Six months

I feel as though I need to start this entry with an apology to anyone who reads here regularly. I have clearly been inconsistent as a blogger for a while now and I realize how unfair that is to readers. But, as all of you probably well know, life gets crazy sometimes and before you know it, a few months have passed. So, I apologize. I thought about discontinuing this blog, but a little bit of my old fire is slowly warming up again and I don’t think it’s quite yet time for me to leave this. One day. Today, however, is not that day.

Last time I wrote here, I was feeling down and hurt about my birth mother. Today? Well, today I’m not sure that much has changed on that front. I’ve been battling all manner of issues recently, leaving me to again put my (what I perceive to be) failed birth search on the back burner. And then yesterday, out of absolutely nowhere, I ended up bawling about it on the phone to my mom. I can still say with complete conviction that I do not regret initiating the search. I am bound and determined to reach the other side of this hurt to find a wiser, stronger me. It just hasn’t happened yet. I’m still caught up in the hurt and grieving. How long will I be in this place? It feels so frustrating. So unproductive. I was hoping that half a year later I’d be farther along than I am and I really need to work on being kinder to myself about that. It’s okay to not feel okay. It doesn’t make me a weak person or an inferior person. It makes me human. Just have to keep reminding myself of that.

I just realized that I used the term ‘grieving’ in that last paragraph which I had never articulated before. This is grieving. My omoni’s refusal to have contact with me feels like losing her again. It is an ambiguous loss, to feel hurt and rejected by someone I don’t even know. The social worker me understands how so many factors could have contributed to my omoni’s decision. Factors that do not necessarily have anything to do with my own inadequacy, but with the greater society’s view of a woman having a child out of wedlock. My omoni is married with a child. Her reaching out to me could disrupt that life. If her husband does not know about me, his finding out might hurt their relationship. For her to reach out to me could potentially come at a great cost to her family and her reputation. I don’t want to cause her hurt in any of this.

And yet, a selfish part of me wants her to make the leap and take that risk. To be the rebel. To flip the bird to society and shout out loud that I am hers. I’m asking a lot. Maybe too much. I’m asking her to make the harder choice to choose me. She gave birth to me. I am and always will be her daughter, whether or not she acknowledges it. If she made contact with me, even just once, it would show me that she somehow determined rebelling was worth it. That I was worth it. I may never receive that affirmation from her and I really need to figure out how the heck to live with that.

Four months

It’s hard to believe that it’s been four months since I found out that my birth mother was located and declined to have contact with me. Where does the time go? Somehow I have acclimated to this information. I have been able to file these pieces of knowledge somewhere in my mind and know at the drop of a hat that my omoni still lives in my birthplace. That she’s married. That she has a child—my half sibling. But the truth is that I don’t take these pieces out and look at them all that often. At first, I did. I couldn’t help it. I had to keep telling myself that this was real. My whole life, any knowledge of my omoni was shrouded in the past. To know what her life is like in present day has been an almost disconcerting thing to digest. She’s a real, breathing, tangible person out there living her life. And, for the past four months now, living her life with the knowledge that I tried to reach out to her.

The truth is I haven’t thought about her all that much in quite a while. I became consumed by my new job. For a while, that was a very legitimate excuse. I was also driving back to the hometown frequently as my grandma’s condition declined. It’s been four months, though, and my excuses are slowly fading away. Despite the chaos, the ups and downs of life, I could be making more time to think about my omoni. I’ve had plenty of time to sit down and finally start drafting that letter to her to leave with the adoption agency. It’s not a matter of being too busy; I’ve been flat-out avoiding this aspect of my life. It’s also reflected in my lack of writing here. I used to have more of a fire behind me when it came to all this adoption stuff. The flame isn’t gone, but it has lost strength. I have felt hurt and rejected. I have read reunion stories and felt deeply envious, though mostly sad. And then I just stopped reading adoption blogs, books and articles altogether. It got too personal for me. The emotional current ran too deep.

As I write this, I realize that there is much healing I have not yet allowed myself to do. I don’t want to walk around carrying this hurt in my heart. I don’t want to keep expending energy feeling angry at my omoni when I barely know why she said no. Mentally, I walked away from her because I couldn’t bear the thought of continuing to stand at some door waiting, wondering if she’d ever open it for me. She might still. This division is not necessarily permanent. She may change her mind months from now. Years from now? But for now, at her word, this search has come to an impasse. I will not continue to pursue someone who does not want to be pursued. There is nothing else I feel I can do. It’s this feeling of helplessness that maybe is most discouraging of all, knowing I have no control over the situation.

