Baggage Reclamation

I have a lot of baggage. It cost me $350.00 USD in additional airline charges when I moved to Korea, so I'd like to get rid of that which I no longer need. As I struggle with interpersonal communication in my partnership, I realize that I am still lugging around some heavy trust issues picked up during my childhood.

As an international adoptee who was raised in the United States by white folks, I can simplify my complaints to just two fundamental violations of trust perpetrated by my adoptive parents. The first violation was the threat to send me back [to Korea] that bubbled up when we fought. The second, continuous act of betrayal was my white family's collusion with a system of racism that targeted their adopted child, and divided our interracial family along color lines.

My white, adoptive parents are good people. My white, adoptive parents were loving in more ways than they were not. My white, adoptive parents were also deceived by a system of white supremacy that led them to believe that they could effectively raise me by making me white, rather than addressing the racism that I would experience as a person of color growing up in the United States. As for me, I was loud, destructive, and inconsolable at times. Nevertheless, I was still a child worthy of family and home. I never gave consent to the sales agreement that exchanged my self-determination for a family that loved me with conditions. I, alone, should not have held the consciousness of racism that targeted our interracial family. As white allies and as responsible parents, my white mother and father should have helped me. Still, I know too well that it's by design that my white parents were pitted against me when I named racism, and that it's by design that they may still not understand our distance.

I never should have overheard my father's flippant remarks, "Send her back, this isn't what I signed up for". I never should have been confronted with my mother's rage-motivated rhetorical question: Do you want to go back? The idea that an adopted child could be returned to their birthplace as an appropriate recourse for misbehavior defined by the adoptive parents is absurd. Moreover, for a child who has already been relinquished, displaced, stripped of their native language and culture in exchange for home and family, such threats are manipulative and abusive. And in the context of white supremacy, patriarchy, and capitalism, I believe it's another weapon of the "shut up and be grateful" power dynamic that adoptees are forced to endure their entire lives. In my case, I believe these threats were hurled at me in desperate moments and did not reflect my adoptive parents' actual will. Nevertheless, they were jarring at the point of impact, and have stayed with me all these years.

Furthermore, I grew up being targeted by individual acts of discrimination, within a racially segregated community, and a white supremacist context that moved me around the world. Though my white parents would take me to Korean picnics once a year, I was alone in dealing with racial prejudice, racially motivated violence, and institutionalized racism that targeted me. I grew up in the suburbs of Milwaukee, the Midwestern city famous for its institutionalized brutality against people of color. So when the white grocery store clerk assumed that I was stealing my white mother's groceries, my helpful actions were suspect within a racist context that my white mother was too privileged to recognize. As a result, she told me to assume the best in the white grocery store clerk's actions.

My white mother interpreted this incident as she did with so many other experiences with racism: an isolated incident, and an acceptable misunderstanding between two people with equal power and access. My white mother never connected the times I was taunted for being dirty in regards to my brown skin, to the pervasive imagery of black and brown folks living in poverty that she fed to me with each meal served in front of the news. My white mother never connected the reality that I was viewed as less worthy than my white sister, to the racist beauty standards that made me invisible at best, and an Oriental whore at worst.

After leaving for college, I had the best of intentions to shed light on my white parents' participation in a system of white supremacy that targeted our interracial family. Though with years of hurt from feeling betrayed by my white parents, I failed myself by ending the relationship on, "I hate you, you're racist!". As I examine these experiences from Korea, while rebuilding a relationship with my Korean family who also betrayed me once upon a time, I want to own my participation this perpetual orphan status.

I am reaching to forgive my white, adoptive parents so that I am no longer anchored in dysfunction. Moreover, I want to be part of an international adoption community that calls white, adoptive parents to join forces with their adopted children in resisting the systems violence that targets people of color and threatens interracial families. I hope Korea continues to provide me the space I need to unpack my baggage, let go of that which I no longer need, and make peace with all that I carry with me.

