When you think you understand, but you really don't...

(Yes, it's another dang long post...just think of it as getting a bargain for your buck...oh wait, this is free...well, then, it's an even better deal...)

I don't know what's more maddening and challenging to deal with--folks who don't understand and don't care to understand or folks who are convinced they understand but in reality don't understand at all. I've dealt with the latter frequently, and every time, I walk away feeling sick to my stomach, patronized, and dismissed. Nothing new of course, but nonetheless, hurtful and annoying.

Here's the thing, I do believe that through our collective sufferings we can work toward a certain level of understanding of others' sufferings. We can do our best to draw from our own lives to find experiences that help us to relate to or understand better the hardships and suffering of others, with a caveat, though--to also recognize that to understand better does not therefore mean we know what it's like to live in someone else's shoes.

As this relates to being an adoptee, it makes me insane when folks, especially adoptive parents, put up this wall of "Oh, you don't have to tell me, I know, I already get it, because I went through this or I went through that...so I know what it's like to be an adoptee..."

Or I can't tell you how many times, folks who are older than I am, have patronized me with variations of this statement, "Well, when you get older and wiser, like me, you'll understand better, and adoption won't have the same effect on you that it does today. I mean sure, it will still be a part of who you are, but ultimately, you'll get over it..." Due to their own life's hardships they presume that they know how my adoption experience will resolve (whether that's even possible remains to be seen).

Oh, really? Okay. Thanks for telling me how I'm going to deal with being adopted. I'm glad you know so well how to handle daily life as an adoptee. I'm glad you somehow know that being adopted is just like dealing with anything else in life.

Really?

Sure. Yes, sure. I'm sure that one day when I have to fill out papers at a medical office, I won't have to leave entire sections blank because I don't know my medical history (despite reuniting).

Right. And I'm sure when I look at family photos and see this short Asian person among a sea of tall, Nordic looking people, I won't be reminded that I'm adopted...every...single...time.

And I'm sure--despite the fact that every time someone asks me where I'm from or where my parents live, I'm reminded that I'm adopted--that one day, I'll just forget that I'm adopted.

Certainly. And the fact that I'm constantly surrounded by people who look nothing like me and who assume that English is my second language and harangue me for not knowing Korean will one day no longer remind me that I'm adopted.

I'll stop there, but the list goes on. I'm not playing the violin here, and I don't mean to sound acerbic (or maybe I do). And, as I've stated before, it's not a competition of who has claim to the most tragic sob story or who has suffered the most. I'm just trying to give some practicals to help folks see that being an adoptee affects every day life--and in ways that are unique to adoptees. I've written about it before several times--being an adoptee isn't just something that hangs out on the back burner, and it's not viewed by the general public accurately. It's constantly burning out in front of me, and I feel the heat all the time, even in the most mundane of activities that so many take for granted as uneventful and trivial.

Someone can make the most benign, seemingly unrelated statement or question that nonetheless reminds me and brings to the forefront the fact that I am adopted...and being in reunion actually emphasizes and complicates that fact even more so...

Are you visiting your family for the holidays? Where are you from? I'm just like my mom. I get it from my dad. What are you going to name your son? I love kimchi. Did your mom get really bad morning sickness when she was pregnant with you? Oh, you're Korean, I lived in Korea for three years back in the nineties. How much did you weigh when you were born? How long was your mom in labor with you? Oh, I speak Korean. Does this or that run in your family? Who do you look like? Wait, you're mom is white, huh? That's not your brother! How long have your parents been married? Do you have siblings? Do you have a big family? Etc., etc.

These questions are not wrong or insensitive. They're normal, generally harmless questions to ask. But that's exactly why they perfectly illustrate my point--for some adoptees, benign, everyday life can stir up deep emotions and responses that others might not anticipate or even bother to think about--not because others are careless per se, but because they're unaware, or simply indifferent or...they think they've got a grasp when they really don't.

