I sit at my desk, laptop open, staring at a blank screen. I am supposed to be writing a letter to my 9-year-old son’s birth mother in Korea. I have written to each of my sons’ birth mothers several times, each time painting their lives like watercolor pictures with broad strokes and vibrant colors. This time, though, I sit frozen, my fingers heavy, my thoughts like lead weighing them down. The adoptive parent in me could write the letter, but the adoptee in me is refusing. Looking for distraction, I scroll through YouTube and come upon a video featuring a family taking custody of their adopted Korean son. I have experienced three Korean adoptions in my life, one as an adoptee and two as an adoptive parent, so I am intimately familiar with the story unfolding before me. I watch as images of an adoptee’s loss are set to a soundtrack of hope, adoptee pain obscured by parental gain, two sides of this firmly entrenched dichotomy fighting to tell the story, fighting in me. In the early months after we adopted our oldest son at 3 years old, we would tie long pieces of yarn to our waists and walk around the house, mimicking the push and pull connection that parents and children are supposed to feel, trying to weave the tangled ends of severed attachment into a solid rope. The tangible yarn no longer needed, we still pull each other around on this stiff, braided line, the narrative of our experiences dancing in pieces before us, the rope tightening and slackening depending on how hard we pull towards our version of the truth, always at risk of breaking. The next time I try to write, I am quickly distracted by a box labeled “donations” that has been sitting below my bookshelf for a few days. I walk over and trace my fingers along the books on the shelf when I reach the sky blue spine of a book I had forgotten I had. It is a memoir by Melissa Fay Greene, a parent of nine children, including five internationally adopted children, called "No Riding Your Bike in the House Without a Helmet." Funny, heartfelt, and honest, my husband and I read it before we adopted our first son, and it has sat on our bookshelf as a talisman-proof that it would be okay. I flip through the book and realize the supernatural powers it once held are no longer there. The stories that once delighted me of her biological and adopted children, stories treated with an equanimity that I used to admire, fail to recognize the fundamental differences between adoptee and non-adoptee needs. The vivid descriptions of the personalities of her children feel too intimate now, a cage of words defining each child and pinning them in print for eternity. I realize that as adoptees, people who have already had so much agency stolen from them, we have just one currency to even the scales of power: defining our own narrative. I understand why adoptive parents want these stories, but adoptees need them. I hold the book up to my non-adoptee husband. “Do you want to keep this?” “I loved that book,” he says. “I did too,” I reply as I toss the book into the donation box. A week later, ready to give up on the letter entirely, my adoptive mom calls and I actually answer, the desperation to avoid writing at dangerous levels now. My mother’s calls and texts are usually met with perfunctory responses, the strings tying us together long gone, the continued contact an act of peacemaking for others in my family who are still tied to me. As my mom prattles on about a movie she recently watched, I remember a letter she wrote after I excluded her from my wedding. She addressed it to my birth mother, a woman neither of us know, and gave it to me. An act intended to induce guilt or to try to connect? I still do not know. The letter portrayed my birth mother as a martyr, and her as a hero, the two of them combining to create the perfect jewel of a daughter, all my grit, determination, and bravery erased. It reminded me a bit of the letters I had written to my sons’ birth mothers. It is now cold outside and I’m wrapped in a blanket next to a space heater with a warm cup of tea determined to write this letter. I think about the two parts of myself, about my mother and me, and I know what to do. The adoptive parent in me stops pulling and walks to the adoptee, who tells me what to write. “Dear Birth Mother, We hope you are well. We are all safe and healthy. We have attached some pictures from the last year that our son felt especially proud to share. We think of you often.” The mostly blank page shines brightly back at me. I leave the space empty for my son to write his own story, his own way, whenever he is ready. We come closer together, the tension released between the parts of me, and between me and my son, now that the story rests with its rightful owner.

