Our hidden biases

I recently visited home for a few days and my mom asked if we could go see The Help together. She had already seen it once, but loved it so much she wanted to go again. I agreed to go, although I honestly had no gripping desire to see the movie. It ultimately was a more than decent film and I even got emotional a few times. Through my peripheral vision, I could see my mom getting choked up quite a bit. She has a tendency to get drowsy in movie theaters, but she sat through the entire film spellbound. I found myself wondering why this movie resonated so much with her, particularly as a white woman. What value did it have?

Over dinner following the movie, I decided to ask her how The Help made her feel. She said both sad and happy: sad because people of color had to endure such unfair treatment but happy because society has become more accepting since that time. It suddenly clicked in my head that my mom was alive during the time period portrayed in the movie. She was a teenager then and living in the south, even. It is so easy to take your family for granted, but they can give you the kind of history lessons you don’t get in school. My mom has seen decades of things that I was not around to witness. I realized that I don’t know my mom’s full history and experiences with race. So, I decided to ask her about what she saw back in the sixties and this is what she shared.

Fresh out of high school in Florida, my mom took a job at a Laundromat. One of her co-workers was a young black man whose name she can’t recall now. She said he had a family and that he was a nice person whom she liked working with. She said that the Laundromat was located right near a Burger King where workers would often get lunch, but the establishment refused to serve people of color, so my mom would routinely get the man’s food and bring it back to him. She also recalled a time when her father was late picking her up from a shift. This man wanted to give her a ride home, but ended up not doing it out of fear. He was scared that white men would see them together and beat him up for it or worse. My mom expressed sadness at the ways in which he was so limited and I could see that her emotion was genuine.

I know it’s not some grand social activist story, but I was still touched by my mom’s actions and by her capacity to care about someone whom society said not to. However, it also raises more confusion for me. This simple story rewrote some of my understanding of my mom’s views regarding race. Throughout my life, my mom never had a nonwhite friend. Our community is predominantly white. My mom’s social circles consist of other white people. It really is white suburbia. Crossing color lines doesn’t happen by chance. If you’re going to cross those lines, you do it deliberately. And my mom never really did that. Heck, I never really did that. It’s so easy not to do that, no matter where you live. The city I’m in now is diverse, but glaringly segregated. There are plenty of kindhearted people living in complacent existence. Movies like The Help come along to remind us of the history and the struggles, but then we slip back into our everyday lives which aren’t quite so multicolored. The movie screen is one thing and reality is another one entirely. Have I mentioned that my mom has 'banned' me from ever dating a black guy? And that she has never been able to provide a reason why?

As a woman of color, it is difficult for me to comprehend how my mom chose to bring me into the family, yet can still turn her back on other people of color. She has said she wouldn’t mind me marrying an Asian guy at all. She enjoys my Korean cooking and supports my exploration of Korean culture. She is willing to share me with my birth family should we ever reunite and wants to know them, too. Asian is okay to love. But black isn’t? It’s okay to work with a black man, but not to bring him home. I do believe that she genuinely liked her co-worker at the Laundromat. And that she genuinely felt sympathy for the women in The Help. But those feelings have never translated into cultivating a close personal relationship with a black person. How do all these thoughts and emotions coexist in one person’s mind? How can you simultaneously care about and reject someone?

This is all so convoluted. Is my mom some horrible raging white supremacist? No! But has she in her heart truly embraced all people of color? No. The dating restriction she has given me speaks most clearly to that. As a public matter, race is a no-brainer for my mom. She believes that people of color should be treated no differently than whites, that everyone should be respected and have access to the same resources. But as a private matter, race is not that simple. Out in society, everyone is valued the same, but in our home, a white or Asian husband for me is more valuable over any other. Is race the same for you as both a public and private matter? I’m not even sure what my own answer is right now. At times I have considered one day becoming a foster parent or adopting an older child domestically. Most youth in the child welfare system are not the same race as me and you know what? I do heavily question my ability to provide for a black child what they need when I myself do not even have a close black friend. I’m so imperfect in all of this, too. I don't believe people who say "I don't see color" because we ALL have our biases. Are your beliefs still the same when you’re in your house and when you walk out the door? It’s something for everyone to think about as uncomfortable as it may be.

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.

Small town girl blues

Well, it’s time for those famous two words that every college student craves to hear: spring break. One of my professors optimistically wished us a week of ‘sunning and funning’. She has a sense of humor. I say that since most of us will be spending said week in cold, rainy New York. I’m heading back to the hometown for some quality time with family, high school friends and my favorite local Greek restaurant. And I will get to snuggle my sheltie and celebrate her second birthday with her. All of these things are good things. Great things, even.