It irks me when folks come along, especially adoptive parents, proclaiming that they understand fully what it is to be an adoptee. My insides bristle when someone claims, "I myself completely understand and know exactly how you feel because I [fill in with perhaps somewhat related but completely different personal experience of speaker]."

What would be a more truthful and accurate response is "I think I can relate somewhat emotionally due to my life experiences, but ultimately I realize I'll never know what it is to be an adoptee."

Look, yes, trying to gain understanding into the adoptee experience is a good thing. I'm not discouraging that. I'm not trying to create a Catch 22 for the non-adopted persons trying to connect with their adopted loved ones. I'm just making the point to please be honest and truthful about your understanding. We can tell when we're being patronized or when our feelings and experiences are being diminished. (And that obviously applies to a vast many other situations.)

And don't get me wrong, I appreciate when adoptive parents educate themselves and make efforts to understand. Doing so, I believe, is crucial and vital to the role of an adoptive parent. I want adoptive parents to inform themselves and do whatever they can to increase and deepen their understanding of the adoptee experience.

But it's a bit troubling when an adoptive parent thinks she or he knows exactly what it's like to be an adoptee, because this has real consequences for their attitudes and behaviors toward their adopted children. When you think you already understand, when you think you've arrived, you don't seek out further understanding. You get complacent. You stop educating yourself. You stop challenging yourself. And you refuse to listen to others because you already believe you've got it all figured out.

It's a sad thing to me when someone does not understand because they already think they understand. People in this state of mind are often the most difficult to reach--not only when dealing with adoption matters but with anything in life. And I suppose, in a way, it's a form of hypocrisy and ultimately arrogance or pride.

At least those who realize they don't understand and openly state that they have no desire to understand are not deceiving themselves. Yes, it still hurts when someone chooses indifference. But at least they know and you know, and there's always hope in the future that their hearts and minds may change, because they at least know where they stand.

But for those who are blissfully ignorant yet believe themselves to be blissfully enlightened, who already think they've got it all figured out, but actually don't? Well, honestly, I haven't figured out how to reach people like this other than to simply hope that with time something will bonk them on the head and turn on the light. And maybe I don't understand these types folks like I could...and that's just it--it boggles my mind that they choose to be so dismissive.

Until, then, I have to learn to be patient and manage my own emotions so that I don't become my own worst enemy or their worst enemy, because that wouldn't do a bit of good for anyone.

* * *

Ultimately, when it comes to responding to and comforting loss and the associated grief and pain, it's often a lot more simple than folks make it.

We don't need to be fixed...we don't need "wisdom" or a sincere but presumptuous attempt to provide "answers"...we don't need you to pretend to understand or to tell us these things happen for a reason...

What we often need is what an adoptive mother alluded to in a comment to one of my recent posts, "...And maybe all my daughter will need on some of these occasions, all she'll want is to be held and listened to..."

That's it--simply and sincerely, heartfelt compassion and a listening ear. That's often all it takes.

Sometimes compassionate silence is the most understanding, validating response you can offer.

The most "right" thing you can do may simply be to listen.

I'm not looking for someone to fix me or give me all the answers they think I want or need to hear. I'm not a problem that needs a solution. I'm a human who needs sincere compassion and validation--not pity, and not charity.

What I need is to be treated with respect as an intelligent, competent, mature adult--not some angry, bitter exception to the norm. And as a child, I needed the same, simply applied in a way appropriate for my development.

Now, is that really too much to ask?

Apparently, for some, the answer is "yes."

"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?

But she LOOKS Korean...

It is a complicated question, you know—when you ask someone, So, where are you from?

Seems simple enough. I'm from Dallas, Texas. Or…I was born in California, but I grew up in Chicago. Or…my mom grew up in Ohio but she's actually Brazilian, and my dad was born in New York but his parents came over from Ireland. They met in college and after they got married, they ended up moving to North Carolina, where I was born. But when I was ten, we moved to Atlanta. Then, well, they got divorced when I was sixteen, and I went to live with my mom in Florida because she had family down there. Now, I visit my dad and his wife in New York for Thanksgiving, sometimes. And my mom and her boyfriend live in Arizona.

