two of Each

Two mothers. Two fathers.

But you can't make up for three plus decades. And yet you can't erase biology.

I am realizing more and more, at least at this point, that I will never have the relationship with my Omma that I have with my Mom, and perhaps vice versa.

I made mention in a previous post, All is Well, that "I also seem to have found my Mom and Dad here in the States in a new and more appreciated way."

In reuniting with my Korean parents, I have only realized more than before that my Mom and Dad are truly my Mom and Dad.

I know that every adoptee's experience is their own, and that there are adoptees who do not necessarily feel this way about their "adoptive parents." It is important that we always acknowledge and respect the diversity of experiences among adoptees. So, please, do not use my personal experiences to take away or judge the experiences of other adoptees, but also don't conclude that my experiences are invalid if they differ from your own.

Honestly, though, reuniting with my Korean parents has in many ways drawn me back to the comfort and familiarity of my Mom and Dad.

When I am sick, I long for my Mom. When I have something I want to talk about, I want to tell my Mom. When my husband and I need advice on buying a car, I go to my Dad. They are who is familiar--we speak the same language, we know the in's and out's of the same culture.

It is not that I do not wish that I could just pick up the phone and speak with my Omma or ask a question of my Appa. It's that I CAN'T. The obvious reason is that we don't speak the same language, but more subtly, it's that my Appa could never give me advice on how to buy a car in the States because what he knows is Korea. My Mom and I have 30+ years of history, and so when I call her up to tell her something I don't have to give any kind of back story. With my Omma, I wouldn't even know where to begin.

So you see, it's easy for me to drift away and unintentionally avoid "dealing" with the post-reunion aspects of cultivating relationships with my Korean parents. With my Omma and Appa on the other side of the world living in a place where the language and culture are foreign to me, it's easy to allow the distance to take over.

It's easy to retreat to what is comfortable and familiar.

I almost feel guilty as though I am taking for granted or growing complacent toward those for whom I waited all of my life to find. Yet, as my husband corrected me, it's not that I am taking my Omma and Appa for granted nor is it not that I feel complacent about our relationship, it is more that I feel overwhelmed by the task at hand. Trying to cultivate relationships with each of them is a constant reminder of all that has been lost and can never be retrieved.

There is of course always hope, I believe.

But each letter I attempt to write, each gesture of reaching out simultaneously brings to light how great is the distance, how deep is the chasm of the past three decades.

As I alluded to in the post "All is Well," trying to manage post-reunion and the relationships involved (with both my American and my Korean parents), feels as though I am staring down into the Grand Canyon. It's breathtaking and complex in both its beauty and terror. And lest I lose my footing and tumble into its perilous depths uncontrollably, I find myself timid and apprehensive to begin the careful and delicate descent into the natural wonder.

No doubt, a journey into it will reveal both danger and awe, joy and grief, disruption and redemption, but it will require patience, caution, wisdom, courage, and most significantly, perseverance.

Lately, however, I have found myself gazing across the canyon from an agreeable distance, focused on the insurmountable, seemingly impossible goal of getting to the other side, overcome with exhaustion and uncertainty at simply the thought of such a task.

And so, I walk away. I return to the warmth of the home I know with it's king-size bed and stocked refrigerator, heat or cold easily remedied by the push of a button.

Yet something feels different and not quite right. Something feels neglected and longing even amidst the coziness and familiarity.

And I realize that the home to which I have returned has changed irrevocably, and that in fact it is not my home any longer. Rather home is now on the other side. For now, I must be itinerant. For now, I am a nomad.

And the truth is that I always have been.

It is not that I have never had a home, but rather that my home was never easily defined or confined within clean, crisp boundaries. My home has always been wild and undiscovered. My home is more than a place. And it is more than just one person or one people. America will always feel like a home, because it is what I know and who I know.

But my home stretches not only into but also across that natural wonder, over the vast seas and oceans, to another place and another people.

That which is familiar to me will always comfort me. I will always return to those whom I know and know me. But I will also continue to stretch myself across to those who knew me if only for a brief moment and now have returned to try to know me once again, for the very first time.

all is well

I just finished reading the adult adoptee memoir, "Lucky Girl," by Mei-Ling Hopgood. I will simply say that every adoptee is truly an individual and each experience is subject to a high degree of variation.

Reading her memoir, however, of course, has forced me to think more about my own experience, thus far, of the process of search, reunion, and post-reunion.

Lately, trying to process all that has happened up to this point has felt like trying to perceive the Grand Canyon or trying to comprehend the depths of the Pacific Ocean or trying to tame a hurricane.

So, instead, I just walk away and tell myself that I will save it for another day. But in the mean time, I'm falling into it, or drowning within it, or swirling about in its chaos, all the while acting as though all is well.

I had a conversation last night with a fellow adoptee friend, and it somewhat ended with her saying, "Well, then, it sounds like things are going well?" I replied, "Sure, yes, things are going well." Although, in my mind, I felt a sense of hesitation, there was nothing immediate that I could identify that was causing me to hesitate. So I could respond in no other way except to say, "All is well" despite the nameless uneasiness and restlessness I felt.

