Heart, Mind and Seoul

One Perspective on Parenting Through the Lens of an Adoptee, AP and Bio Parent

 

Thank you to my friend (you know who you are) who asked me to write this piece.  Without your request, it might have been another couple months before this blog got any action!  :) 

 

Though I feel I could say so much more about this topic, here is a short piece on some of my feelings about how parenting has affected my views towards my own adoption. . .

 

 

Though I’m not an overly sentimental person, at any given moment I can fondly and vividly recall each and every step of my first (and only) pregnancy with our oldest child some seven years ago.  I remember exactly how I felt the morning I charted my waking temperature and saw that it had stayed elevated; I sensed immediately that my body was somehow different.  Sure enough, six home pregnancy tests in the following weeks confirmed my hopes and suspicions:  I was indeed pregnant.

 

I know that for many adult adoptees, a pregnancy can elicit a broad range of feelings surrounding their own adoption, which makes perfect sense to me.  But in all honesty, I personally thought very little about my own adoption or my Korean parents while I was pregnant with my daughter.  In fact, the magnitude of the possibility that for the first time in my life I would actually know someone who was literally a part of me and I of them didn’t make its full impact until our daughter was well beyond the infant stage.

 

It wasn’t until my husband and I traveled to Korea to adopt our son that both my mind and body started to recognize, absorb and truly experience the full spectrum of emotions that I harbored about my own adoption.  Being back in the country of my birth, surrounded by people who appeared so familiar and yet so foreign, was an overwhelming and surreal experience.  So many times I caught myself staring into the faces of people in random restaurants, on the subways or in the streets of Namdaemun Market wondering, “Could you be my mother or father?” or “Do you know of a sibling that you might have who was sent to America over 30 years ago?”  And I couldn’t help but wonder as I wandered the congested but overwhelmingly silent streets of Seoul, “Was there anyone out there looking for me?  Did there happen to be even one person in this enormous city who was missing me after all these years?”

 

We arrived back in the States with our Korean-born son when he was almost nine months; he was just three months older than I was when I came to live with my American parents.  It wasn’t until after I became an adoptive parent that I realized how much my own adoption had affected and impacted my life.  I came to realize that my seemingly unaffected behavior while pregnant stemmed more from an inability to connect and relate to my own daughter’s beginnings.  Intentionally conceiving a child, carrying her for almost nine months, delivering her and having the privilege to parent and raise her was such a dramatically different story from my own history.  Yes, I was conceived, carried and delivered, but in what context I may never know.  And being raised and parented by the woman who birthed me was not like my daughter’s journey into this world.  My daughter has never experienced the gravity of being permanently separated from the woman who nourished and carried her for so many months.  Neither my son nor I can say the same about our respective Korean mothers.  Meeting my son for the first time in Seoul brought to life the fact that yes, I did have a full six months of life in Korea that not only existed but mattered greatly.  It not only mattered then, but it has continued to matter throughout my entire life. . . as it should.  And just as importantly, the significance of the nine months spent inside my Korean mother means just as much to me now as does the nine months that I carried my daughter. 

 

I have to admit that I cringe whenever I hear people say that bringing a child into the family through adoption is no different than giving birth.  To pretend that my son and daughter came into our family under equal and equitable conditions is not only untruthful, but also does a great disservice to each of them as individuals and to their respective beginnings.   And to suggest that our son’s entry into our family was somehow comparable to our daughter’s is laughable at best; at worst it blatantly diminishes and callously devalues the significance of our son’s Korean parents and his relationship with them.  I know that many people like to believe that an adopted child’s life begins when he or she is adopted and that their life prior to joining their “forever family” is not equal in measure or consequence.  In my experiences as both an adoptee and as an adoptive parent, I can assure you nothing is further from the truth. 

