förbi Roxas-Chua, adopted from the Philippines to the USA; author, artist.
I thought I’d share this image that sits on my desktop table in my studio. I created it one of those nights when I wasn’t able to tap into shift and movement in my adoption struggle. I find that a balance of story-sharing, self-parenting work, contemplative writing and drawing has helped me in navigating and translating the world around me. In this drawing, I was accompanied by the moon, which in way gave me comfort the way nature does. I hope you enjoy it. It’s a snapshot of tenderness that we seek from ourselves and from others. If the moon can be my birthmother now, I’m alright with that. I’ll take any path that lights up the night.
förbi Allison Young adopted from South Korea to the USA.
And on those days when we walked to the sea and found Mi-ja waiting at her usual spot in the olle, Grandmother recited common sayings in hopes of comforting us two motherless girls. “The ocean is better than your natural mother,” she said. The sea is forever.”
~ The Island of Sea Women by Lisa See
One year ago on September 11, after a lifetime of waiting (and one devastating almost-encounter in 2003), I finally met the woman who carried me for 9 months and gave birth to me.
I would like to say it was a happily-ever-after situation, that it was cathartic and I’m so thankful for the meeting but due to her circumstances, I was told we could never have a relationship or even further contact.
Although I have compassion, this hurt more than I could allow myself to feel. At the time I allowed myself one day to fall apart and then I put those feelings away. I had 3 kids in a tiny apartment in a different country and was soon going to adopt my son. I knew it would probably come back for me later — because that’s how trauma and grief work.
To be rejected by one mother figure broke my heart and then a few months later, to be scorned by my other mother nearly broke me.
Sometimes it takes a life-altering event to realize what love is, to see who is actually loving you and who is kicking you down, while calling it love. I have learned so much in this past year, by far the hardest year of my life. I am learning the meaning of self-love, self-care and boundaries. I am mothering myself, decolonizing my mind and body and allowing the ocean to heal me.
I did seek professional help and am working with a therapist. I am making changes to my life for the better, for my own future and so I can break the cycle for my kids.
When I look at my 4 beautiful children, I hope they know that while I’m far from perfect, I will try so hard to be a good listener — to learn, grow and change; to value what matters most to them and see them for who they are.
백절불굴 (baekjeol bulgul) is a saying which means “indomitable spirit.”
My birthname,수은 (Soo Eun), means “grace of water.”
I will be okay. And I am ever grateful to those who helped to keep me afloat this past year.
Jag saknar dig varje dag men mest av allt idag. Smärtan försvinner aldrig. Du togs ifrån mig två gånger, jag har sörjt dig två gånger. Du levde det svåraste livet och lyckades ändå vara den mest otroliga människan. Du var snäll, kärleksfull, rolig, självsäker och en otrolig kock! Från det ögonblick jag kom tillbaka var du omedelbart en kärleksfull mamma mot mig, och fortsatte där vi slutade. Jag kände att jag var hemma, jag kände mig helt avslappnad för första gången. Amma, jag kunde se smärtan och traumat i dina ögon. Jag vet att det var svårt att se mig och minnas alla trauman du kände för många år sedan. Jag hade alltid känt det också. Jag saknar dig!
Linzi och hennes Amma, född döv/stum. Linzi stals från henne och ställdes upp för adoption.
förbi Mila Konomos, adopterad från Sydkorea till USA. Poet, konstnär, aktivist.
Mila med sitt barn, omfamnade allt som var förlorat för henne som ett spädbarn, separerat från sin mamma.
Jag har bearbetat Aloneness of #MotherLoss mycket på sistone.
Intellektuellt vet jag vilket självprat jag ska odla. Jag vet att jag inte är ensam. Jag vet att jag har människor i mitt liv som bryr sig om mig och värdesätter mig.
Men denna ensamhet är djupare än så.
Denna ensamhet är moderförlustens ensamhet.
Jag känner mig så ensam så ofta för att jag inte har en mamma.
Jag förlorade min första mamma vid 5 dagar gammal.
Jag förlorade min fostermamma vid 6 månaders ålder.
