Today, celebrating the publishing of nine stone’s poetry in an anthology, we raised a toast over dinner.
I’d been wary of drinking since my stomach lining nearly got eaten away one time, but I must say the stuff today was very very yummy. Was sweet, but not as sweet as plum wine. It’s called 100 year wine, and supposedly those who drink it will live to 100!
So look for 백세주 baek se ju
Costs twice as much, (but in Korea, that’s still inexpensive) but very yummy.
So yesterday, the t.v. station sent me a still from the documentary.
This is the photo of me, Suh Yung Sook, on my log book entry, next to the photo of Kim Sook Ja. Both of us were recorded as coming from the same city, on the same day, and ATYPICALLY we were both entered on the same document. Holt Korea says we couldn’t possibly be sisters, because we have different family names – however, the document says our names were made up.
Holt Korea produced this photo of the other girl at our meeting in Seoul, presumably to prove to me that she was not my twin, because it says on that document we are the same age. (which I always thought had pretty low odds anyway) But instead of discouraging me, it made me think there was an even greater possibility we could be siblings. What do you think?
My daughter thinks there might also a resemblance between both of us and my son…
According to the birthdates Holt gave us, I am six months OLDER than Kim Sook Ja, so they say we “couldn’t possibly” be sisters, even though on the earliest document from Wonju, it says we are the same age. Upon closer inspection, my age appears to have been re-written/traced over/changed. It is CLEAR from these photos that I “couldn’t possibly” be older than Kim Sook Ja! What is OBVIOUS, though, is that my birth date was grossly off target (probably a full year off), which is a ludicrous degree: a degree that would only be lost on some adopting parent ordering a child sight un-seen.
Holt has repeatedly tried to explain away the Wonju document and stood behind the log book entries’ data as written, even as it becomes revealed that the data has such serious and obvious discrepencies.
Holt tried NOT to help me search for Kim Sook Ja and only acquiesed under pressure from me about going public.
Holt, who says they found her and called her, says she has not replied and is therefore uninterested in finding out whether or not we are siblings.
Did Holt tell her about the discrepancies between the Wonju document and the log book entries? I bet they didn’t.
Did Holt pass along any information about me or that I merely wanted to know the truth? NO. And they wouldn’t even let me send her a brief note explaining.
On a cold March day in 1966, two little girls began a journey which
would change their lives forever. That day was the day they were transferred to an orphanage to begin their life as orphans, to be adopted and sent away to foreign lands with foreign people.You and I were together that day. You and I were together the next four
days and possibly the next nine months. Were we together prior to that
day? Only meeting can rule out the remote possibility of relations
undocumented.You are the only living person I know who has anything to do with my
past and I would at the very least like to contact you, however you feel
comfortable. We are sisters in solidarity, and I would be interested in
hearing how you’ve fared in life.Fondest regards,
Leanne Leith
Because they define any self representation by me as CONTACT, even though I still don’t know her name or where she is. They merely told her some adoptee thought she was their sister, and left it to her to decide, even though they failed to provide her with the full story.
They say this is to protect the other adoptee.
I say it is to protect themselves from being exposed as breaking up a sibling goup.
And you know what? After moving to Korea, I can tell you that all Asians do not look alike, and that if unrelated and the sharing of abandonment date, place, and documents were really as random as they say, one would expect the two children pictured above to look radically diffferent.
At this point, I of course don’t want to meet her if she doesn’t want to. But I would like to prove conclusively that we are or are not related, just so I know what’s true and not true about this chapter in my life. We can meet in a DNA testing lab – that’s all I need from her at this point. Of course I would be interested in hearing how she fared, but just the truth is enough. And Holt should have provided her with all the information they had, so she could have made an INFORMED decision about receiving contact from me.
Wouldn’t anybody in my circumstance want the truth? Does the way Holt has dealt with my case resemble the actions of people who purport to CARE ABOUT FAMILIES?
How many other Korean adoptees were split up for ease of sale and they are none the wiser? Holt says they have nothing to hide. But even if they don’t, I believe their actions speak louder than their words, and they are afraid that if I find Kim Sook Ja and we are sisters, then it will expose them as an organization that SEPARATES families in order to create new ones.
