I had hoped that I could do it differently this time. The problem is that I don't know enough Korean to feel safe getting around. My plan is to travel alone. No one else in my life has the interest/time/financial means to go with me, but I'm okay with that. At present, I'm considering trying to get a spot on an adult adoptee tour. My life is hectic enough right now as I have committed to mentoring international students this semester aside from taking my full course load, interning and of course making time for my friends. Realistically, I will not be able to learn enough Korean language and culture to feel confident going solo this summer. A place like KoRoot seems like an excellent option, but I am admittedly scared to take that kind of plunge.
Right now, I see three possible options for going back: a tour, independent travel or school. The tour seems like the safest possibility for me right now and the most realistic. At least an adult adoptee tour, I would be with peers and we could participate in activities that family groups wouldn't necessarily get into (ie noraebang, soju..haha). I wish I were more versed to travel independently. I really do. And while the idea of studying at a university for a semester sounds like a dream, the pressure to get a job is always there..the expectations from others. Maybe part of being an adoptee is sacrifice. I feel like I can't have it all. There is no way to have one foot planted firmly in Korea and one in the United States. In sum...I am frustrated. If anyone reading this has any experience/thoughts on travel possibilities, please contact me either through leaving a comment or email! My head is spinning a little.
The decision? To go back to Korea this summer. At first it was just a little thought that casually drifted into my head and back out again. But then it came back again. And again. I don't know when I drank a glass of carpe diem, but here I am now and I want to--no--need to do this! In May I will graduate with my master's degree. I will then be expected to take my professional licensing exam and gain full-time employment. And then I will be a newbie with no vacation time accrued to even consider traveling..well..anywhere. No. This is not an excuse to defer my enrollment into the adult world. This is a chance to live out my life as an adoptee, to wrap myself in a culture which I never really had, yet somehow miss. Man, I really just need to do this. I haven't put any deposits down or anything, but internally I am already fully committed to this idea.
Unfortunately, it's already mid-January and I need to get my act together. I've been stressing myself out combing through the options, trying to decide what on earth I'm going to do. There are many different ways back. I'm incredibly torn. My first trip back was with a tour. While I was satisfied with that experience, I had hoped that I could do it differently this time. The problem is that I don't know enough Korean to feel safe getting around. My plan is to travel alone. No one else in my life has the interest/time/financial means to go with me, but I'm okay with that. At present, I'm considering trying to get a spot on an adult adoptee tour. My life is hectic enough right now as I have committed to mentoring international students this semester aside from taking my full course load, interning and of course making time for my friends. Realistically, I will not be able to learn enough Korean language and culture to feel confident going solo this summer. A place like KoRoot seems like an excellent option, but I am admittedly scared to take that kind of plunge.
Right now, I see three possible options for going back: a tour, independent travel or school. The tour seems like the safest possibility for me right now and the most realistic. At least an adult adoptee tour, I would be with peers and we could participate in activities that family groups wouldn't necessarily get into (ie noraebang, soju..haha). I wish I were more versed to travel independently. I really do. And while the idea of studying at a university for a semester sounds like a dream, the pressure to get a job is always there..the expectations from others. Maybe part of being an adoptee is sacrifice. I feel like I can't have it all. There is no way to have one foot planted firmly in Korea and one in the United States. In sum...I am frustrated. If anyone reading this has any experience/thoughts on travel possibilities, please contact me either through leaving a comment or email! My head is spinning a little.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Airplane Day
I guess there really is no one official name for the anniversary date of adoptees being united with their adoptive families, is there? A few people I know call it ‘Gotcha Day’ which is cute. My mom decided to be quite literal and call it Airplane Day (because I came over on a plane..haha). So, that is how I know it. My Airplane Day is January 21st. This year, as in other years that I’ve been in college, we will be unable to celebrate it together, so we did an early celebration a few days ago while I’m still on break. We typically do something pretty low-key. This year we went to one of my favorite local restaurants for hibachi. I would have picked Korean cuisine, except that there are sadly no Korean restaurants near us. My mom also insisted on getting me a gift of some sort as she always does, so I received a pair of dainty teardrop earrings which are my birthstone. I’ve realized at any rate that all my favorite and most-worn pieces of jewelry are from my mom because they were given with great sincerity and affection. She always wants me to be happy on Airplane Day. I don’t expect anything, so I just appreciate what she does.
