Actually, my mom is white--so do you accept me now?

I realized recently, as ironic and hypocritical as this is going to sound, that I find security in being able to tell other people that my Mom (Mom=American mom; Omma=Korean mom) is White, as though I will be more readily accepted and/or my perceived status will somehow be elevated once the listener knows this fact. It's as though I believe that since I am Asian having a White mom is necessary in order to legitimize my status and existence in the eyes of other Americans.

What made me realize this was a recent interaction I had with someone that asked me if I lived here in America. I proceeded to proclaim that not only do I live here in America but that I am a U.S. citizen, that my father is a retired naval officer, and that one of my brothers is currently serving in the army. I also made a point to mention that my Mom's first husband died in the Vietnam War, yet I felt compelled to clarify that she was not Vietnamese but Caucasian American. (And of course, all the meanwhile, I was also feeling guilty, conflicted, and purposefully misleading by conveniently omitting mention of my Omma, yet also feeling--or rationalizing?--that it would not be beneficial, helpful, or understood if I opened that can of demons in this particular conversation.)

I know, appallingly hypocritical on so many levels.

Yet although I felt ashamed that I went out of my way to mention all of this, I must admit that I also felt comforted that I was able to flash my "White Mom card" like credentials to silence this guy's doubts about my "American-ness."

But ultimately, this all reveals that I am just as influenced by prejudices and biases as anyone else when it comes down to it. It also reiterates how uncomfortable I still am, even as I approach 40, with my own Korean heritage. There is still a shame and embarrassment that I experience regarding the undeniable fact that I am Korean. Deep down it's still as though I think, believe that White is the superior skin tone and genetic inheritance, and that if I myself cannot look or be White then at least I can claim "White-ness" by proxy through my White mom and White family.

I am sobered and humbled by the ugliness that this look in the mirror has revealed.

Even with the birth of our son, I find myself inwardly consoled that he is not 100% Korean, but that he is also Mediterranean and Caucasian, or White. And then, I shake my head and scold myself for having such a thought.

Yet, conversely enough, there are other moments that I am compelled to reject my "White roots" and flash my "Korean card." Those moments are more rare, but increasing in frequency, especially now that I have reunited with my Korean family.

In a similar way, I find both relief and discomfort as an Asian woman married to a White man. Just as being able to claim my White mom makes me feel more accepted or somehow elevated, being able to claim my White husband does the same. However, on the flip side I also fear being perceived as the stereotypical "foreign Asian bride" who "connived her way into a White man's heart to escape an oppressive and empty life in my home country," accompanied by the matching stereotype that my husband married me, because he has some sick fetish for Asian women and their perceived image as exotic, compliant sex objects.

Overall, basically, I see that I am susceptible to doing what I loathe--when it is convenient or beneficial I find myself flipping back and forth in staking my claims to one or the other to manage my insecurities and legitimize or elevate my perceived status among others based on prejudices and stereotypes that pervade in American culture. (Wow, that's a mouthful of a run-on thought...)

It's ridiculous, I know. And it cries out hypocrite. But it's honest.

I know folks would say, and I even say it to myself, "C'mon, Melissa, you're over thinking it. Really you're both, you're not one or the other. Just let go of the perceived stereotypes and embrace the whole of who you are. Don't waste your brain space concerned with how others might see you."

Well, folks, I haven't quite figured out how to do, be, embrace both. And I have a hard time shaking off how others perceive me, because in reality their perceptions affect how they interact with and treat me.

So, for me at least, the overused cliche definitely applies--much easier said than done.

Although, I suppose one could argue that just by living each day I cannot help but do, be, embrace the different parts of who I am. But it's less a dilemma of acknowledging the different parts of who I am than it is of merging all these fractured pieces into a whole that, although may appear whole to outsiders, continues to feel painfully and irrevocably divided and broken...

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?

The human infant

Our newborn son is going on one month. As I learn to care for him, I am dumbfounded, startled, overwhelmed by how utterly helpless and dependent he is. I dare to observe that there was never a more vulnerable, more fragile little being than the human infant, and particularly the newborn.

How desperately he begins to whimper or wail as soon as he realizes he is no longer in my arms or on my lap...that there are no other warm embraces or soothing voices that seem able to comfort him as do mine or my husband's.