Word Limits

I am reconsidering my words. I have too many when it comes to the English language. Beyond fluency with speaking, reading, writing, and listening comprehension; I can draw words out from a listener who is receiving my words. I can twist them, turn them around, and throw a punch with my words. In fact, I've never gotten into an actual physical fight (though I want you to think I have). Every conflict, fallout, explosion has been a battle of my wits--and I win when I get the last word.

These days, I am at a loss for words. I am reuniting with my first family; I finally found them after searching five times since age 12. Though I lack the words I need to communicate and build a relationship with my mother, older sister, nephew, father, younger brothers and sister, stepmother (not to mention a grandmother, multiple aunts and uncles, and cousins).

Rather than talking about dominant narratives of gender, the violence of capitalism, and global white supremacy in regards to our painful family history...I'm sounding like a desperate housewife in the Midwest, and listening like an old white man trying to sell you something. I am commenting on the weather, though only if it's cold, raining, or snowing. I am saying what food I like, that the music is good, and affirming that the day is enjoyable. On occasion, I will ask my family if they are well and ask what they are doing. But since I cannot comprehend the words in their answers, I just listen to their sounds without ever hearing them.

Though these are the only words I have at this time.

I am realizing that small talk can be an access point in communication. My first family and I lack shared meanings for words, in addition to a shared cultural context to comprehend what is unknown. Therefore, we start with talking about the weather and the hobbies that interest us. As I struggle to speak Korean, and they struggle to speak English, I realize we are expressing our love through the process of reaching for words. My sister and I have been text messaging daily for the past week. Upon the realization that she was writing to me in English this whole time, and I was sending her messages in Korean, I felt overwhelmed with love for my sister, who is trying to meet me where I am.

Now I am reconsidering how I express love, as I reconsider my words in context of family. I wonder if I am missing something with those who I love most, with whom English words come easily. Rather  than reaching for more words, perhaps I need a better process.

I'll leave you with some of my dearest English language misses from my family:

• Nora! I'm Dad.
• Sister my sister, half of my heart. 
• The weather was cold Gesundheit.
• For you, your voice is too good in the morning.
• With you I want to spend a happy weekend.
• Necessarily have to eat breakfast, lunch and dinner daily.

And pure perfection from my sister: I miss you always.

이번에 친부모님을 찾았습니다

I'm still dealing with the brain sludge from the emotional weekend...

• Thursday, 11/10: Travel from 인제 대학교(Inje) to Seoul
• Friday, 11/11: Confession Coffee with 어머니(mother)
• Saturday, 11/12: 4-hour Lunch with 언니(sister)
• Sunday, 11/13: Sleepover with 아버지(father) and meeting 동생(younger siblings)
• Monday, 11/14: Father Daughter time continued...
• Tuesday, 11/15: Non-threatening physical essentials: eat, wash, sleep
• Wednesday, 11/16: Surreal return to 인제 대학교(Inje)

Not to mention...going out last night for birthday beverages with 친구'z (friend+Z) [Ching GuZ]. I do believe that celebrating an adoptee's birthday is a powerful act of resistance against the capitalist machine that made our births invisible--as if we started when we fell out of the baby plane into the arms of middle-class white folks who signed the papers. So for this reason, I will tell myself that another night of beer and fast food is totally part of the life vision to take down systems of oppression.

This morning I find myself dwelling on my first parents, particularly their strengths and flaws in context of self-destruction. My mother is a street smart hustler who knows how to survive the world that is set up to take her out. She played the system that was playing her, and I was too small to protest her American dream meets revenge plot against my father.

I see myself in my mother's will gone bad when I revisit my early twenties at the University of Wisconsin. (I've described my experience there as getting my head repeatedly slammed against a brick wall, watching my blood trickle down in front of my eyes, and wondering if it was my fault for having a face that cracked so easily.) The worst was when I was working three jobs, one of which was serving at the best sports bar in town. On my lucky nights when I worked multiple shifts, I sold slippery nipples, redheaded sluts, dirty girl scouts, and blow jobs for a dollar. After being told "We like you as a person [but there's no place for you here]", I was laid off. 