But. (And you knew a ‘but’ was coming.) In my heart of hearts I am not excited about it. In fact, I seem to be heading towards something closer to depression than elation. This sinking feeling has slowly, quietly crept its way in and I can’t deny it any longer. This is only a taste of things to come..of a future that I’ve realized I really, really don’t want.

After I graduate this May, I will be moving back home. Temporarily, at least. I made this decision a long time ago and, for a while, actually looked forward to that decision. I did not warm up to the city I currently reside in for school right away. I missed home, missed my mom who was ill at the time and missed the kisses from my dog. I chose to move back home post-graduation because, frankly, my mom is aging. She’s 68 and lives alone. Without getting into too many details, her physical and mental health have not been well over the past number of years. I first stepped into caregiver shoes at 19 and it really does come down to me. I am her proxy, her advocate, the one responsible over all others for her. I can’t stray too far. And, for a while, I was okay with that.

But it’s been almost two years since I moved out here for graduate school and suddenly two years doesn’t seem long enough. I’m not ready to leave. This is the first place I’ve lived in my young adult life that I’ve felt so free and able to be me. I have had many fulfilling experiences since being here that have contributed beautifully to my growing sense of identity. I started mentoring a few international students from Korea which has been incredible. They are such sweet people and we have learned so much from each other. I also started meeting up with other Korean adoptees around my age in the area. To find company where you can candidly talk about homeland tours, birth family searches and awkward racial experiences is a gift. A complete gift. Here, there are Korean restaurants, markets, churches..even a noraebang house (which I have not yet embarrassed myself at, but maybe soon). Here is a place I’ve found myself belonging and content in. It’s so much more than I ever had before.

In comparison, my hometown is much smaller and much less diverse. There is no opportunity for me to embrace my KAD identity there. There is nothing Korean there! And maybe I didn’t notice so much as a child, but today I resent it a little. It makes me feel hurt and sad that my heritage does not exist there, that I had to grow up in a neighborhood which I singlehandedly diversified. My mom doesn’t even know any Asians other than me and a handful of KADs from our adoption group. I need to live someplace where I can actually feel culturally relevant and validated. I love my mom more than I’ve ever loved any other human being on this earth. It's been just the two of us against the world for as long as I can remember. Why isn’t that love enough to make me want to stay? I talk of moving back as if I have no other choice which is not entirely true. We always have choices. It's just that being in the throes of a 'life sucks' moment makes them a little hard to see. Sometimes being a transracial adoptee feels like trying to walk in two different directons at once.

Watching Adopted with my mom

I recently rented Barb Lee's film Adopted. Initially I was just going to watch it by myself later this evening, but when I told my mom what the movie was, she wanted to see it, too. So, we watched it together this morning. I will dedicate a proper post to the film itself at another time. Right now, my mind is on my mom's reaction to the movie. I can't say I was shocked because I have at least some idea of where my mom stands regarding my adoption. You might call her an old school mom, seeing as she adopted in the 80's; a time period when Korean adoption was at its peak, when attitudes regarding adoption were different than they are now and when there were literally fewer adult adoptee voices to talk of their experiences. The film did not sugar coat the experience of 32 year old adult adoptee Jennifer Fero whose story, to me, was just heartbreaking. When the film was over, I asked my mom what she thought. Her response was that it was 'depressing' and that 'that girl didn't adjust well'. My response was that I felt it was important for her struggle to be documented and that I could identify with many things she said or felt. This surprised my mom and led to a slightly uncomfortable conversation about racism. Fero was taunted at her predominantly white school for being Asian. My mom said, "Well, you never had that problem in school". I hesitated and then ended up dispeling this notion for her. Her words were sincere. She truly thought that I didn't experience racism growing up. I finally told her about the boys at school who made crude comments to me about Chinese porn and the father of a friend who called me a chink. It was a hard conversation for both of us. I could tell she felt a little hurt that I never told her about these incidents when they happened. Had I told her, I'm positive she would have folded me in her arms with love and acceptance, but she will never know what it is to actually be an Asian female in this society. This is no fault of hers. She is what she is. I am what I am. Watching Adopted today made me realize that this journey of exploration I am on will ultimately not affect just me. I'm glad my mom and I watched the movie together, even if it led to discomfort. I even told her about this blog. We might not be on the same page, but I want her to always know that she is welcome to be a part of this journey with me.