This is a complex, often fragile, question these days—when you ask someone of his or her origins.

I never really know what to tell people, because I never really know for what exactly they are asking. Do they want to know where I was born? Are they inquiring in response to the color of my skin, the blackness of my hair, the shape of my eyes? Or do they want to know where I have spent most of my life?

In their minds, it is a very simple question.

However, a simple question does not indubitably produce a simple answer.

Honestly, I don't even really know what to tell people most of the time. So I just say, everywhere and nowhere.

Sometimes, an uninterrupted stream tumbles out in a single breath—Well, I was born in Korea, but I was adopted by an American family when I was an infant, and my dad was in the Navy, so we moved around every one to two years, so really, I didn't grow up in any particular region, but I'm basically American, because I was raised by Americans.

And I feel just as idiotic every time I blurt out my little synopsis of origin. I'm basically American, because I was raised by Americans? I make it sound as though I’m some kind of Tarzanette or the lone human infant raised by a pack of wolves.

But it all seems that complicated in my mind.

Do I view myself as Korean? Or more specifically, do I feel Korean, do I think like a Korean? Absolutely not. Especially when I am in the presence of “real” Koreans. I always refer to Koreans as "they," never "we." "They" are so nationalistic. "They" are so exclusive. "They" this, "they" that.

Now, do I view myself as an American? Or more specifically, do I feel American, do I think like an American? Perhaps, more so than I feel or think like a Korean. But even so, most often I refer to Americans as Americans. "Americans" are so arrogant. "Americans" are so spoiled. "Americans" this, "Americans" that.

Something in me wants to be identified with neither one. I do not want to be identified as the Korean. I do not want to be identified as the American. Yet, inevitably, I demonstrate characteristics of both.

But she looks so Korean, doesn't she? She doesn't act like a Korean though, don't you think? Or maybe you don't look Korean. But then you all look the same anyway, isn't that right? Where did you say you were from?

I Believe in Signs

Here's the link (or click on the title above) to my monthly post over at the adoption website, "Grown in My Heart."

Think adopted children are too young to experience or be aware of the dissonance, confusion, loss, and displacement that come with being adopted? Think again...

Here's an excerpt from the opening:

Recently, initially due to my husband’s insight, I had somewhat of a revelation–although it will seem dumbly obvious to some of you. Yet this “epiphany” reaffirms in my mind that as a very young child I was not only acutely aware of being adopted but I was already heavily processing my adoption and experiencing the accompanying dissonance and confusion of identity–even though it did not appear obvious to my parents, or to me, for that matter...

I'm letting go...

[I wrote the following on January 5, 2011]

Over the months, something within me has been building or dismantling, whatever way one wants to view it. I feel as though I have been living life harder and fuller than ever before--feeling and thinking, experiencing and encountering, to the deepest depths and to the highest heights.

And with that, I think I am ready, or just about, to let go.

Let go of what?

I'm ready to let go of the pain.

Scary words to utter--that is, at least for me. Frightening, really. And I'll explain why, for me, the "letting go" of the pain associated with my adoption is a scary thing, and even exactly what the "letting go" means, because I have no doubt it will be misunderstood and misinterpreted by many.

First of all, let me state what I DO NOT mean. When I say that I'm ready to let go of the pain, it does not mean that the pain is gone. It does not mean that the pain doesn't still affect my life. It does not mean that somehow magically I've "gotten over" it all. And it does not mean that suddenly I love being adopted and think it's the most fabulous thing to come along since the horseless carriage.

It does not mean that I will no longer need to talk about the pain or feel the pain. It does not mean that I still don't cry about all that has happened and continues to unfold. It does not mean that I feel as though I am finished or that I have arrived. It does not mean the journey is anywhere near completion. It does not mean that I no longer deal with the ongoing consequences of my adoption. And it certainly does not mean that everything is now resolved with my Korean and American families.