 

Being a parent to a child both by birth and through adoption has given me the opportunity to grant myself permission to question, challenge and fully explore the myriad of feelings, thoughts and emotions that I have about being adopted.  Though I am fully aware that my son’s adoption journey will be his and his alone, I see so many similarities in his own search towards identity, autonomy and insatiable need for permanence that I and so many other adoptees I know have experienced at one point throughout our lives.  Through honest and critical introspection, through pages and pages of documented research about adoptees and through first-hand experience as an adoptive parent, I have amassed such a clear understanding of the how’s, why’s, and what’s that I felt, thought and experienced as a child and young adult.  I realize now that being adopted is a life-long process with many challenges and continuous discoveries about oneself, not a one-time event that can be marked with finite parameters like the day an adoption becomes finalized and the child legally becomes someone else’s. 

 

Some may argue that the real meaning of parental love means treating each of your children exactly the same way at all times.  I personally believe that truly loving my children means giving each child whatever he or she needs in order to thrive, to feel safe, to feel empowered and to feel more like themselves.  In many cases, my son and daughter may receive the same from me, but often times they do not.  Yes, I see each of them as my children whom I love dearly, but first I try to see them in their full totality as individuals; individuals who came from dramatically different beginnings that cannot and should not be forgotten. 

Material Girl is Denied Lucky Star Treatment

"This is a triumph for the children of Malawi," said Mavuto Bamusi, the national coordinator of Malawi Human Rights Consultative Committee.

"Inter-country adoption is not the best way of providing protection to children ... they should grow up in familiar cultural and religious surroundings," Bamusi said, adding that "supporting children from outside our country only helps five of the 1.5 million orphans we have."

Read the full article here:

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I realize that this ruling is going to infuriate a huge number of people, namely adoptive parents and/or prospective adoptive parents.  I've already read through various comments about this story in different media outlets and the themes are oh-so familiar:  Why deprive this child from all of the opportunities she'd never get in her home country?  This rule (the residency requirement) is absurd.  All this judge is doing is hurting these kids' chances of having a real family.  What's the big deal anyway about having to leave your country of birth? 

My thoughts?  Why can't - or more importantly - why won't Madge fulfill the residency requirement?  I don't exactly believe it's because of a lack of funds or resources.  And wouldn't it be an incredible opportunity for her son David to emotionally and physically reconnect to his biological father and birth country in a way that no phone call, book, picture or video could ever could begin to provide? 

I suspect it's because it's too much of a burden, too much of an inconvenience to her lifestyle.  Of course I cannot say this as fact and unless M. herself chooses to reveal the real reason for not fulfilling the residency requirement, we'll never know the full truth. 

All I'm saying is that this situation (on the surface and from the details that have been given to the public thus far) appears to be yet another example in a long line of instances where the PAP chooses to put his/her own best interests ahead of the child's.  Why should the onus always land squarely on the child to be the one to adjust, uproot and incur the trauma of a sudden movement away from everything s/he has ever known, simply because it just doesn't fit nicely into the PAP's plans of how they think things should work out?

My husband and I are not above this criticism either.  Truth be told, my husband initially had reservations about traveling.  Our agency offered both a travel and an escort option and my husband was very seriously considering the latter.  After much discussion between the two of us, we both were of the same mind that traveling was really the only option, not because it would be a fun, cool trip and a chance for us to travel, but because at the end of the day, it was what we believed to be the absolute best for our son. 

When we ended up traveling, we stayed only a week in Seoul.  Part of me likes to think that if we were able to have physical custody of our son for an extended period of time before leaving the country, that we would have stayed in Korea longer to aid with his transition.  But I can tell you this, if Korea's rules had explicitly stated that we needed to live in the country for a specific amount of time before or after receiving our son and we could not do it - we certainly would not have asked for preferential treatment or special exceptions to be made simply because we couldn't  - or didn't want to - do it. 

Think about it.  When I was pregnant with our daughter, I spent several weeks on strict bed rest before her delivery.  Per doctor's orders, my bathroom breaks and shower combined could not exceed 45 minutes a day.   My doctor said that if I didn't think I could abide by this, that I'd be spending the next several weeks in a hospital bed.  So strict bed rest at home it was.  Yes, I lost out on that income from not being able to work.  Yes, it put additional duties and stress on my husband and our extended family to help me with the things I could no longer do.  Yes, it was a huge adjustment.  But you know what?  I did it because it was what was best for our daughter.  There wasn't even a choice in the matter.

