Pathos of Asian Adoptees

My story is unique, yet it is nothing new.

Born almost 26 years ago, in a small clinic outside the bustling city of Seoul, a young woman gave birth to me. Less than three pounds in weight, two months early (I suppose this was a good indication of how I’d be later in life - I’m so impatient!), I was certainly not an easy burden to bear. According to the file I’ve read time and time again, my biological mother was somewhere around 21-years-old, single, and unwed. She was 5’0” and 110 pounds. She met my biological father and, under the guise of having a future together, had a whirlwind romance that ended when he left her - and left her with me, growing inside of her. He was tall, and skinny, and spoke in a traditional Seoul dialect, so the paper says. I’ve never thought much about him.

She wore no sort of physical binding to conceal her pregnancy, and she suffered no morning sickness - something that always seemed like a glimmer of hope for me when I finally decide to have children. I always grew up with the understanding that my name, Chae-Won, was one she had given me, but I believe the adoption agency in South Korea gave me that name. I don’t know what she called me or if she called me anything at all.

I was put into foster care two months after being born, two months in which I can only assume my birth mother tried to take care of me and nurse me to health. My foster mother fed me, gave me things like tangerine juice, and saved me from succumbing to pneumonia. In the first picture my parents received of me, the hair at the top-rear of my head is sticking in every direction having been shaved to insert an IV due to the pneumonia.

My siblings and parents have often told me their versions of the story. My sister was nine, my brother was seven. Their accounts are somewhat different than my parents, but all of them recall the day they received my picture in the mail. I was tiny, my eyes almond-shaped and large with fright, placed on a tiny black-and-gold throne. At my feet, a placard read, “Kim, Chae-Won:” it was one of the only mementos of my Korean life I had with me when I finally arrived on January 15, 1988.

Growing up wasn’t necessarily easy when it came to being “different.” The only Asian child for most of my elementary school years meant a lot of unnecessary questions (the common “Who are your REAL parents?” amongst others), bullying (“The only reason you’re adopted is because your REAL parents didn’t love you!”), and general confusion at the fact that my parents were white. Maybe it’s only in retrospect, but I’ve always thought it is easier to spot an adopted child than it is an adopted adolescent or adult. I remember walking with my dad in the city once as a teenager, and I remember the amount of disgusted, horrified stares we got because people assumed this older, white gentleman was dating a young, teenage Asian girl. But when you’re a child, Asian, and with parents who are a different race, it seems generally understood that you’re adopted.

I’ve been met with a lot of insensitively curious people who come up to me out of the blue and ask me where I’m from. I usually respond with, “New York.” Then they retort with, “No, where are you REALLY from?” Never being one to lie, I will usually oblige with, “South Korea.” While I understand that we tend to have a natural curiosity about our fellow human beings, the question gets old very quickly. Why can’t you just accept that I may not be from another country, just because I look different than you? For other Asians who ask me where I’m from, I understand that they are trying to establish a connection, a rapport based on similar origins. But I am afraid I can’t offer much in that realm since I know only a handful of words in Korean, have no knowledge of Korean culture, and am really alienated from the country in which I was born.

For fellow adoptees, I would like to say that you may come to a point in your life where you question your entire existence. I know that this journey started for me when I was about sixteen years old. I finally began to wonder about my biological family, where I fit in, where I belonged. I have yet to find the answers to those questions, but I am beginning to understand and accept that maybe there aren’t answers. Maybe, for adopted children or bi-racial children, there is no ONE place for us to fit in. Maybe we’re an amalgamation of different cultures, different people, and maybe that’s completely okay. Maybe the rest of the world hasn’t caught up to the idea that we don’t have to fit into a neat, little box - that we can be a mosaic of cultures, and a beautiful one at that. Whenever this journey starts for you, I wish for you peace. I wish for you acceptance. I wish for you strength and happiness. The world will try to take those things away from you; please, don’t ever let them.

For adoptive parents, I want to stress to you that you have know your children will face struggles. They will question their identities. And it doesn’t mean that they don’t love you, respect you, or want to be a part of your - THEIR - family. Please be supportive of them as they discover the meaning of who They are. And please acknowledge the fact that yes, they are different. They were born somewhere else, they are a different race, they will experience things you will never understand first-hand. Be there for them. Love them regardless. But don’t be color-blind. Don’t pretend like they are the same as you, because they aren’t. Acknowledge that they will deal with ignorant people (like the man who argued that my sister and I couldn’t be sisters because we didn’t look alike), but that they can still be a whole person. Support them on their journey, on their exploration of the world and the world according to them. Don’t be afraid when they want to know where they’ve come from or the woman who gave them away. Hug them when they cry about feeling abandoned. Love them all the same.