How does one find their identity?

It’s hard for adolescents to find themselves. They weave through personalities and identities trying to find the right fit. They switch friend groups, hobbies and goals hoping something sticks. But is finding identity harder for the adoptee? Does the fact that we begin our lives with a family who isn’t biologically tied to us level-up our journey to find identity?

We have defining moments as we grow, both good and bad, that help shape who we are today. Like the the time that blond girl fell into the orchestra pit during rehearsal.  The time my cousin lost her 2 year old son and I had to watch a tiny casket roll down the church aisle. The first time someone close to you betrays you, or worse, when you betray yourself.  

When I think about my moments, many seem centered around race and my “otherness.”  Like when I went rollerskating with friends and the only boy who asked me to skate was the one other Asian in the rink.  I was repulsed. I didn’t want to be associated with him. Hanging with him just affirmed how different I was. I think that’s why I had such a hard crush on Ricky Schroeder when I was younger. He was blond and blue eyed.  He was my ticket to normalcy. My identity revolved around not being different. 

Then there was the time I took a student trip to Russia and the counselor had me room with the only other Asian girl on the trip. She was a skinny little Chinese girl who sang like Snow White with too much vibrato and she thought she was the shit.  I was less than enthralled. I remember thinking, ugh, why am I rooming with her? Did they think I had some subconscious bond with her because our hair was black and our eyes were slanted? I hated standing out like that. But really, is that any different than any other kid growing up?

Sorry I didn’t skate with you Ross. I’m sure you were a nice boy. And sorry Snow White I was too judgmental back then. I’m a little better now in my old age.

I think by the time high school came I got tired of trying to fit in. I got used to the fact that the small town boy wasn’t going to taint his blood line for the dragon lady. I started dressing in black, listening to the Cure and wearing a fake nose ring. There is no way in Hell Carla would’ve allowed a real one. I think children who are constantly ostracized begin to own it and revel in it. It’s like, you’ve felt like an outsider all your life, so why not own it and find others who feel the same. We rationalize our treatment, thinking it’s deserved. I was always so dramatic anyways, so the whole persona really felt right. Teenage angst mixed with loner insecurities. I went from the girl who hated to stand out  to the girl who said fuck it, might as well find joy in standing out since I’m going to anyways.  But really, is that any different than any other kid growing up? 

Can the non adoptee fall back into a family that looks like them, that are tied to them by blood?  Can they at least feel like they have a place where they belong? I was always loved by my parents. They did their best to raise me like I was a Bradford. I never felt like the “adopted” child even next to my brother who was their biological, bonus baby. But when you’re Korean and your mother is an overweight strawberry blond Christian and your dad looks Amish, it’s hard not to feel “other.” Finding one’s identity can be a daunting experience. But for the adoptee, there’s more layers of complexity as we begin our life abandoned. Whether conscious or unconscious we were alone and separated from all we knew. Finding our way back to self has extra detours. 

I have this friend...

I have this friend. I’m not good at making normal friends. Generally I make friends who have a lot of baggage. Women who have mental scars they are working through or need a lot of attention to fill an empty void in their soul.  I normally gravitate to the shit show in the room; the like-minded woman who has seen parts of life that force her to be realer than other people. She has no time for pleasantries and she knows life is short so she likes to fuck it up a little bit. She wakes up and sometimes chooses violence.

But I have this friend. We met because my daughter started pageants and she was THE photographer to hire in Texas. She had one daughter, just like me. All our eggs in one basket, or at least the good egg.  She was very nice and calm.  She was normal. One of those women I try not to scare and tell myself to be on my best behavior. She was very talented and knew so many people in the pageant world. I was just starting out and she kindly helped me along. I felt lucky to know her.

She told me one day she thought she would start her own pageant here in Texas. I immediately entered my daughter to support her. And to my surprise, my daughter won!  We were elated to get spend more time with this talented woman. She had her life together, was independent. She commanded attention as her bangles clanked on her wrist as she talked. But, I saw she could use some help. She was a great face for the business, but could use some help behind the scenes. So, I offered my organizational talent. Before I knew it, I was the director of operations for the International Junior Miss Pageant. We were a team. I was in.  I had a normal friend.

Over the next ten years a bond would form that surprised me. The inside jokes accumulated. Memories stacked one on top of the other. You become close with someone when you’re puking into a plastic beach bucket on the way back from Port A. Or when you’re stuck on the side of the road, in the dark, with a flat tire, in a small Texas town waiting for the wrecker to come… so glad your friend is white just in case you hear a banjo in the distance. We watched our daughters graduate. Cry over boys. Cry over girls. The dinners, the flights of wine, the laughs. It was a friendship I didn’t expect, a friendship I probably thought I didn’t deserve.

I had a normal friend who was told last year she had cancer. Not just any cancer. An aggressive cancer. So now, she was my friend with Cancer.  You do what you are supposed to do. You pray. You are there for them. You try to act normal. You keep things positive. But the other part of you is scared. Scared for your friend. Scared that the reality is she may leave her only daughter alone in the world. Scared that your friend lost her mother around the exact same time. I have a normal friend who opened her heart for me and let me in. And I am powerless to truly help. 

I’m getting older. It’s harder to find friends. It’s hard to find that personality that works well with yours without fizzling out or blowing up. I’m not good at it. I try but there’s a part of me that holds back, for protection. But I have this friend, and now I need to be there for her, for her daughter. It was announced tonight that hospice is coming in and I have never felt more inadequate.