And yet it when it comes to the overall welfare of an adopted child, the standards for "what is best" too often becomes, "what is good enough".  And too many times, the actions of APs/PAPs becomes justified by what this child is "getting in return".

How many times have we heard "Adopted children deserve to be treated just as well as bio children?"

If parents really mean it when they say, "I would do anything for my child", then hopefully this applies to adopted children as well. 

What Kids are Hearing When No One is Talking

During my first real job as an adult, I worked for a woman who had a theory about the people in our company who (for whatever reason) didn't pull their own weight.  She hypothesized that when it came right down to it, there are only ever two real reasons why someone won't do something.  She believed it was either because they didn't know how, or because they didn't want to know how.

I'm thinking this conjecture of hers could very well apply to many of the kids that I've encountered in the past five months while working as a substitute teacher when it comes to talking - really talking - about race.

I have taught in ten different schools within one particular school district.  I have met approximately one thousand students ranging in age from six years old to 18.   According to the 2000 U.S. Census Bureau, the city in which most of these students reside is 97% White. 

At some of the elementary schools where I have taught, I have been able to count the number of children of color on one hand. . .not in just one class, but in the entire school.  And of the hundreds of teachers I have met or seen in the various hallways of these schools, I remember meeting only 2 whom are of color.

Please don't misunderstand.  I am not suggesting that this is a "bad" school district simply because of its lack of diversity.  I am not asserting that all the students, staff and families that comprise the communities of these schools are all racist or that the majority of my substitute teaching experiences have been marred by racist acts or undertones.

What I am saying is, that based on my experiences with the hundreds of kids that I have encountered, I don't know how well equipped many of these students are with the appropriate language, skills and other necessary tools in order to have a relevant, meaningful and respectful dialogue about race.

I say that because there have been numerous racist incidents which I've had to address with several students, including incidents where I have been the target of the racist slur or insult.  I absolutely believe that a woeful lack of education and exposure - both at home at and at school - about how to talk about race and race consciousness manifests itself into the kinds of actions, words and behaviors that I have witnessed.

As I was explaining to my husband the other night, my motivation to raise an awareness about my experiences in these schools in no way stems from a desire to seek any kind of personal vindication.  I am a big girl.  I can, and have - to the best of my ability - fully addressed each and every incident that has taken place as well as reported it and documented it in full detail.  It's not about my feelings being affected when students have "ching-chonged" me or told me that I have funny looking eyes or pretending to eat with chopsticks with accompanying racist language when I walk by their desks.  It's about the kids - all of them - but especially the few ones of color, who are being told "You're not in Africa anymore, get over it - things are different here!" And it's about the young, first-grader who came up to me just two weeks ago in tears saying, "He doesn't want to be my partner because he says I'm black and that I don't match."  It's about the feelings of the many other kids of color who have been teased, put down, bullied or harassed.

My fear is not that so many of these incidents have taken place in my presence; instead my fear is reserved for the countless other acts that children are being subjected when no adult is around.  Because my gut tells me that if a student feels comfortable enough ching-chonging me - the adult teacher who happens to be a person of color - that they sure as heck are doing it to other kids, kids who are far more vulnerable and in a weaker position to defend themselves compared to myself.

Upon sharing a few of these experiences, I've had a couple people tell me "Get out then.  Just go to another district where you don't have to deal with that stuff.  It's not worth your time." 

And yet, for some inexplicable reason, this is where I feel like I need to be.  Perhaps it's because I see part of myself in the young Asian girl who represents almost her entire school's demographic of "racial diversity".  Perhaps it's because I know that I will thoroughly address and confront any racist act or comment that takes place in my presence; an occurrence (the acknowledgment of the act) that I'm not too confident takes place nearly often enough.  And most importantly, perhaps it's because I know in my heart that leaving this particular area won't make the ignorance or the intolerance go away simply because I'm not there to witness it.  I have taught and volunteered in more racially and ethnically diverse schools and I can tell you, racism and ignorance still very much exists in those classrooms as well.