And yet, still it is commonplace for people to continue to presume that being adopted as an infant, or more accurately, being separated from one's own mother as an infant somehow diminishes or even nullifies the loss and grief of such an event and the ensuing lifetime consequences.

How anyone concludes that being an infant at the time of relinquishment and adoption indubitably prevents or somehow negates and neutralizes, some would even suggest, counteracts the consequences of such losses is even more perplexing and disturbing to me now than it was before--as I experience my own newborn firsthand.

How can any mother or father or fellow human who has ever cared for a newborn or infant so casually dismiss how profoundly consequential separation from one's mother would be, is?

My son knows me. Our bodies know one another. Our sounds and scents know each other. Our skin, our touch. And although if, God-forbid, he were to be separated from me now and forever (I can barely stand such a thought without going into tearful convulsions), it's true that he would have no tangible memories of me--and yet, I still have no doubt that he would feel the loss of such a premature and unnatural separation for the rest of his life...as have I, emotionally and physiologically.

And certainly, as his mother, I would be haunted by an insatiable emptiness and deep sorrow for the rest of my existence. How abysmal and vast the abyss of grief and angst would be. And yet, how often the consequences experienced by the mother who has lost her child in this way are ignored, denied, disregarded.

Sure, my assessment is emotional and subjective. Yet, are we not human beings? We are not quantities and statistics to be assessed and evaluated (although such measurements have their place and value, they cannot be our sole resource when it comes to the human experience).

There is indeed a place for emotion and subjectivity, and if not among and within the losses and griefs of humanity, then where?

To me, it should be obvious and even logical that a person separated from his or her mother and subsequently adopted as an infant would experience both undeniable short-term and long-term consequences. The fact that when I was a child and up through young adulthood, I, myself was someone that proclaimed I was unscathed by adoption should have been an indication of something askew rather than something aligned.

And yet, if I do not quote research and study upon study, my perspective, my experience is considered nothing but childish and inconsequential anecdote. Everything must bow down to science and its methods. Again, I love science and furthermore, my degree is in the science of psychology.

But it saddens me that the heart is no longer treated as worthy evidence.

Still, I cannot honestly look at my son as I hold him in my arms or watch him sleep or nurse, and coldly conclude that his life, his being would not be affected, changed, altered in profound ways were we to be torn apart...

And hopefully, he will never know such grief...

My Omma's Words...

Excerpted from a letter I recently received from my Omma as we await the birth of my husband's and my first child:

"I don't know whose mercy helps us to meet...I can't describe any words to express how I feel gratitude to see my grandchild. You may lived full of sadness, and to me, it was uncomfortable to live day by day until this day comes...Even though we live separately, but I always be with you. Although the baby isn't born yet still, he may feel good because your happiness is also baby's happiness...Your bad mother always pray for you and now I can give happiness to you...I love you so much my daughter, take care. Thank you, dear Melissa and Michael..."

* * *

My Omma's words speak for themselves--even through the broken and strained translation, her words tell us what needs to be heard, what needs to be felt...For anyone who doubts or questions the complexities surrounding adoption and reunion--the simultaneous grief and hope--her words make clear that although we have found one another, it is so only because we first lost each other...

And although her words tell us so much, as both she and I anticipate the birth of my husband's and my first child, there still remains so much emotion, profundity, and depth unspoken that all the words in the world could never even begin to express or illuminate...

Twelve more days, Omma, and your grandson will be here, awaiting your arms, carrying within him a piece of you--along with all the hope that you and I never knew until now...

The Profundity of Pregnancy as an Adoptee, Post-Reunion

Eleven more weeks. Approximately eleven more weeks, and our firstborn child will be here--in my arms, face to face.

My Omma and I and my Appa and I have continued to correspond via letters over the past six to seven months.

It has been almost two years since I first received the news that each of my Korean parents had emerged. Yet it still feels so surreal--so startling--so unbelievable.

It is overwhelming to try to grasp fully the depth, the meaning, the reality of the current circumstances.

There is something so profound and so indescribable about the fact that my son has already had the opportunity to connect with my Appa and Omma, before even being born, in ways that I never have. And yet indirectly, I know that what they are doing for my son, they are doing for me. Redemption at its fullest, I suppose.

My Omma has sent gifts and letters.

My Appa has mailed two giant boxes from Korea packed and bulging with clothes, socks, hats, and blankets for our son--his grandson.

