Heart, Mind and Seoul

She Loves Me, She Loves Me Not

"You were left on the steps of a police station in Seoul". . ."Found in a box with nothing but a blanket". . ."Given away by a woman who loved you so very much". . ."Loved you so much that she made the ultimate sacrifice". . ."Wanting for you a better life than the one she could give.". . ."All of this done in the name of love."

As a child, I wore the backdrop of my story as a badge of honor.  You think you're so special?  Well, let me tell you somethin' - I was loved so much that my own mother gave me away.  Top that!  At the time those words sounded so convincing - that I was somehow this special, chosen child because of the dramatic way in which I left and entered my Korean and American families.  My ego only continued to blossom as each person in my life invariably corroborated my story.  "Of course she loved you.  She gave you up for adoption, didn't she?". . . "You are so very lucky to have had a mother who loved you enough to give you what she could not." 

Looking back, I know that on the surface I accepted this story as fact.  I have no doubt that my fragile and vulnerable spirit had to accept and embrace this as fact as a means of survival.  My God, who could blame me for wanting to believe that my Korean mom loved me?   Of course I wanted to believe that, and believe it I did.

Except when I didn't.  Which was pretty much all the time.  Not that I was always conscious of the fact that I doubted my Korean mother loved me, but the feeling was always there.  Like a poisonous gas that lurked below the surface undetected, the feeling of doubt that she ever loved me at all encapsulated me.  And that doubt of her love for me manifested itself into a self-loathing that I cannot begin to describe.  My MO was fueled by insecurity.  Think about it.  If today your partner came to you and said "Honey, I'm just not sure that I love you anymore", what would that do to your world?  At least you had the acknowledgment that the love did indeed exist.  I had neither the confirmation or even traces of evidence to support that a love for me was ever present.  But I had to believe on some level that she loved me.  The alternative was not an option.

Except when the alternative was all that occupied my thoughts and actions, even though I didn't recognize it on a conscious level at the time.  I know now that my inability to love myself for so many, many years of my life was because I held so firmly onto the belief that I was not good enough.  Because dammit, if I was, my Korean mother would have moved heaven and earth to keep me - because THAT is love.  Who gives away their child in the name of love?  What am I supposed to do with that and how I do even begin to reconcile something so preposterous?  And so it was not illogical for me to at least entertain the possibility that love was not a feeling she possessed for me. 

I think about how brave and mature I must have sounded as I would wax poetic about how my Korean mother was a hero to have done her very best in spite of the extraordinary circumstances and burdens that befell her.  And how loved saved us both, but especially me.  But of course I don't know and most likely will never know the real story.  I can temper my deepest desires my inserting measured doses of reality and skepticism, but the truth is, as her daughter, I so desperately want to believe that she loved me.

I truly believe that it's not about whether my mom or dad did the right thing by telling me what they did.  The exact same narrative applies to so many adoptees of my generation and it's a sentiment that I hear almost on a daily basis when people talk about my son who is also adopted.  It's the not knowing that can be hell.  I think that most everyone wants to know where they came from and who loved them first.  When you cannot say with even a modicum of certainty that the person who brought you into this world did indeed love you, it can mess with your mind in unimaginable ways and greatly impede your ability to feel worthy enough to love yourself.  

I love me, I love me not.

The Act of Giving Back: Should More Women Be Placing Their Children?

You are an adoptive parent to 3 beautiful children.  Unexpectedly, you find out that you are pregnant - something you and your partner never thought possible.  A flurry of mixed emotions overcome you.  You're not exactly old, but it's true that you are indeed older.  You immediately think of the impact it will have on your family financially, physically and emotionally.  You think about how your husband has told you time and time again how excited he is knowing that your family is complete and how free he feels to finally be out of the diaper, bottle and toddler stages.  You've already sold and given away every last piece of baby furniture you had.  But on the other hand, well, on the other hand - you have a baby inside of you.  You are pregnant with a child.  YOUR child.  Your husband's child.  You are going to give birth.  It's something you didn't think could happen to you, but it did and it's a dream come true.  Ultimately, above the intense and raw emotions that are swirling around your head, you are thrilled beyond measure and feel immensely blessed for a miracle of this magnitude to have been bestowed upon you and your family. 

After ample time to celebrate and digest this news privately, you and your partner are anxious to start spreading the word to your family.  Aside from your spouse, the person you are most excited to share the announcement with is your sister.  She is your rock, your confidant and your very best friend.  After telling her the news of your pregnancy, her eyes light up brighter than you've ever seen before.  She responds slowly and hopefully:  "Sis, I have the best idea.  Why don't you make an adoption plan for this baby?  One of my dearest friends from college has been trying to get pregnant for the past 5 years and they can't afford to try anymore.  She and her husband would make the most magnificent parents and they want a baby more than any couple I know.  You would be doing SUCH a good thing.  I mean, you already have 3 children and it's not like you were even planning on this one or trying for another kid.  You've said so many times yourself how you'd never want to go back to having an infant.  Think it over, okay?  But just remember back to all those years ago how much you wanted a child and then think of my friend and her husband.  They want what you have and you are in the position to make their dreams come true.  You'd be doing such an amazing thing, sis; you'd be doing the right thing.  I know it might be hard, but try not to think of how it would impact you, but rather what it could do for them.  I mean they really, really, REALLY want a baby, sis.  You have the power to change this couple's life forever and to give this child to parents who would love it just as much as you would.  Heck - they might even love it more!!  It's such an incredible opportunity for all of you, don't you think?  Just promise me you'll think about it, okay?  It really is an amazing thing that you can do - for yourself, for them and for your baby."