Jag växte upp med en mamma som inte kunde se mitt trauma. Därför visste hon inte hur hon skulle älska eller trösta mig genom förlusten, smärtan och sorgen av min adoption.
Jag känner mig ensam eftersom jag alltid var ensam i min smärta och sorg.
Jag känner mig ensam eftersom jag har tillbringat större delen av mitt liv med att gråta ensam.
Jag känner mig ensam eftersom jag sällan har vetat vad det är att inte vara ensam, inte bara fysiskt utan även känslomässigt.
Jag känner mig så ensam så ofta, eftersom Mother Loss är en förlust som finns kvar hela livet.
Det finns inget sätt att ersätta en förlorad mor.
Ingen annan på jorden kan kompensera för en förlorad mor.
Bara en mamma bar mig i sin egen kropp. Endast en mammas hjärtslag, andning och röst var vad jag hörde i 9 månader. Hennes doft, hennes ansikte var som om mitt eget.
Jag såg nyligen en dokumentär där berättaren sa: "Bebisar tror att de är en del av vem de än är inom."
Detta är djupgående i sammanhanget med adopterade som skildes från våra mödrar som spädbarn. Vi måste ha upplevt separation från våra mödrar nästan som om vi slits i två delar, slits bort från oss själva. Dela våldsamt isär.
Jag måste tillåta mig själv att sörja denna mammaförlust. Det är evigt. Även 12 år efter återföreningen finns Mother Loss kvar. Jag kan aldrig få tillbaka den mamma jag förlorade. Jag kan inte ta tillbaka de över tre decennierna av mitt liv som jag gick förlorad, förvärrad av förlusten av språk, kultur och geografi.
Det finns en smärta och ensamhet som är svår att beskriva när du hittar det du letat efter hela ditt liv och ändå glider mellan fingrarna.
Denna smärta av att vara så nära men ändå så långt.
Som om man tittade genom ett fönster men aldrig riktigt kunde gå in.
Mila med sin son och en speciell koreansk barnbok som heter "Waiting for Mama".
För mer från Mila, följ henne på hennes hemsida, Kejsarinnan Han. Hennes senaste poesialbum Helgedom släpps i maj 2021.
förbi Michelle Y. K. Piper adopted from Sth Korea to Australia.
Artwork by Michelle Piper, 2021
Two years today, they told me you were dead.
15 years from the day I turned 18 until the day I officially began that dreaded, infuriating, dehumanising, grievous process of trying to trace you; 15 years of constant internal conflict, a fierce war raging within.
Remain loyal to the family, society, culture, and country I had been relinquished to; remain obedient to the process of forced assimilation, never questioning or asking why? (at least never out loud) and ALWAYS “grateful” for the privilege to be alive and living in one of the greatest countries in the world (Australia); continue to ignore the ever-deepening awareness of agonising turmoil and grief consuming my soul borne from the empty, rootlessness of my erased past.
Or… Face what I have always so desperately avoided.
Questions… All those questions. So many, many questions. Impossible to voice out loud even to myself in secrecy and solitude, yet impossible silence within the confined walls of my Psyche.
15 years to amass enough courage to search for you; I searched, and a year later I received “the call”. A call I’d been on constant edge waiting for, a year of repeatedly checking my emails and phone. It came from a stranger in a government office, who had only just been transferred to my case. A transfer I was neither asked nor informed about.
On the 2nd January 2019, a strange, unfamiliar voice explained who she was and why she was calling. You were dead. You died exactly 2 months after my 23rd Birthday. You died on the 6th July 2009. 2009, I was 10 years too late. My father could not or did not want to be found. That was it.
For over 30 years, being adopted meant nothing, or at least I told myself it meant nothing. Just a word to explain away the inevitable whispers of confusion when people crossed us. “Did they just call her mum?”, “Maybe the dad is Asian…? They don’t look like half/half’s though.” I was used to these comments, my entire life’s been layered with racism, some out of ignorance, some without doubt intentional. But being adopted was not something to be dwelled upon, simply a fact; accepted and acknowledged only when unavoidable. But unavoidable became impossible.