I'm under no illusion that I am the one lone hope who needs to "save" any of these kids, or that I'm the only voice of reason who feels that she needs to "set this district straight".  This isn't about seeking revenge from the acts committed against me as a child when I was in school.  It's about raising an awareness and confronting the very real and all too frequent acts of racism, prejudice and discrimination that still take place in our children's schools today. 

Generally speaking as both a parent and a teacher, I believe that in order for real learning to occur, there needs to be a solid, working foundation as well as an existing, cohesive understanding of a single concept before you can successfully add another one.  We don't expect our children to run before they even know how to crawl or for our kids to attempt double digit multiplication before they even know how to add.  I think the same is true about conversations regarding race and race consciousness. 

Based on my life experiences, both inside and outside of the classroom, I have observed that too often people don't talk about race either because a) They have never really learned how and don't even know where or how to begin or b) It's just too uncomfortable and so they avoid it, tune our, feign disinterest or change the subject at all costs.  The former, in my opinion, needs to be addressed at it's most fundamental level in the early years when many kids are more apt to engage in a conversation and in many instances are more likely to be less inhibited about asking questions and expressing their own opinions.  I am not exaggerating when I tell you that as an adult, some of the most enlightening, honest and authentic conversations that I've ever had about race and race consciousness have been with people under the age of 12 years old.  Many kids have an innate way of putting themselves out there that is uncensored, raw and completely devoid of consideration for what other people might say or how they might react.  Moreover, I believe that their defenses aren't built up nearly as much as I've observed in adults. 

Young people are absolutely capable about talking about race and race consciousness.  They just need to be given the tools and a genuine opportunity to do so and the adults in their lives need to provide a safe and respectful setting for this to occur.  Talking about Rosa Parks and MLK, Jr. for one week in February is not enough.  Giving a kid one-hour detention for racial harassment without an honest conversation with both the student and his/her parent(s)/guardian(s) is not enough.  Telling our sons and daughters that "Kids are mean and that's just the way kids are, so rise above it" is not enough. 

But of course, the million dollar question is, how can we expect our kids to have honest, meaningful, respectful and relevant conversations about race when so many of us cannot or will not?

Regardless if it's because we don't know how to talk about race or because we don't want to know how to talk about race, the outcome is the same: kids, especially children of color, absorb the impact of what each person chooses to do.  The fallout from adults not talking about race landed squarely in my hands when I was a child some 30-years ago and I assure you that it's still happening to many kids today.  Heck, it's still happening to me today, as well as to many other friends of color in my life.  Not talking about race and not teaching kids how to talk about race doesn't mean racism doesn't exist.  And contrary to what many people believe, encouraging honest and open discussions about race is not promoting racism or keeping it alive.  

Talking about race and race consciousness doesn't need to dominate or become the sole focus in every school's curriculum.  I'm just asking that it be given the serious consideration it deserves to simply be on the agenda.  Not for my sake or the benefit of just my kids, but for all of our kids.

Kristi, Margaret & Me; Heck, We're Practically Triplets!

         

I met up with a couple of girlfriends for lunch yesterday and happened to be the first one to arrive at the restaurant.  As the hostess was walking me to the table, I casually noticed a few exaggerated stares but didn't read too much into it. 

About half way into my meal, I excused myself to use the restroom.  As I was walking back to our table, our server stopped me and said "My other customers have been waving me over and asking if you are Kristi Yamaguchi.  Now I've waited on her before and I know you're not her, but my gosh - you must get that ALL. THE. TIME.  You look exactly like her.  My customers really think you are her!" 

A brief conversation ensued but I have a feeling this woman wasn't really listening to anything that I was saying (including the part where I told her that I really didn't think we looked anything alike) as she was so intent on telling me how she thought that I looked "exactly like Kristi Yamaguchi."

It reminded me of the time when a group of guys came up to me at a movie premiere after-party in NYC (a well connected-friend scored us some tix) and gushed endlessly about how much they adored me, loved my show, loved my material and thought that I was the most amazing comic they had ever seen.  As soon as I heard the word "comic" I immediately thought to myself "Ohmygosh - they think that I'm Margaret Cho."  When I told them that I wasn't her, they just laughed it off and told me that it was okay to admit it.  They even insisted on getting my picture taken with them and asked for my autograph. 