Reposted from The Korea Times This article is the 17th in a series about Koreans adopted abroad. Apparently, many Koreans never expected that the children it had sent away via adoption would return as adults with questions demanding to be answered. However, thousands of adoptees visit Korea each year. Once they rediscover this country, it becomes a turning point in their lives. We should embrace the dialogue with adoptees to discover the path to recovering our collective humanity. — E.D. Over a seven-year span (1985-92), the number of transnational adoptions from Korea fell by 1,000 annually, dropping to a level not seen since 1970. Despite the absence of any meaningful reforms in child welfare or legislation, this decline represented a dramatic shift that satisfied many, including Western policymakers, who assumed that the root problems of transnational adoptions had been addressed, as the country’s economy and democracy progressed. On the contrary, the plunge in intercountry adoptions represented a campaign orchestrated by the 1980-88 Chun Doo-hwan military regime to appease its critics while outwardly portraying Korea as a prosperous nation. To understand the context that led the regime to reach this reversal of its 1980 policy aims, we need to examine two of the largest sports events of the decade: the 1986 Asian Games and the 1988 Seoul Olympic Games. As discussed in my previous article, “The unrestrained expansion of child exports during 1980s authoritarian period,” published Sept. 26, the leaders of the 1980 military coup lacked governing experience, and therefore employed “child exports” as an opportunity to engage Western countries diplomatically to fulfill the military regime’s needs and to stem any condemnation over the dictatorship. The need to mollify international and domestic demands for Korea’s democratization intensified over the years. Thus, a primary concern that occupied the Chun regime was to bolster domestic support and legitimacy for military rule through economic growth and efforts to “enhance national prestige.” Consequently, it aimed to achieve these goals by hosting two enormous international sporting events that would erase any lingering memories of Korea being an isolated, war-torn nation and cement its image as a vibrant, modern country. Considering the stakes, Korea pursued its public diplomacy drive with an aggressive determination that entailed fully leveraging domestic and international propaganda to promote its suitability as a host country for the Olympics. Ironically, its efforts betrayed its expectations. By capturing international attention, any acts of repression or brutality that had come to characterize the regime would be on full display. In response, the regime exercised some restraint in dealing with pro-democracy protests. Since its attention centered on curbing ever growing calls for political change, it was unprepared when Western media unleashed a slew of articles criticizing the country for exporting its babies. The president and his administration scrambled to reduce the number of transnational adoptions, but could not resort to their usual coercive tactics without jeopardizing the country’s hosting of the Olympics. As the Chun regime wanted to preserve the image it had cultivated with the world, it employed an administrative tool that the government had long used to control the number of intercountry adoptions—permission to exit the country. Tucked inside the 1962 Emigration Act, legislated under the previous military junta of Park Chung-hee, was a provision that prohibited Korean nationals from emigrating overseas without government permission. While the government justified this measure as a means to prevent male citizens from evading conscription and to ban “inappropriate” Koreans from moving overseas and degrading the country’s image, these reasons hid the act’s true purpose, which was to control and oppress Korean citizens. The severe human rights violation that this travel restriction imposed eventually led to its revision in 1983. Under the revised permit procedures, people underwent screenings of their qualifications to emigrate. Eventually, in 1991, the entire process, except the reporting procedure, was abolished. What does this act have to do with intercountry adoptions? The Ministry of Foreign Affairs, which oversaw this policy, was charged with issuing “permits to exit to a foreign country” to those wanting to emigrate to other countries. However, in 1977, the Ministry of Health and Welfare assumed this role from the foreign ministry for children sent for intercountry adoption. To this day, the welfare ministry maintains this practice of issuing permits, despite the original permit system being eliminated for violating people’s human rights. To be clear, I am not arguing against state intervention in the cross-border movement of children; on the contrary, such intervention is necessary for the protection and safety of children. However, the permit procedures employed by Korea were never designed for protective purposes. Instead, this system served