What I do mean is that I am ready to allow the pain to no longer threaten or control me. I am ready to accept the good and the healing as well as the pain and the sorrow.

I think for a while now, I have needed the time to dwell in the pain, in the sorrow, because I have needed the time and the opportunity to grieve--unabashedly, without constraint. I was and have been denied all of my life the "right" to grieve, to deal with and face the pain and sorrow. And even still there are those who continue to deny me--but, I am ready to let go of them, too.

And now, after having time to seize the grief and finally making it my own, I feel that I can finally be at peace with it. Being at peace with the pain, however, does not mean that it is gone or that it does not still affect who I am and who I am becoming. The pain will always be a part of me. The sorrow and grief is always in me and with me. But it is not all of who I am, and it is not what compels me to live.

Yet the reason I fear letting go of of it, and even more so attempting to share this with all of you is because of the danger of misunderstanding and misinterpretation that likely comes with expressing my desire to let go of the pain.

I've had enough encounters with folks who say things to me that discount and invalidate the depth, intensity, and longevity of the pain, sorrow, and grief inherent to being an adoptee. By expressing I am ready to let go of the pain, I fear that doing so will only increase such ignorance and presumption.

I fear that by letting go of the pain, adoptive parents and the like will use it against us--against adult adoptees--to justify adoption by saying the ends legitimize the means.

I can hear it now--sighs of relief among adoptive parents and the like, brushing their brows with the backs of their hands, thinking to themselves or uttering softly, "Thank God, another adult adoptee who finally came around, got over herself, realized all the good adoption does."

Or, "See, Melissa, everything has worked out great for you. It all came out in the wash in the end. Sure, you've had some hardship. But ultimately, you were adopted into a great American family, and later, when the time was right, you got to reunite with your Korean family. Now, the picture is complete. The void is gone. Your family is coming to completion, especially now that you have an amazing husband, a son only days away, and an amazing life. We're so glad you finally realized all that adoption has done for you!"

Again, this is NOT what it means to let go of the pain. And this is not what adoption is or ever will be for me personally--an end to justify the means.

I know this sounds harsh and judgmental to some. I do not intend it to be that way. To be clear, for me personally, adoption is not solely evil. I am not purely anti-adoption.

However, when others frame adoption in such a way as to dismiss the loss and the grief of the original mothers and adoptees affected or to discount or even justify the circumstances and questionable practices that often lead to adoption, because they believe the "end results" are all that are worth considering or all that matter, not only is my heart pained, but I believe that to do so is dishonest and cruel.

Ultimately, I know folks won't understand what I mean or where I'm coming from--they'll interpret what I say as they wish. And that's in part, why at times, I just want to walk away from trying to share my experiences and views--because they get twisted, warped, and picked apart in ways that I never intended.

But again, that is part of the letting go for me--to understand that just as the pain will always be with me, so also will the misunderstandings and misconceptions.

I'm sharing this both for others and because it is emancipating for me. And I'm sharing it ultimately, because I know what I mean, and I am beginning to feel more and more secure in that, regardless of what others imply or assume. And then, of course, there are the few who actually do understand, and they are a great comfort to me.

Furthermore, and perhaps more importantly, I am sharing this, because I want our son to grow up with a mom who is secure--who isn't driven by her pain, but rather is driven by her hope--the same hope that Helen Keller so concisely yet powerfully expressed, because, well, the woman lived it:

"...although the world is full of suffering, it is also full of the overcoming of it."

Meaningful words written by someone who knew what it was to suffer, who knew what it was to be trapped in darkness, who knew all too well what it means when life is unfair and circumstances beyond one's control take away what every human takes for granted...and yet, she overcame.

I want to overcome. But overcoming does not mean forgetting. Overcoming is not one-sided. It is complex. Overcoming the pain, the grief does not mean ignoring it or discounting it--no, rather, it means embracing it and recognizing that it will always be there. And yet, it need not threaten me--not any longer.