This will be his first grandchild.

My Appa never had the opportunity to meet me or provide for me, and yet now, with the upcoming birth of my husband's and my son, my Appa is lavishing all that he has upon this child.

And it floods me with emotion that I cannot grasp or articulate. It is neither joy nor sorrow, but some inexplicable, incomprehensible plexus of joy and sorrow and everything in between.

I smile through my tears, and I weep through my smile.

I am simply speechless when I try to utter exactly how this experience affects me and how I try to make sense of it all.

I cannot wait to meet our son. I anticipate with eagerness the day that he will meet his American grandparents and one day his Korean grandparents. I anticipate my American parents and brothers meeting our son and being a part of his life.

And what an unfathomable moment it will be to witness my Omma embracing my son in her own arms...to see my Appa holding our son and gazing into his face--an opportunity my Appa lost with me...and yet somehow, now that we have found one another again, there is hope for absolution.

There is no doubt that this child is loved, deeply.

Although the division that remains between my families pierces me deeply, like a thorn plunged irretrievably into my side, I try to cling to the hope that endures, the hope of what may be possible.

And certainly, I want to be able to rejoice over the tiny yet profound life that will soon emerge--the one who will teach me things that I have never known.

Precious, Painful Treasure: The First 5 days of My Life with Omma

[Just a note: There has been an ongoing discussion in response to a post entitled, "The choice to adopt is a luxury choice." Some significant comments have been made to which I need to respond, and furthermore, I, not surprisingly, simply have more that I'd like to share regarding this discussion. I actually have a completed entry that I will post soon. But, for now, I had to take a break from the discussion due to a letter I received from my Omma just two days ago...]

I just received one of the most intense letters from my Omma thus far. She opened up to me for the first time about her memories of her pregnancy and giving birth to me. I learned details about my beginnings, about our beginnings—that is, my Omma’s and my beginnings as mother and daughter—that I have never known.

When I traveled to Korea at the end of June last year to reunite with her for the first time in 30+ years, I had asked her what she remembered from that time. I asked her if she could share with me what it was like for her when she was pregnant with me.

What were her circumstances? What was life like for her during that time?

When she gave birth to me, was she alone or was someone with her?

Did she ever get to hold me?

She choked up with tears and answered that she could not talk about that time in her life because it was too painful. That was over a year ago.

Perhaps she has chosen to finally open up because she feels more secure, more hopeful that I will be able to better understand her and her circumstances, now that I myself am preparing to give birth.

Perhaps she hopes that my own experience of carrying a child and giving birth will help me to grasp with more compassion and humility, less judgment and condemnation, what and why things unfolded as they did.

But the truth is that I never sought her out to judge her or to condemn her. I never sought her out to accuse or to demand recompense. I sought her out because she and I have always been a part of each other. I sought her out because I wanted to have hope that it is never too late. I sought her out because I wanted to know her and to have a relationship with her, fully aware that pain and sorrow would remain, yet hoping that healing and redemption would overcome.

And now that we are here, now that I have sought her and found her, we both must be patient with one another. Although it is not too late, although we can now know one another and have a relationship with each other, the pain and sorrow that remain make the process of healing and redemption slow and fragile.

Although I begin to feel more assured that things will not again suddenly break apart, the insecurity, the fear of such happening are always there. Hence, there is a timidity and a trepidation with which we both proceed that is not easily overcome. Yet, what matters is that we continue on.

What matters is that she is now allowing herself to open up. And what sorrow and suffering she has known. My heart aches with her as I read her words over and over.

To those who have always known how their lives began, it’s easy to take for granted that they can know seemingly mundane details about their beginnings. They can forget how meaningful it is to know that their own mothers held them and nursed them in those first days. They can forget how significant it is to be able to know that they were kissed and caressed by the one who gave them birth. Such details are nothing noteworthy or unique to them, because they have always been assumed.

But to people like me, it is precious, painful treasure. To people like me, it is knowledge that is not so easily assumed but rather questioned and received with angst and hopeful tears.

To discover that I was born by Caesarean is like a golden shard lodged in my throat. To learn for the first time that my Omma and I actually spent the first five days of my life together, as she recovered, is like rubbing jagged jewels in my eyes. Discovering that she nursed me during our brief time together is like a bittersweet elixir sinking into my stomach with the weight of an anvil.