It was 30 degrees celcius when I got home. That’s 86 degrees, and it’s only mid June.
The air conditioner has been on for half an hour, and it hasn’t gone down even one degree inside, though it IS nice laying on the floor directly under the blower. Me. Using an air conditioner. Never thought I’d see the day, as I hate them.
THREE HOURS LATER
Okay, now it’s 26 degrees celcius (78.8 degrees fahrenheit) and only 52% humidity, and I want to peel my skin off…how the hell am I going to manage in August?
I asked my tutor about the weather during the summer, and she basically started laughing at me and said, “You are gonna DIE!” (mua, ha ha) I asked Young-a about it today, and she said that most of the time it is the same temperature as the human body. WHAT? 98.6 degrees? yes. OMG!
The crazy-making thing about this for me is everyone is going around here with two layers of shirts: t-shirt over tank top, cotton shirt over t-shirt, sweater over sundress. I asked my tutor again for still more details about WHY people, especially women, are expected to wear sleeves when it’s so hot.
First, there’s the fear of cleavage problem. Second, there’s the possibility of bra straps being exposed (the nurse at school said men’s imaginations were too strong, and to see a bra strap would get them to imagining bare breasts) and then Third, my tutor said that it wasn’t hot enough yet. Basically, the thinking is that if it’s going to get 10-20 degrees hotter, then if you’re down to tank tops now, what are you gonna do in August when it’s really hot?
I have no idea. I’m going to die, that’s what. I can’t wear a short skirt or shorts because I’m a teacher. I have two sundresses, but I have to wear a tank top over them so they don’t look slutty, and now I have purchased several shrugs so my too sexy shoulders aren’t bare. That’s three layers on top of underware. I’ll be waiting and watching and hoping and praying there is some skin exposed soon, and at that moment I am going to go out of control. I just know it. And the minister will have a sermon about me, like I guess he did last week about the evils of short skirts…
After sending over half my money home for bills there’s not much left, but regardless, I have been buying a couple clothing items every week after my Korean lesson. I search the planet for tissue thin items that can be layered. Coming to Korea, I thought I would become a fashionista, (as much as one can at my age and stature) but because I don’t like frilly things or monkey suits, I now search only for the most comfortable things I can find.
And even though everyone here is OBSESSED with weight and health, I think I’m packing on a few more pounds, as I hit the convenience store freezer for cold drinks and ice cream every day when I walk home – which is where I stay, as inactive as possible, so as not to work up a sweat.
Progress Report…
Just before class was about to begin, Tae-Young showed up to the office ten minutes early and hovered around for it to begin. I finally convinced him that I was still scrambling to put together the lesson, and that he should wait for me at the classroom.
Y could barely contain herself. “You remember that ONE TIME I was REALLY ANGRY?” (I did indeed. Y is one of these teachers that believes you catch more flies with honey, and she is always patient and compassionate with all the students. But this one particular time, she was dumb-founded and furious, and I’d NEVER seen her angry before) “THAT WAS HIM!!!!! That was the boy that made me so angry!” I asked her what it was about.
Turns out that instead of counselors, kids with different problems get distributed amongst the teachers to help out with different problems. Tae-Young was one of her students she was counseling for that week. They found a grant to get him a cell phone and she sent him some paperwork to fill out. But at the end of the week, he hadn’t filled out the paperwork, even though it would greatly benefit him. He told her that he shouldn’t have to fill out her paperwork, and that should be her job. Please bear in mind that this is Korea, and even if you act up in class, you would NEVER SAY THAT to a teacher, who has one of the highest positions of respect in Confuscian society. Tae-Young had Y muttering out loud to herself, her nostrels flaring, swearing in Korean!
So the last class Tae-Young DID show up, and we had a really nice time. I changed the lesson to follow this great book I had purchased earlier about discussion tactics, instead of just discussion topics. In it were some exercises about learning to value other people’s contributions.
Because the exercise asked everyone to draw some creative ideas independently, initially there was no social component, so Tae Young did outstanding. Then, the exercise has us combine all the students’ ideas onto one sheet and we go over them, and I had the group add more as we went along. So the ideas provided became fuel for more ideas, and I pointed out to Tae Young every time a new idea of his was generated from someone else’s initial idea.
