No Longer Silent: The Adopted Diaspora’s Return to Korea
No Longer Silent: The Adopted Diaspora’s Return to Korea By Catherine Ceniza Choy South Korea plays a central role in the history of international and transracial adoption. Beginning in the mid-1950s, the phenomenon has spanned six decades and involved over 200,000 Korean children adopted by families in Western nations. Given its long duration, Korean adoptees comprise multiple generations. They are older as well as younger adults. They have founded organizations in the diaspora to provide resources specifically for adoptees. And they have paved the way for what has become a more common experience of returning to Korea to tour the motherland, to attempt to reunite with birth families, and to live on a long-term basis. In a January 2015 New York Times Magazine article entitled “Why a Generation of Adoptees Is Returning to South Korea,” writer Maggie Jones highlights Laura Klunder’s visit to Seoul in the summer of 2010 when she was 26 years old. Klunder joined more than 500 other Korean adoptees from around the world for an annual event known as the Gathering. At this event, Klunder heard fellow adoptee Kim Stoker give a lecture about “belonging” in South Korea. Jones writes: Raised in Colorado and Virginia, Stoker has lived in South Korea for 15 years and has the maternal presence of someone who has held the hands of many 20-something adoptees during their first months in Seoul. Living there is the most meaningful thing she has done in her life, she says. “We didn’t have a choice about what happened to us,” she told me, referring to adoptees being taken from their country. “So to come back, to live on your own terms. . . .” she said. “I do really feel like these are my kin.” By the end of Stoker’s talk, Klunder felt, as she put it, “invited to come back.” And before leaving South Korea that week, she decided that she would return to live there. In the twenty-first century, the impact of several hundred returning Korean adoptees on their homeland is profound. Klunder’s individual journey is part of a collective experience inspired and forged by other Korean adult adoptees who have returned to Korea seeking belonging in their country of origin. Korean adoptee leadership and participation in organizations such as G.O.A.’L (Global Overseas Adoptees’ Link) and spaces like the guesthouse KoRoot enable and facilitate this experience. What happens when the adopted Korean diaspora returns to the homeland beyond a temporary visit? How does this phenomenon change the sending nation? Among the hundreds of adoptees who have returned are writers and visual artists. What might artistic production by and about Korean international adoptees who have returned to live in Korea say about the history and contemporary state of international adoption? These are some of the preliminary questions that undergird what I hope will be a chapter of a new book project tentatively titled “No Longer Silent: Asian International Adoption and Cultural Production.” “No Longer Silent” is inspired by the presence of Korean adoptees in my Asian American Studies classes in the United States and Korea, and the research I conducted for my book Global Families: A History of Asian International Adoption in America that was published by NYU Press in 2013. In Global Families, I argue that we must pay attention to the voices and experiences of Asian adoptees in order to understand the complexity of international adoption. Yet, unlike social workers and adoptive parents, adoptees’ voices and perspectives are noticeably absent in most archives about international adoption. As several generations of Korean adoptees in Western nations have come of age, cultural expression comprises one productive site for the documentation and dissemination of their experiences. Since the 1990s, the emergence of a sizable body of artistic work by and about Asian adoptees has challenged the representation of Asian international adoption as a “quiet migration.” Global Families’ final chapter, “To Make Their Own Stories Historical,” features close readings of the documentary films, First Person Plural and In The Matter of Cha Jung Hee, written and directed by filmmaker and Korean adoptee Deann Borshay Liem. I chose to focus on Deann Borshay Liem’s films in the book for a very specific reason. My archival methodology primarily mined the records of the non-governmental organization, the International Social Service-United States of America (ISS-USA) Branch, a pioneering social service organization that facilitated international adoptions, but advocated for a different approach to the handling of these adoptions in contrast to the more well-known work of Oregon farmer and adoption advocate Harry Holt. Because the ISS-USA arranged Borshay Liem’s adoption, and because her films analyze the prominent role that organizational records played in her life history as a Korean adoptee in the United States, First Person Plural and In the Matter of Cha Jung Hee offer a direct and provocative link between ISS-USA organizational records and one of its adoptees speaking back as an adult. Such links are difficult to find as adoption case records typically do not provide longer, continuous accounts of the adoption after placement. However, Deann Borshay Liem’s films are only a few examples of adoptee cultural production. While they document a history of Korean international adoption, they do not represent the diversity and dynamics of adoptee experience. My hope is that “No Longer Silent” will illuminate a larger, multivocal conversation about adoption through close readings of artistic work by and about adoptees, and oral interviews with other filmmakers, visual artists, performance artists, and writers. An illuminating example of such artistic expression is Jane Jeong Trenka’s 2009 memoir Fugitive Visions. Fugitive Visions defies simple categorization. It is at once a personal memoir upon her sixth return visit to Korea; a poetic ethnography of the collective experiences of returning adoptees who chose to live in Korea on a long-term basis; and a call for recognition of the racism and physical and psychological violence experienced by Korean adoptees in Korea as well as abroad. In Fugitive Visions, Jeong Trenka bears witness to returning Korean adoptees’ unique homesickness, one that
