Reflections

I had monolids (no crease) until my early thirties, but sometimes my eyelids would flip on their own like this.

I am four. I show my mom that sometimes I can make my eyelids fold over like hers. I am proud. She says nothing but her silence is loud.

I am five. My class is seated on the carpet in front of Mrs. Blue. She asks each of us, "What color are your mother's eyes?" My kindergarten brain races to figure this out. . . . People have different eye colors? I didn't know that. . .  I listen to each classmate. I think. I can't remember. Maybe I will tell a lie.

Mrs. Blue asks me, "What color are your mother's eyes?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know?! How can you not know what color your mother's eyes are?"

I am ashamed.

I am six.

I am seven. At the bus stop, an Asian girl greets me. I haven't seen her before. "I like your lunch pail," she says with a smile and a thick accent. "What?" I pretend I don't understand her. "Your lunch pail," she repeats. Her smile has faded. "It's not called a lunch 'pail.' It's a lunch 'box.'" I say.

I am in eight. I tell my third grade teacher, Mrs. Gallagher, "I wish my eyes were like everybody else's." She tells me, "Other people get surgery so their eyes look like yours." Her eyes look kind when she says this. My parents and I go to a Chinese restaurant. "This is Oriental food," I am told.

Probably not the restaurant we went to, but this place has been around for a million years. Surprisingly, they haven't changed their name.
Photo credit: https://s3-media2.fl.yelpcdn.com/bphoto/i5DIIQ2hjSL6FbguKzxcoQ/ls.jpg

I am nine. My parents and I walk through the mall together. "Why are they staring?" my dad says to no one in particular. "They're staring at us!" my mom says in a "Duh!" kind of way to him. I know she means it's because of me.

I am ten. I hear, "Ching chong, ding dong," "Tuning in Tokyo," and "Chinese, Japanese, dirty knees, look at these," so many times. Other kids pull the corners of their eyes at me. I don't know what words to say, but I know this is a bad feeling. My godmother sends a gift all the way from St. Louis - it's a red pajama set with frog closures, white trim, and colorful embroidered accents. "It's an Oriental outfit," Mom says. I am told to put it on and stand for a picture. I smile, because that's what you do when someone takes your picture.

I am eleven. A mirror in our home is painted with daisies. It's a special mirror, painted for my mother, who loves this flower. The reflection in my periphery catches me off guard. I'm startled. The face in the mirror is not, cannot be mine - this person does not have my mother's big brown eyes and curly eyelashes, nor both of my parents' wavy chestnut hair. That person's straight, black hair is foreign and unfamiliar; the shape of her face is wrong and unappealing. That person isn't me. That person isn't white. I don't know who she is.

I am twelve. Two classmates call my house. "Hello?" I answer. They ask, "You got beef chop suey? We want beef chop suey! You give beef chop suey rie now!" They laugh. I don't know what to say. I hand the phone to Daddy, who says words I can't remember through the shame of it. Daddy says, "Ignore them." I can't. I see these classmates the following school day and we act like nothing happened.

I am thirteen. My spiral perm is in full effect, but my bangs just cannot seem to achieve a desirable height and fullness. I try eyeliner on the bottom lid like everyone at school. It looks terrible. Occasionally, I clip a clothespin to my nose to see if it becomes more pointy. Julia Roberts's full lips are so popular. For the first time ever, I'm glad about some part of my face.

Feeling cute at our eighth grade dance.

I am fourteen. We move from Jacksonville to St. Louis. The black girls are really friendly, and they ask me about Florida because they want to know how "the real people live." I feel embraced.

10th grade English class.

I am seventeen. It is homecoming, and we walk through the darkened school parking lot. I stumble in a little dent in the asphalt. Jenny says, "It's your heritage," and I laugh. I make jokes that my nails can grow long without breaking because of all the rice I eat. Steve says, "There's a WWE wrestler named 'Kimchi.' Let's call you, 'Kimchi.'" "Yeah!" I agree. My boyfriend tells me that he heard that sex with Oriental girls is better than with regular girls. Our school musical that year is Oklahoma! I try out for the part of Ado Annie because I like her spunk. I sing and perform my lines with as much enthusiasm and energy that the part seems to call for. Jenny tells me later that a mom in the audience was overheard telling the person next to her, "She speaks English so well!" Why wouldn't I? I wonder. I got "Women's Chorus" instead of of Ado Annie. I wonder how I could've auditioned better.

In my parents' living room before senior prom.

I am eighteen. A customer asks, "Are you Korean?" "Yes." "My grandpa died to protect your sorry asses. I don't know why America has to save you pieces of shit all the time. And you don't even do shit for us." He snatches his bag and stomps out of the store. He is around my age and wears a Korean War jacket.