primarily as a type of “quota” system, or a means to control the numbers of children that agencies could send abroad, without the need to satisfy any public authority’s requirements to ensure protective measures. In other words, the permit system revolved around the permit, which served as an essential document needed to apply for an immigration visa from a receiving country. No Korean permit meant no visa for a Western receiving country. Thus, these permits served as the strongest, most effective form of leverage to control adoption agencies, whose revenues relied primarily on fees paid by adoptive parents. Until the 1990s, the government welfare budget excluded support for adoption agencies. Instead, the government granted them exclusive authorization to engage in intercountry adoptions, including setting their own fee levels. As explained in my previous article, “Korean adoption system must not be allowed to be profit-driven,” published June 27, adoption agencies operated and continue to operate as private entities. Consequently, there is little knowledge of their internal operations, and most critically, the conditions and status of children under their protection or influence remain relatively unknown. The extent of this independent nature is evident in the methods employed by the government to exercise control. Rather than assuming direct management of adoption agencies, the government has relied on a web of incentives and punishments, even going so far as to appoint a regime associate to a leadership post within an agency. The tragedy surrounding the 1988 Olympics is the momentum squandered by the nation. With the world watching closely in the lead-up to the Olympics and the foreign media denouncing its wide-scale export of babies, the country had an opportunity to genuinely reflect on and address its failures in child protection. Instead, the military government used its administrative measures to set an arbitrary number of intercountry adoptions, so as to provide a superficial response that would quiet the criticisms from abroad. This choice excluded more children from mainstream welfare policies, leaving their fate at the discretion of a global cartel, which eventually treated them as commodities to transfer overseas. Nelson Mandela once said, “The true character of a society is revealed in how it treats its children.” Because childhood represents the most vulnerable period of a human being’s life, the treatment of these children shows the shallow depths of human rights protections that this country afforded to those who needed it the most. Image: The number of children sent overseas for adoption — Courtesy of Lee Kyung-eun

The Universal Asian had the privilege of speaking with Anthony Sayo, an award-winning actor from the Philippines who is making his dreams come true in Hollywood. Despite his parents’ preference for him to become a lawyer, Anthony Sayo found himself challenging the norms of his small Philippines’ provincial town. Growing up as one of six children in the family, Sayo was called at an early age to the world of movies and storytelling brought by the influence of his older brother, a big fan of fantasy films and wrestling entertainment. With his father a pharmacy owner and his mother a doctor, it was not a common dream for kids to want to be in the movies nor pursue a career in acting, let alone a career in Hollywood. However, Sayo says, “Even when I was a child, I was already very optimistic, I believe that if you have the drive and the willpower—you will be able to create an opportunity for yourself to make anything possible.” Sayo followed this belief while holding on to his motto that we only have one life to live and we should pursue a career path that truly brings us fulfillment. He says, “When I realised that acting was the career that I wanted to pursue, I told myself that I will go for what I want. That is non-negotiable. My life is so precious to me, and I want to be doing what makes me happy.” Therefore, pushing aside his mother’s persistent wish that he pursue a medical or law career, Sayo focused his efforts on how to get to the U.S. to fulfill his dream of being in the movies. After making sure he did his best academically, graduating with a Political Science degree from the University of the Philippines, Sayo found an acting school in the Philippines and enrolled in a one-year diploma program. For that year, Sayo studied under the wing of an American acting coach who trained mostly in New York, but has performed in both American and European TV/films. Sayo is very appreciative of this formal introduction into the world of acting and credits his solid foundation to his mentor. During his year of study, his teacher told him that “Hollywood is a white man’s world” to keep him grounded about his expectations of finding work in Hollywood. Even with this dose of reality thrown at him, Sayo simply pushed on with the belief that talent will always find a way to be recognized, regardless of ethnicity or race. While waiting for the right timing and opportunity to go the U.S. to