After much thought, prayer and careful consideration, you and your husband decide that yes, it is mutually beneficial to both your baby and your sister's friends to be a family together.  You know this baby will never lack for love or anything else and you tell yourself that this couple deserves a chance at parenthood, just like you had.  You've made your decision and you're convinced that you're doing the very best thing for everyone involved.

* * * *

I'd be willing to bet that most adoptees - at one point in time throughout their lives -  have heard something to the effect of "Your birth mom was such a brave and selfless woman to give you up for a better life. . .to think that she loved you so much that she gave you away. . .there truly cannot be a more selfless and powerful act of love than to do what your biological mother did for you."

Hmmmmm.  O-kaaay.  So, if my Korean mother was brave and selfless and demonstrated the epitome of love for giving me up, why wouldn't we encourage and support our own sisters and friends to do the same with their own children?  Why wouldn't we do it ourselves if we could?  Who wouldn't want to be known as one who committed the most altruistic of acts, one who put others' needs before her own, one who made the ultimate of sacrifices?  These women are known as amazing, heroic and responsible for literally giving other women God's greatest blessings - children.  So why aren't more of us doing the same and paying it forward?  We'd be doing good for others and as well as for our kids.  We Americans are always trying to keep up with those elusive Jones' who seem to have so much more than we do.  Surely there are countless families who could offer our kids a far "better" life than we ever could.  Think of what we're depriving our kids from.  Keeping our children to ourselves when they could clearly have so much more seems rather selfish, doesn't it?

Somehow, I think that most people reading this blog - if they found themselves with an unexpected and even unwanted pregnancy - would not at all appreciate the suggestion from someone else that they should place their child. But what about the chance to be noble?  To do the right thing?  To fulfill the dreams and hopes of another couple by giving them a family that they cannot have on their own?  What is preventing us from doing the one thing that we ask first mothers to do before we swiftly send them off into the sunset all whilst lauding their brave and selfless acts?

And really, when it comes right down to it, isn't the above scenario amongst the best of circumstances in which a woman makes a decision to place a child?  When a woman and her partner have the time, resources and support to make an informed decision?  When a woman actually has a chance to assert her voice and can honestly feel and know in her heart that she was the one who made that choice of her own free will? 

So why do so many people casually accept (and perhaps even secretly celebrate) it as fate, good karma, a higher power at force, destiny, luck, etc. when a woman who is without a true, just selection of choice or is told that the only real choice she has is to place her child, and believe this to be perfectly acceptable so long as it benefits our agenda?  Our plans.  Our lifelong hopes and childhood dreams.  Why is okay for other women to find themselves in a position to have to make arguably the most God-awful and heart-wrenching, hellish choice or worse - to find themselves WITHOUT choice - when it suits us or those we love?  And why aren't more of us or more of those we love willing to make the same kinds of sacrifices that we expect, assume, hope and accept that other women will do?

Please let me be clear. I am not trying to make adoptive parents feel guilty, ashamed or regret over their decision to adopt.  I myself, along with my husband, made the very conscious and intentional decision to adopt our son and I know that we personally did not cause or create the circumstances behind our son's relinquishment.  However, that being said, I absolutely accept responsibility for my role in the collective mindset that this society too often has about portraying first moms in the image that we want them to be, so long that it suits the needs of those who feel that they deserve to be parents, too.  People might not come out directly and say, "Thank God there are women out there who cannot parent their own kids, because without that, I'd never be a mom", but instead we might hear a more policially correct spin ala "I know that the world is an imperfect place.  But it is what it is.  Should we just let these poor kids starve and die in orphanages?   They need a family and we want a child.  Adoption is the very best solution for everyone." 

And so while we may not exactly be rejoicing in the fact that children are available for adoption, we're certainly not doing anything to prevent it from happening here or in other countries; well, at least not until we're able to adopt ourselves.

Maybe at the heart of the issue is the belief amongst many that as long as we love adopted kids "as our own" and promise to do our very best by them and to give them the world and have them not want for anything, that it's somehow okay to keep averting our eyes away from the cultural, socio-economic, political, societal and religious reasons that we cite to help justify to ourselves why it's "unavoidable" that women are continuously forced or asked to give up their children.  

We'd never dream of asking our neighbor, our best friend or a colleague to give us their baby, but think nothing of it to ask a distant, faceless woman to give us hers. It feels wrong to say that we'd never dream to make that kind of sacrifice for someone else but that we're oh so grateful that someone else could do it for us.

Yes, it's absolutely an imperfect world.  But adoption isn't the perfect answer - even if we believe it is our perfect answer.

