Status-post Korea

 

I recently returned from a 2 week trip to Korea.  In brief I spent time with the family, saw my mom, visited my hometown, and enjoyed the company of some other adoptees as well. 

Before I departed I felt that this trip, my 4th in a little under 3 years would seem more like a vacation and less like an epic Korean drama.  I was wrong.  There were no Korean winter equivalents of laying on a sandy beach with a fruity drink in hand.  Those tiny umbrellas seeming so nice….

Although Korea was no trip to the spa, it wasn’t all bad, and I am still glad I went.  What I wanted most, to see my mom, was granted.  And ever since it was promised to me, upon first meeting my mother, I’ve longed to visit the place where I would have grown up and to see my father’s grave.  At the last minute all this happened and became reality. 

What words can be offered regarding visiting the resting place of the man whose DNA is my own?  The person who I’ve been told I share many similarities and not just physical traits either.  Per my mother and sisters I have my father’s nose, his physique, his hands, and most interesting to me, his demeanor.  Like me he was somewhat quiet and spoke far fewer words than my mother.  He was calm and reserved.  Once while at the jimjilbang (sauna), my nephew pointed at my face and said, “Just like your father, no sweat.”  He was a well-controlled man.

When something is promised to you it is natural to cultivate a desire for it.  When something is promised, but then prohibited it is even more natural for it to evolve into a deep and intense longing.  That is in essence the history of my relationship to my hometown and father.  Changhung is a town of 20,000.  My family is known there, my brother’s status as an adoptee, and that of my existence is not.  My mother stated many times that she wished for me to visit, but unfortunately it was not possible.  I felt that my only option would be to go at a later time in my life and without my family’s knowledge.  I would have to sneak into my hometown, as a tourist, a visitor, as someone who had spent many years yearning to see the course her life could have taken. 

Ironically I did sneak back to my roots.  Arriving at 5:30 am, accompanied by my 26 year old brother and 26 year old nephew, the tiny car we rode in winded its way into Korea’s rural landscape.  While my brother drove my nephew turned his head in the passenger seat and said, “Now we are in Changhung.  Now we are in your hometown.”  I can’t remember my exact response, but I know it was not much more than a simple “ok.”  I felt a mixture of both excitement and sadness.  It was dark so I could barely make out most buildings.  Many of my sisters thought it best that I arrive before daylight so as not to be detected by my mother’s neighbors.  We drove by the gate to my mother’s house, the place where every sister grew up, the place where she walked with me in her womb.  It was closed, and I could not see in.  She was asleep, unseen on the other side, lying somewhere on the warm Korean floor.  I felt a twinge of defeat.  I was so close to attaining it all.  I wanted to go inside, eat my mother’s food, sit on her floor and then lie down to rest beside her.

Next we drove by the new home my mother is building with money given to her by all my sisters.  It is probably only 200 yards from the old house.  The church my mother attends every Sunday since the time of my father’s death is literally right across the dirt road.  The barn that shelters my mother’s 4 cows is in the front yard and towards the back, elevated on a small hill is my father’s gravesite.  With my nephew translating my brother’s short phrases I was able to attach meaning to the buildings I was seeing.  “Here is your mother’s church.  There is the place of your mother’s cows.”  We drove along the road directly in front of the newly laid foundation and then I heard “There is your father’s grave (pointing).  We can go no further because the road is closed.”  With it being nearly pitch black I could see nothing.  Again I felt like I had been robbed of first place and forced to settle for second.  I could feel tears begin to well behind my eyes and a sense of anger and frustration towards my brother and the situation as a whole once again creep into my bones.  “Can we walk?”  My brother and nephew exchange glances, but nothing is said.  The car turns around.  We head out the way we entered.  We are leaving.  I think, “They don’t want to say the word ‘no’ to me because they are aware it will make me cry.”  Then, a generous gesture is made and the car pulls alongside a building and is put in park.  The engine is turned off and we are getting out, going on foot to my father’s grave. 

I don’t know what to think or feel at this time, this being the extent of my awareness, ”I’m walking to the grave.  Should I be tearful, nervous, thankful, what?”  From the car we walk for approximately a minute, but what seems like much longer due to the darkness and silence of the early morning.  The cows moo at me, and I wonder if this is the same field they graze in, and if so, should I watch my step, however impossible that may be. 

I arrive at his grave.  My brother wants me to bow twice in traditional Korean fashion.  I do not know how to do this.  He tries explaining this to me in Korean, but I do not understand so he demonstrates.  Then it is my turn.  I go from standing to kneeling to having my face inches from the dirt all in honor of the man who chose to give me away.  When I am done I watch my nephew do the same.  At this point I find myself studying his technique and wondering if mine had the same resemblance, not yet acknowledging the immense space this event will hold in my heart.  We are now finished and my brother announces it is time to go.  I don’t feel like turning to leave quite yet.  I want to stay and stare longer at this mound of earth.  I want some thoughts, any thoughts, to come into my mind and in some way move me.  It doesn’t happen, but deep in my gut I know that this is and will be the highlight of my trip.  Even seeing my mother, a live person, cannot compare.  The two experiences are not of the same class.  Like mothers and fathers, their significance varies widely.  As I walk down the hill towards the car I am slightly amazed at having no anger or even bitterness towards this man.  If he was watching I am sure he saw beauty and peace in this scene.  His ninth daughter finally returned; his son, loved without hesitation as his own, standing side by side in full acknowledgement and respect for the life the other leads, surrounded by the sameness from which all has evolved.