I am nineteen. "What is anthropology?" a professor asks our class. "It's the study of people, and cultural anthropology studies the culture of particular groups." This tickles my brain. I am hungry to know about the culture of my group, of any group. I change my major to anthropology.

Just received my BA in anthropology.

I am twenty-one. I work at a photo processing store. A pair of regular customers come in. They are Asian.

"Are you Korean?" the wife asks.

"Yes, but I was adopted when I was a baby."

"Ohhhhh, I'm sorry," she says.

The next time this couple comes in, she brings a gift in a black box. "Open it!" I do. It is a pair of Korean wooden dolls, a male and female. They are painted with brightly-colored clothes.

"What do you think they are?" the wife asks.

"A girl and boy?" I guess.

"Guess again."

"Brother and sister?"

"Guess again."

"I don't know."

"It's a bride and groom!" I am ashamed for my ignorance. The couple doesn't return.

My dolls are long gone, but amazingly, Google found a nearly-identical image of the ones I had.
Photo credit: https://i.etsystatic.com/9089966/r/il/1c546b/1574000264/il_794xN.1574000264_phbq.jpg

I am twenty-four. My husband and I eat at Motoga. The waitress asks, "Are you Korean?"

"Yes, but I was adopted when I was a baby." She is happy and wistful when talking about Korean things. She tells me about how sushi was co-opted by the Japanese. There is a bitterness in her voice that surprises me. I wonder why it's there.

I am thirty-three, and have just birthed my son. I ask, "Tell me what he looks like." Heather, our doula, answers, "He looks like an Asian baby." I don't know what this means because I don't know what Asian newborns look like.

Fresh and new.

I am thirty-four. At a work conference, my colleagues and I chat at the hotel bar. I tell them about my husband's recent Valentine's Day foible - he mistakenly walked into a massage parlor with the intention of buying me a gift card for a manicure. (In his defense, their sign simply reads, "Spa," as if that's a clear indication of the services rendered inside.) A white colleague says with a thick accent, squinted eyes, and exaggerated, repeated nod, "You like massage? Me love you long time!" She laughs and laughs. I smile but inside, I'm a child on the playground again.

My son is four. Soon, he'll be in school. Soon, he'll need to know what it means to navigate the world with a face so similar to mine. How can I teach him if I don't know? This is my job, and my job alone. His hair grows blacker by the day. I need to be brave.

My son is four years old.

I am forty. I am in Korea for the first time since I left as a toddler. We adoptees are led around like children because that's what we are here. "This is King Sejong the Great who invented the Korean written language. . . . This is how you say, 'Thank you,' in Korean. . . This is how you accept a gift. . . This is . . . " The volume on my emotions is turned up here. I've only met another Korean adoptee once in my life, and now there are 27 other faces that look like mine and also "speak English so well." Everything is painful, beautiful, and larger-than-life. I meet my birth mother. She calls me by my Korean name. I am angry. I long for plain vegetables and ranch dressing toward the end.

My son is seven. I have begun cooking Korean food. I made an abundance of bulgogi. My son asks, "What's for dinner?" He peeks in the container. "Bulgogi, again?!" I feel triumphant.

One of my first attempts at a full-blown Korean meal.

My son is seven. We take him to Taekwondo for the first time. He cries because it's new. At the end of class, he's all smiles. "That was a little fun," he says. He learns how to say, "Hello," and "Thank you," in Korean to Master Kim. I am bursting.

Meeting Master Kim. Even though it's quite a drive from our house, it's vital that our son learns Taekwondo from Koreans. He needs to see Korean men and know that he is powerful.

I am forty-two. I will return to Korea for the second time since my adoption in a few days, but now, I need to study Hangul because my Korean tutor, Jinyi, promised we'd have a quiz today. I repeat the words over and over again, writing them as I speak. My mom watches me. She says, "Is it hard?"

"Yeah. I have to do a lot of repetition."

"I'm sorry. I should've sent you to Korean school when you were little."

First attempts at Hangul.

I returned from Korea nearly two weeks ago. This time, Korea felt more like home. I ordered food by myself. I rode public transportation by myself. I walked the streets that my ancestors walked. I saw the same mountains that they saw, and I waded in the same streams. I spoke and read Korean words to Korean people. Korean people spoke to me in our shared language - I wasn't treated as a foreigner. I watched Korean families go about their daily lives. I cried every single day. Omma and I Facetimed my husband and son. My son says he wants to go to Korea with me next time to meet his halmoni. This feels like healing.

I am forty-two.