Write about when it felt good to be a kid.

 There were lots of times being a kid was not fun. Riding the bus was horrific with all the big kids glaring at me, not wanting to move to let me sit with them in a seat made for three people. School was one big anxiety trap where I would try to elude the bullies, the popular kids, and the teasing. Home was safe, but the responsibility kicked in at home since I was the older sister of a severely autistic brother. 

“Heather, can you wipe Crispin in the bathroom?  Heather, can you lock the snack pantry? Crispin got in it.”

But the one time every year that I always looked forward to was when our family would meet two other families who adopted Korean babies. When our families got together, it was always good to be a kid.

When my parents adopted me, they kept in contact with two other families who also adopted Korean babies. These two girls are my oldest friends. Our history predates us since we came over on a plane from Korea July, 1973. Back then, babies were flown to the U.S. with nannies. A whole plane of screaming babies for fourteen hours.  Myself, Lori Su, and Stacey met our new parents in the Chicago airport among family and friends. Once a year our families would meet up and socialize. It generally focused around a Chinese lunch. Ha that always cracked me up. They took the Korean kids to the Chinese restaurant.  But really, that was the best they could do in the 70’s. This was time before Korean BBQ and K-POP.  Hell, my classmates didn’t even know Korea was a country. They’d always ask, “Are you Chinese or Japanese?” Their ignorance made me believe that Koreans was rare and exotic.

Even though we all came from the same place, we were all so different. Our personalities were different. Our temperaments were different. And once Stacey moved to Louisiana, we definitely sounded different. But for one small day when we got together, I felt like I belonged.  Their family was just as odd looking as my family. These girls were like me, wanting to fit in and just be American. We treated each other like normal kids, not foreigners or oddities. They were my eight year old ride or dies.  

Sometimes when we would get together Stacey’s father would put on a magic show for the kids. We’d play in my back yard on the jungle gym.  Or if we were at Lori Su’s we would ride her horse.  But one year, we decided we would play in our parents’ cars. We would sit in them and pretend we were driving. My car was next so we got in our huge Beauville van. I thought I’d turn the blinker on like Lori Su did. Well, instead of grabbing the blinker I grabbed the gear selector and threw the van into neutral. That van started slowly rolling backwards down the driveway. I could hear the big wheels scraping against the cement as it progressed. I was screaming, the girls were screaming, and then someone told me to step on the middle peddle and I did with all my strength.  I was so frightened the van was going to go careening into the road. I screamed for help as everyone ran into the house to grab the adults. I was crying, panicking that I’d done something really bad.  My dad came out and saved me. I went inside and my mom spanked me. It’s what you did in the 70’s. I never played in a car again.

As traumatic as that was, I look back on the memory with such fondness. I was a normal kid, having normal issues. My friends were with me, supporting me. It was good to be a kid messing up, but getting saved and learning lessons. And in that moment, my identity didn’t matter. I was just me. Making poor choices… most likely foreshadowing my teen years. 

What would it look like if you stopped running from the things that overwhelm, or frighten, you about adoption?

I don’t like to make a mistake. It’s crippling. I get better about it the older I get. But it’s still there lingering… Because I don’t want to make a mistake, I work to always be right.  But a person can’t be right 100% of the time. There’s no way.  So I morph the memory in my mind so I can live with being wrong. Maybe it’s because I’m a Capricorn and we strive for perfection. Maybe it’s because I’m an adoptee and I’ve tried to be perfect, to be the perfect daughter to an over protective, controlling mother. This need for perfection has kept me cautious. I don’t take large risks unless I’m fairly certain of the payout. When I was in ballet we wore pillow cases on our heads as we came on stage during rehearsal for a part in the Bluebird of Happiness.  You could barely see through them so I didn’t venture far. One girl fell into the orchestra pit. I remember my mom saying she saw me at the back of the stage as I lifted the the case just above my face. She knew I was safe. I knew I wouldn’t have taken the risk. 

I’ve made it my job to be right as I’ve grown up.  I try to take in my surroundings first, read the people in the room, predict if I will be successful in the moment or not.  So in a way, I’ve been running away from risk, from growth.  It took me seven years to complete my undergrad. I changed majors half way through. I didn’t want to risk graduating with a useless degree.  Right before my last year of college my friend was leaving for New York to nanny and audition for Broadway.  She told me to come with her.  I chickened out.  It was too risky and why leave with one year of college left?!  

