Emotionally I remember the day as rainy and wet, yet I know I saw sunshine and felt the warmth of the April afternoon. I had to ride the subway to get to you, first by walking to the station and then transferring trains half-way through the journey. I was to be there by 11 o’clock. I left the adoptee house in a salmon colored coat, black sweater, black skirt, and black ballet flats. You commented that I looked like So Young, dressed plainly in all one color. I spent extra time drying my hair that morning and applying my makeup. I wanted to look my best for you. I was accompanied by another adoptee. She told me that she would be there for me if I needed support. At first her offer to come along made me uneasy, and I thought to myself, “This is something I must do alone.” Then I remembered the tears I had shed on the subway simply going to the adoption agency to meet my social worker just two days prior. I allowed her companionship, but only on the train, as a means of distraction. After exiting the station she was still by my side, and we walked up the hill towards the building together, she in her sweatshirt and jeans. I concentrated on my steps and uttered only a few words. She took a picture of me outside the agency where other people were standing about. At first glance I wondered if they were my relation, and my heart skipped a beat. Perhaps they too were preparing for a reunion. They were dressed nicely, and I sensed a certain stiffness in their bodies.
She told me that she would accompany me inside, but I politely told her thanks, but no, and then the tears came. My reality (or lack of) had finally hit. It was almost time. She gave me a hug, and I struggled to say I would be okay. She said she would wait outside, but I insisted that it wasn’t necessary. I went into the building with tears streaming down my face. I passed the security guard, an older gentleman who acknowledged my presence with a glance, and I thought to myself, I bet he’s seen this before, he knows why I am here. I went into the small bathroom on the first floor. I made an attempt at composure, but the tears would not stop their silent stream down my face. They were relentless.
After a few minutes I stepped out of the bathroom and made my way up the stairs to the second floor, the floor where the meetings take place. My tears still very much present, prompted the social worker to ask me if I needed more time. I told her yes, and she went into the room next door where my family was sitting and waiting. There was only a very thin wall separating us. I might have even been able to see their shadows, but my memory lacks its usual clarity. I remember hearing her speak a few sentences to them. When she came back I was still in the same state, looking wet and feeling ransacked. I told her that I was ready, but really I wasn’t. I approached the door, she opened it, I took one step forward and the only image I remember seeing is my mother rapidly springing from the couch, her short frame lurching at me. If I thought I had tears before, I was mistaken, now I had tears. I felt my mother grab me and continuously give me several thumps on my back as many Koreans commonly do to their children as a sign of love and affection. She was sobbing, loudly expressing her sorrow, and begging for her forgiveness. It was only after several minutes or seconds (my concept of time obscure) that I thought to ask my translator the meaning of the words my mother had spoken. I looked up thinking that I would have to search the room to find her, and to my surprise there she was, hidden in the corner, wedged behind the door and my mother’s back, and within close proximity. During this moment my mind slowly began to ease itself out of its hazy trance. I became more conscious of the place where I physically stood, the hands that were touching me, and the eyes that could not stop looking at me.
Although my thoughts stayed mostly jumbled and my awareness recurrently muddied, I do remember certain sentences that were uttered as situations were explained, glances were offered, and movements of the body were felt. My mother was working so hard to take all of me in. Sitting to my left she held one of my hands in hers while using the other to firmly stroke the side of my face, concentrating mostly on my temple area. I remember thinking, but not really caring that she was rubbing all of the makeup off one side of my face and that I still had more family to meet.
As I sat next to her I did not feel like the me I had always known. I did not even feel like a physically whole person. Instead it was as though I consisted of a million tiny pieces, with each representing a different emotion. It seemed that all these pieces were scattered about the room, and I felt energy like I’ve never felt before. It was a time of both deep hurt and ecstatic joy.
I have always been asked, by both adoptees and non-adoptees, what it was like to meet my birth mother. My standard response has always been “very emotional.” It is difficult to put words to such an intimate experience while still honoring the genuineness of that moment. So much truth can be given in a single glance. So much understanding can be gained through one touch. Our initial meeting has evolved into a much broader and expansive experience and become profoundly embedded within my being. The pieces of me have not all settled and even for the ones that have, there is no guarantee they will stay where they rest. It seems that after each moment of stillness a portion of the pieces that formulate who I am are again suspended and challenged to find their way back to a place of serenity. While I cannot expect my emotions to ever be completely resolved I do find solace in knowing that there are and will be less occasions of disturbance to accompany my increased feeling of awareness.