That call, that damn call; no matter how fiercely I fought back would demolish the foundations of every wall I had established; a myriad of walls forming the incomprehensible and impenetrable maze of protection I had completely encompassed and lost myself within.
15 Years to find the courage to look for you, but a lifetime of wondering….
Was I ever in your thoughts? Did you ever think of me? On the day of my birth? When that inevitable date once again came full circle, a date that would forever mark each year we have spent apart. Another year gone; another year of life missed. Another year of what has been a lifetime of separation. Did you think of me at Christmas? At times of family, cultural and traditional celebrations, when milestones should have been reached. When recipes, secrets, and the stories of our ancestors should have passed from Mother to Daughter. Did you ever wonder as I do now if or how much we look and are alike?
Did the same irrevocable, emptiness, loneliness, grief, and self-loathing consume you as it has me? …..Did I mean anything to you?
Did you, on the day you gave birth simply walk away and never look back? Erasing every memory, every moment, every emotion. Erasing me. Did you reject me from the moment we ceased to be one, refusing to acknowledge the life you had so painfully bore into this world? Did you even once, hold me in your arms? Was my existence always a disgrace? A corruption in the flow and purity of bloodlines. The product of the worst kind of offence one can commit against a culture and people whose social, ethical, political and legal systems are fundamentally embedded in the principles of Confucianism. Was I always perceived as an abomination? An ignominy, an abhorrent consequence of defying what is so vehemently indoctrinated in our people from birth, so fiercely prized and expected from each child from every generation. Obedience. Respect. Respect of your elder’s and absolute obedience in following directives. Know your place, in family, home, and society, in culture and country. Fail to comply; step outside the social norms and be condemned to a life forever tainted by shame, rejection, and dishonour.
Or, on the day you gave birth did your gaze fall upon me, desperate to memorise every detail that time would allow? Did your arms find me, enfolding me close, tightening your embrace? Did you memorise my scent, that beautiful, sweet baby scent while your mind commenced an onslaught; vivid recollections of the 9 months passed? The pain, terror, love, bewilderment, and confusion. The internal struggle of a decision impossible to make yet impossible to disregard. Did your mind force upon you the memories of my first movements you felt within? Undeniable proof of the life growing inside? Did you remember all the times you found yourself cursing me for the morning sickness, or when it became impossible to move around freely?
Did you recall all the times you had spoken to me, and soothed me? Patting your stomach and smiling with happiness and contentment when my restlessness ceased at the sound of your voice? Did you recall all the one-sided conversations you had with me, admonishing me for your weight gain, bloated ankles, constant need to pee, and general discomfort? Did you remember thinking none of those things mattered when you finally beheld the face of your newly born daughter in front of you? Did you remember and retain these precious moments with as much desperation as I did the day my daughter was born? Did I remain an only child? Or were there future children that were deemed “worthy” to keep?
You left endless questions with no definitive answers, not even in death. The agency who sold me insist you are dead, while the government itself cannot seem to confirm this.
What am I meant to do with that? Please 어머니, tell me.
Do I hold onto hope that somehow you are still alive..? Cling desperately to the childish, naïve dream that MAYBE, just maybe, you are? That maybe you’re not dead, but looking for me, maybe I was one of those children never willingly relinquished. Or take the word of the agency who trafficked me, sent me overseas and accept you are gone?