I felt dirty, used, and cheap...but I knew working there was the fastest way for me to earn money, graduate from college, and regain my agency from a racist, homophobic family that purchased me years ago. So then things got ugly....I started picking up the nice, virginal men who would adore me, and then I would manipulate into thinking it was their fault that I was breaking up with them. (Awful. I know.) I was trying to feel powerful within the larger context where I felt so powerless. I needed to escape the violence of my home by going to school. I could borrow money from my racist parents, but that would bind me to them when I had already waited eighteen years to break free. Instead, I chose to work while being a full-time student in order to keep up with the bills. My jobs at the Goodwill Donation Center and Cost Cutters Salon did not pay anywhere close to a four-hour shift on game day, getting tipped by a mob of old white men trying to relive their college days.  

I felt desperate. I was at loss for how to change the world around me, while being trapped by my economic circumstances.

Here I can contextualize my mother's decision to leave me at Holt, though I still feel shaken by the destructiveness and near permanence of her action. I am a woman of color who grew up feeling invisible and powerless. I know the temptation to play the system that's playing me, and the ugly ways that feeling powerful when being powerless can manifest against those you love.

I have a feeling my father is no worse than an ambitious fool who is too privileged to recognize his participation within a system of patriarchy that separated us. He loses his temper. He makes mistakes. As I am making space for him in my life, I am feeling pulled to reconsider my white family.

It's unbelievable how much has changed since I moved to Korea on August, 28, 2011. Now I know that I was born at 8 am in Seoul, that I've always had an older sister who needed me, and that my birth family prayed for me and missed me my entire life. I know that I was clever and needy from the beginning, before abandonment and adoption. I know that my fierce independence and pride, destructive and indomitable at worse, is from my mother. I know that my passionate feelings and ambitions are from my father. I know I started before the baby plane, that I am a product of my parents and not only pathological because of abandonment and adoption. Now I know that there is an entire history and cultural context for my being. 

제이름은 승미입니다. 저는 미국에서 왔습니다. 이번에 친부모님을 찾았습니다.

(My name is Seung Mi. I am from the United States. I found my birth parents.)

텍스트 또는 웹사이트 주소를 입력하거나 문서를 번역하세요.

취소

영어 -> 한국어 번역

텍스트 또는 웹사이트 주소를 입력하거나 문서를 번역하세요.

취소

영어 -> 한국어 번역

Straight Man Blues

I'm choosing to be in community with the sickies at Koroot tonight...not to mention it's too cold in Seoul for me to go out. Imagine: fried chicken, hot tea, and the smooth, sultry sounds of Billie Holiday.

And since I'm too lazy to study at the moment...I am pondering my relationships with straight men, a pattern of behavior that I was socialized to do since childhood.

I was recently talking with a friend about a crush fail that involved a straight man. As much as I love blaming straight men for my issues, I admit I may have contributed to this particular situation. Now I'm realizing that I am almost thirty, a self-identified queer feminist activist, and am still entrenched in the gross gender role dynamics that manifested in middle school when the cute, popular guy talked to me. When I expressed dismay over this pattern of failed relationships with straight men--including family, friends, boyfriends, roommates, teachers, co-workers--my friend suggested I go to the root.

In lieu of intentionally and consciously thinking about my relinquishment and adoption experience, I am considering the connection between relinquishment/adoption and my issues with straight men. I'm reflecting on the explicit and implicit childhood messages about worthiness contingent upon my success to conform to the role that was given to me. I was orphaned and my livelihood depended on my performance of Lori Jane, the constructed white-ish, able-enough, marriage-track, gender conforming daughter to white folks with money and a house.