pursue acting in Hollywood, Sayo decided to become a certified fitness trainer, and trained clients in Manila. He is also very passionate about fitness, and for six years he enjoyed imparting his knowledge and guiding his clients on a journey to a healthier lifestyle. During this time, he also took advantage of social media to build up a support network that he could use if he ever made it to Los Angeles. Then, in 2019, one of Sayo’s sisters moved to Chicago to work as a nurse. He saw this as opportune timing to take bolder steps to fulfill his acting aspirations. During a family trip to visit his sister in Chicago, he booked a one-way ticket to L.A. and told his mom that he was returning to the Philippines, as he was now ready to embark on his acting journey. As one might expect, Sayo had very little money when he arrived, but through his social media contacts and support network, he was able to meet people who kindly provided him with a place to stay and helped to get him started. He went from audition to audition, and managed to get his first major role in “The Withered Ghoul’s Ceremony,” an independent film director’s debut. Sayo booked the leading role and won Best Actor at the Hollywood Blood Horror Film Festival for his performance. He has also played leading roles in films slated for release like the romantic drama “Tears at the Edge of the World,” and the crime drama “Daughter.” Sayo is also a part of the cast of the ”Mantis Club,” a horror comedy which is currently having success in the film festival circuit. Despite this, Sayo always keeps his eyes on the bigger projects. His next big target is to land a role in the mainstream TV or book a role in a studio film. Thanks to growing advocacies for equal representation on the screen nowadays, there are more opportunities for people of color, and previously underrepresented ethnic groups in the movie industry, including Asians. He acknowledges that there are other Asian actors and Asian leading men who are leading the way, and he wants to join this wave of bringing more Asian faces to the screen. In the meantime, he says, “I am enjoying the process, to be honest, but there’s no way that I will say that it’s easy. So, I’m enjoying it because I realize that I belong here, because I can stand the ups and downs. I can stand the hits. I can stand the blows because there are also so many blows. It’s like being in a boxing match. There’s no way that you enter without being punched. I’m okay with taking punches and I’m also getting out my punches. So, I’m happy with the game.” For those who aspire to be like Sayo, he advises, “Don’t listen to the noise. Don’t let anyone tell you that it is impossible. You have to follow your heart in whatever you do. So, if you’re already somewhere and you think your heart is not there, if you’re thinking you don’t love it, you only have one life and you can change the menu, you can change the channel.” Cover photo: Still from “Daughter” directed by Yiwei Yao

The meaningful and meaningless documents that make up the story of my adoption inspired this set of digital composites. The first step in any search for one’s origin begins with the application for one’s adoption files. Used as source material my file represents a story created wholly by my adoption agency, Holt International.

Full title: Dialogues With Adoptees: The unrestrained expansion of ‘child exports’ during 1980s authoritarian period Reposted from The Korea Times This article is the 16th in a series about Koreans adopted abroad. Apparently, many Koreans never expected that the children it had sent away via adoption would return as adults with questions demanding to be answered. However, thousands of adoptees visit Korea each year. Once they rediscover this country, it becomes a turning point in their lives. We should embrace the dialogue with adoptees to discover the path to recovering our collective humanity. — E.D. Shortly after the assassination of Park Chung-hee in 1979, Chun Doo-hwan led a successful military coup that would see Korea’s authoritarian leadership period continue until 1992. The tumultuous political change that has come to define this period also influenced the politics of intercountry adoption. Throughout Chun’s rule, the number of children sent for adoption experienced dramatic annual fluctuations, as seen in the graph. Since the dominant narrative of adoption has been populated by stereotypes and myths about so-called “outcast” children, little attention has been paid to fully contemplating the sheer number of children these statistics represent. When these figures shift by the thousands, it’s easy to forget the human lives behind the data. Moreover, we should not forget that transferring a single child across a national border requires navigating a complex set of administrative immigration procedures. In the 1980s, these travel processes were further complicated by the restrictions that the authoritarian government placed on people’s overseas travel. Before 1989, few Koreans were granted passports to travel abroad. Those who were among the limited