thoughts from my husband

The following is an email that my husband sent to me after reading the link to Mei-Ling's post, "failure" (http://yoonsblur.blogspot.com/2009/08/failure.html). I wanted to share his thoughts. Here is the email:

After you posted the link on your blog, I was thinking about international adoption...

I know it's a very complex issue and that there is no perfect solution. But I started thinking about the reasons why so many people, particularly in Korea, end up giving up their children. It's a matter of support, right? The women in many of these situations feel they will not have the resources to raise a child.

So let's make it personal. What if you and I were thinking about adopting from Korea? In a practical sense, we would have to raise a lot of money and plan on spending a lot of money in the future to support a child, right? But then money, in part, is what is keeping the mother from raising the child herself. I think of JH for example. Would it be better that we adopt her child, or that we give her the money to help raise her own child (provided that is what she wants to do)?

I guess what I am getting at is that it takes the same amount of resources to support a child that isn't your own as one that is. Yet I don't really hear any enthusiasm about programs to do this--a kind of adopt-a-parent rather than adopt a child. Help the parent to have the resources to raise the child themselves.

I know it's complicated. I know that adoption is about more than helping someone--it's about love and wanting a relationship with a child. There's something that would be much less emotionally gratifying about supporting a child from afar than raising a child that becomes your family.

But I guess I'm with you as far as thinking that if a child is able to stay with their parents, that is often the best situation. I just wonder if there isn't more that people could do to facilitate what is ultimately best for the child. It seems strange when you step back and think about the money that is changing hands--from the costs of running orphanages, the cost of adopting and travel, etc. And in the meantime the birth mother is sitting there alone, wishing that she could have had a way to raise her child herself.

Even when well-intentioned human beings hurt other people deeply. I hope some day we are able to come up with a better way that doesn't end up in so much pain and loss for people.

Love you!

the Wall

The following is a response I wrote commenting on another post by a fellow adoptee blogger--Mei-Ling--regarding the issue of the language loss/barrier. For the original post, click on the title of this post:

Mei-Ling, again, I can completely relate to you regarding your frustrations and turmoil over the language barrier. I think, in part, the language difficulties are aggravated by the emotional baggage that comes along with our particular situations. There is an added, albeit somewhat insidious & private, pressure for inter-country adoptees when it comes to learning the language. It’s more to us than simply learning a language–there is also so much emotional complexity wrapped up with it. It feels almost like a life & death situation…we’re not simply trying to learn our way through a foreign country. We’re trying to connect with our own flesh & blood…we’re longing to know from whom we came and why…we desperately ache to share in a depth of connection with the people who gave us life, and yet it constantly eludes us…

I think, perhaps, deep within, we understand that unless we can grasp the language, our relationships with our biological family members will remain stagnant and shallow. And obviously, people like you and me write a lot–so language is a primary way in which we emotionally connect with others.

Hence, stunted language abilities probably make us feel inordinately suffocated and stifled…I don’t mean to be presumptuous, however…but I know for me, the loss of language has grieved me more than I initially anticipated.

I broke down in tears the other day when I was trying to write letters to my Omma and Appa–feeling so frustrated that I cannot speak with them directly, that I have to rely on translators, that I can’t just pick up the phone and have a conversation with them like I can with my Mom & Dad.

There are no words that adequately describe how intense the loss feels. It seems so ludicrous and ironic that I can basically have a deeper, more meaningful conversation with a stranger than I can with my own flesh and blood. Emotionally that’s quite devastating–at least for me.

I do realize that different adoptees deal with the reunion process in their own ways. I have another friend who has reunited with her biological mother in Korea, and the language barrier has not had the same effect on her as it has me. Yet my friend still expresses a compassion and understanding regarding the language loss. I think it also helps that one of her sisters speaks enough English that they can have conversations…

Anyhow, sorry, this is a long “comment.” But I just really appreciate and relate to you. The language loss is proving to be one of the more profound losses for me personally, and one that I know will not be easily surmounted.

I hope that I will be able to live in Korea one day, because I know that’s the only way and hope I’ll ever have of gaining even a basic grasp of the language. But ultimately, and quite ironically, in this case, it is not easier said nor easier done…rather it is both harder said and harder done…

Thank you again for all that you share…

failure

This is a link to a post written by another international adoptee, Mei-Ling, who has also reunited with her biological family. I wanted to share it, because I think she expresses very poignantly and elegantly the experience of loss of language and culture for those of us who have been adopted internationally. Well, at least, I am able to relate very well to what she wrote.

insecure

My husband asks me, What are you feeling?

I reply with my usual, I don’t know.

He reminds me that I don’t know usually means I’m afraid to say what I’m feeling, because I don’t know why I’m feeling what I’m feeling.

Insecure, I say.

That is the only word I can dig up to summarize what I have been feeling for the past week.

I feel so insecure. But I don’t know why or about what.

He and I continue to talk, but to no avail. So he says, do you want to pray?

I say half-heartedly, That’s fine. You go first.

Within minutes I am sobbing uncontrollably, and I begin to realize what the word insecure means to me.