So, I thought about it some more. In general, yes, all is well. I have found my biological mother and father--my Omma and Appa--while I also seem to have found my Mom and Dad here in the States in a new and more appreciated way. [That mention will require a whole other post.]

But I suppose the hesitation that I felt pull at me last night was the reality that it is always complicated. To say all is well feels to me as though I am ignoring the difficulties and complexities of post-reunion. It feels as though I am hiding from the convoluted reality of post-reunion, and hence contributing to the misconception that the story ends when "reunion" takes place.

When I say "all is well," I am simply acknowledging the fortune that, yes, I am one of the "lucky ones" to have found both of my Korean parents. Yet hidden behind such an acknowledgment is the proverbial "but."

All is well BUT I am having a hard time. All is well BUT communication is sparse, broken, strained, draining. All is well BUT how does one draw near to people who live on the other side of the world, who speak another language and live in a different culture.

All is well BUT I have this sense that this is going to be a lot harder than I thought. All is well BUT I feel anxious and uncertain about the future.

All is well BUT I'm not telling you everything, because I don't want to think about it.

All is well because I have been in hiding. I have been setting it to the side. I have been moving on, perhaps, before I am ready to move on, or perhaps because it is the only thing I know to do.

And maybe, it is also because I can grieve only for so long, only for brief moments. Not that I will not return to where I had to leave off.

As of late, I have simply needed a time to wander away.

Yet I sense that I am already on my way back--to return to this confusing state of attempting to merge what seems like divided loyalties, isolated origins, estranged identities--all of which I seem to both love and despise simultaneously.

mark

"...I am more acutely aware that this life of ease and comfort was not made for someone like me--a stranger, an unwanted child, a divided woman with no claim to happiness." Kim Sunee, Trail of Crumbs (a Korean adoptee memoir)

" 'What do you do all day long?'...Writing is not a legitimate answer; neither is cooking or being the full-tme companion of someone..." Kim Sunee, Trail of Crumbs

I often feel as though I have to justify my existence with something grand. I must leave some kind of mark worthy of being given the privilege to live. Simply living never feels as though it is enough to take away the sense of debt and guilt I feel for being alive.

I blame no one for "making" me feel this way. Rather I think it is simply the way that I was born--inherent to the nature of the life that was cast upon me. The way that I was born was the way of one who came into the world already without home or family. And the nature of such a beginning in life is one that leaves me constantly doubting and questioning whether I have yet proven my worthiness to remain.

I am intrigued by the confidence and assurance at which my brothers seem to go through life. They do not seem to question or doubt their right to be here and to take the most of life. I observe this as though it is a foreign land and one that I will never understand.

My Keunappa: Chosun Harley Man USA Tour

If you click on the title of this post it will take you to a slideshow of photos that my Keunappa (my Korean Uncle) posted to YouTube from his road trip across the U.S. on his Harley Davidson motorcycle. My Keunappa is my Appa's (my Korean father's) older brother.

He was on the road for over a month. I met my Keunappa last October for the first time when he passed through town as he was wrapping up the final stages of his road trip. And then this January, my husband and I visited him and his two sons.

The only thing the slideshow is missing is matching music. As cliche as it might be, I imagine the song, "Born to be Wild," playing as the slideshow of photos unfolds...

[For an additional video of my Keunappa riding his Harley in traditional male Korean attire, click here.]

Omma's birthday

Memories from my first trip to Korea, the summer of 2009, during which I met my Korean mother for the first time since my relinquishment in 1975

Bridge on the grounds of a Buddhist temple

Entrance to a Buddhist temple near Gyeongju

Mountains on the way to the historical city of Gyeongju

Today is my Korean mother's birthday.

It remains bizarre and surreal to recognize that I now know this kind of information. That I now know the woman who gave birth to me after over three decades of not knowing whether she was dead or alive, of knowing basically nothing of what had become of her.

Now, I know more than I anticipated. Now I know things that I never expected to know. And I'm still trying to figure out what to do with it all.

For now, I will simply say, Happy Birthday, Omma. I hope this year of life brings you continued healing and redemption. I hope we will know one another for many birthdays to come.

more art therapy...

[dimensions: 15x20]

Don't really like how this one turned out. But oh well, I'm not trying to be Da Vinci, OBVIOUSLY...It simply continues to be good therapy.

This one looks much darker and more stormy and muted in comparison to the two previous paintings I completed and posted, which were much more vibrant and bolder in color.

Beyond Culture Camp

“In all of us there is a hunger, marrow deep, to know our heritage, to know who we are, and where we have come from. Without this enriching knowledge, there is a hollow yearning, no matter what our attainments in life, there is the most disquieting loneliness.” (Alex Haley, Roots, 1976)

I lifted the above quote from the recent study released by the Donaldson Adoption Institute, Beyond Culture Camp: Promoting Healthy Identity Formation in Adoption.

Click on the title of this post to go to the study itself. I've only read the first 20 pages of the study, but so far, it's a worthy read. I plan to read all 113 pages of the study eventually, amidst all the other books I'm also reading ...