It need not be something I try to control or suppress or minimize or hide.

And that's what I mean by letting go of the pain--to no longer fear it, to no longer be uncomfortable with it, to no longer try to control it, but simply to let it be what it is.

And I suppose by letting go of the pain, I am also letting go of the fear, ultimately. Pain often causes fear, and in healthy amounts both can help us.

But when pain and fear become so overwhelming and so dominant that they take over one's life and obscure everything in darkness, then they have lost the glory and beauty of their purpose.

So, I am ready--although I will still feel fear, I am ready to no longer give way to fear--to no longer fear that those I love will leave me, to no longer fear that those I love will be taken from me, to no longer fear that I was never enough.

Not that these things cannot happen, but that I need not fear should they happen, because what has made me weak has also made me strong. What has alienated me and isolated me has also surrounded me and filled me--with a depth and richness of life and people that although at times I forget, I cannot deny.

And again, I want my son to be able to grow up trusting that he can overcome his fears and his pain, that he can overcome the injustice and unfairness of life--not by ignoring it or by suppressing it, but by facing it, embracing it, and allowing it to teach him that he can make a difference in this world.

I don't want him growing up with a mom who is always afraid, because she is ashamed of her pain, of her sorrow, of her story. Conversely, I also don't want him to grow up with a mom who is too proud and so calloused, because she has chosen to harden her heart and deny her pain, and hence, the pain of others.

Rather, I want him to have a mother who although knows pain and shame and sorrow, she also knows healing, redemption, and hope. I want him to have a mother who lives life with certainty--not a certainty that life itself is certain, but a certainty that life is worth living and feeling deeply and fully, whether it be pain or joy, tragedy or victory. I want him to know he need not fear neither the heights nor the depths of life, but that he can face them honestly and truthfully.

And that is what it means, to me, to let go...

And that is the truth that I hope our son will grow to know and to trust...

"agony is the easiest": a letter from my Appa

I want to feel peace and resolution over the life I now live--that is, life in "post-reunion."

I don’t want to fester or grow bitter. But, wow, I am beginning to wonder whether it's even possible to process all that has happened and all that continues to happen? Even with all the emotional work I push myself to do, I never cease to hurt. I never cease to grieve.

I have been feeling so restless.

I find myself just wanting to be DONE with being an adoptee. I'm tired. Exhausted. Frustrated. The list is endless. I want to be through with trying to “process” all these maddening emotions that make me feel like I’m being ripped in two, and then the two being pulverized into a heap of innumerable, unrecoverable bits of dust.

Sometimes, I wish that I could just walk away. That it could be as easy as that. But I can’t just walk away.

It's not like someone served me a bad meal, upon which I can send it back and request something else. I think it's evident that I'm dealing with a permanent arrangement.

Lately, I haven’t known how to put into words what I’m feeling. It’s more than just restlessness. It’s more than just exhaustion. It’s this sense that I should simply be at peace and full of contentment. And yet, I feel such turmoil and unrest.

I feel as though something is gnawing at me, but I cannot identify it. I feel on the verge of tears more days than not, but I cannot say why.

Deep down, I think I know. And I think I've tried to say it in more ways than one, and more times than I can count.

But I want so desperately to be through with it all that, at times, I just don’t want to expend any more energy trying to give any more thoughts or any more words to an experience that can feel so elusive and daunting.

I am so weary of trying to "work through it."

I wish I could simply close my eyes, take a deep breath, and when I opened my eyes again, things would be different. I don’t even know in what way.

But perhaps something more manageable. Something simpler.

* * *

In light of all this, I received another letter from my Appa a couple of days ago in which he wrote (keep in mind that these are the words that the translator chose, and I get the sense that in the actual Korean, his words were much more eloquent):

“…agony is the easiest and happiness is the most difficult thing to have in life. Emotional suffering is the easiest performance of human emotions, and to be happy is the most difficult. I hope you don’t get defeated by the emotional stirrings, but to win it over and be free from it. From now on, our goal is to make the right judgments about our actions with higher pride to lead our future.”

