Birth Parent Fantasy

Given up at six months old. Found on the doorstep of the Soo Jung Apartments. Found by the apartment manager and sent to the Dongboo Police Station. It’s the only beginning I’ve ever known; it’s all I’ve ever had.  Before I understood the concept of time and history, I thought I was a Korean war baby. Clearly that doesn’t work with a 1973 birth. My hair dried wavy after my bath, so I thought I was half white.  I mean, all the women I’d seen in the media, like all two, Asians had slick, straight hair.  Mine was a dull, dark brown and had so many waves and cow licks I thought there’s no way I could be full Korean. Another misconception I realized as I grew older and was actually exposed to multiple Asians realizing how different Asian women can look.  

I never really fantasized about my Asian mother and father.  I thought about them. I wondered about them. I visited a psychic once who told me my Asian grandparents were with me, looking down with pride for my two Master’s degrees. I always assumed my mother was young and couldn’t support me, or was single.  I thought, maybe she was a prostitute and poor. No matter what she was, I was raised to believe that I was way better off here than any life I would’ve had in Korea.  I was fed this story from day one, that I was to be grateful for my adoption.  That my life in the US was a blessing.  I would tell people how lucky I was and was taught to appreciate all of my American privileges that children in other countries were not lucky to have. While this can be a toxic view to have in adopted families, it was never served with a sense of indebtedness. Instead it was explained with humility. Being raised by a very Christian family, humility was an important quality for us. I was to be humble about being taken in, about being adopted and about being an American now. I am thankful my adopted parents were wonderful and never made me feel like I owed them anything for adopting me, and never made me feel like I didn’t belong.  Yet, the narrative of being grateful was still strong growing up.

When I discovered my birth mother and my birth family, it was nothing like my fantasy of my made up mother. I found out I was the 7th daughter. My mother had multiple children, each time trying to give her in-laws the precious boy that all Korean families want.  Each time a girl popped out, disappointment and shame came with it.  By the 7th run, my family was too poor to care for me and alas, I was another disappointing girl. So as my sister said, one day she left for school and I was there. By the time she came home, I was gone.  Evidently, they had left me in a rich neighborhood in front of a home of a family, they had heard, couldn’t have children.They thought I would be cared for.  However, I was not raised by that family and somehow made it to that doorstep of the apartment complex.  The reality of my family is much more dramatic and grander than I could’ve ever imagined.  How could I have guessed that my mother would have twins right before I was born and that she would try to leave them on the side of a mountain. There’s no way I would’ve known my father had to go and save those babies. How could I have known that one of those twins would then die.  I would not have guessed my father would end up killing himself by turning the car on in the garage, leaving my older sister to find him after school.  There’s no way I could fantasize that I had a younger, biological brother who died in his twenties. 

I’ve often said my life story is a Lifetime Original movie. There’s no Hallmark happy endings in my story. Striking blond, independent city woman does not get the down home cowboy who’s fighting to save his ranch. The reality of my life is far more complex than any fantasy I could have created. But, it’s my story and I’m happy to have a story that is more than: abandoned on the steps of the apartment building.