There is a lesson in here somewhere. I firmly believe this and have always sought what I can take away from a painful experience. Right now, I’ve got nothing. But it’s only been four months. Healing doesn’t have a deadline. I somehow suspect that part of this healing needs to involve forgiving my omoni. That letter I write to her might be the final word in all of this. I want to get to a place where I can make that word one of love in case it truly is the last one.

Gratitude (but not the kind you might be thinking of)

I am one notarized document away from sending in all my paperwork to start the search for my birth family. And I feel weirdly peaceful about it. I’m about to embark on a life-changing process that has no predictability, that may reveal new, more complex emotions, that could hurt me, even. I know the risks involved and yet I’m walking deliberately in this direction. It feels right to do this now as the person I am now, if that makes sense. And as I reflect on everything, I realize one of the biggest feelings I’m experiencing in this moment is gratitude. Towards my mom.

I have listened around the adoption sphere enough to know that gratitude doesn’t have the best reputation. You know, gratitude: the concept of adoptees being indebted/grateful to their parents for being adopted or as some might even put it ‘saved’ from (insert some example of a decreased quality of life here). Just so we’re clear, this sentiment makes me cringe. Remember, I am the anti-pity girl who doesn’t need or want anyone’s charity! My mom didn’t save me from a third world country in the name of God or anything like that. And thank goodness. I honestly think I would be different today if I knew my mom adopted me as part of some grand humanitarian project. Heck. no. So, we’re clear on that, yes? I don’t feel as though I owe that kind of gratitude to my mom nor has she demanded it of me.

But I am feeling a different kind of gratitude and I wasn’t even thinking about it so much until yesterday. Mom and I were having a casual phone conversation when I brought up that I had finished filling out most of my birth search paperwork. She expressed how happy she was for me that I was doing this. And that’s all it took. I started crying and going on about happy I was that she was supporting me through it all. How thankful I was. I don’t even know if she understood half of what I said! I was just overcome with gratitude for her love and, maybe more than that, her selflessness. She said she would love it if I were able to meet birth family and keep in regular contact with them as a permanent fixture in my life. She acknowledged that this is an important part of who I am and who is she to stop me from pursuing it? It meant everything to hear those words spoken out loud. Everything.

I wish my mom’s attitude were the norm with adoptive parents, but I’m not entirely sure that it is after talking to other adult adoptees. I have friends who can’t even talk to their parents about their adoption without someone getting defensive and shutting down. It seems to me that some parents see their adult child’s interest in his or her roots as a threat. That they’ll watch their child grow up and then run away to Korea and never come back. It makes me so sad to know that this is the reality for many families. If this is how my mom felt, I would be heartbroken. This search is so significant for me. I think it has been easier for me to do things like go to Korea and pursue the search because she has accepted my decisions. She understands that me exploring my heritage and looking for answers does not take away from the fact that I will always, always be her daughter. She is not clinging to me with fear, but opening her heart to the possibilities.

I don’t want to leave this on some surreal, picture perfect note. Let me also be clear that we are not the sublime mother-daughter duo. We don’t do or say all the right things to each other every day. There are adoption things I bring up sometimes that I know she doesn’t ‘get’. But today I just needed to express my gratitude for the relationship we have. I realized that not all parents are like her. She has made the distinction that I am her daughter; not her possession. She was my soft place to land as a child, but I’m an adult now and she is learning the art of letting go while still supporting me. I asked her why she didn’t force me into doing the birth family search when I was a kid and she said, “I just knew you would do things in your own time. It was your choice.” Even when I was young, she was respecting my decisions and gave me enough room to let me become who I need to be. This is possibly the greatest thing my mom has ever given me and that is something to be thankful for, whether you are adopted or not.

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.

Qs & As

I think we’re all a bunch of control freaks. Well, to some extent at least. What I really mean to say is that we like having answers. Answers create a safety blanket. Having those answers allows us to feel like we are in control of our lives. We can hold those answers close and turn our backs on the endless, intimidating unknown. Sometimes it doesn’t even matter how valid those answers are. Just anything, anything to not have to look the unknown in the face. Anything is better than not knowing. Because not knowing can be hell. We’ve all had those sleepless nights with unanswered questions rolling around in our head. It doesn’t feel good at all.

