Geez! You must be “adopted” …

This blog post has been housed in my head since I heard This American Life’s Episode 498 a few weeks ago. You can listen here.

On our way up to the Korean culture camp on July 4th, I took the opportunity (long car journey) to catch up on my listening. My husband and I were seated in the front seat, listening.

Act Two, The Gun Thing You’re Not Supposed to Do, began playing. A woman from Texas told the story of how her family prided themselves on their responsibility in teaching gun safety to the children. However, this woman, after the Newtown shootings, revealed to her family that she had, as a teen, secretly used the handgun hidden in her parents’ dresser, and narrowly missed shooting herself.

The father and mother were devastated but changed their behavior by locking up their guns. However, her brother, Matt, (at minute 45:59) said, “I kept callin’ her how stupid she was! That she must have been adopted!!”

At these words, I sucked in my breath. My husband looked, wide-eyed, at me. We both glanced to the backseat, but both kids were busy and distracted.

The brother continued to talk about how his sister asked him if it changed the way he would handle gun education with his children.  At this point, the host, Ira Glass responded, “So your plan is when you have kids, they’re not going to be idiots like your sister.”

The brother answered definitively, “Right.”

Ira Glass then said, “You know I’m making a joke here, right?”

That joke and the comments were not funny to me. I wanted desperately to stop the car and write it all down. Luckily, I was not able to do so because my post would have shown my initial anger.

I like to think that I am not an angry person, but the misuse of the word “adopted” upset me. It hurt. Being adopted does not make you immediately “stupid” or an “idiot,” but hearing those words in the same conversation, in jest or not, does not help. I have the utmost respect for Ira Glass and listen to him every week, but his attempt at irony was lost on the brother, on me and who knows what countless others.

This misuse of the word, “adopted” happens everyday. The Twitter page, @AdoptionHonesty, is documenting all uses of the word “adoption” and its derivatives.

MT "@rissa_rosee7 Sometimes I question myself "Was I adopted?" but then I'm like "Naaa my parents wouldn't adopt a kid""
— Adoption Honesty (@AdoptionHonesty) July 20, 2013

In the last post, I spoke about my calculated and careful writing when I write about race. But in actuality, I am mindful when I write every post.

My goal in writing this blog began in 2007 as a way to record my feelings on my adoption, my race and my life for my children and their children. It would be my way of creating a family history that wasn’t oral, but concrete.

As I transitioned from a private life blog to a more public presence, parents and grandparents began contacting me and writing me. They wanted to hear my stories.

Since meeting other transracial adoptees and learning more online, I have heard many angry stories. I fear that anger only shuts down a conversation.

To keep the conversation going, I can merely give my personal story and impressions. Hopefully, these stories will become threads in the fabric of families and the quilt of adoption.

Let’s talk about the skin we live in.

In the past week, race has flooded the public discussion. The outcome of the Trayvon Martin case was frustrating and disheartening. I felt angry, then disappointed, beaten down, and sad …

Quite a lot was said on the news, on Twitter and Facebook, but President Obama finally injected some inspiration with his succinct speech on Friday when he said this:

“And then finally, I think it’s going to be important for all of us to do some soul-searching. You know, there have been talk about should we convene a conversation on race. 

… in families and churches and workplaces, there’s a possibility that people are a little bit more honest, and at least you ask yourself your own questions about, am I wringing as much bias out of myself as I can; am I judging people, as much as I can, based on not the color of their skin but the content of their character? That would, I think, be an appropriate exercise in the wake of this tragedy.”

In response to this speech, Charles M. Blow in the New York Times wrote a beautiful Op-Ed piece on the validation he and others have felt by hearing the leader of our country contribute to the race conversation.  He wrote this:

“And while words are not actions or solutions, giving voice to a people’s pain from The People’s house has power.”

Talking about race is difficult to do. When I have written about it, it has been with a personal slant, but I am often mindful that I might upset friends or loved ones, or anger people who misinterpret or misunderstand my meaning.

In my opinion, President Obama’s speech was neither angry or accusatory. He was sincere and somewhat pleading because, simply put, he has lived his life in his skin. He has seen the prejudice in our country firsthand before he became Senator (and I attest that it has continued in a more public way since he became president).

Blow also wrote this:

“It is in these subtleties that black folks are forever forced to box with shadows, forever forced to recognize their otherness and their inability to simply blend.”

In his sobering, serious tone, President Obama confirmed his otherness and encouraged us to continue the conversation on race.

He also emphasized that our nation is progressing. With each conversation, a generation chips away at racism.