I’ve always said things seem to work out for me. I mean, I was teaching in a very WHITE school district and four years later a former colleague offered me a job in a more diverse district.  Then ten year years later my husband wanted to move to Austin, TX from Michigan. I tried to get a teaching job in Austin but was not very successful.  Then a job at Apple opened up that wanted someone with an educational background. I got it. It just seemed to work out.  Throughout my stay at Apple my boss would always ask me, “Where do you see yourself in five years Heather?”  Umm, I’d always answer: Doing the same thing making more money? I didn’t worry because things seemed to fall into place. I like to think it’s because things work out for me.  But how much sooner could my career have developed had I taken risks? Where would I be if I had pictured myself as a go getter, someone who made things happen? I don’t move on until I am confident I can succeed.  Yet, if you never fail, how do you learn?  

This the one lesson I hope I impart on my daughter: It’s ok to fail. It’s ok to make a mistake.  I just couldn’t bear that burden for some reason.  I hate being wrong. Can you imagine what it’s like to marry a woman who never wants to be wrong? It’s rough. I would not want to marry me.

So think back to the night it all blew up when I met my biological sister. The day had gone so well. We were getting along.  I tried to be a good guest, a good little sister.  But in reality, I’m not. I was raised as the oldest so in birth order we are different women. In our cultures we are different women. She wanted to call and talk on the phone a lot and become close sisters.  I wanted to talk now and then and ease into the sister role. Again ever cautious.  I think back to that night we raised our voices. How I altered the narrative to make me feel vindicated for looking at my phone to see what time it was when she was telling me a deep, dark secret. I knew she was getting drunker as the night wore on and I could sense communication was not going to be productive. I was tired of conforming and giving out the answers I thought she wanted to hear. Or has my memory created a story so I can reconcile the argument? Am I only looking at her flaws without addressing mine? Has her familial guilt clashed with my adoption resentment? This is one incident I can’t neatly package up and attribute to someone else’s wrong. I have to look at myself if I want to be a part of this new family.

Write about the memory or feelings evoked by a song that speaks to you as an adoptee.

 Wicked Game

Wish I may, wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight.

Every night I’d look for the first star of the night. I’d find it and say this phrase with such yearning. Every time I’d wish for the same wish, send me a boyfriend. Send me someone that loves me, that wants me. Growing up, I wasn’t enough. I couldn’t be happy with just me. I had this idea that the only way I could achieve happiness was with someone else wanting me, telling me I was pretty, that I was worth it. I wonder now if it was because of being adopted.  Was there always that longing, lingering inside of me because deep down I was abandoned? I knew at one time I was not wanted so does it makes sense I would spend my entire adolescence trying to fill that void? Was that the reason I felt I needed a man to make me whole?

You Were Meant for Me

I used to think there was just one person I was fated to be with. There was one perfect person in the universe that fit with me and once I found that person, my life would be perfect. Ariel found her prince Erik. She gave up her voice, her body and her family just to be with him. It was fate.  I knew my boyfriend in high school was fated to be with me.  I looked for any similarities. Our grandmothers lived a block away from each other on the bad side of town.  At his friend’s house he got a bloody nose.  That same morning two hours away I got a bloody nose. There were so many incidences like this that I wanted to attribute to fate. They were small examples that culminated to one clear answer…we were meant to be together. 

The young heart is so much more whimsical than the adult heart. 

I’d imagine my Korean mother as a woman who was young and maybe raped. She was pregnant with me and alone. She knew she couldn’t care for me so she gave the ultimate sacrifice of giving up the one little soul she cared for more than life itself to give me a better life. It was fate that I was given up and fate that I ended up in America. It was meant to be.  Just like my HS boyfriend and I were meant to be. 

But my adult heart now knows better.  

Foolish Games

There is not one person out there fated to be with you. There is not just one person you can love, one person you can live with or one person who you should spend the rest of your life with.  We choose who we want to be with.  Of course some people are more compatible than others.  People who have the same interests can be better suited for each other.  But that isn’t the indicator that they will stay together. They aren’t fated to be together because they both like nutter butters. People last because they work at their relationships. They both make a commitment to each other and work to make the other person happy. They work to make each day special. It’s not fate. It’s love and hard work. I remember when Hotel Transylvania the animated movie came out. There’s a line in it where they suggest there is one person out there for them. I looked at my daughter in her little eyes and said, “NO! That’s false. There is not one person for you. It’s who you choose to be with!” It’s not a fairy tale. Just like my biological mother. It was a choice to give me away, to not love me, to not raise me. There was a choice to keep me. There was a way. But she chose not to.  My HS boyfriend was not my fate. It was a relationship that lasted too long because I didn’t know who I was without him. It was insecurity.     It’s not fate.