Will it ever be possible to heal if I tell myself you’re dead? How am I supposed to mourn you? How does one weep for a face it cannot remember? How do I release myself of someone who, no matter how much time and distance was placed between us, is still everything I am, yet everything I don’t know? How can I be free when your faceless form haunts my dreams? When each day I am struck by a renewed wave of painful understanding of all that has been stolen. All that’s been lost. For all that has been erased. For my parents who will forever remain faceless strangers, parents I will never have the opportunity to know or meet. For the brothers and sisters I will never know. For the Aunty and Uncles, the cousin’s, and grandparents. For the history of my people, I remained so ignorant towards until now; for the heart-breaking and brutal history of our country; still at war after 70 years, divided, literally torn in two, poisoned by political corruption, military coups, and slavery. Of trafficked children, The Forgotten Generation; a generation who fought, died and rebuilt our country, now languishing in poverty pushed to the fringes of society living in isolation and squalor, afraid to ask for help for fear of “burdening” the country they fought and died to protect. For the enslaved comfort women abused, raped, tortured, and murdered by the Japanese. For the Sewol Ferry Tragedy, which began to sink on the morning of the 16th April 2014, where 304 of the 476 passengers on board, 250 of them students perished; trapped on a sinking ferry, while the captain and crew escaped, telling the passengers on board to stay where they were. Obeying their elders (that prized attribute ingrained from birth), the students placed their trust in the orders given, they remained where they were, waiting to be rescued. A rescue that was never attempted, a rescue that never came. Parents, family, teachers, classmates and survivors alike hysterical, stranded on the shoreline, still receiving messages from the remaining students trapped inside that they were still alive in what was an almost completely submerged vessel. Parents helpless to do anything but watch as the last visible section of the ship sank in front of them. And then nothing. Silence, as the shock and magnitude of tragedy that had just unfolded before them set in. A moment of disbelieving silence before the blood curdling, guttural cries only a parent who has just lost their child can make. Footage later released, revealed to the world the last 20 minutes of some of the students trapped inside. The memories of which will haunt me forever, faces I won’t ever forget. Messages of love and apologies to loved ones, that still produce physical pain to hear.
To watch my people suffer, to die in the most horrifying ways, to feel the overwhelming outrage, and unbearable grief that has consumed our nation time and time again but to be unable to be there with them, to grieve with them; did you never consider how painful these moments would be? Did you ever imagine how much agony it would cause just to observe my native language? When everything appears, sounds and feels so natural, until you remember, none of it makes sense to you. You can’t decipher it. You don’t understand it. You can’t speak it. Did you ever consider just how high a price your baby girl would pay, for that “better” life you were so sure she was going to? If you, my own Mother could not find it in yourself to raise me, whether from the shame, dishonour, or just for being a “bastard” (YES, my adoption papers actually use this word!), if you feared for me, for the prejudice, discrimination, and stigma I would have endured had we remained together in Korea, how could you think that throwing me into a world of white where I was one of maybe 5 Asians for over 18yrs of my life would be to my benefit? Did you honestly think that those of the western world wouldn’t reject me? Debase me, use my status as a Korean adoptee against me in the most humiliating and degrading ways conceivable? If you; my own mother, my own family, my people and country viewed me as nothing more than a product for export, why would anyone else?
If you did in fact die in 2009, you died at the age of 46.
I’m aware you never looked for me, never once tried to find out where I was. And now you’re gone, (maybe), I don’t know. The fact that I don’t know enrages me, consumes me with a desperate hopelessness and despair. But, if you are gone… How could you leave and never say goodbye? How could you leave without ever reaching out, never once trying to find me? Didn’t you care how I was or where I ended up? How could you leave me with so many unanswered questions? No photo for me to remember you, to study your face, to memorise. No last parting words of wisdom or advice. No letter of explanation. Nothing. Just an endless, hollow silence.
And so, inside the now grown adult, still remains, the frightened, confused, rejected, abandoned little girl, who will never grow up. Who will never know why you didn’t want her, why you didn’t keep her? What it was it you saw in her that repulsed you so much you cast her aside and across the seas; keeping the existence of the baby girl you once bore so many years ago a shameful secret, you literally took with you to your grave.
Michelle has published other articles about her experience as a Korean intercountry adoptee at Korean Quarterly.
av Geetha Perera, adopterad från Sri Lanka till Australien
Jag kan stå i en folkmassa Eller så kan jag stå ensam Och fortfarande kommer ingen att lägga märke till mig Jag gråter i en folkmassa Eller så kan jag gråta ensam Och fortfarande kommer ingen att lägga märke till mig Jag kan hålla någons hand Eller så kan jag stå bredvid en person Och fortfarande kommer ingen att lägga märke till mig För jag är inte en sticker ut Jag är inte den ljusaste stjärnan Jag är inte den smalaste Jag är inte den snyggaste Jag är den i hörnet Ensam
For me, it’s a day of wondering is she even alive, does she remember me, is she struggling, how old is she, has she lived since then, alone, or did she have other children, before me, or after?