* * *

We are in the fragile beginnings of a reunion process.

In some ways the word insecure is an understatement.

Initially, the word insecure refers to how unsure I currently feel about who I am and where I belong. It refers to how fragile and delicate this all feels.

But ultimately, it refers to this gnawing and implacable sense that I have placed myself in a position in which I could potentially lose everything.

I could end up with less than what I had with which to begin. I could end up losing those whom I love.

I could end up with nothing and no one.

* * *

Not only do I fear the possibility that my Omma and Appa could suddenly decide to renege and back out, but I also fear that I am endangering my relationship with my Mom and Dad.

I fear that this process is simply too painful and too hurtful for all four parents, and that consequently they will begin to pull away from me—that they will decide this is too much, and subsequently, snatch their hearts from me and flee.

I fear that I will lose all four parents—and be left with no one.

* * *

Some would attempt to comfort me by saying these fears are irrational and foolish.

That’s why I appreciate my husband. He does not know how to lie. He must tell the truth.

He tells me that although there are very real risks and fears involved, we can always hope. It is never wrong to hope, or to love.

* * *

I knew the risks involved in searching for my biological parents.

I had seven years to consider all the possible scenarios for a reunion.

I would be deceiving myself to say that the fears I experience are invalid. They’re quite real.

I would be deceiving myself to say that it is not possible that my Omma and Appa could one day decide that they would prefer to sever contact.

I would be in denial to tell myself that the introduction of my biological parents into my life has not created tension, awkwardness, and uncertainty in my relationships with my Mom and Dad.

We’re not dealing with fairy tales here. We’re dealing with real life involving real human beings—all with our own flaws, fears, and imperfections.

All I can do is hope and pray and fight to love all four of my parents with truth and honesty—in the same way that a mother can love all her children. She may develop a unique relationship with each child, yet her ability to love each just as much as the other is not compromised in doing so.

Why can the reverse not be true? That I could love each parent just as much as the other in the midst of inherent differences and dynamics? Why not? I have a different relationship with my Mom than I do with my Dad, but I love them just the same.

* * *

Yet I must surrender to the truth that I cannot control how people will respond and react to what is happening. I can only guide my own heart.

I cannot control whether my Omma or Appa will choose to remain in contact with me. I cannot control whether my Mom and Dad will open their hearts to my biological parents. I cannot control what each involved person will choose to do.

I can only choose what I will do.

I choose love.

And I only hope that such a choice, even with all the risks involved, will triumph in the end.

worlds

A fellow Korean adoptee who has also met her biological family asked me recently, Do you feel any different…?

Although the question may seem a simple one and the answer obvious, it is actually an incredibly profound inquiry.

* * *

In short, I feel worlds different.

I am never going to be the same.

I traveled to Korea as a person I thought I knew. I have returned as someone new and unfamiliar. It is as though I am unknown now even to myself. I must make my own acquaintance.

I feel as though I have undergone this irrevocable and life-altering transformation. Yet no one else can tell. No one else can perceive it.

I found an unknown life and secret identity that have belonged to me yet eluded me all these years. Now as they try to find their place within me, I simultaneously fear and welcome their emergence.

* * *

I feel as though I am of two worlds.

How do I reconcile the differences? How do I merge the two?

In some ways, neither place feels like home. In other ways, both feel like home.

* * *

Perhaps it is as though one had been born blind, until one day you awoke and could see.

It is both beautiful and horrifying. You are overwhelmed. You almost do not know what to do with yourself. You have grown accustomed to perceiving, experiencing and interacting with the world in a certain way. And then suddenly, everything has changed.

* * *

Ultimately, I do not know how to put it into words. I feel as though my world has undergone seismic shifts and drastic transformation, but I do not know how to express it.

I stare at the photos of each biological parent; I cannot even begin to comprehend what has happened—what is happening.

These are the people who conceived me and gave me life—these people whom I have not seen until now, these people whom I have never known until now. They changed my life in profound and irreversible ways, and yet I have not known them or seen them until now.

* * *

I feel lost still.

I do not know what to do with myself.

I feel peace now that I do not have to wonder about the identities of my birth parents. I feel fortunate and relieved to finally know, to have some answers.

And yet I still feel unsettled and restless.

It is not that I expected this to cure anything or to suddenly make all things well.

I didn’t know what to expect quite honestly. I’m simply trying to figure it out along the way.

It is still amazing to me. It is still a dream come true. And yet, it is not a fairy tale. It is not a happily ever after.

It is a happy ending to a seven-year search in the sense that I am happy to find my biological mother and father.

But it is far from being the end. And with just as much happiness that has been stirred has come just as much emotional turmoil.

* * *

My Omma wrote a letter to me recently expressing still so much grief and longing.

She had to watch me leave, not knowing when she might see me again. She wrote that she felt as though she was losing me all over again.

She said she went to the doctor, because she thought she was having heart problems. The doctor said she was fine.

But I understand as much as I am able.

Her heart is still broken. And it is not the kind of broken that any doctor can treat. It is the kind of broken that never finds sufficient remedy or cure.

