"Yes, I love my parents"

Before you assume--because I offer thoughtful analysis (and, yes, that involves critical thinking) of my adoption experience and otherwise...because I experience a complex mix of emotions that includes anger and sadness not only gratitude and warm fuzzies...because I acknowledge the flaws and imbalance inherent to the current adoption system--that I don't love my parents or that I don't view and treat them as my "real parents," or that I must be a miserable, unhappy, raging, bitter person who hates my life--

Please stop for just a minute and consider what my tenth grade geometry teacher always said--

Don't always assume you know, because it makes an a** out of "u" and "me."

And then perhaps take a moment to read through more than one blog post, and maybe even read the synopsis under the tab labeled "The Journey" or read through several of the posts in the sidebar under "Popular Posts," say, for instance, "I didn't search because I was looking for a new family" or "Do you regret that you were adopted?" or even venture to watch the video of my reunion with my Omma...

It's always more complicated than what you think you know.

Enough said.*


*Addendum to address other inaccurate a**umptions commonly made:

• No, I do not despise fellow adoptees that love adoption.
• No, I do not dismiss fellow adoptees that speak positively of their adoption experiences, rather I question the status quo that favors their stories to the neglect and dismissal of adoptees who present more complex experiences and stories.
• No, I am not anti-adoption, but I am also not pro-adoption. Again, it's more complicated than that, at least it is for me.
• No, I do not detest adoptive parents. But and besides, this ain't about you, remember?

Mother's Day 2010

It is as though my Korean mother, my Omma, died when I was born. And with her passed all my relatives, from my grandparents to my aunts and uncles, to my cousins and my nieces and nephews. They all disappeared for what seemed as though it would be forever.

So, I had to be taken in by another, since no one from my own family or my own country would lay claim to me. For truly, it was as though not only my whole family had died to me and I to them, but a whole nation and its people had died to me and I to them.

Then, both slowly and suddenly, those who had died to one another emerged before one another. More than three decades later, it was as though the deceased had been resurrected.

It is as though, my Omma rose from the dead. It is as though I have risen from the dead.

And now, it would appear that I have two mothers.

But the truth is that I have always had two mothers.

And the truth is that although the years passed as though my Omma was no longer a part of my life, as though she no longer existed, she was always there—lingering in my blood, beneath my skin, deep within my anatomy. She was always there informing and influencing who I was becoming, even beyond my own will, without my full knowledge. Although unknown to me, she was known within me.

No more and no less than my American Mom—but simply in a more silent, covert, DNA-ish kind of way.

I am of both of these women. I am who I am because of two mothers.

And as much as such a thought may dually delight as well as pain all three of us, it is an undeniable truth: I would not be if not for each of these women, if not for both of my mothers.

Did meeting my biological parents diminish my desire to conceive biological children?

This is a pretty vulnerable topic, and one that I'm not sure I really want to openly discuss. Yet, here I am openly discussing it.

A while back I recall my husband asking me if finding my biological parents appeased or diminished my desire in any way, small or large, to want to conceive a child born of my own flesh and blood.

[For my husband's sake, I want to clarify that he did not ask this question out of clueless insensitivity. Rather, he was asking this question due to the several discussions and conversations we had over the years about my desire to conceive as a direct result of being adopted and subsequently not knowing what it is to have a biological connection to someone. Now that I had met my biological parents and extended family, both he and I were asking whether my desire for a biological connection had been in part fulfilled or satiated as a result of having contact with biological family.]

At the time, I didn't really have a solid answer for the question.

But now, over a year after getting the Big News (that my biological parents had been found) and almost a year since first meeting my Korean parents face to face, I have a better grasp on my answer to that question.

The short answer is NO.

No, finding and meeting my biological parents has not appeased or diminished my desire to have a biological child.

This is not to say that it has not been fulfilling and enlightening to meet my biological parents and experience firsthand the similarities we share--similarities that seemingly can only be attributed to the potency of genes and DNA, since I certainly did not grow up under their parentage nor in their environment or culture.

When my Appa happened to mention out of the blue that he is a very light sleeper and is easily awakened, and more specifically stated that it must be completely dark and unequivocally quiet for him to fall asleep, my eyes widened and my heart jumped. Ask my husband. I am the same way, exactly. I often have to use earplugs and eye covers in order to fall asleep.

When I found out about my Appa's obsession with motorcycles and his love for writing poetry, my jaw dropped. Again, ask my husband--my love of riding motorcycles and writing poetry were two of the first things he learned about me when we started dating.