With moving through this incredible transition, with loved ones and comfort foods overseas in the United States, I am feeling insecure and vulnerable. In this place of uncertainty, I find it easy to sink into unhealthy relationship patterns shaped by unexamined heteronormative and genderist power dynamics between myself and men. So here I am. A grown woman, still struggling to build authentic relationships with straight men without colluding with the system that tells me I'm only worthwhile if I appear attractive and available to them.

These days, I find myself with a disproportionate number of straight men in my life. Evidently, when you leave the field of social work and entry-level staff positions in higher education, straight men are everywhere. Furthermore, I have three new straight men in my life--my father who is eager to be emotionally vulnerable with me, and two teenage brothers who will most likely fall into the traps of manhood at any moment. This will likely be a messy and uncomfortable process.

I suppose now is as good of time as any to work through my straight man issues...Any advice?

Sleepover at Dad's

As it turns out, my father is a brilliant architect who survived the poverty that cost him a relationship with me. Now that I am back in his life, he is eager to give me a home, shower me with gifts, and do everything for me that he hasn’t been able to do. Nevertheless, we're awkward and we struggle to communicate, like so many fathers and daughters. I love him without fully understanding what that means yet, quite possibly because he reminds me of another father who I lost along the way. 

Top 10 “Like Father, Like Father” moments:

1. Calling to confirm two hours ahead of our meeting time, arriving 30 minutes early, and immediately asking if I ate lunch.
2. Insisting that he carry my bags because they are too heavy for me and it’s not good for me.
3. Walking so fast through the subway station that I needed to run to keep up.
4. Picking something sticky off the ground and putting it into his pocket as we went up the stairs to his home.
5. Asking/Telling his two sons: Isn’t she smart? Isn’t she pretty? Don’t you have questions for her?
6. Showing me how each thing in the bathroom worked: turning the light on and off, turning the water on and off, opening and closing the cabinet, screwing and unscrewing the toothpaste cap, putting on and taking off the slippers.
7. Setting out pajamas for me, leaving the room to let me change, and beaming when I came out with them on.
8. Covering me up with a blanket at 5 am when he woke up and figured I was still sleeping.
9. Meticulously going over my jacket with industrial tape to remove the lint, fuzz, and hair.
10. Squeezing me tightly while saying goodbye at the gate of Koroot, repeating “Seung Mi, I love you”, and crying when I told him that I’ve missed him and love him.

Top 10 Awkward Sleepover Memories:

1. My father inviting me to move in with him, telling me he is going to visit all the time, insisting that I move in with him, me changing the subject to, “The weather is nice”.
2. Being bowed to by two teenage boys who look like me, followed by my 10-year old sister bursting into the room, bowing, and running away.
3. Repeatedly explaining that I am not married, that I have a boyfriend in the United States, that I am 28, and that I am not married.
4. The photo his wife took of me--wearing lipstick and the shiny black and gold tracksuit they gave me--going for my first piggyback ride around the living room on my 51 year-old father’s back as a 145 lbs grown woman.
5. Changing the subject when my father’s third wife tried to get me to call her mother.
6. Looking at the naked childhood photos of my teenage brother as he watched in horror and repeated “Oh my gosh!”.
7. Singing and dancing to Backstreet Boys “I Want It That Way” with my brother for 노래 방. (It’s the only English song he knows.)
8. Getting hand fed giant lumps of meat, garlic, and kimchi by my father and his wife.
9. Sitting down to cake and wine in celebration of the return of the relinquished daughter/the older sister who they didn’t know existed/ the biological family that I never imagined.
10. Sleepover with dad at age 28. Enough said.

 Top 10 “English through Korean expressions” that my father prepared for me:

1. Are you hungry?
2. I am so happy.
3. I am jumping for joy.
4. I am so proud of you.
5. It’s my fault.
6. For a beginner, you are pretty good.
7. I like your hair.
8. When will you get married?
9. I have a gift for you.
10. Let’s meet more often. 