Noona, Onni, Agassi–Names my Host Family Calls Me
Noona, Onni, Agassi –Names my Host Family Calls Me Before meeting my host family, I thought that living with a Korean family would be a fun, perhaps sometimes challenging cultural experience. I never imagined that we could really come to accept each other as family, especially over the short period of just one school year. Each and every member of this family proved me wrong. Imo “She’s coming on Friday. You have 24 hours to decide.” I cannot imagine the conflicting feelings of curiosity, doubt, excitement and anxiety that my host mom must have felt that fateful Wednesday afternoon when she hung up the phone. My school’s host family arrangements had fallen through at the last minute, and in a desperate attempt to find me a new place, one of the teachers had called up her sister and given her this crazy proposition. Imagine this: a total stranger and foreigner who may not speak your language will come live in your house with you and your family for a year. You will have to share your personal time and space with her, cook for her, allow her to interact with and influence your children, and probably deal with not only logistical but also any physical, emotional, social or psychological problems she may have while adjusting to life in Korea. Sounds fun, right? In what I can only imagine as a moment of spontaneity and tremendous grace, my host mom (or “Imo,” as she asked me to call her) accepted. I knew before I met her that Imo doesn’t do anything half-heartedly. Having accepted the challenge of welcoming me into her home three days before my arrival, Imo immediately directed the full renovation of her son and daughter’s shared room from floor to ceiling, redesigning it to the best of her ability to fit the unknown tastes of her new host daughter, including replacing half of the furniture. She chose green for the walls and white for the furniture, making the room feminine but not too girly. She selected a white bed and matching vanity desk and stool. A white carpet and white slippers added a nice touch of warmth to the room, and a little white cloth shade hanging over the doorframe created an aura of privacy and welcome at the same time. A rolling chair with a firm back was also ordered to meet the needs of a new teacher’s busy lesson planning after school hours. Imo’s final touch was a soft, bright yellow blanket, patterned with big white hexagons, making the bed look something akin to a giant beehive. I imagine the yellow blanket was intended to make anyone feel like a queen bee coming home to sweet dreams at the end of a long day. Besides moving my host siblings out of their childhood room, Imo also got rid of almost all signs that they had ever lived in it, presumably to really make the space feel like my own. She was reluctant only to take down the framed baby pictures that hung on the walls, I know, because she must have put them back after the repapering. She mentioned at one point later on that I might take the baby pictures down and replace them with my own, but looked relieved when I told her I didn’t mind; actually, I rather like them because they make me feel connected to the family at all times. Moreover, they are a constant gentle reminder of the history that the family has had before I came and imposed myself on their lives, giant suitcase and emotional baggage and all. During our first week together, Imo went very quickly through the phases of familiarization that were necessary to accept me fully into her life. First, the pleasant surprise that I was not so alien as she had imagined: “You know, I was worried about living with a foreigner, but you are like neighborhood lady!” Second, a comforting affirmation that I was a welcome presence in the house: “At first when I said ‘yes’ to having you come stay here, I was very excited. Then, I became very anxious, very worried. Now, I know I made the right decision.” Third, a crossing over from the polite refrain of acquaintances to humorously correcting my over-exaggerated “Korean” mannerisms: “You are so polite. Too polite! Like Joseon Dynasty woman.” Finally, we reached the positive declaration of friendship: “You have been here for just one week now. But it feels like I’ve known you so long!” Over more time, I came to love her, but it happened first by allowing her to love me. I remember so clearly the day I came home in early November, distraught because of a frustrating day at school on top of the heaviness of homesickness that had just started to seep out of the seams of my pretended perfection. I had a sort of meltdown as I sat at the kitchen counter, sobbing through mouthfuls of pumpkin tteok, trying to catch my breath and explain five things at once, hardly understanding my own emotions. My host mom cried with me. She spoke many words of reason and comfort, but what I remember the most is this: “I understand. You miss your mom. I have a daughter, and I am a daughter. When you are here in my home, you are my daughter too.” Her unconditional acceptance of me, a total stranger for the last twenty-three years, as her daughter, even just for this year, shattered the walls I kept up between us out of politeness, or reserve or fear. I understood from that moment on that we were family. Imobu My host father, Imobu, is not a man of many words, but the few he does speak to me are always accompanied by a big cheesy smile and an even bigger effort to be understood through his thick country accent. Every night, just before going to bed, I inevitably catch a glimpse of Imobu stretched comfortably