Aside from the black hair, I think I resemble Kristi Yamaguchi and Margaret Cho about as much I resemble my adoptive parents.  It's not that I'm offended because I think I'm better looking than either one of them - quite the contrary.  It's offensive because in reality, I think we resemble each other so little that it tells me that those who state these opinions as virtual facts are not taking the time or making the effort to look at us as individuals, but rather see me and other Asians as a "you people all look the same" kind of mentality.  I'm Asian.  I'm in my thirties.  I have long black hair.  I wear make-up.  Yes - of course!  I must be Kristi Yamaguchi!!!  Silly me for not recognizing it sooner.

I can't help but think. . . if this same server (and her other customers) happened to see a sixty-something year-old White woman in a striking tailored pantsuit with perfectly coiffed hair, expensive looking shoes and a few wrinkles on her face, would she even consider going up to her and asking her if she was H1llary Rodh@m Clint0n?

Somehow I think not.

Name That Tune

The following is a conversation that took place in a fourth-grade classroom where I worked as a substitute teacher yesterday.  I have subbed for this teacher and in this particular school several times before and the kids know who I am. 

Student:  "Um, your name is Mrs. Yang, right?"

Me:  "No.  It's Mrs. (insert my last name here), but you can call me Mrs. O. if you'd like."

Student:  "Well, can I just call you Mrs. Yang instead?"

Me:  "No.  My name is Mrs. O."

Student:  "Oh.  Okay. I just thought your name was going to be Mrs. Yang."

I Could Do Without Another Repeat Performance. . .

I realize that I'm terribly behind on emails. . .and I promise to do my best to get back to people this weekend.  I've been doing quite a bit of substitute teaching lately and unfortunately, there's been a recent string of not so favorable incidents that have taken place in the classroom that have left me feeling a bit taxed.

And again today - in a class full of 6th graders - the Asian "ching-chong" mimicry reared its ugly head amongst a handful of students. 

I'm too exhausted to write about it at any length right now, but will try to do so when time - and energy - permits.

Here's hoping that my teaching job tomorrow goes a little smoother!

This is Where I'm Coming From. . . How About You?

It's always so very interesting to me to read the range of responses that ensue - either through private email or on various discussion boards - after I post such a personal, raw and heartfelt piece of writing about how I have been affected by adoption. Over the past two years, whenever a particular post of mine has been shared with a large group of others, I've noticed several distinct kinds of responses that inevitably emerge.  I read each comment with great interest and regardless of what is being said, I really do take each message to heart.  I am always truly appreciative of the people who read my writings with an open heart and open mind, as I know much of what I write here is not easy to read.  But I can't help but feel somewhat hurt from the emails I receive that tell me that I how I choose to live my life is really no kind of life to live at all.

I must admit that I still have a tendency to want to defend myself and my life upon reading those comments that imply that: a) I hate my (adoptive) parents, b) that I resent the fact that I was adopted, c) that I think adoption is the evil incarnate, d) that I think no one who was adopted can ever or will ever be happy or e) that my goal is to make all adoptive parents feel guilty, ashamed or bad for adopting their child. 

As I mentioned in an email to one reader, please realize that this blog is a place which I have intentionally carved out as a repository to share, examine, process, question, analyze, ponder, reflect upon and document my thoughts, feelings and experiences as a Korean adoptee.  Most importantly, it is a place for me to address certain issues and my thoughts and feelings about the facets of adoption that I don't feel are necessarily represented fairly or sufficiently in our society.  I speak only for myself and from a place of truth.  This blog of course does not represent the totality of who I am.  Yes, it absolutely does portray a part of me - a very significant and important part of me - but like you, I am a person with many dimensions, capable of possessing seemingly conflicting thoughts simultaneously in varying degrees; a person with many layers who cannot be summed up or assessed entirely solely by a few pieces of writing. 

