Jailed

December 20, 2008

This is ridiculous.  I am currently “locked” in my sister’s room while she has a friend over for coffee. 

I realize that having a sister who was sent to America and speaks practically no Korean is means for shame in this society, but come on, I’m a visitor in her home too, so why did she invite this friend in the first place?

I’m totally pissed. 

Basically she came in, told me she was having a friend over now, and pointed to the computer telling me that I could entertain myself on the Internet.  That’s fine, but then her daughter enters and shuts the door securely (which they never do in this home) and settles herself on the floor.  Grounds for disappointment, hurt, anger, etc?  Yes. 

And come on, I’m not five years old.  I’m an adult.  I remember times while growing up when my parents had guests and of course I was fine playing upstairs in my room by myself.  But I wasn’t secluded to a certain part of the house.  I was allowed to come out of my room to use the toilet, get a drink of water, or feed myself.  Apparently at the present time I must refrain from nourishment and excretion.  Which makes my thirst currently that much more annoying.

Perhaps the worst part of this scenario is that it is nearly impossible for me to convey my feelings to my sister.  First because of the language barrier, second due to the fact that our mindsets are vastly different.   I grew up being valued by my society.  I was not a “secret” or second class citizen.  When I come here people are confused as to why I speak little Korean.  Some people express pity if they know I am an adoptee, i.e. store-owners or taxi drivers offering me free goods.  On the subway when I am spoken to and say I do not understand (in Korean of course), phrases are uttered, and I do not need to be fluent to understand what is being said.  Usually something along the lines of “She comes from America and speaks little Korean,” complete with a downcast stare and shaking of the head.

On my first trip back this bothered me a lot.  However this being my fourth visit I am both prepared and also have a much stronger sense of self.  Unfortunately it’s a part of what adoptees encounter here.  What I was not prepared for was to have my sister behave in basically the same way.

My family has accepted me to a greater extent than that of other adoptees’ families.  There is a lot of good amongst my sisters, their husbands, and my mother.  Does the good outweigh the bad?  Not sure.  I do love them, however how much do I tolerate and at what point do I honestly and bluntly express my feelings while still extending respect and hoping for understanding?

January 5, 2008

This is just one aspect of Korea, their society, my history, their present.  Of course I hope that it will one day change, that there can be a greater awareness of social issues, that I will not have to hide my face and identity in my hometown.  Despite the fact that Korea can be very difficult for me due to these issues, it is where I originated, and in ways continues to be a part of me.  It is the home of my wonderful sisters (despite the above) and mother.  It’s a nation that because of my current mindset I can accept at face value, sift through the negative aspects, and enjoy what is positive.  It’s also a place that although when I visit am sometimes tempted to depart early, know that I will return to on many more occasions.

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.

 

The Rain Came Down Hard

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.

 

 

Language

Written and reflected upon in August 2006

My soul is similar to my brother and sisters’, only the words we have to express ourselves are different and not in the same language.  I feel that our inner beings are basically the same, but mine took a different path and direction and landed on the other side of the earth.

We are probably not very different.  We just use different words to express ourselves.  You are still my family.  I come from you and am inwardly like you.  I can sense your presence within my heart and feel as though you are not far away.  Intrinsically we are together.

The languages that we use might make us at times misunderstand each other, but I believe that our souls communicate on a much deeper level.  A level that is beyond our comprehension and cannot be explained, only felt.

Our souls communicate better than our mouths can.

May 11th

Today is Mother’s Day.  Ironically I found this piece, written March 11, 2008, today.

At times I want so badly to feel my mother’s skin.  To have her touch my face with her weathered and tired hands.  I want to smell her sweaty aroma, made possible thanks to the muggy Korean heat. 

As I write this I wonder what she is doing.  It’s 3 pm tomorrow in Korea, 9 pm here.  What does she do in the afternoons?  Is she taking a solitary walk?  Or is she chatting with an old friend in our  hometown?  Perhaps she is at the market with plans to make an early dinner. 

I want to see her again before she passes.  But what if she leaves the earth before this desire is fulfilled?  There will always be longing.  It is possible, that after we meet again I will not stop yearning for one more encounter, one more chance to have her touch and scent permeate my senses.

She has told me that she always wished to have kept me and never stopped loving me.  I believe her.  She gave me life and meeting her helped me to regain a portion of myself that had been dormant and missing for so long. 

Someday she will go.  I just don’t want it to be quite yet.  It’s because I love her.

To Meet and Wait

I’m with my mother,

I’m on her lap.

 

I can smell her scent,

See her age spots and worn skin.

 

We are not speaking words,

Occasionally exchanging glances.

 

Our minds are in different worlds,

But our bodies are close and touching.

 

I’m waiting for her to say something to me,

Wishing to hear the voice of my relative.