The Dreams in Adoption

Recently my kids and I were having a discussion about possible job/career choices they thought they might enjoy in the future.  Artist, soldier, basketball player, veterinarian, police officer, restaurant server, teacher, custodian and cyclist were amongst their dream vocations.  More interesting than hearing their selections was listening to the rationale behind each one.  It made me happy to know that their choices truly reflected the interests and hobbies for which they have the most passion. 

After talking about why or why not they think it's important to enjoy what they do, my daughter all of a sudden became very absorbed in thought.  After a still moment, she raised her head, looked at me and softly said, "I think I know what I want to be most of all.  I think my best job that I could ever be is to be a mommy."

I have so many friends who have shared with me that it has always been a childhood dream of theirs to become a mother.  They just knew.  It was a non-negotiable.  Being a mom was something that they WOULD become one day.  And though I couldn't exactly relate, I could tell by the determination and conviction in both their eyes and in their voices that they truly believed that their every happiness hinged upon their future dream of becoming a mother.

And I understood.  Maybe I didn't understand their deep-seated desire to become a mother, but I understood what it felt like to have that kind of passion - to possess such an innate longing that absolutely nothing could stop your heart, your mind and your entire being from working toward its fulfillment.

When I think about dreams as they pertain to adoption, I can't help but notice how encouraging, accepting and affirming our society is of adoptive parents who make the conscious choice to fulfill their dream of becoming parents.  It's also not hard to miss how discouraging, dismissive and invalidating society's messages can be to adoptees and first parents who wish to actualize the dreams of their own.  The irony is that many times it is the fears, misconceptions and insecurities of those whose dreams are already fulfilled who remain the most threatened by the dreams of others - dreams that may or may not even exist.

From the age when I could start thinking in terms of who I wanted to be and what I wanted to become, my biggest dream was quite simple:  I wanted to be whole.  For so many years, with an intensity and insatiability that words cannot describe, I so badly wanted to find the pieces of me which I felt, but couldn't articulate, that were missing.  Admittedly, part of my search for identity was due to the natural developmental growth that occurs at different stages in one's life, but for me, it was much more than that.  I realize now that the longing stemmed from the need to find out who I was, where I came from, who I came from and who and what I was as my original self. . . apart from my (adoptive) family, outside of what I felt society, family and friends thought or said I should be.  

Often it was me who stood as the biggest obstacle to overcome in actualizing my dream.  At times I felt too afraid, too undeserving, too unsure, too ashamed and too ungrateful to believe that I had the right to search for myself.  I will own that part of my inability to forge ahead when perhaps I could or should have.  But I will also assert that it was because of some extraordinarily, deeply embedded discouraging (however unintentional) messages from family and society that factored into those feelings I described above.  The people who would cast their looks of disapproval if I mentioned that perhaps I'd like the chance to meet my Korean parents.  The ones whose hurt practically spilled out of their pores when I said I felt like I didn't belong or that I didn't feel "normal" in that place and time.  The ones who now write to tell me that they hope to God their kids don't go through what I did, because the pain and hurt as parents would be too great for them bear.

As an adoptive parent myself, I certainly know about and recognize the fears that many adoptive parents may have.  Based on conversations with my own parents, I know they, too, harbored fears of raising an adopted child.  But something that I am able to share with them now - something I wished I could have reassured them with back then - is that their dreams of being parents could never be undone.  Had I possessed the ability, language and awareness to express then what I am able to now, I would have shared with them in no uncertain terms this offering: 

Mom and Dad:

You will always be my parents.  I will love you always - no matter what - in the same unconditional way that you love me.  Please do not be afraid that my dreams may be different than your own.  I hope you know in your heart that my dreams can never, ever take me away from you.  No matter what happens, I will always be your daughter.

I know that my son's dreams are just that - my son's.  They are his.  His decision to do with them what he chooses.  His to discard, change, fulfill, conceal, nurture or share.  I cannot guarantee I will always know what his dreams are or that I will always agree with them or that I will even like them. But I can promise to do my very best to support them.  I view his dreams as an extension of himself; and just as I will always love and accept him no matter what, I vow always to do the same for his dreams. 

Getting To The Other Side

Thinking about her in my younger years was similar to how one is able to garner comfort and warmth around a cozy campfire.   Curious, yet cautious and controlled - always, always controlled - were my thoughts about her.  Getting too close to her by means of pondering the endless "Why's" behind my relinquishment or truthfully examining the aftermath of our separation was much too dangerous.  I never fully allowed myself to go there because the potential for permanent damage by internal scarring from the burns was just too imminent and far too great of an emotional and psychological risk.  I realize now that what others, including myself, proudly identified as "maturity" and "wisdom beyond her years" to be at peace with my relinquishment and never questioning why it couldn't have been otherwise, was actually a necessary defense mechanism, securely set in place to keep me from getting too close to the intensity of the fire that still to this day resides deep within.  The proverbial eternal flame has existed as an equally everlasting question, one that has always had control over me and never the other way around. The question that when asked even in a rhetorical manner was scolded by others as being selfish and ungrateful for its inability to recognize just what sacrifices were made on my behalf.  The question that deep down has been stored in every part of my being and whose silent, forbidden and unanswered mystery has become as much of part of who I am, not unlike my own pulse, my blood or my heartbeat.  The question that I hadn't neither the courage nor the will to ask:

Why didn't my mother keep me?