I am not sure why so many people who read a post like my previous one (Twenty-Three Things) are so quick to make assumptions about me including: "I'm sorry you hate your parents" or "You seem like such a hopeless person" or "After reading blogs like yours, why should I even try?  It seems like any adoptive parent is going to be damned if we do and damned if we don't".  I'm not trying to judge, but rather better understand what makes people feel that I am personally accusing them of doing something wrong or why they would feel that I resent my life, my parents or my adoption.  If someone wrote a book or had a blog solely dedicated to their experiences of infertility, miscarriage or the loss of a child, I don't think that I would make the leap and think that a) They hate the children that they do have now b) They're hopelesly stuck in emotionally-damaging quicksand or that c) They resent and judge anyone and everyone who has never experienced infertility, miscarriage or the loss of a child.

As I've processed through my range of experiences, thoughts and feelings about how adoption speaks to me personally, my journey has led me to discover a wealth of paradoxes of what it means to be an adoptee, as well as an adoptive parent.  And perhaps like you, I am one who simply tries to do the very best that I can to both navigate through and negotiate across the broad scope of intensity that is adoption, all while being true to myself and honoring whatever thoughts and feelings may come my way. 

I absolutely do believe it is possible for one to passionately love with her life and all those who bless and enrich it, as well as feel profound loss and grief over certain events that have taken place throughout it.  I believe this and I know this to be true, because I am one such person.

Twenty-Three Things This Korean-Adoptee Thought About as a Child

1. That many times I was embarrassed and ashamed of my birth culture because it was so profoundly different than that of my family and my friends.  That too often it served as an easy and irresistible source of teasing and fodder for others - strangers and classmates alike.

2. That despite my parent's unconditional love for me, I couldn't help but feel that I was the last option for them to finally have children.

3. That phrases like "Thank God we can always adopt" or "Well, at least there's a world of unwanted children we can adopt from since we can't have kids of our own" only fed into my belief that adoption truly is, for virtually all couples, the very last resort by which to create a family.

4. That as a young girl, the thing I was most grateful for was not having a sister who was my parent's biological daughter.  That even the mere thought of being compared or having to share my parents with a sister who was their "real" daughter was too much for me to bear.  Being the oldest and the only girl was my way of telling myself that I was special, even when I didn't always believe it.

5. That instead of always hearing, "You're so lucky to be adopted", that it would have been nice to just once hear "It must be hard sometimes to be adopted."

6. That the insatiable need for me to be perfect was a way to make me feel more valuable, and therefore less likely to be abandoned once again.

7. That the insatiable need for me to control every facet of my environment was a way to feel safe and secure during a time when I felt that I was disposable.

8. That my mind understood why my Korean mother had to give me up, but that my heart didn't.

9. That the message "She loved you so much that she gave you up for a better life" meant that it was sometimes scary to be loved so intensely by my adoptive parents.

10. That deep down, I wondered if I could ever be good enough.  After all, I was left and given away as a baby; why would anyone leave their baby unless that baby was bad and unwanted?

11. That I dreamed of going back to Korea just to be able to fit in amongst my peers.  That I would have given anything to just once be the girl who was thought of as being popular, pretty and "normal", instead of the one whose sole appearance brought forth so many unwanted questions and assumptions.

12. That often I thought of ways I could make myself look more white, just so I wouldn't feel like such a monster.

13. That I wondered what it would have been like to be the girl someone fought fiercely over, instead of feeling like the child my Korean parents didn't want and the daughter that my adoptive parents had to settle for.

14. That I felt so incredibly guilty anytime I felt anything sad or bad about my adoption.  That it was much better to hold everything in than to hurt my parents who I know loved and adored me more than life itself.

15. That I became very adept at spinning my own adoption story, for the sake of my own survival. 

16. That it was impossible to be angry or hateful towards my Korean parents for leaving me, and yet impossible to forgive myself for being left. 

17. That I got to a point where my mind truly believed everything I was saying about not feeling any effects or fallout from being adopted, even if my heart and body felt markedly different.

18. That one's body will not lie, no matter how much you ask it to keep on pretending.

19. That my tantrums, outbursts and fits of rage were my way of trying to say, "I'm hurting so badly inside and more than anything, I am afraid that you will leave me."

