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.

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.