Anticipation

All adoptees are different. Some of us have no desire to find our birth families. Some of us feel incomplete. Some of us vacillate between the two, depending on the circumstances in our lives at any given moment. 

In my case, I've always hovered somewhere in the middle. Unlike some Korean Adoptees, (KADs) I've never felt like I was missing something. A sense of curiosity has always lingered, though, its intensity waxing and waning throughout the years.

I've always known I was adopted, but I didn't truly understand what that meant for a long time. As a little girl, I marveled at how my eyelids (at the time) had no line, (I would later learn that the term, "monolid" describes this ) while my mom's did. There was no background knowledge of whiteness versus non-whiteness, just a purely honest, "Hey! Have you guys seen this?!" kind of childhood interest.

Me at 6. Rockin' the monolid.

Time clouds memories, but in my mind's eye, I recall this as the first time my adoption was discussed with me:

My mom and I were in my parents' bathroom; I sat on the counter in front of the big mirror. I was between four and six years old. There was no fanfare; Mom was doing Mom stuff. She told me that I was adopted, and that my birth mom loved me very much.

"She kept you for a year, but it was too hard for her to take care of you, so she gave you up. She wanted you to have a better life."

Somewhere in the space between matter-of-fact and sympathetic, this new detail was delivered with the slightest hint of comfort. To soothe. To calm. My child's brain was unsure why this statement needed softening. It has nevertheless resided in the corners of my brain ever since.

Mom and I, circa 2009.

Fast forward to Mother's Day, mid 90s. I am a teenager. Again, it is my mom and I. This time, there was a preface.

"Let's look at something."

We sat on my parents' bed, and she pulled out the lockbox. Birth certificates, Social Security cards, and other Very Important Things lived here. In it was a blue folder. "Kim's Adoption Stuff" was written on the front in my mom's handwriting. Now, my heart raced. "These are your adoption papers.  This is how you came to us." Stillness blanketed the room as I began to discover the crinkled papers for the first time. This was another life. Not mine. But somehow, it did belong to me. Hangul stood alongside broken English on the same page. Unfamiliar names and sounds peppered each paper. People and places I would have known in another life. I didn't want to linger on them too long, lest I make my mom feel uncomfortable.

"She loved you very much."

"We named you 'Kim' after her."

"She kept you as long as she could." 

Coming to America. Page 1. Chapter 1.

Passport picture.

I am much more fortunate than many. My parents kept everything. They held no secrets from me. Many of us don't have much to go on, and our desire to reconnect vastly outweighs the evidence at our disposal. As much as we may want to, there is a wide range of reasons why we may never be able to find our blood relatives. It is the exception, not the rule, for us to find out who we come from.

Fast forward again. Moving (back) to Florida. Marriage. Work. House. Baby.

Baby.

Never in my wildest dreams would I have expected that it would be him, my son, who would finally compel me to reopen this chapter. A birth family search is hard and scary. But the alternative frightens me more. It is my job to arm him with knowledge and pride so that when he hears, "Ching chong ding dong," (or whatever the 21st century version is) the words will slide off like water on glass.

I hope the offenders get this look from my son.

In July of 2017, I began my birth family search in full. Not knowing how the process works, I sent my agency, Eastern Social Welfare Society, my case number and some information from my records.

If you're an Eastern adoptee starting your birth family search, expect to wait. The next time I heard from them was four months later. The email apologized for their lack of response. 

Also, this was actually the second time I'd contacted them that summer. I didn't even know about the requisite forms until GOA'L helped me out. If you're a KAD with zero ideas on where to start your search, GOA'L is exceptionally helpful. When I began to gather documents for the Mosaic Tour, I also found birth family search advocates and support in Me and Korea, the organization that runs the Tour.

Self-protection made me apathetic about the process. Que sera sera. I hoped, but I didn't. 

Then I got this:

I really never thought this would happen. I mean, really. Really? Is this real? I still read this email sometimes to make sure it's real.

Thankfully, I already wrote her a letter and curated a collection of pictures for the Mosaic Tour. I amended the letter slightly, and sent it off about a week later.

May.

I write to them again, wondering what, if anything, had transpired. Did she reply to me? What did she think of the letter? The pictures? I sent dates for a possible meeting. What was her response? Did she want to meet me? Or was the satisfaction that I didn't grow up to be an axe murderer enough?

My parents, being the wonderful people they are, have sent me nothing other than love and support. Many KADs, though, are not so fortunate, and their desire to reconnect is met with discomfort and derision from their adoptive parents. I am still uncomfortable in this space where I have more than one set of parents. Thankfully, my mom and dad are not.

Nowadays, KADs commonly refer to our adoption day as "Gotcha Day," but my parents called it my "Anniversary."  Its continued commemoration by my folks, even all these years later, is very meaningful for me.

This is the end of the story, for now.

I leave for Korea in 16 days.

I don't want to hope, but I do.