Genius, whoever came up with that exercise!
Then we went through several brainstorming activities with different processes, but that also required recognizing other people’s contributions as valuable to your own creativity. That was followed by an audio problem that everyone had to brainstorm solutions for and choose the best one.
Tae Young followed me to my office and told me the class was funny and he enjoyed it, and took off happy with himself. I also think the other students were surprised he was not irritating.
PHEW! Only 6 more classes to go to fill up with Tae-Young inclusive lessons!
Y later told me that I am the only real teacher here, because all his other teachers have failed him, even her. (though he’s not her student) Nah, it’s just coincidence that I have seen a documentary about this disorder and that I was paying attention. Y, now that she knew who I was talking about and armed with my observations and literature I gave her to read, called the home room teacher again.
The following day, the home room teacher was on the roof and he explained that he called the boy’s parents, trying to convince them to get the boy tested. But the conversation turned ugly, and for two hours the boy’s mom accused him of picking on her boy and not being sympathetic (don’t know how he handled this) to her situation, and how until he gives birth he’ll never know a mother’s pain, etc., etc.
So that’s where it stands: Tae-Young isn’t going to get any professional help, and I’m just a hack.
Open to any further suggestions!
Scene 4 popped into my head tonight as I was about to go downstairs for a smoke. And the rest just came out, and I put them in chronological order. So you’ll just have to suffer this blog-like indulgence. That’s the problem with stream of consciousness writing.
Scene 1:
My father comes into the house, whistling. His face is beaming and with a hop in his step, he rushes up to me and announces it’s a glorious day for a motorcycle ride, do I want to go?
My mom is concerned and swears that he’d better drive extra cautious, like this time will be diferent.
My father gets the helmets. Nobody really asked me if I wanted to go, not really. I really hate going, because I know the only reason he wants me to go is because my little arms will have to hold onto him, and that gives him a thrill. A thrill right out in broad daylight, in public, and no one will know. He yells through the wind to hold on tighter, and I guess I must comply, because despite it being beautiful and freeing on a bike, it’s pretty scarey being on Hines Drive with it’s curves and all the unpredictable drunken people partying along its edges. My long hair is a tangled mess. Taking the helmet off always rips a handful out.
We get home, and he knows I know what his motivation is.
Daddy, I say, looking straight into his eyes, can we go see Annie? I really want to see Little Orphan Annie in Detroit.
Well, it’s really expensive honey, but we’ll-see-what-we-can-do.
Yeah, that’s right. You better…or no more motorcycle rides.
Scene 2:
My bedroom.
I just-can’t-take-it-anymore.
I don’t know what it is I can’t take, but I have to leave. I don’t even remember what the upset was, but I have to go. I have barracaded my door with my bed and my dresser, and my toychest is under the bedroom window, which I have opened and am trying desperately to climb out of. If I could only grab hold of the lilac bush…
But the dresser and bed are sliding and the door to my bedroom is opening, and just like the door always opens when I don’t want it to, there I am again, dreading what’s next, helpless. My dad pushes the furniture aside and my mom follows him in and asks me what I am crying about, and I sob because of course I don’t know and I can’t tell her.
I can’t tell her what it is to be manipulated and to manipulate at the age when you should be playing with dolls. I can’t tell her how it feels to be a living doll. I can’t tell her I’m afraid of everything and everybody and mostly of breaking her world apart. I can’t tell her I’m the other woman. I can’t tell her what it’s like to be an alien in this world. I can’t tell her because she is color blind and relationship blind and so sad about her life.
My dad moves the furniture back as if nothing happened. My mom tells me that after I’ve washed my face, dinner will be ready.
Scene 3:
On the street corner, in front of my house.
New neighbor and her daughter come over to introduce themselves to my mom. I am what, ten years old? yet she gushes over me as if I were four years old. She starts stroking my hair. It’s so soft and silky and long and black. She talks slowly to me, to make sure I understand her words amid her squealing with delight. She just loves almond shaped eyes. She just always wished she had almond shaped eyes. I am stiff. I don’t say much in response. Her daughter Cara is bubbly and vivacious. She says, “yes, m’am!” like Opie does on the Andy Griffith Show, like she really enjoys sucking up. My mother is in love. I don’t say, “yes, m’am!”