My father purchased an English through Korean conversation book since meeting me last month. He went through each page, highlighted and tabbed the expressions he wanted to share with me :)

I realize that I need to pay attention during this process so it doesn’t turn into a Korean Adoptee Disney Fairytale. I’m feeling like Cinderella, who was saved by Prince Charming from the wretched family who raised her. And when I am at a loss for words, I am reflecting on Arial, the little mermaid who gave up her voice on a chance that he would love her because she was pretty.

Now I am thinking about the ways I can write my own story…I want to be in solidarity with the witches and stepmothers whose vile actions reflect the fierce will of a survivor who is resisting narratives of victimization by patriarchy. I want my story to be about reclamation of voice, identity, family, and home. Rather than marriage, I want communication to be centered as both the process and outcome goal in which all the characters engage with and struggle through together. I want the prince to be liberated from “The Man Box”; for him to find new ways to engage in meaningful relationships with his loved ones, including those he has hurt in the past. And in the end, I want the heroine to live happily ever after as an unmarried, outspoken, old lady. She will be loved by a family that understands the multiple constructions of family, holding that loving them more doesn’t mean loving her other family any less.

Tonight, I am back at Koroot doing my best to make sense of these last few days. One of the most powerful experiences of this journey is being named by my father. He gave me two options, one that would lead to wealth and success, and the other that let me keep my personality. I chose 승미, a name for someone who is smart, but doesn't care about money.

Here's the final list for this post, a compilation of all the ways I've been named:

"For the Record"

1. 똘똘이 ("Smarty")
2. K85-160
3. 기 화영 (Kee, Wha Yung)
4. Lori Jane
5. Laura
6. Laura-Lee, Laura-La, Laura-la-ah-ha-ah-la
7. Ms. Klunder
8. Laura
9. 이 승미 (Lee, Seung Mi)
10. Laura, 누나, 이 승미,  똘똘이, 기 화영

괜찮아요, 엄마 (It's ok, Mom)

What else can I say to her, my mother?

Today, I am needing to remember, more than ever, that there is no justice for poor, disabled women and trans persons of color within the world as it is. My mother is a survivor within a system that is designed to take her down. It's relentless, vicious, and inescapable. She is human, and she makes mistakes.

Just. like. me.

So I'll start at the place when I fixed my eyes on her, gave her the slow blink--the one that I give to white folks who say ignorant crap in meetings--and thought: This b*tch is crazy.

"I cannot believe that she put me up for adoption without talking to my father about the decision. I cannot believe that she was angry with him for living with another woman, so she put me up for adoption. I cannot believe that she took revenge on my father for getting another woman pregnant, by putting me up for adoption. I cannot believe that the social workers told her that she couldn't put me up for adoption without his consent, so she left me there. This b*tch is crazy." (Reaching for my bag, getting up to leave.)

But then I noticed her hands, pressed firmly palm-side down against the table. And I recognized my own hands, and felt the despair and shame of my own decisions made at the intersection of proud and stupid. And found myself saying, "괜찮아요, 엄마" (It's ok, Mom).

My mother is a poor, disabled, and uneducated woman of color who is targeted by the violence of white supremacy, patriarchy, and capitalism. My father has two houses in Seoul, three wives, five children, and a successful construction business. He also missed the last twenty seven years of my life against his will. My sister grew up in Korea, but was moved from relative to relative, to stepfather, to stepmother to stepmother. She never had home.
 
Now I am doing the best I can to make sense of a situation that is illogical by design.

But it's so hard...I am really struggling tonight.

Tomorrow I meet my sister for the first time, and Sunday I see my father again. Monday I binge on ice cream.

Happy Anniversary, Redbeard!

The time has arrived to come out to being in love Ross, and loving the partnership that he and I have shared for this last year. It’s been building since our first date when he named the histories of violence connected to our bodies, identities, and desires in order to set the context and get consent for telling me, “You look pretty”. And against the odds, it continues to grow and deepen as we explore new ways of practicing love in a time of uncertainty.