Don’t Dream it’s Over

Adoption affects everyone differently. I came over with two other babies and our families would get together every year. They are my sisters; but, we are so different. Not every adoptee has a longing to find their biological family. Not every adoptee has a great adopted family.  At age 48 I think I’m finally content. I’m not longing for someone to love me. I’m lucky to have someone who loves me for me, flaws and all. I wasn’t fated to love him. I love him because we work to make a great life and a great relationship, together. Despite our disagreements, I loved my adopted parents and am at peace with my father’s choice to leave us. I met my biological family and know that while they are genetically tied to me, they are truly strangers with different lives. If I want a relationship with them, it will be work. Our future is not fate but is dependent upon our actions. I used to dream of what my life would be like. But now, I don’t have to because it’s right in front of me.

Write an Adoption Scene using the senses

She gave birth again. This was the 6th pregnancy, but child seven and eight. Twins. The cries of the babies were like tongue lashings from her ancestors. She knew they were the voices of the dead complaining that she still couldn’t produce a boy. No matter how much she swaddled the tiny bodies, and nursed the hungry mouths, it did not change the fact that once again, she had failed her husband’s family and produced only girls. Seven girls. Failure came in the scent of dirty diapers and spit up. It was painful to be reminded day after day that she was not fulfilling her duties as a wife and mother, to produce a son for the family. It eventually became too much to bear. 

One day father came home from work to a silent house. There was no chaos, no screaming babies, only heavy, sorrowful silence.  He scanned the room quickly, eyes darting from top to bottom. 

“Where are they?” he exclaimed.  “What did you do?” he continued as he shook the woman with the empty eyes. When hope abandons the soul it leaves a black hole that sucks the light out the eyes. 

She couldn't continue on. Not like that, everyday knowing she could barely feed the five other mouths in the house, all female. All disappointing.  The babies would be better off in a home where food was prevalent, where money flowed like rivers and love sprung abundant. She convinced herself she was doing the babies a favor. The internal monologue was powerful and she wove the perfect story to justify her actions. But the father was not having it.  He raced out of the house and searched the area. He combed the forest behind the property and scaled the mountain base in search of those two babies. He was sure he read somewhere twins were good luck. Even though he only made it to 5th grade, he was certain there was a story where twins meant luck and good fortune. As he came around a bend, he could hear two cries that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He scooped the babies up and held them tight so they could feel his heartbeat. He took them home where they belonged. 

Two years had passed and she stood in the same old house, in the same musty room. She had sent the older girls out to the market to search for scraps to piece together for dinner.  People always have pity for young children and often gave handouts to them before they gave to adults. The girls knew which vendors were kind and which ones were mean. They searched high and low with the din of the market behind them, carrying on as if they were non-existent. The smell of seafood was intoxicating to the young girls, but they dared not dream of meat for dinner. Their brains knew they had to protect their stomach by not wishing for things that were impossible to have. Instead, they laid low with the smell of the earth and picked up droppings that would not be missed, but good enough for dinner.

Proud of their meager scavenging, they came home and gave what they collected to her. She did her best to prepare a meal and feed the six girls.  It used to be seven, but one twin daughter did not survive. Evidently her luck was left on the mountain side. One less cry in middle of the night. One less mouth to feed.  As she boiled water to make a broth, the stench came up and hit her nose with a vengeance. A wave of nausea encompassed her and she ran heaving to the bathroom.  As she vomited into the toilet, she thought to herself… no way.  There’s no way she could have another baby. But as she wiped the spittle from her lip and stared into the broken mirror on the wall, hope returned to her eyes as she thought maybe this time. Maybe this time it will be a boy and the in-laws would be pleased, her husband would be proud, and her family would be complete.

Eight months later, she would again be disappointed. Another baby girl was born in a house that yearned for a boy.  She knew what she had to do. She had no choice. She had heard there was a family nearby who wanted a child but could not have one. She had the perfect plan. She would drop the seventh daughter off at that house in the nice part of town, as an answer to their prayers. While the girls were asleep, she asked oldest sister to help her. In the cover of night, they began the trek to the neighbors. The oldest daughter could see the footprints in the snow behind them get smaller and smaller, faintly reflecting in the moonlight. As they reached the baby’s new home, she hugged the baby tight, pulled the blanket over her face and left her on the front porch so her new family could find her. If the baby had just been a boy, she would’t have to go through this. If life could have just been fair for once, she wouldn’t have to bury her feelings deep inside herself. In order to move on for her family, she will have to let this part of her die inside.