There are some adopted children who dream all their lives of meeting their birth families. They have imagined the reunion hundreds of times in remarkable detail: the hugs, the tears, the in-depth explanations of how and why.Read the whole thing to discover what she (and her sister) found.
I was never one of those kids.
Growing up as a Korean-American adoptee, I honestly can't recall any fairy-tale notions of reconciliation. From early on, I maintained a pragmatic view of my adoption, accepting and even appreciating the circumstances that had allowed me to grow up in the United States.
I knew little about my birthplace, only the details my parents had gleaned from their local adoption agency: that I had been left at a police station in Seoul and later turned over to an orphanage. My childhood, in the suburbs of Philadelphia, was loving and untroubled. I felt little reason to seek out further explanation.
I had, however, long pondered traveling to South Korea. Growing up, I fielded countless questions about my background and my ethnicity, all while knowing very little about Korean culture. I don't speak Korean; I had never visited and knew very little about the country, beyond what I had attempted to learn through books, articles and cuisine.
As a young adult, I decided that I wanted not only to visit South Korea, but to do so in a way that would honor my unique attachment to it. I just wasn't sure how.
The Angrier Adoptee, part 1
1 week ago