As an adult, Airplane Day is honestly not too exciting anymore, but as a kid it was something special. I have to say that my favorite Airplane Day was when I was in first grade. For most of my childhood, my mom always tried to get me a gift related to Korean culture. That particular year we celebrated with my grandma (yes, the cute grandma who STILL insists on setting me up with the married worker at the nursing home). It was a joint celebration since Grandma’s birthday falls one day before my Airplane Day. My mom and I gave Grandma a necklace with an amethyst stone which is her favorite gem. She and my mom gave me my first hanbok—a pale pink number with multi-colored accents and printed with delicate gold foil designs. It was love at first sight. I felt as though I had never seen a more beautiful garment in my entire (6 years) of life! It sounds corny to say, but receiving that hanbok made me swell with pride at being Korean and knowing that I came from a country that produced something so elegant. I tried it on almost immediately and felt like a princess in it. Probably would have slept in the dang thing except that it really was not that comfortable. I no longer own a hanbok that fits me, so I look back on this memory as an especially precious one. The thing I’m learning now is that embracing my heritage extends far beyond Airplane Day. Any and every day is a good day to celebrate where I came from and be proud of it. I’m still figuring it out..
As an adult, Airplane Day is honestly not too exciting anymore, but as a kid it was something special. I have to say that my favorite Airplane Day was when I was in first grade. For most of my childhood, my mom always tried to get me a gift related to Korean culture. That particular year we celebrated with my grandma (yes, the cute grandma who STILL insists on setting me up with the married worker at the nursing home). It was a joint celebration since Grandma’s birthday falls one day before my Airplane Day. My mom and I gave Grandma a necklace with an amethyst stone which is her favorite gem. She and my mom gave me my first hanbok—a pale pink number with multi-colored accents and printed with delicate gold foil designs. It was love at first sight. I felt as though I had never seen a more beautiful garment in my entire (6 years) of life! It sounds corny to say, but receiving that hanbok made me swell with pride at being Korean and knowing that I came from a country that produced something so elegant. I tried it on almost immediately and felt like a princess in it. Probably would have slept in the dang thing except that it really was not that comfortable. I no longer own a hanbok that fits me, so I look back on this memory as an especially precious one. The thing I’m learning now is that embracing my heritage extends far beyond Airplane Day. Any and every day is a good day to celebrate where I came from and be proud of it. I’m still figuring it out..
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Dear Ki-hong
Today for no particular reason I’m thinking of Ki-hong. He’d be about 30 years old now. Ki-hong was a pen pal of mine whom I met on my trip back to Korea. As a part of our homeland tour, we visited his high school. We all put on a big talent show which was quite fun. The boys actually showed off viable talent skills like tae kwan do and samulnori music while our tour group had to think of impromptu acts that were more amusing than..well..talented. I’m pretty sure my ‘talent’ was singing Old McDonald Had a Farm with a group of people holding paper bag puppets. Eh.
At the end of the show, we had a chance to mingle with the students and kind of paired off. We brought gifts for the students and they brought gifts for us. I still have the sun pendant that Ki-hong gave me. He was 16, a skinny kid with short hair and silver glasses. He was very interested in American culture and we agreed to write each other when I returned to the states. Looking back, I wish I had been more grateful for him and the experience because at the time, frankly, I wasn’t. Why? Because I was young and stupid. I think I’ve mentioned previously that I didn’t have a strong interest in my Korean heritage during adolescence. For me, writing to Ki-hong was interesting to a degree, but I also felt weirded out by the six year age gap between us. I guess I just wasn’t sure how to address him or if I should consider him a peer. And his curiosity about America was not matched by me in return about Korea. Needless to say, I am the one who stopped writing. I think he wrote me once or twice more after I stopped responding before his letters stopped, too. The crappy truth is that I just didn’t care enough.