It's as if I can see so clearly now how that question came to be relegated to remaining in the deepest hollow of my soul, tucked away in an obscure enough place where I felt no immediate nor pressing culpability to answer it.  And besides, there was never any real grounds for me to have to dissect the reasons behind my relinquishment.  The answers were already provided for me, both by my adoptive parents and the rest of mankind.  Their responses were so much more pleasing, so much more compact and far less complicated than the ones that streamed in and out of my mind. "Your mother loved you so much that she gave you up for a better life." As a little girl, I believe I understood that.  To the best of my ability, truly I did.  I did my best to understand the devastating effects of famine and poverty, and felt my heart truly recognized and ultimately embraced just what a selfless and giving act my placement really was. I accepted it (and perhaps out of emotional necessity, I needed to accept it), proudly shared it with those who asked about her, and found great comfort and solace in the fact that she had possessed so much love for me that she made the ultimate sacrifice and gave me the chance for a life she could never provide, a life that was well beyond her reach to give. 

But now as an adult, I find that answer to be less and less reassuring, for several reasons.  Critical thinking has never been my strong suit, but even I can't believe I didn't recognize the disconnect in the statement:  You are so lucky.  Your mother loved you SO much that she gave you up for a better life.   How many of us, if left by our spouse tomorrow, with only a note saying, "Please know how much I love you.  I only want the very best for you.  Therefore, I must leave you in hopes that you will find another person to take care of you better than I ever could."  Would our friends and family respond with soothing, almost envious reactions of, "You are so lucky to have a husband who loved you so much that he left you so that you could find another man to give you everything he could not.  You must feel so incredibly grateful for his decision.  He really must have loved you an awful lot." 

Is anyone really able to honestly tell me that if they were left in the name of love that they wouldn't at some point in time, on some level, look to themselves as being partially blameworthy for the other person's departure, no matter how irrational or illogical that self imposed blame may be?  Is it any wonder that many adoptees talk about their fears of "being loved so much" - so much that they're afraid the person will prove it by leaving them, too?  While I don't remember feeling those exact sentiments, I can remember feeling that if my mother left me because of "love", clearly there was a deficiency on my part for not be quite loveable enough for her to stay. 

I know I was just a baby.  Babies can't be inherently bad, can they?   Logically, I know my relinquishment had nothing to do with me.  This is not my burden to carry. . .or is it?  I know she loved me.  Every mother loves her child.  But then why didn't she keep me?  Just even thinking about blaming or questioning my Korean mother is a hurt that my heart cannot handle.  And if she truly didn't have a choice in the matter, how could I ever live with myself for even thinking she had anything to do with our separation?   Could it have been me?  Or could it have been her?   And if it was neither of us, well, I'll just assume it must have been me because at least I can wrap my head around that.  And it's probably best that I keep this to myself.  Any doubts, any pain, any fears, any insecurities, any anger, any resentment, any hurt I have about the circumstances surrounding my relinquishment, I will absorb for both of us.  And what about my (adoptive) parents?  What would they think if they knew I had these feelings?  How could I adequately convince them of the fact that this has nothing to do with them as parents, that it is no reflection or reaction to how I feel as their daughter?  No, it's definitely best to keep this to myself.  I know I can be strong.  For everyone's sake, I know I must be strong.

Part of the fear I had of thinking about why my first family couldn't parent me was knowing that I had to be open to any and all possibilities, not just the romanticized notions that I had conjured up in my head.  I have spent a lifetime both consoling and torturing myself with the myriad of scenarios that led to my relinquishment.  And what I'm finally realizing now is that no one, no matter how well intentioned, can tell me the exact truth about my circumstances except my Korean family.  People may speculate and they can do so out of love and concern - but I'm at the point in my own journey now where for my own health - I can only acknowledge what I know for sure to be true about my adoption.  And right now that means admitting that I don't know, and that I may never know.  Being honest about that has helped me regain some of the control and the freedom that I felt I had lost in my earlier years - control and freedom that I had lost to worrying that I was somehow to blame.

Have you ever seen the movie Good Will Hunting?  There is a scene with Matt Damon (Will Hunting) and Robin Williams (who plays Damon's counselor and therapist, Sean Maguire) toward the end of the film where Will finally breaks down and allows himself to be consoled by Maguire.  As Will's false bravado and manufactured tough exterior finally gives way to the true emotions of his fractured and fragile heart, Maguire comforts him by repeating, "Will, it's not your fault.  It's not your fault.  It's not your fault.  It's not your fault."

It has been said that only way you can ever successfully get to the other side is to first go through it.  For years I have self-sabotaged myself in different areas of my life simply because I didn't think I was worthy enough.  After all, just how worthy can a girl who was relinquished by her own mother really be?