20. That love, no matter how deep nor abundant, can ever erase the past.

21. That in spite of everything, I knew I would come out on the other side. 

22. That I have loved, and been loved and that one day I would feel that I was actually deserving and worthy of that emotion.

23. That what others saw in myself would one day be evident to me as well.  And hopefully one day, with God's grace, I would truly learn to love and forgive myself. 

It's Not About Me

One of my very closest friends in real life, as well as people in my own immediate family have struggled - truly struggled - with their weight ever since they were adolescents.   Not the "Oh, wouldn't it be great to lose 5 pounds so that I can get back to my goal weight" kind of battles, but from complicated and deeply embedded physical, emotional and psychological ones that have manifested themselves into my loved ones being morbidly obese.  Imagine how dismissive and insulting it might be if after a heartfelt conversation with one of them about his/her ongoing challenges with weight if I responded with, "I TOTALLY know how you feel.  Once, I used to be a size 4 and now I can barely fit into my size 8 pants.  It's sooo depressing.  I feel SO fat and I just know people are looking at me thinking, 'Ohmygosh - what a cow she is!'  And I can really relate to what you're saying about the prejudices and stigma against people who are overweight.  Come to think of it, I've been discriminated against too, for not being a size 0.  I mean, just the other day, I went shopping for a new pair of jeans and I couldn't find anything bigger than a size 6 in the style that I wanted.  They even have a size 00 now - I mean, how is that supposed to make ME feel?  It just seems so unfair and like such a slap in the face to people like me who are trying to do the right thing by eating healthy and exercising.  Seriously - why should I be punished?  So please don't think you're the only one who gets treated unfairly because of their weight, because I get plenty of bad treatment and unfair assumptions made about me because of my weight as well."

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I have several close friends who have struggled with infertility, some of them for years.  The stories they have shared of their feelings of pain, anger, resentment, disappointment, jealously, hurt, emotional fragility and deeply rooted sadness about their struggles with infertility are ones that I do not pretend to know or have personally felt.  For me to convey otherwise would not only be incredibly untruthful, but would also be completely dismissive and downright offensive. Can you imagine if a close friend had just come to me and shared that this month's pregnancy attempt did not yield in the result that she and her partner had hoped, and I responded with: "I know exactly what you mean.  S. (my husband) and I were only trying half-heartedly at the end of the first month that we decided we wanted to get pregnant. . .and it didn't happen.  I was SO crushed. Completely devastated.  I thought, do I REALLY have to wait another month to try this again?  It all seemed SO unfair to me.  And I felt that there weren't really any good support systems in place for people like me and my husband - you know, for couples who weren't really trying, but were still hoping to get pregnant.  I felt like people like me were being treated so unfairly.  I mean, I had tried for two weeks - didn't that count for anything?  I hardly got any sympathy or support from others - it was if we were being punished for not trying longer than we were.  Thank GOODNESS we got pregnant the next month.  I don't think I could have taken it any longer.  So believe me, I completely understand your pain and heartache.  I am right there with you in knowing what it feels like that it may never happen.  But don't worry - it WILL happen.  Just think positively and don't worry about it.  Or better yet, just adopt and then for SURE you will get pregnant.  I mean, that happened to so many people I know, including my own mother!"

There are so many life experiences that I readily admit that I cannot speak to.  I cannot offer words of advice to a friend who is going through a divorce, or to a friend who is a son or daughter of divorce.  I cannot say to someone who has lost a child that I know how exactly how she feels.  I cannot say that I have walked in the same shoes as a friend who tells me that he is battling a serious and grave illness that could knowingly shorten his life here on earth. 

As an adoptee and a woman of color, I realize that not all can speak to the same lived experiences that I have, nor do I expect them to.  And if someone truly cannot say "I have been through the exact same thing", then it is my belief that they should not pretend that they have, or to take my experiences and make it about them.

Another person's truth does not negate, diminish or invalidate mine.  Unless someone has given me ample reason to believe otherwise, I do my best to take people at their word and respect the fact that I will never know the full context of each and every event surrounding their life experiences.  I am not their judge or jury and I am not offended when others share their stories about what they have experienced. . .and sometimes I can't help but wonder why others get so defensive and offended when I share mine.  But then I realize I need to heed my own advice and not be so self-centered - because deep down - I know their issues about my experiences really have nothing to do with me at all. 