My mom gives her a polished tumbled amethyst rock. Funny, she never gave ME one of her tumbled rocks. She chastises me, “Why do you have to be like that? Why can’t you be more like Cara?” Cara looks like Annie Wharbucks. I look like I-don’t-know-what. No, wait. I look like the Chinese sex bomb in Flower Drum Song. How the hell can I say, “yes, m’am!” cheerfully?
Scene 4:
So I’m sitting at the park, near the baseball dugout, the one closest to my church, sneaking a cigarette, and my friend asks me about my birth mother.
“Do you think she was a prostitute or something?” (I can hear the hope in her voice – they all wished I was the illegitimate daughter of a lady of the night)
I shrug. “I dunno.”
“Do you ever want to meet her?”
“NO. Why would I want to do that?” I frown. “Families suck. Why would I want a second one?”
(incredulous) “But aren’t you even curious?”
“So what if I was, WHICH I’M NOT. We couldn’t talk anyway. Whoever the hell she is, she’s in KOREA. Like I know how to talk that! (I didn’t even know what it sounded like)
(silence…) “Oh. I forgot about that.” (long pause) “Wow.” (romantic jealousy emanates from my friend)
Scene 5:
Same dugout, different time.
I’m making out with a boy, also from my church. It dawns on me that we are having the same conversation as Scene 4, only we’re not speaking the words. I suddenly feel like I am my mother. Why do I feel so dirty?
I finally realize it’s not really me he wants to be with, but the idea of my mother.
Scene 6:
Small house party, Seattle. It’s the post grunge, emo era and Michael’s slightly talented artistic friend is playing Dinosaur Jr. adnauseum. His rich Korean American girlfriend walks in. She’s slender and perfect and should be a model for L’eggs pantyhose. She name-drops designers, while proudly wearing her alternative long-haired white boyfriend like a street smart badge of honor. She has it all. A broken nail is suffering for her.
Later, Michael off-handedly mentions to me how gorgeous she is. “What about me?” I jest.
“Oh, yeah. You’re made from good Korean peasant stock.”
Of course I am.
I’m just an orphan, probably daughter of a whore.
After:
Somehow, my first mom doesn’t seem quite so vile now.
I’m sure she is/was a good person.
And being made from peasant stock is just fine, thank you.
Spoke with the boy’s homeroom teacher today, Y attending and translating.
He described the boy’s behavior exactly as I had:
The other teachers have also had problems with the boy. Past attempts to convince the parents met resistance, because the parents refuse to acknowledge he has a problem and because the private counseling referral is too expensive, and they are poor. (the boy doesn’t own a cell phone, and in Korea that is practically unheard of) I believe this referral was to counsel what they thought were behavioral problems, but nobody recognized that this could be Aspberger’s syndrome or a real learning disability. Sadly, the boy is subject to beatings at home. I’m sure it is because he is so frustrating to deal with, and everyone thinks he is being difficult, when actually he just is literally clueless about society and can’t make the connections necessary because he truly doesn’t think he has a problem.
I told Y this is correctable with proper therapy. Y was a little upset, because it didn’t seem like his home-room teacher was willing to put further effort into helping the boy, and his homeroom teacher also relayed how the boy seems increasingly frustrated and resentful. She contacted silly steps to see what he thought, since he is a counselor at a middle school, and he gave her the number for a private counselor here so the boy could get tested. But again, that would come out of the parent’s pockets, since the Korean health system does not cover psychological services. We also don’t know if this counselor has any experience with Aspberger’s syndrome. He informed us that all the Korean schools were supposed to get counselors next year, so I can only hope that the boy gets some services before he graduates. I only wish his obsession was not about winning a contest. and something more marketable like accounting or science. Otherwise, he might have a very unsatisfactory future ahead of himself.
And now, I have to adapt my lesson plan so he can have a small moment in the sun and try and show him that others can be interesting. Perhaps I will turn him into a reporter and have him interview the others. Hopefully, the others in the class will be patient with him, if he shows up now that he knows I will not be playing games, giving out candy, and making him the focus of the spotlight.
Hello Korea ! 