So far, I don't think I've adequately displayed
the ups and downs of adoption, and that is to say sometimes it really
does suck. Sometimes in that really teenage angst kind of way, and
sometimes in that I don't know who I am anymore kind of way.
I don't want to deter others from adoption or encourage others to
think adoption is bad, because it's largely good for many reasons-- it
was certainly good for me. That said, good still accompanies bad, and a
big hurdle for adopted children to jump over is the idea of their
current situation is the result of being unwanted. I've been fairly
clear that my parents have made sure I felt wanted and loved, so I
didn't necessarily go through the stage of thinking my adopted parents
didn't love me enough or that my birth parents loved me more. The
thought slipped through my lips at least once, but I already knew it was
an accusation the moment it hung in the air.
I knew of friends and others who did go through that, though,
especially the ones who learned of their adoption later in life. I can't
really speak for them, and that was never the intention of this blog in
the first place, but I understand what it's liked to be ambushed by a
simple fact about your life. One so simple that it utterly destroys
everything you thought you knew about. And unfortunately it's so simple
that it slipped your parents' mind in the x amount years you were never
told.
Fifteen was kind of an odd year in life for me. It wasn't the first
year of high school for me and it wasn't the first year the idea of
having a boyfriend seemed possible. It isn't quite the milestone of
sixteen, but certainly the year learning to drive so sixteen is that
memorable. It was, however, the year of heavy involvement in the
internet chatting with strangers and snooping through my parents' books
and files looking for something interesting about me or about things
adults do.
The internet is a magical place. It's common now to talk to someone
hundreds or thousands or more miles away without batting an eye. Online
dating is more than just a thing now and is a legitimate way to meet a
potential mate. But in the late 1990's and early 2000's the internet was
still a place for creepy men in their basements to lure away young and
impressionable children. It was a thrill to meet strangers in Backstreet
Boys fan chatrooms and carve out personal webspace on Angelfire with
epileptic gifs and writing in comic sans. For a teenager who was
unpopular and wanted a boyfriend, it was a perfect place to talk to boys
without a peer giving them the stink eye for daring to associate with
me.
Well, talk to "boys," as my mom put it when she caught my friends
and I on a long distance phone call to some guys in California.
Embarrassed for being caught by my mom and also being caught in front of
my friends, we had a tearful exchange where I angst my way into
forgiveness by uttering for the first and only time that my birth
parents would want me more. My mom, tears nowhere to be seen, promised
she wouldn't tell my father about the phone call and left the room.
During the summer of my 15th year I pulled out the multiple adoption
files accumulated in a neatly titled file folder bearing my name. I
learned my Korean name (though I can't tell you in which order it is
pronounced), the district I was born in, and various common Korean words
that I later tried to string into smug sounding insults. During my file
expedition I came across the translated hospital documents briefly
detailing the relationship of my birth parents, but instead of
"marriage" or "boyfriend" or something similar, the document listed
"cousin."
The next logical step, of course, was to ask my mom if this was true
while she was driving me to my driver's ed lesson. There may have been a
car swerve involved with an incredulous exclamation, it's all a bit
hazy, but what was clear is that she confirmed it was true and she had
known it all along.
My mom insisted she and my dad intended to tell me when I was older,
and I don't doubt for a second they never intended to do so. The
secret, of course, changed me and my perceptions of not only myself, but
the people I chose to associate with. It's come to haunt me in my
relationships, the possibility of having children, and more recently how
much it may have affected my health.
Unlike other secrets parents keep from their children, I always knew
this one was kept out of love. We're taught early on, without question,
that incest is wrong. It produces disabled children from backwards
folks living in the woods. It was often cited as an incident staunchly
pro-life advocates would consider a legitimate reason to abort a fetus. A
child produced by incest goes against nature, and since it will clearly
be a stupid and welfare child, it shouldn't be brought into this world.
It no longer became a question of my parents not wanting me, but a
world that didn't.
What parent wants their child to grow up in a world like that?
At fifteen I questioned if incest made me stupid. If I should have children in the future. If I thought I deserved to be alive.
If a person found out I was a product of incest, would they still love me?
These are the questions my parents wanted to shield me, their
eternal little girl with a mop of black hair playing house in a toy
kitchen; to protect those big dreams and bright future where I was
always wanted and should always be alive. Sometimes we forget that our
biggest enemy is our self, not the world. The world has been largely
accepting and caring of my history, it's been me that has questioned my
right to exist.
Keeping secrets is not always the best course of action, and largely
there is some sort of repercussion for it at the end. While I will
never fault my parents for keeping my secret, at fifteen when I read
that slip of paper it became my weight to bear. The little girl playing
with plastic toys with endless dreams and possibilities still existed
for my parents, but I couldn't help thinking it had all been a lie.
When you chose to keep a secret, especially from your child,
understand that some day they will find out what it is. It may destroy
their world and who they are, they may hate you for it, and it also may
bring the much needed clarity and questions we often ask ourselves when
finding our place in this world. Most importantly we need to remember
that once a choice is made, there is no going back, we can only move
forward.
I highly suggest that we all try our best to move forward.