As you would imagine, I loathe being read as another Asian woman with a white dude. I never thought I would date another white guy since exceeding my quota in college, and developing that skin allergy to non-consensual physical contact with their kind. That was until November 2010, when I chaperoned the Minnesota OUT! Campus Conference at Augsburg College. I found myself face to face with the dreamy red-bearded, anti-racist facilitator and couldn’t resist the urge to invite him to coffee with me (again). Fast forward to one year later--I am blogging from South Korea with his love and encouragement propelling me forward on this incredible adventure.

I can’t help but daydream about how wonderful it would feel to take him on a cheap date to our favorite Minneapolis establishments...

I would let him drive me to the Riverview Theater to see a second-run Hollywood blockbuster that centers another white, gender-conforming, hetero-, able-bodied, middle-class, monogamous partnership that leads to marriage as a symbol of true love. This would give me fodder to complain all night about the exploitation of people of color as a plot device to tell white man hero stories. He would listen and validate me, not only because I am right, but because he believes he needs to be accountable to queer and trans folks of color who have been integral to his journey for personal liberation from the painful histories of violence inherent in the constructions of hegemonic masculinity portrayed in the film. Afterward, we would go to the Chatterbox for a couple of rounds of Bubblejack and a game of Limited Edition LOTR Monopoly. Despite his willingness to make deals so that we can co-create a shared vision for Middle-earth, I would ultimately lose. In part because of my aggressive building strategy, but mostly due to my proud and needy hustler tendencies that come out when I’m competing in the game of capitalism. Then we would go home to the same place. Holding hands along the way, processing our feelings, reaching for collective liberation--with our favorite Twin Cities artists/activists/organizers speaking truth to power playing in the background.

Alas, I am living in Korea, and he is living in the United States…at least for now. So I have to go with Plan B, which is to write him into my story by posting this message on my blog. Drawing inspiration from the six-sided die that Ross and I would use to play question games, ranging from deep to saucy.

This next section is written directly to him:

It’s my turn. I am picking the questions, starting with 6 and ending on 1.

SIX words to describe you:

1. Fuzzy
2. Warm
3. Generous
4. Fierce
5. Deep
6. Textured  

FIVE memories we made that I want more of:

1. Hours of Truth or Dare.
2. Being snowed in for days.
3. Listening to you sing in the morning.
4. Drinking beer, eating popcorn, and crying about how much we love one another.
5. Spending time with your family and friends who love you and believe in you.

FOUR wishes I want to share with you:

1. Health
2. Home
3. Family
4. Peace

THREE ridiculously dramatic love songs that I hate admitting give me the feelings:

1. Brandi Carlile, Hiding My Heart Away
2. Tracy Chapman, The Promise
3. Eva Cassidy, Songbird

TWO regrets when looking back on our relationship:

1. Not asking you about your views on animal liberation before ordering a Rueben from Trotter’s Cafe on our first date.
2. Taking so long to communicate that all my anger towards the racism and sexism that targeted me in the United States was underneath those awful fights I picked with you during our limited time together.

ONE thought I’ve carried with me from the beginning:

1. That you are worthy of what you have to give and deserve the love that you share with your communities.

Thank you for this transformational year of healing through loving and being loved by you. Despite the uncertainty that has always been with us, I found home and family with you during a time when I needed it most. I don't dare consider that I need a person to complete me. Though I will admit that I need an ally. I am so grateful to have a daily reminder of how we can meet from our oppositional positions of power, to create places to play and rest, and reach for the world as we want it to be, while fighting the structures of power in the world that we live. Happy Anniversary, Ross!

Love always, 
Laura

The White Sister

I am blogging for lack of better options at the moment. I went out yesterday night at 9 pm, but didn't get in until 3:30 am today. As you can imagine...I'm a bit fuzzy. Though I did manage two successful three hour study shifts, preceded and followed by two delicious bowls of cheesy ramen. Over my second bowl of soup, I contemplated how difficult it is to learn a second language. Or in my case, to re-learn the language that was intentionally replaced with English. Now I am 28, hungover, and trying to remember how to say, "Where is the bathroom?".