Will I ever find her, is she in Vietnam or somewhere else around the world, does she even want to be found, was I a part of some deep shame, or a result of love, what happened to her that I was relinquished, was it her choice?
Mor – a concept that evokes such a mix of feelings, it’s not logical to some why I want to know who she is, it’s just an innate drive, no other can make up for her, I am forever a part of her, her DNA is imprinted in me, it’s false to think a substitute is all I need, I didn’t even know her name until 3 years ago!
If I could wish upon a magic cloud I’d ask to meet my mother, see her face, hear her voice, be held in her arms, given answers to my questions, learn I was missed and not forgotten. But reality is not quite this, and these are the bittersweet feelings I have on Mother’s Day.
For all my fellow adoptees around the world, here with you in solidarity, sharing the mixed bag of emotions that Mother’s Day can evoke!
Moth….errr. Kan jag säga det här ordet utan paus? Moth..eerrr. Kan jag säga det här ordet utan att mitt sinne susar till hundra olika tankar? Moth….errrr. Potentiellt, kanske, och ändå möjligen, nej. För mig är det ett ord som tar upp många konnotationer, några bra, de flesta dåliga. Ett ord som är svårt att få fram då min stamiga röst speglar mitt hjärta. Ordets renhet är förlorad för mig. Jag är inte van vid ordet ensamt, utan snarare alltid med ett annat ord framför, oavsett om det är födelsemamma, första mamma, adoptivmamma, äkta mamma eller inte äkta mamma. Alltid ett annat ord framför, som om jag skulle avgränsa min upplevelse i delar, inte en helhet. Förvirring uppstår och mitt huvud snurrar när alla försöker tala om för mig vad mor ... fel är och vad en riktig mor ... är. Morfrakturens förväntningar och idealiseringar under ökande tyngd av granskning och livserfarenheter. Istället för att fråga, skriker folk. Detta är vad en riktig mamma gör eller inte gör, eller det är vad det innebär att vara mamma. Kan du inte se att själva det faktum att folk bråkar betyder att det är något som inte är helt med det här? Inte konstigt att jag inte helt kan uttala detta ord på egen hand, förtrollad av längtan och sorg, och helt känner den känslomässiga spänningen i ordet. Jag kan inte undgå det. Även när jag stirrar in i ögonen på en romantisk partner ringer varningsklockorna och sirenerna tjuter. Vad gör den här kvinnan annorlunda än en mal...errr som lämnade en son? Vad säkerställer att detsamma inte händer igen? Den ursprungliga rädslan och den viscerala reaktionen. Mamma...ej, vad har du gjort med mig? Mitt huvud snurrar och håller på att implodera.
Det känns konstigt att säga det på egen hand, och väntar otåligt på att ytterligare ett medföljande ord ska dyka upp bredvid det som en hund som söker efter sin husse. Kan inte ett barn ha två mor… fel? Där går jag igen. Attans. Ännu en kvalificerande mor… err. Så mycket som jag behöver sörja över malen…errr som är förlorad, måste jag också sörja tanken på mal…errr och det faktum att min idé om mal…errr, när jag avstod, krossades för alltid och lämnade mig, en baby, att plocka upp bitarna. Vuxna försökte resonera för att resterna av mal...fel svävade runt i mitt hjärta, och ändå är det den vuxna jag som plockar upp bitarna för att resonera med barnet mig om idén om mal...fel. Kan en man vårda sig själv? Kan han bli sin egen idé om mor ... fel? Vilket val finns kvar? Jag är trött på att folk definierar mamma för mig. Jag har en uppfattning om det, för jag har tappat det, och vet effekterna av det. Och ändå var kan man börja läka, förutom den första sörjande mamman?