President Obama said:

“Each successive generation seems to be making progress in changing attitudes when it comes to race. I doesn’t mean that we’re in a postracial society. It doesn’t mean that racism is eliminated. But you know, when I talk to Malia and Sasha and I listen to their friends and I see them interact, they’re better than we are. They’re better than we were on these issues. And that’s true in every community that I’ve visited all across the country. 

And so, you know, we have to be vigilant and we have to work on these issues, and those of us in authority should be doing everything we can to encourage the better angels of our nature as opposed to using these episodes to heighten divisions.”

We are talking. Let’s also listen. If we can do both, Trayvon’s death, while tragic, may spur positive change in our country.

Our Independence

While most Americans were celebrating our country’s independence on July 4th, my family woke in the wee hours of the morning to make a pilgrimage.

My children were reluctant and kept asking why we needed to get up at 5 a.m. and drive four and a half hours to Minnesota. What could possibly be SO important?!?

Camp Chosŏn

Upon our arrival, we were immediately enveloped into a touring group. Many adoptive parents huddled around the tour guide as she walked parents and preschoolers around the Girl Scout Camp Lakamaga. In the shade of a large tree, my friend, Dan, worked with small elementary children on their Taekwondo skills. My teenage son began to fume, most likely wondering why we brought him to a tiny kids culture camp.

We walked into a dance studio and were met with swirls of color and graceful toes sliding across the floor.

The dance instructor, Brooke, walked over to chat with everyone and introduced herself to my children. Then, she smiled, looked at me and said, “You must be the adoptee.” My son continued to fume.

Next we ventured to the market, where Korean items could be found and bought. The kids tried frozen confections. I was drawn to a Korean pendant.

Our tour ended in the dining hall. Round tables were filled with smiling, laughing faces. All but a few were distinctly Korean. My son picked at his Korean food. My daughter gleefully ate her meal and said, “I love Asian food!” My husband went up for seconds of kimchi.

Two of my friends, Cam and Matt, counselors at Camp Chosŏn came to chat with my family. They talked to my son and expressed their excitement at possibly seeing him next year at camp. Again, my son fumed, but this time a bit more politely.

As the dining hall emptied, Dan came to sit with us to eat. He talked candidly with my son. He explained that many of the very young campers were Hapa (mixed raced Asian). “They are the second generation adoptees,” said Dan, “We could use you (my son) to come and join the camp. When they grow up to be teens, they will need someone like you to talk to. I’m not sure I can talk to them like you can. You are Hapa, I’m not.”

The shroud of doubt began to slip away. My son began to see his place.

Our day ended watching the young teens play and talk along the lakeside. Cam invited my son to come back and join the group next summer. I watched as the teens gathered for photographs.

I quietly sighed, longing for that chance to connect with kids like myself at that age. Perhaps, Camp Chosŏn will introduce me to more adult adoptees so that I can share and reflect with them. From the number of small Hapa children, I suspect I will not feel alone.

Cam and Dan have such an understanding of themselves and their transracial adoptions that I have yet to fully grasp. Comfort lies in knowing I have them to help me and my children along the way to our independence.

Camp Chosŏn, we shall see you next summer!

The joy of Daddy never leaves you.

I remember the pain of missing my father. He was in Vietnam at the time of my third birthday.

My mother would send audio tapes to him of me saying “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!” So hearing these children say “Daddy” made me sob uncontrollably.

My dad has such a love for this country. He served 20 years and became a Master Sergeant in the Army. His tracks alone covered Korea, Alaska, Vietnam and Germany. My mother, sister and I moved to Georgia, Kansas and Oklahoma with him where we would wait for him to return to us.

Those days are gone, but the pain of his absence still resides in me. While there are no videos of our reunions, I remember the joy of seeing my Daddy.

The Sisterhood

Summer brings sunshine, happiness (from the sunshine) and movies! This summer in the spirit of my daughter (aka #feminist9YO), I have vowed to see movies with female protagonists, or as she calls them, “movies with strong female characters.”

This week, it was The Heat.

*spoiler alert*

In it, Sandra Bullock’s FBI character reveals that she was a foster child and a young girl who had few friends. When this played on screen, I cringed. “Great, another Hollywood slap in the face for child welfare,” I thought. I had reported on the abuse adoption received in The Avengers here, and I braced myself.

However, this movie plays out quite differently. At the end of the movie, Melissa McCarthy’s character signs Bullock’s character’s old high school annual. When the audience was able to read it, her words took my breath away. In that moment, when McCarthy’s character refers to Bullock’s as her “sister,” I felt the acceptance that the character felt. My vitamin D-deprived psyche shed some negativity.

In the adoption/foster care world, we talk so much these days about loss … the loss of families, the loss of self, the loss of racial identity. I have cycled through this loss and am still circling back as my children cycle.