My mom is one such person who really can’t stand not knowing and she dealt with it recently by going to a Tarot card reading at a friend’s house. She did it on a whim and almost didn’t tell me about it for two reasons: 1.) I don’t really believe in Tarot and 2.) She asked questions about me. She had the 30 minute session recorded on an audio CD which we listened to together. Most of what she asked I expected to hear. She asked about my dad, other relatives, her health and if I will ever get married (of course). No surprises there. But then she threw both me and the Tarot reader by asking about my birth family. The reader, up until that point, clearly had no idea that I was adopted. However, she answered my mom’s questions. The answers? She does not see me ever meeting my birth family, but “not for lack of trying”. She also got the sense that my omma is no longer living (which is kind of striking considering she would only be 41 years old today). In sum, discouraging news. It was weird to even hear someone saying these things out loud, regardless of whether or not they were true.

Days later I’m still thinking about this. I am an adoptee which saddles me with an extra set of unknowns by default. We are no strangers to knowing what it's like to not be in control, to have questions hanging out there all loose and messy with no quick fixes. But how many of these questions do I really want answers to? Even if I did believe in Tarot, I’m not sure that I would have done what my mom did. If given the choice, would you want to just know everything straight up all at once like that? The unknowns torture me, too, but I have to wonder if having all the answers is really the answer. For all our chasing after answers, sometimes answers only lead to more questions and more chasing. So, when does it end? I’m starting to think it ends with accepting that our lives will always be characterized by some level of unknown. Honestly, I don’t want to spend my entire life fighting for control, fighting for knowledge and knowledge and knowledge. Where will it get me?

I asked my mom if she believed everything the Tarot reader said. She said, “Some of it, but I hope you still search for your birth family anyway.” And I will. I’m no different than anyone else in wanting to eliminate some of this unknown. I just don’t want to be so busy always looking for answers that I lose sight of the good things already in front of me. At the end of the day, I don't think having the answers is everything. Not for me, anyway.

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.

Boiling point

Oh, I am livid. I had no plans to make a post today, but now I am just angry and need to vent. Writing while angry might not be the best idea as it typically leads to one saying things they may later regret. Oh well. Here we go.

I was browsing my hometown news channel’s Facebook page this morning and came across a story they featured about an adult adoptee searching for her birth family. I was so excited! Until I made the dumb decision to read the user comments below. Life lesson #8493: Reading user comments on almost any online publication will inevitably lead to frustration/despair. Because if there’s any place people can completely strip themselves of decorum, it’s the internet. I suppose I should look at the positive and make note that the majority of the comments were supportive and kind. However, I need to be a Debbie Downer for five minutes and share my two favorite comments:

“I hope the birth mother's rights and wishes are being respected.”

“Unless you are searching for your birth mother because of EXTREME HEALTH problems-- I would consider this a SLAP in the FACE to the family that adopted you and raised you all these years.”

Let’s start with the birth mothers comment. I am not saying that birth mothers should be disrespected, but what about the adoptee’s rights and wishes? I feel as though I am repeating myself from my last entry when I say that we appear to be the least powerful of the adoption triad. As infants and children, we did not have any autonomy regarding these decisions. It was professionals and other adults who were tasked to decide our futures. Not us. So, when we become adult adoptees who can think for ourselves, it is frustrating to see people still indicating to us that we do not have control. That we should not be able to pursue reunion with birth family because years ago someone else said no. I still intend on initiating a search and I’m not going to apologize for it because I strongly feel that it is my right. My rights and wishes deserve to be just as respected as my birth family’s and my adoptive family’s.

And now for the SLAP in the FACE comment (you have to love the caps lock emphasis). So many times I have seen adult adoptees have to defend themselves over this ridiculous opinion. Apparently wanting to search for birth family makes us ungrateful traitors. I never understood why some people look at adoptees from such a one-dimensional standpoint. We’re either the ‘good’ adoptees who love our families and love being adopted or the ‘angry’ adoptees who hate our families and the adoption system, right? Adoption, to me, is all gray matter. But, for the record, it is possible for an adoptee to deeply love their family while also wanting to pursue a birth family search and/or look at adoption critically. It is entirely possible. I know I am not the only living example of this.