Knowing that we had any time together at all—no matter how short or brief those moments —blankets me as though I am both cold and hot.

And there are deep, secret thoughts that she uttered with her written words that I am not inclined to share.

But to those who would say that the only women who relinquish their children are those who have brought it upon themselves, I would first want to shake you with tears of sorrow and grief choking my rage, pleading with you to open your eyes and mind and heart. But I know that you would not hear me. I know that you would simply dismiss me as crazed and unenlightened. I know that my Omma’s story, my Omma’s truth would mean nothing to you, because she is only one woman, only one person. And it seems that one is never enough to convince the many.

Instead, life after life must be forfeited until the trail is a grave of losses and sorrows upon sorrows. And even then, the world may continue to pass by, muttering exceptions and rationalizations as it steps over those who have tried time and time again to rise up, but have found no one to believe in them.

It is not to say that there are not those who have been so willing to reach out and grasp onto to those who cannot make it alone. But there are still those who remain ignored and despised.

My Omma has had to endure such a life.

Of course, she is not perfect. She has not lived a blameless life. But who of us has?

If only the world had been so willing to believe in her as it had been so willing to believe in me. The world saw me as a helpless, innocent child, with no responsibility for the situation thrust upon me. But, ultimately, not one of us is innocent. And ultimately, we all long for mercy rather than judgment.

So, now, every time I feel my son moving in my womb, every time I touch my hand to my abdomen—taut and hard—to feel him pressing against it with a tiny foot or the crown of his head, I think of my Omma. I think of all her sorrow, all her grief, all the pain that she has endured year after year, day after day—a grief and sorrow that both assails and comforts me, because I know, at least I hope I know, that neither my son nor I will ever have to suffer such a fate. And this gives me both a sadness and a pleasure that by knowing the suffering that my Omma and I share, our son will be able to know a depth of wholeness that neither my Omma nor I have ever known.

Making up for Lost Time: the Biology and Sociology of Family

I realized recently that the hope of my husband and I one day giving birth to a child is going to take us on yet another wild roller coaster ride.

* * *

I am discovering that in wanting a child, I am seeking compensation for what was lost forever, that which is impossible to recover. I am hoping for the mergence of the relational and the biological.

As much as one would think that finding my biological family would result in making up for what was lost, it hasn't. My Korean parents and I can't make up for an entire lifetime lost between us.

They can't go back and be there when I took my first steps or spoke my first words, when I learned to read or ride a bike. They can't go back and be there when a boy broke my heart or when I first fell in love. They cannot go back and read stories to me or help me with my homework. They can't tuck me in at night or sit with me after I've had a nightmare. They can't go back and hold my hand as I tried to learn to roller skate or be there Christmas morning after Santa dropped off our loot.

There is nothing that can replace all the years of growing up, learning, and being with my American parents. The history and memories that bind us to one another cannot be reproduced or imitated.

I notice myself clinging more and more to my American parents because of the long history we share, because of the relationships we have developed over the past 30 plus years. The relationships we have forged cannot be substituted or replaced.

I am realizing slowly that all of the biology that my Omma and Appa share with me cannot compensate for all the time lost.

This is quite a learning experience; it surprises me more and more.

* * *

I am also realizing that family relationships are both social and biological. They're not one or the other. It's the whole nature versus nurture thing. Accept in this case, it's not a question of which one matters more--it's simply that they both matter.

Biology is not enough to foster a relationship. Biology cannot step in and magically resurrect a relationship that died before it even began. Biology cannot suddenly make close what has been far away.

And yet a relationship that has been built with time and proximity, familiarity and history cannot replace biology. It may be able to substitute for it to a certain degree, but it cannot replace it.

I have always longed for both.

Now I have both, but they remain divided.

* * *

I tell myself that if I can have a child, I can bring them together. I can make up for what I did not have.

This is what I want to believe, but realistically I know that I cannot place that kind of pressure on myself or on any child that we may have.

And of course, I know that no one thing will ever "fix me." No one thing, no one person will ever make me whole again.

And yet, it is this for which I never stop longing.

I know that giving birth to a child of my own will not solve my problems. In many ways, it will only add to them.

But to my problems it will also add new understanding, and a new beginning. A chance to start over. A chance to experience the synergy of the biological and relational qualities--which are meant to characterize family--working together.

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.