Rewriting my adoption story truthfully

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This article is the 22nd in a series about Koreans adopted abroad. Apparently, many Koreans never expected that the children who were sent away via adoption would return as adults with questions demanding to be answered. However, thousands of adoptees visit Korea each year. Once they rediscover this country, it becomes a turning point in their lives. We should embrace the dialogue with adoptees to discover the path to recovering our collective humanity. ― ED.

By Kate Powers

My citizenship is American but America is not where I was born. My birthplace is Korea, but Korean is not my culture. My culture is American, but my American family does not share my race. My racial ancestors are Korean, but I do not know who they are.

These facts generally provide most reasonably perceptive people a glimpse of how complex the journey of transracial and transnational adoption can be. I've been living in Korea since 2019 and it seems most are more concerned with American trends such as Starbucks than American-Korean adoptees. I've been asked why adoptees have curiosities and grievances. It seems injudicious ― and insensitive ― to assume we'd not ever be curious after a lifetime of knowing our lives began in Korea and perhaps very little or nothing else ― or that we'd not be able to get on airplanes again as we did when we were babies.

Although Korea was one of the poorest countries in the world two decades prior to my adoption, the country experienced "miraculous" economic growth and hosted the Olympics in a gleaming, newly-built stadium as more than 66,000 children were flown across the world. I wonder what the country would have been like if 66,000 of us were roaming the streets during the 1980s. Instead, Korea was named the "baby-selling nation" during the 1988 Olympics and I was far away in a suburb of 20,000 people in the middle of the U.S. Perhaps all's well that ends well.

Then after graduating from university, I received a sudden and unsettling health diagnosis. Doctors were puzzled, but were certain I'd be severely disabled permanently within weeks if I didn't have several surgeries urgently. The cause could not be determined. It was ultimately assumed to be genetic. I'll remember that moment when the doctor told me this shocking news forever: tears were running down my face and pink T-shirt while my parents sat by my side. The elephant in the room could not be ignored.

This propelled me to search for my biological origin. What other health concerns might be coming my way? While friends were adjusting to new jobs, excited about their American dreams, I was undergoing surgeries and attempting to navigate emails with language and cultural barriers from Korea. Not only was Korea a mystery, but I was a mystery to me. Now it was critical to my health, survival, and future. But no one in Korea would tell me anything.

In 2006, I flew alone from the U.S. to Korea hoping this information would be easier to access in Korea. Was I more scared this time or when I left Korea as an infant? Both times I didn't know what was happening and was at the mercy of whatever Korea wanted to reveal or conceal about my life. I had a feeling of bittersweet excitement thinking I was returning to the one place in the world where I'd be fully accepted. But I do not remember most of this visit. Only a few moments are seared into my memory, such as when I naively walked into one of the many cosmetics stores and two women working there slapped my face with white powder and said, "You bad, you skin black! White good." I met my Korean family and learned some about my birth ― enough to give me more questions than answers. Learning about the beginning of my life was sharp and tragic, but realizing I could not be certain of what was true or "saving face" was just as difficult. I know nothing more about my health history now than I did before I returned to Korea 15 years ago to seek it. I made peace with what I found out and with not knowing much else. But this peace certainly does not mean I condone the vast injustices of Korea sending more than 200,000 children to other countries while subsequently making an estimated 30 million U.S. dollars per year.

Living in Korea is not just bright flashy lights and romantic K-dramas for me, but it is the one aspect about Korea that I have fully chosen. It is not always comfortable for me, but it is always empowering. I've seen firsthand how Korea could write a very noble and respectful ending chapter to this saga. Koreans are willing to be extremely vocal about the injustices they've endured whether by Japan, or China, or everyone, or each other. And I have witnessed large elaborate protests about political and social issues. Yet Korea continues to attempt to erase the truth about its own adoptees.

In Korea, my identity has been disputed. I've been accused of lying about being American despite a U.S. passport and native English language, and of being Korean. Koreans have told me to not tell other Koreans that I was adopted because "that might make them feel bad." An owner of an English academy said during an interview, "You don't really look Korean so how do you have the visa that is only for Koreans? What will we say to the parents of our students if they ask how can you be Korean considering you do not look really Korean?" It is absurd to witness the very country that sent me to the U.S. shun me for being a product of the environment to which I was sent. The only answer is the only thing I know: the truth. My appearance and culture do not change the facts. I am certain this reality does not change no matter what I do. I am exasperated by the notion that adoptees somehow respect a culture and country that has not done the same for us. Korea's efforts to avoid "feeling bad" or "losing face" or their lives' being disrupted with the return of adoptees is cowardly. Our entire lives were disrupted.

Reality is we may not know where or when we were born or why we didn't grow up with our parental ghosts of the past. We grew up in other countries with then-strangers generally not of Korean ethnicity who became our families. There are happy stories among us indeed. However, our experiences after we left Korea are diverse and are not limited to adoption as an infant then seamlessly engaging in the American life. These realities have often been bypassed due to many factors including one concept I do love ― gratitude. Being adopted is not as simple as just being grateful. Some are grateful ― but that alone does not eliminate the other complexities. It is not a guarantee of getting a perfect life in exchange for losing the first one. It is far more nuanced and complicated. Listen to any adoptee who's attempted suicide, endured abuse or been deported. It is being chosen only because we were first not chosen. It is somehow embracing both countries with oneself and often feeling isolated by both. It is a gain for some and not all. And not all gains come without loss.

Everyone in the world has a journey we know or may not know. Everyone in the world is living out the effects of both the scars and triumphs of these in various and diversified ways. Adoptees too have been through a war, that war often being with ourselves. And sometimes, all we can do is claim whatever part of Korea we want to in hopes of writing our own ending to a story that has a beginning we may never know. The elephants in the room are in the country. I have moved in. The only country and people on the planet with whom we share a race and roots is the same country who fails to support our very basic human rights. And it is far overdue for Korea to respect and acknowledge our lives and protect us in the most basic ways that it has failed to do since our birth.

Kate Powers was adopted to the United States in the 1980's and has been living in Korea since 2019.