When my Appa shared stories with me of his hot temper and tendency toward rage and fighting, again, my eyes popped. I've punched trees (and unfortunately have the scars to prove it) and holes in walls. I used to own a punching bag that I would wail on in the basement of my parents' house when I was in college. I belonged to a kickboxing gym when I lived in Atlanta, and I have been known to throw and hit things when my temper goes unchecked. And again, ask my husband--he knows a little something about my fits of rage and my tendency toward violence.

My pinky finger is indubitably inherited from my Omma's side of the family. When my Omma, my Imo [Aunt] and I hold up our hands together, there is no doubt that we all share the same crooked pinky. I listen to my Omma laugh and know now why I laugh the way I do.

I observe the way my Omma shuts down when the emotions of grief and sorrow overwhelm her, and I know now why I do the same. Her tendency to hide herself and attempt to maintain a veneer of happiness and perfection, explain to me why I am who I am. Again, just ask my husband, who has spent countless hours bearing with me, drawing me out, and helping me to know that emotions are not the enemy.

It's enlightening in both a thrilling and disturbing way to learn of the eery similarities I share with my Appa and my Omma.

And in this way, it has been indescribably fulfilling and validating to finally make contact with those from whom I came. It has been eye-opening to finally understand what it is to look at someone and see myself, both in physical appearance and in disposition.

* * *

However, what reuniting with my biological parents cannot do is replace all the years that have been lost.

What reuniting with my biological parents cannot do is show me what it is like to grow up with people around you who are just like you.

In hoping to conceive a child from my own flesh and blood, I am in some ways, I suppose looking for my own redemption, my own way to give what I never had, to compensate for what was separated and in some ways can never be made whole again.

And in some strange way, it is also the only way I feel that I will be able to stay connected to my American parents. Despite the fact that we do not share the same genes, they are still my parents, and the thought of losing them terrifies me.

Having children of my own flesh and blood feels to me the only way that I can carry on their memory, because although I am not the biological result of my American parents, I am the product of their love, their teachings, their nurturing. I am as much a product of them as I am of my Korean parents. There are ways that I do things that I learned only from my Mom, that are not the result of nature but rather the result of my Mom's energy and love.

I cut chicken a certain way because of her. I iron clothes in the way that she taught me. I know how to clean a house and make a bed because my Mom took the time to teach me. I host people in our home the way that I observed my Mom hosting people time and time again.

I notice qualities--such as an unadulterated integrity, a strong sense of order, and an impatient intolerance when encountering inefficiency and stupidity--in my husband that remind me of my Dad. My husband makes me laugh in many of the same ways as does my Dad. Certainly, growing up with my Dad, no doubt instilled an appreciation in me for such characteristics.

I am as much a product of my Mom and Dad as I am of my Omma and Appa.

Having a biological child feels like a way that I could somehow mediate the deep loss that will ensue one day when my parents are no longer here with me. If I can have children then I will be able to pass on to them all that my American parents taught and gave to me through their nurturing and all that my Korean parents taught and gave me through their nature.

So, you see, biological children for me are not only a means to reproduce my own genes and neither are they only a way to maintain a family line, they represent for me the only way I can keep myself from having to endure all over again, in all its finality, the same loss of over thirty years ago that still grieves and pains me even today.

* * *

Should it become evident, however, that biological children will elude us, although I will be all the more grateful to have met my biological family, the devastation will not be easily assuaged.

I didn't search because I was looking for a new family

I didn't search because I was looking for a new family.

My decision to search is not a reflection of you as a parent. I didn't decide to search for my biological family because you somehow failed me as a parent.

I did not decide to search because you as a parent were not enough.

In fact, although my decision to search certainly affects you, it actually has very little to do with you.

My decision to search is primarily due to the innate, inherent desire of every human being to want to know from whom and where we began.

My decision to search has more to do with the natural and normal longing to know one's origins, one's history, to answer such basic questions as, "Who am I?" or "Why am I the way I am?"

It's not that your love as a parent was not enough, it was simply that your love can not answer the questions that linger and hover over me. Your love cannot tell me why my original parents relinquished me. Your love cannot tell me what happened. Your love cannot give me the answers that have eluded me all of my life.

Only searching can help me to face these questions. And although I may not find the answers that I seek, I hope to find more of who I am along the way.

The best thing you can do is to understand that my desire to search is not about you as a parent. The best thing you can do is to be there for me, to let me know that you're not going anywhere, that you're secure enough in our relationship to let me take this journey.

The best thing you can do is to let go, while continuing to love me, knowing that although your love cannot answer all the questions I have, it can be a source of strength.

The best thing you can do is to not pull away or feel threatened by my desire to know more.