Rationally, I know it's not my fault.  I'm not trying to or wanting to blame anyone, least of all my first family.  And I know it's not my adoptive parent's fault for adopting me.  Truly, it's really no one's fault.  I know I should be grateful to my first mother and grateful to my adoptive parents - anything less is a slap in the face to all us.  After all, practically everyone has told me how both parties have "saved" me, so what is there to be despondent about?   With the help of others who know just what a "tremendous blessing" adoption truly is, I have thoroughly and unequivocally convinced myself that none of my parents, first or adoptive, are at fault for all of these incredibly complicated emotions I have about my relinquishment and my adoption.  But what I have effectively done is given everyone else a free pass except myself. 

Where were all of those unresolved thoughts and feelings supposed to go?   Were they supposed to evaporate over time in hopes that I'd never think about my relinquishment and adoption ever again?   I'm honestly not looking to assign blame to anyone. But what I realize now is that I must work just as hard in convincing myself that the consequences of being relinquished and being adopted aren't my fault, either.  What I want more than anything is to get to the other side, but I want to get there honestly, by asking the tough questions and truthfully acknowledging what I can change and forgiving myself for the things that I cannot.

A good friend once asked me just why it is that I blog.  I write for myself, no doubt.  But I also write in hopes that people will see a different interpretation of adoption than the one society holds - one that allows for a greater latitude of self-expression and different kind of dialogue for our son and his adopted peers than what adoptees of my generation were given.  I want our son to know that it's okay not to feel like "the luckiest kid in the world" just because his mother and father could not parent him and because he was adopted - even if that's what society touts as only acceptable party line about adoption.  When I think about it - when I really stop to think about it - I feel I am finally able to see just how unreasonable and how unfair the expectations we as a society impose upon adoptees - especially the youngest of adoptees- really are.  We are asking them to unconditionally accept and understand concepts that even grown adults would have a difficult time accepting and understanding - and we're asking them to do it without the true freedom of expression.

Instead of people telling our son and other adoptees how they should feel about their relinquishments and their adoptions, I'd like to see people start by asking them. . . and at least letting them know that there is a widely accepted and non-judgmental outlet to express whatever thoughts and feelings that may reside within them, however deep, without the fear of being burned - - by themselves or others.

How Would it Make You Feel?

Imagine if you could. . .

You have found yourself in an impossible situation, a tragic and desperate set of circumstances that you never fathomed could happen to you.  You have found yourself in every parent's worst nightmare and against your every heart's desire, you are left with absolutely no choice: you are unable to parent your own child(ren).  Perhaps a terminal and violent illness has invaded your body leaving you humanly incapable to parent, or possibly you have terminated an abusive and life-threatening relationship and for the safety of your children you have sought other guardian(s) for your children, or maybe you have recently finalized a divorce and the judge has ruled that your ex-spouse be given sole or primary custody, or perhaps someone is bearing false witness against you and without any financial, legal or emotional support, you have no viable means to fight the charge that has taken your children away. 

I know for many people reading this, it's virtually impossible to imagine a situation that would be so dire, so devastating, so extreme that would render them unable to parent their own child.  And this is where I think many in the adoption community, and society at large, fall short.  Based on my own experiences and observations, I've noticed too many people who are all too quick to blame first mothers for the "choices" they have made - - when in fact, the circumstances that many (not all of course, but many) of these first mothers find themselves in that force them to relinquish their children cannot even be used in the same sentence as the word "choice".  (And I find this to be particularly true of mothers in other countries than the U.S.)  But too many, for whatever reason, choose not to view an adoptee's first mother as a human being - a real woman who has found herself in a situation that is a living hell: an unimaginable nightmare that renders her unable to parent her own child.

So, imagine once again, if you could, finding yourself with no choice but to have total and complete strangers raise your child.  Honestly, realistically think about that for even five seconds and tell me if your heart doesn't immediately plummet below your knees.  Your child is no longer with you.  And there very well may be the chance that you will never see him or her again.  And then think about your child's new parents telling your child and anyone else who will listen:

Our child is finally with his rightful family, exactly where he was intended to be all along - here with us.  It is how it was meant to be.  Our faith is what brought our son to us and we have no doubt that everything turned out just as it should have - for us and our son.

We chose our son to be with us, but more importantly, God chose for our son to be with us.  We're so happy that God made everything happen just the way it did and led him straight to our family so that we could be his parents.  God knew that we alone were absolutely the best parents for this little boy, he is perfect for our family and ours alone.  It was truly meant to be.

We're so grateful for the events in our daughter's life that led up to her adoption.  It was destiny to have our daughter endure what she had to go through so that she could finally be sent home to us, her forever family.  Sure, it might have been tough for her and her first parents and I feel for them - really I do - but if things hadn't happened the way they did, we would never have been able to call ourselves her parents.  What matters now is that we're finally together and that we now have a daughter to call our very own. 

I just cannot imagine my life without my son.  And I cannot imagine not being his one and only mother. He is my son and that's all that matters now.  Praise God for making everything happen the way it did so that I could be his mommy.

(Several of the above statements have been personally said to me; similar sentiments to the ones above have been personally read on adoption blogs, public adoption forums or websites.)