Today I wish I had cared more, that I had kept writing. I know it's not uncommon to take aspects of your life for granted as a child. And that we all make mistakes because we're just a bunch of imperfect humans. I still have a few letters from Ki-hong written on stationary with an image of a cartoon baseball player. For a number of years, those letters were lost. I uncovered them a few years back and considered trying to write to the address on the envelope, but this was over a decade later. I don’t know where Ki-hong lives now, what he does for a living, if he has married and had a family. He seemed like a shy, yet very earnest person. When I really think about it, trying to write him after all these years would only be to my benefit as I am the regretful one.
Ki-hong, wherever you are, you'll probably never read this or even remember me. I just wish to say I’m sorry for being young and stupid. I couldn’t help it, but I hope you’re out there having an amazing life. I’d also like to apologize for sending you a Hanson cassette tape, but my mom wouldn’t let me buy you a Metallica one at the time (she saw the word 'bitch' in one of the track listings, so that was the end of that.) You sent me the goodbye album by Seo Taiji and Boys which I actually still enjoy when I can find a tape player. If you ended up tossing the Hanson, though, I don’t blame you.
At the end of the show, we had a chance to mingle with the students and kind of paired off. We brought gifts for the students and they brought gifts for us. I still have the sun pendant that Ki-hong gave me. He was 16, a skinny kid with short hair and silver glasses. He was very interested in American culture and we agreed to write each other when I returned to the states. Looking back, I wish I had been more grateful for him and the experience because at the time, frankly, I wasn’t. Why? Because I was young and stupid. I think I’ve mentioned previously that I didn’t have a strong interest in my Korean heritage during adolescence. For me, writing to Ki-hong was interesting to a degree, but I also felt weirded out by the six year age gap between us. I guess I just wasn’t sure how to address him or if I should consider him a peer. And his curiosity about America was not matched by me in return about Korea. Needless to say, I am the one who stopped writing. I think he wrote me once or twice more after I stopped responding before his letters stopped, too. The crappy truth is that I just didn’t care enough.
Today I wish I had cared more, that I had kept writing. I know it's not uncommon to take aspects of your life for granted as a child. And that we all make mistakes because we're just a bunch of imperfect humans. I still have a few letters from Ki-hong written on stationary with an image of a cartoon baseball player. For a number of years, those letters were lost. I uncovered them a few years back and considered trying to write to the address on the envelope, but this was over a decade later. I don’t know where Ki-hong lives now, what he does for a living, if he has married and had a family. He seemed like a shy, yet very earnest person. When I really think about it, trying to write him after all these years would only be to my benefit as I am the regretful one.
Ki-hong, wherever you are, you'll probably never read this or even remember me. I just wish to say I’m sorry for being young and stupid. I couldn’t help it, but I hope you’re out there having an amazing life. I’d also like to apologize for sending you a Hanson cassette tape, but my mom wouldn’t let me buy you a Metallica one at the time (she saw the word 'bitch' in one of the track listings, so that was the end of that.) You sent me the goodbye album by Seo Taiji and Boys which I actually still enjoy when I can find a tape player. If you ended up tossing the Hanson, though, I don’t blame you.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Going back
It’s something I haven’t thought about in a while, but a phone call from my mom the other day reminded me again. She received a brochure in the mail from Children’s Home Society & Family Services announcing their 2011 trips to Korea. CHSFS is an organization based out of Minnesota (Twin Cities area—large KAD population there from what I understand). Among their many services and events offered, they organize group trips to Korea for KADs and their families. There are numerous programs like theirs and I’m not quite sure how my mom and I linked in with them, but we did go on one of those trips when I was ten years old (1997). That was the first time I went back to Korea. I think I could best summarize that experience as positive and eye-opening. Frankly, I could dedicate a countless number of posts to those two weeks of my life or write a novel right now, but I’ll refrain myself and unpack those memories as I see fit on the blog!