It is the kind of broken that may mend but will never fully heal.

Yet somehow, I would rather feel that I am broken than harden my heart and never know pain.

To quote a Juliana Hatfield song, A heart that hurts is a heart that works.

I know it’s cliché and a bit melodramatic, but I can at least take comfort, now, in knowing that my melodramatic proclivities as well as my affinity for the sentimental originate not from some random abyss but rather have their origin in the people I now know as Omma and Appa.

elusion

A lot is on my mind and heart right now. I feel heavy.

I watched this program that featured two stories—one from the perspective of a Korean adoptee who was adopted in the 1960’s and one from the perspective of Korean birth parents who had relinquished their daughter in the 1980’s.

Of course, watching the program inevitably made me think of my own story, and in some ways, forced me to think about certain aspects of my journey that I tend to minimize or completely ignore.

* * *

As some of you may know, the search for my biological parents lasted seven years.

Now, when one takes into consideration that the current statistic states that only 2.7% of Korean adoptees who search for their biological families actually find them, I’m one of the “lucky” ones.

At least, I found whom I was seeking, right?

But what some of you may not know is why the search took seven years.

It’s something that I don’t like to think about. I’d rather just accept it as the way things happened.

But, in some ways, not thinking about it is a luxury in which I can indulge, because I eventually got the results for which I was looking.

Had things gone differently, perhaps I would be asking more questions.

In some ways, however, I did ask those questions all along the way, and that may be in part why I was able to finally break through to the other side.

* * *

When I first initiated the search, all I knew about the circumstances that surrounded my adoption was that I had been “found abandoned.”

According to that single sheet of paper, the recorded information stated that my biological mother had given birth to me in a clinic in Seoul. It then stated that the doctor had found me that same day and later referred me to the David Livingstone Adoption Program.

End of story.

All my life this is what I knew. This is all I thought I could ever know.

* * *

But after initiating the search through my adoption agencies, I began to discover that all I had ever known was not the whole truth.

I began to learn that I had to persist and push and ask questions. I had to dig and press and pry. I had to learn not take “no” or “sorry, there is nothing more we can do” for an answer.

I had to keep sniffing and clawing up every tree I could find.

Every once in a while, I’d stir up the perching flock enough that a bird or two would finally squawk. Or a squirrel here or there would venture down and crack an acorn or two open for me.

Needless to say, it was a daunting process.

* * *

My initial inquiry led to about a paragraph of information that was sent to me in an email. (http://yoonsblur.blogspot.com/2008/09/name.html)

When I received this information, I was nothing less than shocked.

What I didn’t understand was that if the doctor had found me abandoned and had been the one to refer me to the agency, how then was the agency able to confer such detailed information upon me.

Information such as number of siblings and ages. Information such as her level of education and employment. Information about how my she and my biological father had met, how long they had dated, and that they had even lived together without being married.

Did my birth mother leave a note with me as she secretly disappeared from the clinic?

When I finally did inquire as to how the agency had come upon this information? It was explained to me that back during the time of my adoption, the language the agency used often referred to abandonment when it was actually relinquishment that had taken place.

Wait? What?

All of sudden, everything changed.

So, wait, my birth mother hadn’t snuck away in the night and left me there in the clinic? Then, what did happen?

I’m still trying to figure that out.

* * *

But this is how the search went. Over seven years, I kept digging and would eventually stumble upon little bits of information that would change everything.

For example, I was told initially that the agency had names and ages for my biological mother’s siblings. When I inquired about the siblings’ names and whether they could release those names to me, that statement was retracted, and I was told that the social worker had made a mistake and that they did not have their names.

I still don’t know what the truth is.

* * *

As I continued to press them for more information by asking detailed questions, little pieces of information would surface. The agency knew in what town my birth parents had lived in. The agency knew the duration of time that my birth parents had lived together--4 months. Again, how did they know all of this, and why did I have to press so hard to get this information?

I also later discovered that the agency had recorded old addresses for my biological mother.

This troubles me even still when I think about it…All these years, they had old addresses, and they never bothered to share this information with me, or even let me know that they had such information in their possession.

The laws. All the laws.

I don’t like to think about these details. I feel as though I’m being ungrateful or negative to bring attention to these obstacles I encountered.

But as I said earlier, I’m one of the 2.7%.

My path was not nearly as difficult as those of others, as that of the Korean adoptee featured in the program I recently watched.

* * *

All that we are asking to know is the truth. The truth that will fill in the missing pieces of who we are.

But so often the truth is taken from us and buried where we cannot reach it.

It should not be this way for us or for anyone.

The truth will continue to elude those who seek it until those who feel compelled to hide it realize that the truth does need their protection.

Rather than lock away the truth, release it--that those whose lives are so affected by it may decide for themselves what they will do.

The Mystery of #4709: Program on false & missing adoption records

The stories featured in this program are heartbreaking & difficult to swallow. But I think it is vital to consider the spectrum of experiences that characterize the adoption experience. To gain an accurate & well-informed understanding of any matter we must be willing to set aside biases to give just consideration to all sides, including the good, the bad, & most importantly, the disturbing...