I am not leaving you in search of a new family. I am holding onto you as I search for the ones who--not unlike you--made me the person I am today.

tip toes

I am feeling anxious about writing letters back to my Omma and Appa. I am feeling anxious overall about the current situation. I want so much to move forward. I want so much for things to progress.

But just like I didn’t develop the relationship I have with my American parents overnight, or even over several years, I can’t expect my relationships with my Korean parents to automatically emerge as though we’ve always known one another. It doesn’t work like that.

We’re not old friends who simply lost touch over the years. We can’t pick up where we left off. I was a newborn infant when my Omma last saw me. My Appa, well, he never got the chance to even look at me.

Now, fast forward almost 35 years. I’m clearly no longer a child. I'm a grown woman.

Additionally, the relationships I have with my Mom and Dad are hard-fought and hard-won, and we’re still growing. We were not always as close as we are now. There was a time when the chasm was so vast that it seemed insurmountable. The tension was so dense and seemingly irreconcilable that I would often despair and subsequently withdraw, which of course, only deepened and magnified the chasm.

We were people lost and estranged from one another due to misunderstandings, ignorance, miscommunication, and a resevoir of tumultuous, misinterpreted emotion. But we continue to work through these obstacles, and although it’s not easy, it’s certainly possible and attainable.

My Omma and Appa and I were people lost and estranged from another in the truest, most practical sense. We have no shared history. We share no common language or culture or experiences other than the loss and grief initiated over thirty years ago by a series of events. We, of course, share our genes. But nature certainly cannot compensate entirely for the absence of nurture.

Yes, there remain many things about my adoption experience that my Mom and Dad do not understand. But similarly, there remains the past 35 years of my entire life that my Omma and Appa do not know and therefore do not understand.

Truly, it is a double-edged sword that cuts going in and coming out. The wounds can be treated, but in many ways they will always be vulnerable.

* * *

I will say that it feels good to read the letters from my Omma and my Appa, to feel their love, their longing—to feel the sincerity of their desire to reach out to me and to know me. It is so hopeful and comforting. Their words, although not completely but in part, do act as a poultice to the deep pain and persistent uncertainty that writhe within.

Yet things still remain so fragile, so delicate. As much as I feel their love and longing in the letters they wrote, I also hear their sorrow and desperation, fear and anxiety.

We still tiptoe and dance around one another, testing the ground on which we gather, whether it will be solid enough to withstand the burdens we carry or whether it will split open under the weight and tear us apart once again.

blood in my Dinner

I.

Reality showed up again. That sneaky little cat.


II.

But I was glad that it showed up this time. It still refuses to enter through the front door, but I think perhaps I am beginning to find its clumsy and wild entrances somewhat charming, if not at least entertaining and adventurous.


III.

It was just supposed to be dinner.

But it ended up being one of those nights that, well, everything felt as though it was going wrong.

The chicken was doing something funky and grotesque:

Blood kept boiling out through this tiny tear in the leg quarter. All I could do was stare, as it pulsed and bubbled.

The more I stared, the more it kept bleeding out, dribbling down into the sauce on the bottom of the corning ware dish.

I began to feel nauseous and not hungry.


IV.

Really, though, all the bleeding had nothing to do with the chicken. And everything going wrong had nothing to do with dinner.


V.

I thought it was anger that was making the chicken bleed. I thought it was the ruined dinner that had ignited all the rage.

But the anger was only a front, and it was making the bleeding worse.

Really, it was the hurt. The terror.

Coupled with good old Fear and Hope.

And here's what the chicken was saying:

I'm afraid that they're going to let go of me.

I'm afraid that now that I have found my biological mother and father, they're going to think that I am leaving them.

And then-- they will leave me.

Hope slides in next to Fear and smiles--pats Fear on the arm and remarks that being Hope and all, it can reassure us that Love knows how to stop this kind of bleeding.


VI.

I pick up the phone.

Mom, Dad?


VII.

I still have a lot to learn about love.

It possesses a strength that no body can comprehend.
It is more true than any truth I have ever encountered.
Its resilience comforts my weakness.
Its willingness brings me to tears.

I begin to wonder if I have ever truly allowed myself to know love.

To let love...

People like to romanticize love, diminish it into nothing but an emotion.

It is so much more than emotion.
It is so much more than romance.
It is so much more than anyone or anything could ever attempt to explain.

The most powerful love is the love born of choice.

That one should so choose of his or her own volition to love another.

To love a stranger as though she is your very own flesh and blood.


VIII.

Gladly, I need not fear that I should bleed.

The day that I arrived, someone made a choice to be there always, not only to hold me when I should bleed, but to always, until the end of time, be the blood that pulses and courses through my very heart.


IX.

And this is a Reality that I will welcome with open arms...even if it does come crashing through the window.