But this reminded me of the things that make me truly happy … relationships, and more specifically, my female relationships. The women in my life who have helped me through the loss, the hurt and the anger. My mother taught me the importance of friendships. Hers is the strongest I have ever known, and I model my friendships after hers.

My sister, while younger than me, has also enriched my life. I often find myself looking to her for guidance. She is my sounding board.

So many wonderful women have held me up and given me strength. I consider my “little sisters”: Jenny (my Frances Ha, another excellent movie), LaDawn, Nicole and Jessica. I cherish my relationship with Marlene, who I called my “other mother,” as she nurtured me when I began my life as an adult in the workforce.

There are my other sisters, Kathy and Kayla, and my twin sisters, Katherine and Adrienne, who have tutored me in all things Asian and helped me form my Feeling racial identity. They reassured me that my common childhood anxieties were theirs too.

All these women have cycled through my life, and while they are a big part of my life still, they live so very far from me. Our lives are so busy and finding the time to talk is a challenge. The Wisconsin winters and my move here lead me down a few dark paths, but now, another sister has entered.

This sister has a positive outlook. This sister has an appreciation of my feelings on adoption. This sister is also adopted. There is much to be learned from this next chapter of sisterhood. We all need a “sister.”

The Misguided Guide

My parenting could be described as a “fly by the seat of my pants” philosophy. Before I became a parent, I read parenting books and made notes on steps and rules. I was a planner, and I was certain of my future as a parent.

The minute my boy broke free from my womb, it was apparent that no book could prepare me for this trip, but I wholeheartedly accepted my role as the life travel guide.

If you have been reading my blog, you know that my boy is struggling with his racial identity. One day, he wants to blend in. The next, he proclaims his allegiance to Asian Pride. My love for him drives me to be supportive but also to encourage dialogue so that I, too, can learn. His recent entry through the door of self-discovery has brought many opportunities and also several failings in my job as his tour guide.

Current events and books are often the spark to our talks. Recently, discussions erupted about the Zimmerman trial (Trayvon Martin) and racial profiling. We talked about a local incident.

My daughter asked if the person was “African American.” My son immediately said, “You can say ‘black’ because saying African American is kinda incorrect.” She suddenly teared up. I explained that terms evolved, and I brought up a book she had read to me this year, The Lions of Little Rock by Kristin Levine. We talked about the progression of terms through the years.

My daughter sulked. She felt down the rest of the day. At bedtime, she could not hold back her fears. Through tears, my daughter said, “I want to look more like you. I want to be Asian. I don’t mind if people tease me. I am afraid that people will expect the worst from me because I am white!”

How insensitive I had been! In trying to protect and support my son, I had alienated my daughter. It wasn’t as if I did not know her racial identity struggles. I had written about it here! But when I had asked her the same questions I had asked my son, she had seemed so definitive.

Me: “Are you Korean?”

My daughter: “Yes.”

Me: “Are you Puerto Rican?”

My daughter: “Yes.”

Me: “Are you American?”

My daughter: “Yes.”

Me: “Are you British?”

My daughter: “Yes.”

I thought she was so much more comfortable in her skin, but in fact, she isn’t. She is just as confused as I am.

I have been misguided in applying my experiences as a child to both my children. My daughter is frustrated because she does not have the same experiences I had. She cannot share those experiences like her brother and I can, and we have made her an outsider.

I recognize my mistake. She is mixed and confused. Lending me her spectacles on life, she has taught me her struggles, and I vow to listen more carefully. We will travel these roads together and alternate guide duties.

The Real Decision Begins

Last month, I wrote about the Supreme Court case, ADOPTIVE COUPLE, PETITIONERS v. BABY GIRL.  This morning, the Supreme Court reversed the South Carolina court’s decision. You can read the full Supreme Court decision here.

Now, the real decision begins. Baby Girl is older and has spent time with her biological father. While the decision shows that the lower court was wrong, the matter of Baby Girl’s well being is in the hands of the grown-ups involved.

Missteps have been made on all sides, but can the grown-ups come to a place of mutual agreement? Will Baby Girl be surrounded by the love that drove them all?

The Success Story

Dr. Raible’s words still echo at different points in my days and weeks. One very powerful set of statements keeps playing.

“We are the success stories. But how many of the other stories were silenced by suicide?”

Here’s an account of such a story that was almost silenced.

He was twelve. Another school year was beginning. A new year, a new grade, and an abundance of promises … new books, new teachers, new subjects.

The regulars were present, too … friends, last year’s acquaintances and the same old halls. But this year, everyone was changing … physically, socially, emotionally. Some he considered friends became distant. Some began telling him that his race would exclude him from the relationships they all wanted. The “going together” moniker would be coveted but never his.