Imagine if you could: unable to parent your child, and knowing that your son's or daughter's new parents felt this way.

How would it make you feel?

More importantly, how do you think it would make your child feel?

 

Who Decides It's Better?

First of all, I just wanted to extend a very sincere thank you for the incredibly kind and thoughtful birthday wishes, including the comments posted here on my blog, the personal emails, cards and phone calls - I appreciated them all very much. 

I won't lie; this was by far the most difficult birthday I've had in terms of really grieving what it is I feel I have lost as an adopted person.  I think one of the reasons for the significant impact of feeling so overwhelmed with loss and grief this year was because until recently I had not allowed myself to cognitively acknowledge or admit that my being adopted did signify a tremendous loss.  Not a loss caused by my adoptive parents, but a loss that is inherent in being adopted.  Adoption agencies, society and our media don't proudly proclaim "Adoption:  Dismantling Families One Child At a Time".  The emphasis and focus of adoption is almost always predicated upon the gains in adoption and never the losses.  Is it any wonder why so many adoptees, myself included, feel as if they're committing an illegal and highly unnatural act when taking that first honest and critical look into their own losses in adoption?

One of the recurring themes I come across in various adoption related blogs, articles, forums and stories is the assertion that the adopted child often was placed, given up, abandoned or relinquished in hopes that he or she might "have a better life".  Greater opportunities.  Increased chances of living a more productive and happier life than if he or she would have stayed with his or her parents.  Even as a young child, I understood why a parent living in conditions of extreme poverty, famine, sickness, war or other dire circumstances would feel that their child might have a safer or easier life without such imminent or pervasive threats to their existence.  But better?  "Better" I had a more difficult time accepting.  Better by whose standards?

When I hear or read people say that adoption is about giving children a better life than they would have otherwise had, often times the underlying claim really being made is that there is a higher worth, more desirable benefit to the child by means of tangible, material goods and opportunities that wealth can afford compared to what family preservation can offer if under bleak circumstances.  But who is to decide what constitutes a "better life"? 

Perhaps my own parents in Korea literally could not afford to feed or clothe me, or offer me shelter.  Perhaps they dreamt for me a childhood of a four-bedroom home on an acre of land with a view of the city skyline, private piano lessons, a swimming pool, traveling, sports camps, seasonal wardrobes, my own car and a full financial ride to college - all of which was granted to me.  All of these things which people on the outside saw and used as criteria to tell me how lucky I was and how grateful I ought to be.  But if people were to ask what I am truly grateful for, it would have nothing to do with anything that money could buy but rather the people and relationships in my life - my parents, my husband and our children, and other family members- their love, support and our family's health; my treasured and cherished friendships, my faith and each additional day I am granted in this life of mine.

But these blessings did not come without its price.  Mostly in adoption, people just see the gains.  But they forget or chose not to see all that I had to lose first, most importantly my mother and my father, and all of the consequences that occur when a child loses and is permanently separated from her parents. Somehow though, this fact, when placed in the context of adoption, does not carry the same weight as if a (non-adopted) friend were to tell you at this moment that she, too, has lost both of her parents.  Mostly in adoption, people just see the gains. 

And so I wonder.  I do not judge or criticize, but I do wonder.  Did my parents in Korea feel that their inability to offer me the "extras" made them inferior or unworthy as parents compared to what they believed a couple in America could provide?  Was their rightful claim to parent me stripped from them because of circumstances beyond their control, therefore rendering them helpless without any real choice or voice at all?  And most of all, why aren't both my birth country and my adopted country doing more to help keep mothers and fathers with their babies?  Shouldn't that be the goal: to keep families together whenever possible?

And now as an adoptive parent, I struggle to reconcile my own failures and inadequacies to question and critically examine why my and our son's birth country are still placing their children for adoption after all these years.  And why, in my adopted country, which professes to be so concerned about family values, are we not doing more to preserve natural families here domestically and abroad?  Why aren't we helping to provide families with the necessary resources to feel as if they are able to keep their families in tact, regardless of what material goods or opportunities they can or cannot offer?  Barring death, abuse or neglect, isn't a "better life" one that keeps a mother and her baby together? 

Why do the gains in adoption continue to overshadow and all but obliterate the losses incurred?  The losses of adoptees.  The losses of first mothers and first fathers.  The losses felt and mourned by entire countries. 

And the loss of oneself. 

They Say. . .

They say I was just a baby, what possibly could I know?

They say I was just a baby, what possibly could I feel?

They say I was just a baby, what possibly could I remember?

They say I was just a baby, how much would I really lose?

They say I was just a baby, and that I wouldn't really notice.

They say I was just a baby, and that I wouldn't really care.

They say I was just a baby, and that it wouldn't really matter.

They say I was just a baby, and that she could be replaced.

They say I was just a baby, and that I wouldn't crave her touch.

They say I was just a baby, and that I wouldn't miss her love.

They say I was just a baby, and that time will heal all wounds.

They say I was just a baby, and that I'd never know any different.

They say I was just a baby, and that life would go on as planned.

