girlonahalfshill

This idea is new to me. I was adopted when I was eight months old, so I have no conscious memories of South Korea. The choice to bring me to America was made by my adopted parents who I never thought of as “adopted parents,” but simply my parents. Now, mind you, the fact that I was adopted was never concealed from me, nor would it have been plausible. I’m obviously Asian and they were White, but I spent a limited amount of my childhood peering into the mirror for answers. More accurately, the question of who my “real” parents were wasn’t a question that interested me very much.

That’s not to say that I wasn’t curious. I was painfully shy as a child, but curious about the world around me. My father, a fellow introvert, modeled reading as a safe portal to exploration. I didn’t find myself drawn to race and identity, but rather science, history, storytelling, performing arts and intellectual pursuits more generally.

I got married and divorced twice without thinking about myself as anything other than an American citizen. I voted for years, had children, worked and attended college without questioning it. It wasn’t until the Real ID requirements were rolled out that I learned I was actually a naturalized citizen rather than a homegrown one. My adopted parents had passed away without mentioning my naturalization papers, or where they put them. It never came up, but, suddenly, I had to scramble to find them in order to be allowed on an airplane or secure health insurance.

When my birth mother reached out to me several years ago, I did my best to communicate with her and tried to get to know her, but the gap between our cultures, languages and generations felt taxing to me. I’d finally reached a point of self-acceptance with the adult I’d become, and it was jarring to try to correspond with someone who wanted to drag me back to into my unconscious past. She was sorrowful and remorseful about my not growing up at her side: a version of my life that, despite my struggles, I’d never longed for and couldn’t find a desire to share in.

Although it seemed cruel to break contact with her, I tried to explain that I wasn’t and couldn’t be the daughter she dreamed of. Our separation happened too early for me to be Korean in the way she hoped. The idea of joining her to eat seaweed soup on my birthday sounded unappealing and foreign. I didn’t want to disappoint her in drips and drabs. It seemed easier to re-sever the connection cleanly.

But, despite my lack of thought about her over the years, she’d had decades to build expectations about the daughter she’d lost, to dream about the reunion she wanted… and she wasn’t going to give up on that dream lightly. She reported me as a missing person to the South Korean police. When I started receiving emails from someone purporting to be an inspector in their Missing Persons Division, I assumed it was spam, but the emails kept coming and I ended up reaching out to the adoption agency to authenticate the communication.

To my surprise, they were real. My birth mother who hadn’t seen me since I was two months old was trying to have me brought back to her – 46 years later. I declined the offer and did my best to explain the situation to the inspector.

Despite finding K-dramas intriguing and enjoying K-pop, South Korea isn’t first on the list of countries I want to visit and the idea of living there doesn’t appeal to me. For all the beauty and sweetness in their culture, I’m vaguely aware of a dark underbelly. They’ve had one of the highest suicide rates in the world for generations. They also lead the world in plastic surgery. Their societal focus on appearance feels perpendicular to my own. Despite working in fashion retail the last few years, I’ve done it without touching cosmetics or doing my hair. It’s not that I lack an appreciation for those who put thought into their appearance, but there’s a distinct difference to me between good hygiene and respectful attire and prioritizing superficial appearances above all else. There’s a difference when that’s the societal standard.

I’ve never been back to South Korea since I left on a Pan Am Clipper in 1977. The only nationality I know is American. I’ve never learned to like kimchi, not even Americanized versions like kimchi fried rice. Recent news articles have revealed widespread corruption, illegality and even human rights violations in the Korean adoption system which sadden me. More than that, they scare me. Denaturalization was a pet project of Trump’s first term and is expected to escalate this time. At a time when the United States, the only home I’ve known, seems adamantly set on expelling people from its borders, I worry this will become an excuse to add me to the list.

I’m not and have never been in favor of our current president. I haven’t hidden this. I’ve donated to Democrats, volunteered to support Democratic candidates. While I’ve been quieter about voicing my dismay about the state of Israel’s actions in Gaza and the West Bank for fear of alienating friends, I had strong feelings about that long before October 7th. I believe that suppressing dissent and humiliating those weaker than you never nets capitulation or peace. The party made vulnerable by those efforts will simply become more desperate, less rational, less risk-averse. And the instinct to live and survive is born into us and can’t be extinguished.

I grew up believing in the magnificence of our imperfect democratic republic, in the balancing nature of our three branches of government, in the rocky struggle of America to surmount our darker impulses and reach toward the betterment of ourselves and others. I never wanted to be anything other than an American.

These have been my thoughts, feelings and beliefs for most of my adult life. I’ve worked hard and raised my kids with the aim of helping them grow into conscientious, thoughtful adults and responsible citizens. I’ve found friends who expand my heart and awareness, rather than focusing on shared interests. I am someone who’s volunteered at a prison, but has never been arrested or prosecuted for anything; someone who has a checkered work history and love life, but who has stayed on the “right side of the law,” there are very real ways in which I have little to worry about – even in the current political climate. If I’d been brought here from Venezuela – or any of the other countries in Latin America rather than east Asia, it’s likely I’d have been dancing with the complexities of my citizenship long ago.

And yet, going from nothing to something is noticeable. There’s nothing quite like thinking a thought you’ve never been exposed to before to draw one’s attention. For many, the SAVE Act will be our first reckoning with enfranchisement in several generations. (Passport anyone?) For the first time in my life, I’m aware that I’m an immigrant to this country. This awareness and its corresponding vulnerability have made me want to cower – even as my friends have begun to stand up. I’m someone who’s been called brave – fairly often, but not this time. I’ve felt muted and quietly scared – without even feeling fully entitled to the nervousness inside me. I know how hard anyone would have to look to find reasons to deport me, and I recognize the improbability of a jump from the present to a world where I find myself on a one-way flight, eastbound across the Pacific, reversing the trip that brought me here nearly 48 years ago. I recognize the dangers of giving into slippery slope arguments, and, at the same time, I’m attached to the life I now have – yes! as a result of having grown up in the United States of America, to the degree that I’ve been afraid of jeopardizing it.

Yet, there’s never a good time to step up. It’s never convenient, and if I wait until it is time to help fight for the country that I’ve believed in – it’ll be too late. I’m grateful I’ve been able to live here, and I’ve loved it –despite its imperfections. If you’re insulted that I’m admitting the country has imperfections, well, for starters, I’m surprised you made it this far through my post. Second, people and things that we need to believe are perfect aren’t real. It may be radical, but, in my experience, love isn’t a devotion to perfection, but an acceptance of imperfection. It isn’t brittle, but flexible, evolving and forgiving.

I’m unwilling to give up on the idea of America as a place that can overcome its complicated history and reach for something better, but I don’t think betterment can be achieved through censorship, pandering, temper tantrums and oversimplified narratives. I’m not sure how to get there from here. Not anymore. But I’m also deciding to be brave again. I’m not sure how, but this feels like a start. I’m no longer seeing immigration or the other challenges our country is facing from the outside. I’m an immigrant too.