Yes, Kids Are Still Doing It

So. . .I've been doing quite a bit of substitute teaching lately, which is has really cut into my writing time.  (Sorry my little blog, I know 2008 was a hard year for us; I had the best intentions of showing you a little more love this year - but so far, I'm not off to a very good start!) 

About a month ago, I was subbing for a multi-grade classroom of 2nd and 3rd grade students.  Now I understand that it is not at all uncommon for children of this age to still be especially attached to their teacher.  It took all of a nanosecond for the kids to realize that clearly, I was NOT their teacher.  Some had faces of disappointment.  One boy - who later proved to be a little on the mischievous side - appeared to be amused and almost delighted upon seeing my face.  And still others were just caught dead in their tracks.  I can't say for certain why they seemed so shocked, but trust me - they were.  I found out later from another teacher that this particular school identifies itself as 97% white, as does the city in which the school is located.  Upon learning that fact, I couldn't help but wonder if some of the kids had ever seen an Asian adult before - that may sound preposterous to some, but I honestly don't think it's totally out of the realm of possibility.

As I introduced myself and invited them to come in and start their daily morning writing exercise before our morning meeting, several kids were wandering aimlessly around the room.  I went to gather a group of them when I looked over to see a few boys in a semi-circle.  One boy had both of his pointer fingers positioned at the outer corner of each of his eyes, pulling the skin around his eyes as taut as could be.  He was doing this while nodding his head slowly and making mock "ching-chong" noises.  Another boy was trying to attempt some kind of martial arts move.  The other boys were just laughing. 

It's amazing how a few actions from a group of 7 and 8 year-old boys can make one feel so vulnerable and small.  I think for a few seconds my 37 year-old body reverted back to assuming the same exact physical sensations I used to experience when I was teased as a child.  I was seriously surprised by the mini-pangs that shot briefly through my stomach.

In my heart, I honestly did not feel that these boys were maliciously trying to hurt me or that they had any deep, sinister motives to personally degrade me.  Instead, I truly felt that they possessed no other means in which to express themselves and that their way of processing my physical differences was to innately recall whatever images or preconceived notions they may have held about Asians.  In the absence of any real, contextual verbal ability to talk about race or ethnicity, I felt that it was only natural for them to resort back to the "easy", juvenile behavior of simply making fun of one's apparent differences.

I spoke at length with the aforementioned teacher who wholeheartedly agreed with me that I needed to address this incident with the class.  Later that day, when I had the entire homeroom class back together, I took some time to talk about what I saw earlier that morning.  I spoke gently, but very seriously about the many kinds of differences that exist amongst us and that it's okay to ask questions, to be curious or to wonder why someone might look or do something different from what they're used to seeing.  I also talked about how our actions and reactions towards others can affect others, even without us realizing it.  I spoke about how the "normal" way of looking, acting or doing things that we may be accustomed to seeing is not the only way of looking or acting, nor is it the best.  I tried to keep it age-appropriate, simple, meaningful and relevant.  Without getting too preachy, I simply spoke to them as I do with my own kids about race and race consciousness - honestly and to the point and in a way in which they can hopefully relate.

I left a detailed account of both the incident and the conversation I had with the students for the teacher I was standing in for and within 3 days, I received a letter from the principal as well as handwritten notes from each student.  It was evident from their letters that the kids, their teacher and their principal had talked more at length about some of the same things that we spoke about together - which in my opinion, is definitely a good thing.

It was a tremendously valuable experience for me in that classroom that day.  I was reminded about my own responsibility as a parent to ensure that my kids' schools are walking the walk when it comes to the often overused buzzwords like "diversity", "tolerance" and "acceptance" - words that appear on attractive posters that pepper the halls of so many learning institutions, but perhaps aren't always practiced or enforced.  It was a reminder to keep the conversation about race with my own children at the forefront of the many other topics that we discuss in hopes that they can and will both acquire and utilize the language to affirm and speak up for themselves at any given time, even when others are not.