Homerun Homestay
Uiseong, South Korea- September 2015 My host dad told me early about his love of baseball, and demonstrated it one night as he inhaled dinner and bounded back to the television to watch Korea beat the United States. The first week into my homestay, he also told me that his nephew had recently signed a contract with one of Korea’s professional teams, the LG Twins. Prior to joining this team, he had also played for the national team, and before that, Yonsei University. I’ve never cared much for baseball, my heart lies on the volleyball court and in the hammer-throwing circle, but even so I could tell that my host dad’s nephew had a pretty impressive resume. So, as the Chuseok holiday approached, I couldn’t help but wonder if I would be able to meet the all-star. ——— “Oy!” I turned from watching my host dad chase down a missed baseball behind me to see his nephew waiting to send the next one my way. He had not learned my name yet. In fact, he really had not said much at all to me since we met the day before. I thought maybe he was just shy and intimidated by English. Or was it that a big time athlete couldn’t care less that I existed? Regardless, I refocused my attention and watched through the blinding afternoon sun as he tossed the ball and connected with a loud “CRACK!” The ball zipped and bounced across the ground like all of the other balls he hit towards me. It was meant to be a softer hit, a “manner” hit as a Korean might call it, and a hit that paled in comparison to what he was truly capable of. To me, though, every hit of his was challenging for my awkward baseball skills. Prior to that weekend, I had not touched a baseball since the sixth grade, when a poorly calculated swing left me with a purple knuckle. Nevertheless, I played on, thankful that I had been included in the family fun rather than sitting in the house. ——— “Becky, what do you think of my nephew?” My host dad broke through the silence after breakfast as we all sat together on the floor. He was waving Vanna-White-style in the direction of the baseball player, who sat at his side, looking quietly down at his hands out of shy embarrassment. Undeterred by the silence of his nephew, my host dad moved on in an attempt to sling arrows like cupid: “He is one year younger!” Hoeun had come just the day before, flanked by his equally tall, handsome, and athletically built brother who was just one year younger than him; there was no doubt they had caught my attention. Both brothers loved sports, were sons of a farmer, single, and about the same age as I was… As my host dad looked on with eager eyes, I could feel my face burning red while I tried to think fast. Hoeun seemed nice, but I didn’t think I was interested in dating him. Still, I needed an answer. A quick answer. An answer that wouldn’t hurt feelings. An honest answer? What was the answer he was hoping for? “He’s…handsome” I finally replied. Thankfully, my awkward answer was quickly forgotten in a sudden commotion, as the wives hurried to move everyone out the door for grave visits. ——— While Hoeun remained shy most of the morning, not muttering much more to me than “be careful” as I stumbled over a fallen tree, his brother, Hogang, chatted excitedly with me as we made our way up a mountain to clean the grave of their great-grandmother. “Do you like sports?” Hogang was smiling cheerfully as he walked, unfazed by the weight of the weedwacker engine and gas tank strapped to his back, even as we ascended upward. Like his brother, he loved baseball, and took an interest in other sports as well. He also told me that he would be starting his two year military service in February; he was currently in the ROTC and so would later serve as an officer. After clearing the area around the grave, we all sat together resting under the shade of a tree while passing around a large Sam-da-soo water bottle. My host dad’s older brother decided to use the break to ask me about my relationship status. “Becky…you…boyfriend?” After answering that I did not have one, he proceeded to gauge my interest in his son; this time the younger one, who now sat resting just a foot or so in front of me. “How about Hogang? He is strong. He is farm-boy. Hogang you like? Hogang you want!?” Before I could answer, his younger son whipped around and grinned in amusement as he offered up a flexed bicep: “Touch!” He then extended a fist to bump in approval of my response to his father’s question, with which I had answered simply: “He’s a nice guy.” Uiseong, South Korea- February 2016 “Best team!” Hoeun gave a thumbs-up in approval as my friend, Margaret, and I stuffed newspapers into a foam board. We were working much faster than my homestay parents, which kept Hoeun busy as he carried them to the other side of the greenhouse. It was the Seollal holiday weekend, and my homestay uncles were taking full advantage of additional labor to help with work on their farm. “Margaret…boyfriend?” My host dad had noticed his nephew’s sudden friendliness, and as my friend shook her head “no” I could see him gearing up for his usual cupid routine. I suppose he had given up on me after he and his brother failed at their second attempt in December, and was ready to pursue a fresh, new target. “How about my nephew? No girlfriend!” Hoeun, who usually feigned ignorance whenever my host dad started the conversation, retorted this time with “있어요”[1. Issoyo, I have one] and a clever smirk as he exited the greenhouse in search of something to