Ever since the trip, I always imagined myself going back to Korea at least one more time as an adult. I’m 24 now which is, for all intents and purposes, adult enough. And I would absolutely love to go back. The questions that remain are when and in what context. As much as I desire to go back, I couldn’t just pack up and go tomorrow. Planning to go back to the country I was adopted from is not the same as planning a trip to Disney World. It’s just not. I already know full well that whenever I do go back, it will be a highly emotional experience. That isn’t necessarily a bad thing. It’s another way for me to keep collecting those pieces of myself and create a richer picture of my life. When I do go back, I want to go with an open heart and mind. I want to be completely present to the experience and absorb as much as I can. Planning for Korea will require a certain amount of mental and emotional preparation on my end. What exactly I mean by ‘mental and emotional preparation’, I still don’t know. Oh, and I barely know enough Korean to talk to a toddler, so..that is not helpful.
All these things said, I have no clue when I will go back. I asked my mom to toss the CHSFS brochure. Based on the description, the trip is still basically run in the same way. Not to mention it was composed primarily of parents and children with a few young adults. I don’t want a repeat of the same experiences and I don’t feel that such a trip meets my current needs. Fortunately, there are plenty of options to explore. Maybe I will go through KoRoot or an IKAA gathering. Part of me feels like this summer could be a good time to go, even though it would set me back financially. I’ll be graduating with my master’s degree this spring, so I’m already in debt with student loans. I watch some people grip their wallets so tightly that they stop living and it’s kind of sad. If there’s any experience worth blowing my money on, um, it’s this one! Once I enter the full-time working world, I don’t know when I’ll accrue the time to travel.. I just don’t know. Thinking, thinking, thinking. A girl can only wait so long, but I am being optimistic when I say that I WILL go back someday. Not going is simply not an option.
Ever since the trip, I always imagined myself going back to Korea at least one more time as an adult. I’m 24 now which is, for all intents and purposes, adult enough. And I would absolutely love to go back. The questions that remain are when and in what context. As much as I desire to go back, I couldn’t just pack up and go tomorrow. Planning to go back to the country I was adopted from is not the same as planning a trip to Disney World. It’s just not. I already know full well that whenever I do go back, it will be a highly emotional experience. That isn’t necessarily a bad thing. It’s another way for me to keep collecting those pieces of myself and create a richer picture of my life. When I do go back, I want to go with an open heart and mind. I want to be completely present to the experience and absorb as much as I can. Planning for Korea will require a certain amount of mental and emotional preparation on my end. What exactly I mean by ‘mental and emotional preparation’, I still don’t know. Oh, and I barely know enough Korean to talk to a toddler, so..that is not helpful.
All these things said, I have no clue when I will go back. I asked my mom to toss the CHSFS brochure. Based on the description, the trip is still basically run in the same way. Not to mention it was composed primarily of parents and children with a few young adults. I don’t want a repeat of the same experiences and I don’t feel that such a trip meets my current needs. Fortunately, there are plenty of options to explore. Maybe I will go through KoRoot or an IKAA gathering. Part of me feels like this summer could be a good time to go, even though it would set me back financially. I’ll be graduating with my master’s degree this spring, so I’m already in debt with student loans. I watch some people grip their wallets so tightly that they stop living and it’s kind of sad. If there’s any experience worth blowing my money on, um, it’s this one! Once I enter the full-time working world, I don’t know when I’ll accrue the time to travel.. I just don’t know. Thinking, thinking, thinking. A girl can only wait so long, but I am being optimistic when I say that I WILL go back someday. Not going is simply not an option.
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