There is so much that I could say about what these words of his mean to me. For now, I will say that he and I certainly share the same gene pool (and we have the DNA test to prove it). Even though we barely know one another, his words resonate with me deeply and make me feel known by him and him by me.

And yet, a sadness lingers.

It is true, at least for me, that to feel agony is more natural. I am a naturally melancholy personality with a propensity toward the dramatic. Although it feels good to feel happy, it is not necessarily my default state, while the circumstances of post-reunion lend themselves quite well and very easily to feelings of melancholy and emptiness.

My Appa having a sense of this, wrote later in his letter:

“…let’s laugh a little. Here’s a funny quiz [riddle]. It might not be too funny, but oh well.

Right now, a man from Mars is driving a truck with 100mi/hr on a hwy of Georgia with apples, bananas, grapes, peaches, and watermelons. Suddenly, a police officer stopped the truck. (What do you suppose that dropped from the truck?)

The rest will follow on my next letter. If you are really curious, send me a text message.”

I couldn’t figure it out, and of course, I was really curious to know the answer, and couldn't wait until the next letter. So I sent him a text, and this is what he sent back to me:

“Speed foll down…Speed dropped. Ha. Ha. Ha.”

He does make me laugh--and cry--more than a little...

Adoptee = Paradox(?)

Adoptees experience a complex mix of seemingly opposing emotions that may appear irreconcilable. Adoptees may express thoughts that appear contradictory or incompatible.

The truth is that adoptees can think and feel things that at first exposure may seem antithetical to one another. But fear not. As has been said before, that is the paradox of the adoptee experience.

As I continue to make my own attempts at managing and expressing my personal experiences as an adoptee, I have nonetheless upset my American family at times by the things I have shared.

At one point I posted a statement that went something like this: “Whatever punk decided that being adopted is a happy story with happy endings makes me want to vomit and kick a hole in the sky.”

I wrote a post trying to clarify what I meant and what I did not mean by this statement. An excerpt from the pertaining post states:

"It’s not that my family didn’t love me enough. It’s not that I don’t love my family. When I express anger or hurt, it’s not because of what they have or have not done. It’s because of the loss and grief that I feel over what happened beyond anyone’s control.

But when I say something like, 'Whatever punk decided that being adopted is a happy story with happy endings makes me want to vomit and kick a hole in the sky,' it offends my family because they think I’m saying something about them. For the record, then, I am not saying anything about my family. I am grateful for them, and I love them.

The thing is that some wounds run so deeply and so pervasively, that they may never quite heal. And I need to feel safe enough and have freedom enough to feel the pain and the emotion that comes from feeling that loss and grief."

My point is that adoptees may express emotions, as the title indicates, in ways that often seem paradoxical. In the same breath, I can utter that I am grateful for the family that adopted me while simultaneously wishing that it had not been necessary for me to be adopted.

Contradictory? Perhaps at first glance. But ultimately, no.

I can say things like, "whatever punk decided that being adopted is a happy story with happy endings makes me want to vomit and kick a hole in the sky," while at the same time saying things like, "As far as I'm concerned I adore my parents and always will."

I am not contradicting myself.

It could be comparable to a young widow whose husband unfortunately died prematurely. She remarries and goes on to share a very full, meaningful life with her second husband. Does she therefore come to the conclusion that she is happy that her first husband died? Of course not. Does the fact that she still feels grief over the loss of her first husband mean that she does not love her second? Is she contradicting herself?

No. The truth is that it is complex. The truth is that there are certain circumstances and relationships that we must face that require more flexible and less legalistic thinking and understanding. What may appear to be incongruous thoughts and emotions are simply the different lines and numbers used to compose and arrive at the same shapes and solutions.

What adoptees need is not to be forced into one corner or curve of a single shape or into one equation or formula of a single solution, but rather to be permitted to explore all the angles and edges, all the components and calculations that characterize life as an adoptee.