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.
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