Maybe it is easier for me to say these things because I have a parent who is so supportive of me pursuing a search. I know other adoptees whose parents have shown strong insecurity at them looking for birth family. Even in discussing my desire to search with some friends, I have noticed them transferring their own insecurity into the conversation with comments like, “Won’t your mom be hurt?”. Did it ever occur to them to look at the other side of the coin? That perhaps I may feel hurt if I never search? I am tired of living under the expectation that I must bend myself, fit myself into all the right corners and angles so as to accommodate the feelings of everyone else but my own.

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 love my mom

I am sappier than a Hallmark greeting card these days. I blame it on a combination of the holiday season and my mom's complete selflessness. She is a Christmas elf! She baked no less than 50 dozen cookies and has been giving them out to everyone from family to the girls at our local bank. She said, "It's a lot of work, but I want to do good for all the people that have been good to me." She's playing Christmas music and wearing a jingle bell necklace she got from the dollar store. I get bitchy in the holidy traffic and she just keeps singing along with the radio. My mom is a trooper. Last Christmas she had recently finished chemotherapy, still had many rounds of radiation to go through and felt downright miserable. Christmas is her favorite holiday, so it crushed her not being able to do all she typically does during the season. This year I think she's just thankful for her health and happy to be alive. Being her daughter is such a privilege. There is always so much I can learn from her amazing spirit.

We've talked a lot lately about the idea of me starting a birth family search. I feel 100% comfortable talking to her about it which is a gift in itself. Last week an acquaintance asked me, "Do you think your mom will be hurt if you search?". Absolutely not. My mom knows how much I've recently began to embrace my KAD identity and respects that. She knows that I contacted the adoption agency about my files. They actually sent a rather lengthy email back with some details about my past that I never knew! My brain is still swimming a little in the new knowledge, but I'm so glad I have it. I called my mom after receiving the email and read it to her. The writer closed the message by telling me a little about how to start the search process should I choose it and advised me to make sure I have a good support system by my side on that journey. My mom is excited for me and has expressed her honest hope that I do search, but also acknowledged that only I can make that choice. It feels good to know she is not sad or hurt by my desire to search. She understands that I am an adoptee and this is my right to explore. I do think I would feel differently about initiating a search if I did not have her blessing, but fortunately I do and it means the world. With her blessing, I'm going to take the plunge and see what happens. It just feels right to do this now. I have the strength and support to get through this experience no matter what the outcome.

And on that optimisitic note, I want to wish happy holidays to anyone celebrating this week! I probably will not write again until after Christmas at the very least. Lots of living to do in the meantime!

To search or not to search

Last week I rather impulsively sent an email to the agency through which my parents adopted me inquiring about access to my records. I have yet to receive a response. I think my next move will be to call the agency after the holiday season has settled down if I don’t hear from them. Plus I need time to go home to discuss records with my mom and dig up whatever’s in the house. The email didn’t seem like a big deal at the time, but it really was my first tentative step towards the idea of search and reunion. Which is simultaneously exciting and terrifying.

I was first presented with a clear opportunity to search for my birth family when I was 10 and I turned it down. My mom and I had recently committed to going on a homeland tour which fostered search and reunion for adoptees. It all made me uneasy. My sense of reality was intact, but my birth parents were so remote, practically a figment of my imagination. The thought of suddenly going to Korea and meeting them, touching them, finding out they were tangible people was a lot to process. I was living my life as a child. To bring in this new facet felt like an intrusion somehow and I was scared of it. A number of adoptees on our tour met birth family, including younger kids around my age. I did not even for a second envy them. I was not ready to introduce that kind of change into my life.

Actually, at 24, I am still not sure. Not really. Who can say? There is absolutely no foolproof way of preparing to do a birth family search. No way to predict what developments will arise out of the process. And no way to undo what you start. On one hand, it seems almost easier to keep this part of my life shrouded in mystery and accept that there will always be unknowns. Staying perfectly still like that, well, it’s self-preservation. What you don’t know might actually hurt less than what you end up finding out. To open up the door and go on that search is a big deal! A risk! And those things are just never easy no matter how you slice them. My aunt Jan once told me that with every decision we are tasked to make, there is always risk and benefit. I thought that was an interesting way to phrase things. Risk and benefit. We have the ability to both help and hurt ourselves. But don’t we owe it to ourselves to believe, in spite of any negatives, that something good can happen to us?