He was approached by strangers in the park who would taunt him with words that cut. The seemingly innocuous word, “Chinese” would be said with malice. There would be the pulling of eyes to assimilate his physical racial feature. He felt surrounded by a hate that he did not understand.

The words of others ridiculing him rang through his head. He wanted to hide. He felt alone. He felt he couldn’t tell his parents because they would never understand what it was like to live in his skin.

One night, he waited. He waited to hear the soft quiet of his sister’s sleeping sounds. He waited as his parents ascended the stairs to their bedroom. He could hear them brushing teeth and chatting as they readied themselves for sleep. And then, there was silence.

Quietly, he got out of bed. He took a cord and draped it in his closet. Sobbing softly, he wrapped the cord around his neck. He hoped this would numb the pain of the last few months. He hoped it would silence the voices and darken the images of kids slanting their eyes. He hoped it would give him peace.

As the cord tightened, he sensed a darkness. Unconsciousness washed over him. Then, he opened his eyes. It was dawn. The cord lay on the floor, broken. His tears had dried. Something in him gave him resolve. He rose, got dressed and began another day.

In the days to come, he would talk with his mother about these racial comments. She would console him and try to work through the pain of the words.

His mother would never know the events that lead up to these discussions. She gave her love and advice, but he would keep this secret with him until many months later when his strength had returned.

His is a success story unlike those of us, the adoptee panelists, to whom Dr. Raible referred. The adoption community is awakening; discussions on race are finally becoming relevant, without suspicions or feelings of resentment.

The Korean American Adoptive Family Network recently blogged on the reluctance of our children to talk about issues of race with those they love the most … their families. You can find this blog post here.

Let’s keep the conversation going and add to the number of success stories.

Teaching Moments

Yesterday, my vitals were up. Tense muscles, fast pulse, furrowed brow, and a hurting heart.

This blog post by Teaching Underground popped up on my feed. I felt he wrote sensitively about this incident.

My mistake was to go on to the YouTube video.



What struck me first was the title that BTW21News used, “City Councilwoman Hodge stands behind comments that made local student cry … .” So far, viewing the clip, I did not see a student cry. While this may have happened afterward, it weights the posting and prompts an immediate emotional response.

No one wants to be responsible for making a child cry, but I could sense her frustration and hurt in the first part of the clip as she questioned the use of a “small black person” as the “before knowledge” symbol. The subsequent interview did not serve her well, and unfortunately, the station did not interview others in the community.

That said, the community responded with comments filled with hatred, insensitivity, harsh words and more. As Teaching Underground pointed out, there were few people in support of this councilwoman’s viewpoint. No one seemed willing to put themselves in this person’s shoes.

The comments pulled me quickly back to the community where I grew up. I remember the use of the words in my neighborhood as a child. When someone was mad at you, you were immediately called, “nigger.” When others wanted to put me down, I was called “Chinese” or when they became more informed of the news, “Cambodian swamp rat.”

This became the subject of conversation last night at the dinner table. The kids and I talked about “bad words” people use to disparage one’s race. I mentioned the words used in my childhood.  As soon as I said the word, “Chinese,” my son began to tear up.  Now, I had made him cry.

The mere mention of a seemingly innocuous word had brought back words used to describe him as a kindergartner in Virginia. While this word is an ethnicity and seems harmless, an inflection can change the meaning.

While the children in the video did not mean to offend, the history of race in the South, and this Councilwoman’s personal history in Martinsville, Virginia, should not be discounted.

A friend of mine has a great philosophy which I shared with my children last night. These are teaching moments. Unfortunately for this Councilwoman, she is trying to teach in a community where her subject is not accepted. But that shouldn’t stop us from the work at hand.

When presented with the word “Chinese” used in a hateful context, my children will know to say, hopefully without tears, “Actually, I am Korean. South Korean. It is a country in Asia, and a peninsula near China, but not China.”

What about the child?

Radio Lab this week covered this story on adoption.



I encourage you to listen to the end. There are hard stories from our past, and frightening ideas that ask children to “melt into the wider culture.” What is culture? A source here points out that the viability of a culture lies in its children, but what if all the children were no longer immersed in their cultures?

What has struck me are the comments on the website that say that this little girl was better off with her adoptive parents. Perhaps, but now she has lived equal time with her biological father.

Adoption is complicated for all parties involved. Adoption is about love, but more importantly, adoption is about the well-being of the child. At this point, she seems happy with her birth father.

Perhaps he was naive and young at first, but he loves her. Just because he cannot offer what the adoptive couple can, does not make him a bad parent as some commenters allude.

This month, our Supreme Court will make a decision that could affect the 1978 Indian Child Welfare Act. Stay tuned.