They say I was just a baby, and that the pain could be loved away.

They say I was just a baby, and that I'd never feel as if I'd ever lost her.

Dear Umma: 

Today, on the day of my birth, I celebrate and honor you, my mother; first, forever and always.  I promise to return to our country as soon as I can to try and find you.  Please do not listen to what they say, umma.  I love and miss you so very much. 

My Two Mothers

There is a woman I know of who is about my age - mid 30s - and is a mother to two young children, ages 9 months and 3 years.  This woman was recently diagnosed with terminal brain cancer and has been given approximately 6 months to live.  She says that her biggest fear is not of dying or death itself, but instead knowing that her oldest will have vague memories, at best, of their time together, and that her youngest will have no recollection of her whatsoever.  She is their mother and she does not want to be forgotten by her own children.

Our children are ages 2 1/2 and just days shy of 5 years old.  I know that if I were to die while they were still young that my husband, my parents, and the rest of our family would do their best to keep my memory alive for the sake of our children.  I am their mother.  And I, too, would not want to be forgotten by my own children.

I could never presume to speak for our son's mother in Korea.  But we do speak of her often, even though our son does not fully comprehend the content of our conversations about her.  For she, too, is his mother, and we do not want her ever to be forgotten.

This post is not meant as any personal attack or criticism on any one person or any particular group, but rather as an observation from lurking on various adoption forums, from reading assorted blogs, especially those of exiled mothers, and talking to people in general about adoption as well as talking with them about my own adoption experiences, including their thoughts and feelings about my mother in Korea.

And I have to say much of what I see, read and hear out there hurts.  It hurts beyond measure.  It hurts to see people treat first mothers as if they don't have the capacity to ache, love, mourn or experience various feelings the same way we do.  It hurts to see people reduce them to "BMs" (short for birth mothers, another term I take issue with).  It hurts to see people blame them, judge them or question their life altering decision - a decision that made it possible for they themselves to become a mother to their child.  It hurts to see such a lack of empathy and sympathy for the loss and pain they have incurred and continue to endure each passing day.  And it hurts most of all to see virtually no mention of them at all.  As if these children just miraculously appeared as "ours" now to claim as our own; and for us to take such liberties to pronounce ourselves as the "only" or the "real" or the "one true" mother.

It hurts because in my heart I believe that no mother wants to be forgotten.  For so long I've felt that society has disregarded my mother as "less than" or too unimportant to even be remembered because she did not raise me.   

But I say to them now, "If you cannot see my mother in me, then you are not truly seeing me." 

And perhaps that is how the voices of first mothers and adoptees alike have become diminished and virtually pushed out of the picture.  Because I believe it is the exception, not the rule, for people to see an adoptee in his or her whole totality, inclusive of their first parents.  Based on my own observations, most people do not see or acknowledge an adoptee's first parents in the adoptee.  I feel many do not want to see or acknowledge their parents in them.

Some say they "forget our son was adopted".   Now if I were to pass and my husband were to remarry, I sincerely doubt that people would accept it if his new wife were to say, "I always forget that K. and D. aren't my own.  I forget that Paula ever existed and gave birth to K. and that she and S. adopted D.  They belong to me now.  It was so hard to wait for them!  What sheer torture I went through to be able to finally call them my own!  In fact, I can barely remember a time when they weren't my own children and I wasn't their mother.  No need to harbor on the past and depress everyone talking about how they lost their mother.  After all, I'm the mother now - the only mother who matters anyway.  We'll just call her the BM from now on so no one gets confused that I'm their real mom.  What an insult to me, anyway for anyone to suggest that I'm NOT their real mother!  I mean, really.  How selfish of anyone to try and deny my rightful claim to be their mother?!"

I don't mean to alarm anyone by suggesting that I might die soon, or that I'm seemingly obsessed with death.  I use this analogy to illustrate the point that often the mothers and fathers of adopted persons are so easily forgotten.  So easily pushed aside to make room for the wants and needs of others.  So easily disregarded to serve the best interest of everyone else but the adopted person. 

Why does it not make others squeamish, uncomfortable and ill at ease for me to gush endlessly about my mother who raised me?  Most are only more than happy for me to proclaim my undying love for her, and love to hear my desire to know her better.  Most will listen to me with open ears and open hearts if I give incessant accolades of gratitude to her for being my mother and honor her the way a mother should be honored.  Many have even commended me for doing so in the past.  So why then are they so unaccepting of the same things to be said about my mother who actually gave me life?  The woman who actually made it possible for me to be with the mother who raised me?

I have two mothers.  Two mothers I love.  Two mothers of whom I am fiercely protective.  One I saw just earlier today, who I was able to hug and tell her in person that I love her.  The other I am hoping against hope to find and pray to meet again in this lifetime so that I may say the same to her.  Both of them are my mothers.  Both deserve to be remembered. 

If anyone is ever really able to see the real me, they must be able to acknowledge and honor how real both of them are to me. 

To each of my mothers: You will never be forgotten.    

Longing. Wanting. Craving.

