Serious Saturday - Adoption Edition

November is National Adoption Awareness Month. It's embarrassing, but I didn't know such a thing existed.

I spent the morning reading the New York Times blog series on "Adoption and the American Family" and the entries range from the thoughtful (teenager Adam Wolfington) to the excellent (AKA's Hollee McGinnis) to the ridiculous (author Tama Janowitz).

The backlash against Janowitz's post (mostly because of the line "Like I say to Willow: 'Well, you know, if you were still in China you would be working in a factory for 14 hours a day with only limited bathroom breaks!'") is interesting. I don't want to turn this into Konichiwa pt 2 - Revenge of the Asian-American Adoptees but I'm struck by the commonality of our feelings and the deep hurt that's felt when our differences are turned into jokes.

Yes, humor is a great way to heal and get through life, but when you're a kid and you lack the ability to understand the distinctions, it can be rough.

I've mentioned before that I am adopted. I was raised by white people from New Jersey in whiter than white Plano, Texas (at least it was back in the 70s. On our side of the tracks, anyway).

I was born (supposedly) Park Don Na. Then I became Linda Owen. Then Linda Fulkerson. And now (through the magic of divorce) I'm Linda Park. I say "supposedly" because Park Don Na is most likely not my birth name. It's a name an employee of City Baby Hospital in Seoul issued to give me an identity. My mother always told me I was abandoned with a note that had my name and birth date, the proverbial baby in the basket, but when I investigated with Holt (our adoption agency), I was told no, that's the happy lie you get (although the woman put it rather more nicely). This didn't upset me at all, though. I'd rather know the truth. Unfortunately, I was also told that due to the circumstances of my dropoff (dumped at the police station) there's not much hope of finding my birth parents. I almost felt relief at this as the stories I've read about adoptees reconnecting with their Korean families don't really sound too rosy (not that I begrudge anyone else with the strength or interest to make the effort). I have enough family issues here in the states. Like I need the same on another continent?! With people I can't communicate with? I used to write stories about them, though. And that is the happy lie I'm fine living with.

When I read articles about different Korean traits, I often wonder about nature vs nurture. I have a hard time identifying with my family (but probably have way more in common with them than I'll admit - you should see my mother's closet and mine - it's eerie), but I went through so much that it's hard to pinpoint what gifts and curses might be from my biological parents. I guess that's one thing I'd want to know - that and a medical history. That'd be handy even though my current reality saves me time filling out forms at the doctor's office!

Apparently the Holt Adoption Manual (of old, I'm assuming) urged parents to discourage the use of Korean and try to assimilate the adopted child as quickly as possible. By the time my mother put me in a Hanbok and took me to a Korean event in Dallas, all I wanted to be was WHITE WHITE WHITE! AS AMERICAN AS APPLE PIE! JUST LIKE ALL MY PALS!

For years I didn't really understand that I looked different than my friends. On a superficial level, I remember being frustrated that I couldn't copy the eyeshadow looks in Seventeen magazine because I have no crease in my eyelid. Let's not even discuss the Merle Norman makeover I got at age 13 where I ended up looking like a child prostitute (I guess no one told those ladies that bright green frosted eyeshadow does NOT flatter little Korean girls)! On a deeper level, there were more subtle discriminations and, of course, a slew of ignorant questions (are you a boat person? etc etc).

Couple this with my crazy parental units and maybe you can understand why I don't look back on life and think, "Oh, what a picnic that was!" Mom, the model Evangelical, wouldn't let me watch Bewitched, threw away my skeleton earrings and freaked out about Sigue Sigue Sputnik. Dad, I can't really talk about because as navel gazing as this is, there are limits. Let's just say we haven't talked in 16 years and it's for a good reason.

However, as I get older and move away from the angry young woman mold I cast myself in, I realize it's okay that my mother wasn't perfect, that it would have been nice if she could have saved me from my father but what's done is done, and even though I got picked on (fish faced gook, anyone?!) and never dated an Asian guy because "well-meaning" people were always trying to fix me up with the only other one in Plano, if I had to trade any of those experiences, I wouldn't be here now. And here is good. Here is the best.

So I celebrate my life as a Korean American adoptee with all the baggage - good and bad - that comes along with it. I spent eight years living in Los Angeles basking in the anonymity of being just another Asian. I'm learning Tae Kwon Do now. I'm trying to find my own ways of honoring a culture I barely know and not be too embarrassed by the one I grew up in (I'm sorry, but with GW as prez, it's a bit hard not to feel the shame). It's an easier road now that I have Tom, the greatest husband on earth.

To my mother, thanks for not giving up on me. I think you're pretty cool despite, you know, that religion thing. To my birth mother, thanks for giving up on me. I can only assume it was the best choice you could make.

Anyong-hi jumuseyo,
Ms. P