Take a peek at the first couple pages, and a few inside pages of the spring 2011 issue of Adoption Mosaic’s magazine The Adoption Constellation, and be sure to read our post about the on-line magazine reader we’ve chosen to use.
For information about submitting an article or essay to The Adoption Constellation please read our submission guidelines here>>
From Guest Blogger Amee Finigan click here>> for more information on Adoption Mosaic Bloggers.
I remember the exact times and places in which I first felt as though I was “different.” No, it wasn’t the times in which my parents and I had the “talk” about my adoption. One day in elementary school, I was walking up the steep hill from the school bus to my house and my neighbor shouted oh so casually, “See ya later, brownie!” Or the time I broke up with the first boy I ever dated, he tried seeking revenge by slamming me over instant message, capitalizing his every angry word, “SLANT EYED BITCH!” I even remember close friends joking about my physical appearance, blatantly saying, “I can’t tell when you’re angry and squinting your eyes, or not.” Another one of my ex-boyfriends in high school had the audacity to pull the skin away from the corners of his eyes, a completely racist thing to do.
But probably the most hurtful of all, was the moment as I was waiting at a crosswalk near Hawaii Pacific University, I could hear two drug-addicts, the lowest of lives, laughing and pointing, their long, dirty fingernails seeming to reach out and pierce my skin. They were making horrible comments under their breath and they made sure it was just loud enough for me to hear. They were commenting on the shape of my eyes. They were making fun of the fact that I was born without double lids. It made me livid and worst of all, it began to worry me just how much the opinions of these two strangers really mattered to me. The anger started to set in and I finally realized, I am different because I am adopted. Feelings came flooding through me, like a tsunami, and at twenty I was finally facing my worst fear, dealing with residual identity issues from my adoption.
It didn’t help that when I looked in the mirror, I couldn’t stand the person staring back at me. At times I wouldn’t even turn the lights on, I didn’t want to confront myself. I refused to accept myself, because in my mind, in the small town just outside of Portland, Oregon where I grew up, I was surrounded by Caucasians, ultimately leading me to believe I looked like one on the outside. If mirrors didn’t exist I wouldn’t know any better. I was sheltered from different races and diversity. My self-image was distorted, and my identity was torn between being born Korean, and growing up an all-American girl.
Feeling this type of confusion, I believe, affected my personality as a young child. I turned inward, shying away from people because I couldn’t deal with the fact that I was different and didn’t know who I was or where I came from. Who made me this way? It made me feel unbelievably uncomfortable and almost ashamed to realize I looked Korean on the outside, and on the inside I felt lost and extremely awkward.
At times I felt as though strangers I met were judging me, expecting to meet an authentic Korean girl, who spoke and knew the culture, but ultimately were awfully disappointed and let down to know I wasn’t that girl. It used to amaze me, the comments people would make when they first found out I was Korean or was adopted. They would ask me to, “Say something in Korean!” or, when I would tell them about my adoption, explaining I crossed the US border when I was only four months old, they would ask ignorantly, “Are you from North Korea or South? What was it like?” The ridiculous questions about my adoptive parents bothered me the most. “Do you like your foster parents?” These types of outrageous questions shut me off to the world; I realized keeping the adoption to myself was better than speaking about it openly, because I was beginning to realize that no one truly understood me and how I felt. Later, I came to understand that this was a method I used to shut people out; if I don’t get close to anybody, nobody gets hurt.
Inside of me I have always known that I am special, and my unbelievably supportive, incredible adoptive family never made me feel as if I was anything less than their own. I will admit, at times it wasn’t easy for me to cope with my own insecurities as all adoptive children have. I don’t remember a specific memory caught in time, when I first realized I was not my “Mother’s daughter.” I only remember the times after I found out; at completely sporadic moments I would feel sick to my stomach, and I felt like I had lost something I never had, almost like finding out all your childhood heroes, the Easter bunny, the Tooth Fairy, and Santa Claus, never existed. With this knowledge that my Mother, the one who I had come to know as “Mommy,” did not have anything to do with my conception, I withdrew and became angry. If I am not yours, who’s am I?
The confusion surrounding being a Korean daughter of an Irish father and a German mother was not easy for me to swallow. I almost felt as though I was in The Body Snatchers. Later in life I realized the reason I felt so much confusion as a young child and adolescent was because I had not come to terms with my adoption. I have suffered through a lot of denial and depression but during the past four years I have finally come out the other side and am no longer suppressing feelings of loss for my biological parents.
I know who I am now and I have begun to accept not only what I look like on the outside, but also the person I am on the inside. While as an adopted child I believe my issues are heightened, it doesn’t mean that as an adopted child I cannot find peace. By permitting myself to be sad and angry and letting go of the things I cannot control I have learned to love all of me.
Who am I? Now I look at myself in the mirror under florescent lights and am proud of all the things that make me who I am. I am proud of my Korean side and my American side. I am proud of my single-lidded eyes, my American accent, my tan skin, my hot temper, my satisfaction with all things spicy, and the fact that at times, I seem to mimic a Valley Girl to a tee.
Hair is a big deal.
We talk about it a lot at Adoption Mosaic, behind the scenes, on the blog, in The Adoption Constellation magazine, and in our workshop African American Hair Care. Whether we like it or not, hair matters.
Here is an interesting perspective from Workshop for Beginners blog, the author is a white adoptive mother of an Ethiopian boy. Here is a quote, but go read the entire post. It’s worth it.
From the post:
“…the truth is, the kids I see who happen to have loose, big hair tend to have mothers like me. Moms who aren’t Black.
And that, well, that just didn’t sit so well with me. That general ignoring of culture. Of ethnicity.
I mean- who am I, the one who happens to be begging for ideas on how to make sure my son grows up knowing how to be Black, if I happen to kick aside words such as those quoted above? To be ignoring the words of the woman in the merkato? To be shoving aside the opinions of African American women and Ethiopian American women who happen to live all around me? Who am I if I ignore these women because I, the European American, want my kid to have big, wild hair… because I think it looks cute and it’s so awesome and isn’t it incredible and so deserving of celebration?”