As I count down the days to meeting my biological sister, I find myself thinking of my white, adoptive sister. She is the biological daughter of my white, adoptive parents. I failed to reconcile with her after parting ways with her mother and father. I always admired her for being intelligent, kind, devoted, as well as being a talented artist with a vision for her career.

Nevertheless, there came a time when I could no longer separate her from the family violence. Moreover, I was at a loss for how to explain racism to her when she had the entire system of white supremacy telling her that she was good and I was weird. She was another well-meaning white person who wanted a relationship with me without confronting her active participation in a system of power that perpetrates violence against communities of color, and turned her into a weapon that targeted her own sister.

I am wondering if it's possible for me to learn Korean language at my age, if it would also be possible for her to learn about racism at hers. She wouldn't even have to leave home.

Naming It

I understand that one's name tells the story of family, culture, and belonging. In a historical context of imperialism and colonization, names also tell the story of winners and losers, in which the oppressed are named and re-storied by those with power. For me, I am reminded of my status as a loser--despite the winning meaning of my English name--each time I introduce myself, apply for a job, and provide my signature. At present, I live in the dissonance between the Korean face that reflects my mother and father, and the German-Irish name that carries the violent history of forced assimilation.

Yesterday, the translator called at the request of my father. At age 28, he wants to name me. He is requesting my permission to consider Korean names for me, and is eager to discuss them with me on my next visit. I am letting the weight of this incredible offering sink into my years of pursuing place and family. But without over-thinking it, I am undeniably pleased with my father's desire to name me.

During the four hours of lecture today, I couldn't help but reflect on the story of my name as I know it. I grew up as Lori Jane, a lovely name for a blond-haired, blue-eyed German girl. Around the age of 10, I decided I was too old to be called Lori. I required everyone to address me as Laura, which was an appropriate name for someone of my maturity. During these past years, I have grown more restless with the name that my adoptive parents assigned to me. At best, Laura Jane is far too sweet to reflect my aspiring badass status. At worst, the name is a daily reminder of how my constructed identity was more worthy than who I was when I came into this world.

On Friday, September 30, 2011, at 10:00 am, I learned that the Korean name, Kee Wha Yung, was given to me by the social worker at Holt. Though I was never certain, I had believed that this Korean name was given to me by my birth parents. An hour later at 11:00 am, I met my birth mother and was told that I was never given a family name. She shared that my first name was 똘똘이, a nickname that translates to "Smarty", due to my clever behavior.

I am still unclear on how and why I spent the first nine months of my life with my family, but without a family name. My mother shared it was because my father wanted a son, and that sons were more valuable at that time. As a daughter, I was denied his family name, and ultimately put up for adoption. On the contrary, my father shared that I was not named because the family was struggling, and they did not have the financial means to name me. He received a lot of pressure to bear a son, though he never agreed to putting me up for adoption. 

I accept that it may be years before I can ask for and comprehend the truth, starting with the story of my name. For now, I am reaching for understanding through translation, which will have to do until I can engage in a conversation with my own words.

On a lighter note--today I was told my name is sexy, which has led to plenty of teasing by the other adoptees. I am learning Taekwondo, and am working with some classmates to choreograph a routine to music. Our storyline is a typical good guys versus bad guys plot, where good guys are protecting the K-pop star, and the K-pop star needs protection from the bodyguard. Anyway--I introduced myself to my Korean classmate who was guessing the English spelling of my name. After he tried L-o-r-a and L-o-a-r, I intervened because I recognize how ridiculous that silent "u" is. As he finished writing L-a-u-r-a, he exclaimed, "ohhh, Laura, sexy name." I guess that sneaky vowel provides some intrigue.