Even with the uncertainty that I continue to feel, my scale is tipped in favor of benefit. I could wear myself out compiling a list of possible outcomes from initiating a search, but then I think of that simple phrase: “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” Why exhaust myself mulling over the possibilities, including and especially the negative ones when they are not yet reality? Of those possibilities, most of them will never even be born into reality. It makes no sense to stress myself out over that which does not exist. It makes much more sense to have faith that no matter what happens, I will have the strength to meet it and the world will keep spinning. I have to believe that the risk has a chance of leading to benefit or else why go through all the effort? The possibility of meeting the people who brought me into this world is a beautiful possibility. If my search turns up no one, at least I will be able to say that I took that risk. I don’t want to spend my whole life wondering and living in regret for the choices I didn’t make.

My own Jenny and Juno

The amount of information I know about my birth parents is small enough to take up half a postcard. Maybe less, actually. All I have is a handful of numbers and generic descriptors to go by. She was described as ‘outgoing’ and he as ‘shy’ as well as ‘a lover of music’. And as far as numbers are concerned, she was 5’3”, 100 pounds, and he was 5’7”. (Despite growing up on a different diet and not being athletic at all, I’m quite close to my omma’s size now.) Of this modest pile of trivia, however, I always come back to age. At the time of my birth, she was 16 and he was 17. They were kids. I always knew the ages of my birth parents, but as a child, naturally, teenagers seemed old to me. It wasn’t until I became a teenager myself that I realized just how young and inexperienced teenagers still are. When I turned 16, my first thoughts weren’t on my driver’s license, but on my lack of readiness to bring a child into the world. And I realized that that is exactly what my omma did. Perspective sure is an interesting thing, isn’t it?

I recently watched a 2005 Korean movie called Jenny, Juno. The protagonists are 15 year old classmates Jenny and Juno who are dating and soon find themselves dealing with pregnancy. It’s not a very serious movie at all. In fact, I’d say it falls more into the vein of sugarcoated romantic comedy. Which is..interesting given the subject matter and cultural context. From what I understand, South Korea has some of the world’s lowest teenage pregnancy rates. It kind of makes me wonder, if the rates are low now, what were they like in 1985-1986 when my omma was carrying me? What was the experience like for her and my appa? Jenny, Juno just made it all look too easy. Granted it IS a fictional movie taking place in a much more recent time period. I didn’t go into this expecting a factual documentary. That would be like watching The Princess Diaries to understand how a monarchy works.

Jenny, Juno may not have been a life-changing masterpiece, but it still made me think. It made a million different questions trigger in my head which I may never know the answers to. I found myself wondering about the context in which my birth parents lived during the pregnancy. Did they discuss what to do? Did my appa even know? Did their families offer any support? I even found myself lingering on minute things. What kind of foods did my omma crave while she was pregnant? What music did she listen to? What current events was she hearing about on the news or in the paper? I have an imagination that can run like a cheetah. Creative writing is one of my life’s great loves. I could paint a whole picture of what my omma, appa and their environment were like the year I was born. It would probably be far from accurate, but it’s something. My aunt once told me her own conjecture about my birth parents: that they were just two teenagers who fell in love or at least thought they were in love. That’s the kind of story that speaks to the optimist in you, that you want to believe. Maybe they had a love that was as innocent as Jenny and Juno’s. If I never know the answer, I will at least always hope they did.

Birthday blues?

It has often been acknowledged that birthdays are tough for some adoptees. Rather than a celebration of their lives, birthdays can be perceived as an anniversary of loss and a time for grief rather than joy. It saddens me to realize that this is the annual reality for some individuals. Although how we celebrate (or don't celebrate) is a choice which I feel should be respected either way..

I figured all this birthday talk would be appropriate seeing as I recently turned 24. Where do I weigh in on this adoptee birthday anxiety? On a scale of 1-10, 1 being carefree and 10 being deeply depressed, I'd say I'm about a 2. Every year, about the night before, I do wonder to myself if my parents in Korea (if that's where they are, if they're still alive..these questions are for another post entirely) think about me. But I've never felt very broken up about it. I always had birthday plans with family and friends which I found quite fulfilling. Even this year, when I feel more keenly aware of my losses than ever, I did not experience any sadness related to being adopted. Maybe that's just how I am. There's certainly no right or wrong way to feel anyhow. The most difficult birthday was my 16th, simply because that is how old my Korean mother was when she gave birth to me. When all is said and done, I've had basically a lifetime of birthday experiences to be grateful for and which I genuinely enjoyed. Only next year I turn 25, or a quarter of a century old..not sure how enjoyable I will find that.