Earlier this week I met with a group of women from our church for our weekly Lenten gathering.  One of the women brought her baby girl who is about 6 months old.  Baby S. was awake for a short while, ate a little bit and then spent most of the night sleeping in her mother's arms.  At one point during our meeting, I looked over at M. holding her baby and was mesmerized by how content and at peace baby S. seemed to be, secure in her mother's arms.  And surprisingly - catching me a bit off guard - my thoughts immediately went to my mother in Korea.  As I looked at baby S., I couldn't help but wonder: Did I ever have the chance to be cradled in my mother's arms the way baby S. was by her mother?  Was I ever rocked and held tightly against my mother's chest with the melody of her heartbeat soothing me to sleep?  Did I at one time have the chance to burrow my little face in the small of my mother's neck to nestle in while I soaked up her scent?  Did I ever get to feel her breath on my face as she held me, stroking my head, all the while watching the rise and fall of my body with each breath I took?

They say that no matter what our age, our inner child will never cease to exist.  The inner child in us who wants one thing, and one thing only - our mother's love.  Yes, I have a mom who has raised me and loves me unconditionally.  I do not dispute the power or influence of her love in my life.  I love her dearly and she knows this.  But her boundless love for me cannot fill the area of my heart, my body, and my spirit that knows only my Korean mother.  The part of me that wants her, craves her and yearns only for her in a way that a baby instinctively knows how to gravitate towards the woman that is her mother.

I find it disconcerting at best at how we as a society often grossly undervalue and underestimate the profound and enduring effects that can occur when a child is separated from her mother.  That primal instinct - that inherent desire to be nourished, held, touched and loved by the woman who carried her.  Whose voice she heard as she developed into a being herself.  Whose body she knew intimately and depended upon to sustain her existence.  A bond that I argue can never be replicated or replaced. 

I truly believe that over time, our bodies will reveal our truths.  Our mind may be gullible enough to fall prey into believing the disguises we cloak our realities in, but not our physical being.  There are times now that when I'm thinking of my mother in Korea, writing to her, praying for her or just daydreaming about her that my body will react like it never has before.  The intense craving - the insatiable desire I have to know her, to touch her, to be held by her and only her - is now so deeply embedded in my body that I can literally feel the sense of longing for her in my being.  My entire being.  Down to the deepest cavity in my stomach to the most obscure part of my mind.  And into the utmost depths of my heart. 

Always, always, in my heart.

Dear Umma

My Dearest Umma:

This is your daughter, Kim Ok Soon.  I am so sorry that this is my first letter to you.  Please forgive me.  How I wish I knew where you were so that I could send this to you and know that you would receive it.  I wish you could know that I am alive, healthy and am doing well.  I wish I could tell you how very much I love you, and how especially on days like today, how very much I miss you.

Dear umma, there are so many things that I want to share with you!  So many things in my life that I wish that you could know about me.  I think you would be proud of the person that I have become.  I know so much of who I am today is because of you.

You are now a halmoni!  My husband and I have two beautiful children.  I know you would love and adore them both.  They have the smiles and voices of angels and such gentle and loving hearts.  I often wonder if your granddaughter looks like you or has your hands or perhaps your smile.  Our son is from our birth country.  We adopted him when he was an infant, too, and he is beautiful, affectionate and the true light in our family.  My husband is man of great character and integrity.  He is kind, compassionate, incredibly supportive, an amazing father and he is my best friend.  I know that you would love him, too.  I pray that one day you will be able to meet them. 

I'm so sorry, umma.  So sorry that I didn't include you more in my life when I was growing up.  Please know that my parents have always spoken of you with the utmost honor and highest regard.  You are my mother, too, and they have always acknowledged that.  You, the woman who knew and loved me first, will always be my mother.  Please know my heart has and always will have a special place that only you can fill.  With as much love as I have in my life and in my heart today, the love and honor for you, my first mother, can never be replaced.  And the bond we have as mother and daughter will remain with both of us forever.   

Umma, I am trying to find you.  It is so hard because I am afraid that I might cause pain or inflict harm to you or your family if I am able to locate you, but I feel that I must at least try. I know virtually nothing about you umma, but feel as if you are my everything.  I would love nothing more than for us to be able to sit beside one another and hold your hands in mine  - to look into your eyes and tell you how much I've missed you and how I have loved you.  Always, always, umma, I have loved you.  And in my heart, always I have known that you have loved me, too.   

Umma, I have to be honest with myself and know there is a very real chance I won't be able to find you.  And I don't know if you would be able to find me.  And so if we are not able to meet again in this lifetime, I need you to know that I want so much for you to be happy.  It has been hard being away from you, but please know that I have never blamed you, nor ever questioned you for our separation.  I understand, umma.  Really I do.  Both my mind and my heart understand.  Please be kind to yourself and know that I have never been angry or upset at you for our parting so many years ago.  Yes, my heart has grieved and has been heavy, but only because I have not been able to be with you.  I miss you so much, umma.  I hope you know how much I really, really have missed you.

Be well, my dearest umma.  I hope and pray so very much to be able to find you soon.

Until we meet again.

Your loving daughter,

Kim Ok Soon