number of Koreans who were granted a passport stand in stark contrast to the outflow of Korean children for adoption. In 1985, when the rate of intercountry adoption peaked, more than 8,800 children were sent abroad. This figure represents 1.3 percent of the total births, which was around 650,000, in Korea that year. Thus, despite the difficulty that Koreans had in traveling internationally, the rate of children transnationally adopted during the Chun Regime exceeded 74,000, which comprises nearly half (45 percent) of the total number of Korean intercountry adoptions. This expansion was part of a larger trend in the 1980s, which witnessed a global surge in intercountry adoption. As much as 73 percent of the total intercountry adoptions involved children from Asian countries, and Korea played a central role constituting the largest majority of Asian intercountry adoptions at 75-77 percent. Globally, Korean intercountry adoptions accounted for 60 percent of the world total throughout the 1980s. The graph reflects Korea’s intercountry adoption rates. In spite of the popular belief that these adoptions were guided by welfare measures, political decisions dictated the steep rise. The Chun regime on the one hand pursued repressive policies against civil liberties and democracy, while on the other hand maintained a highly liberalized approach toward its economic and foreign policies. Although eager to portray itself as open and democratic to the international community, the government exploited Western countries’ desire for adoptable babies by “liberating” the export of Korean children through the deregulation and further privatization of intercountry adoption agencies. Rather than serving as a child protection measure, the country’s intercountry adoption policies aligned and functioned as an extension of the government’s national policies at the time. Consequently, the government pursued an open-door foreign policy that exported adoptable babies as a form of diplomacy with Western countries. As the legislative foundation and legal infrastructure of intercountry adoption had already been established during the 1970s, increasing the rate of children sent abroad was relatively easy once the government had made the political decision to do so. The proportion of intercountry adoption within the total emigration figure from Korea represented a significant portion. In 1985, the peak year of intercountry adoption, the total emigration figure was 27,793, and 8,837 of that was comprised of intercountry adoptions. In other words, intercountry adoption accounted for over 30 percent of Korea’s total emigration that year. Most of the general emigration, which one can also refer to as non-intercountry adoption emigration, was to the U.S., Canada, Australia and New Zealand. The destinations for the remaining 6,021 Korean emigrants were classified as “other regions,” which presumably pertained to countries in Latin America and Europe. Seeing as European countries received 2,413 Korean children for adoption, one can safely assume that a large proportion of the Korean emigration population to Europe consisted of Korean intercountry adoptees. These high rates did not go unnoticed. A U.S. Embassy consular officer in Seoul charged with issuing visas for intercountry adoption commented to the media that 500 kids per month represented an incredibly high number that could not be explained by humanitarian needs. He added that the institutionalization of intercountry adoption in Korea permitted the attainment of such numbers. Why hadn’t these numbers been achieved earlier? In the late 1970s, poor management and internal conflicts marked the operations of the adoption agencies. Corruption prevailed to such an extent that law enforcement arrested the head of an agency for embezzlement. In line with its national economic and foreign policy agenda, the Chun Regime may have intervened to promote the performance of the agencies. Such intervention is evidenced in a 1981 adoption agency yearbook that mentions the newly established government appointed a new executive director for the agency “with a mission to lead welfare reform.” Trained by the military, this new director eventually expanded the agency’s business by securing government support to promote intercountry adoption. He would later serve as a member of the 1988 Olympic Committee and the National Assembly, as well as a Minister of Government Administration. The prominent positions occupied by this figure and his role in the adoption agency demonstrate how terms such as “privatized” and “quasi-government,” while contradictory, simultaneously characterize the status of adoption agencies. Unlike in the 1970s, the new adoption agency came to operate with efficiency and discipline. Under its new leadership, the agency underwent a restructuring that affected all elements of its operations, from personnel to resource allocation. These reforms enhanced the agency’s capacity to gather adoptable children from a variety of sources nationwide, including orphanages, birth clinics, hospitals and unwed mothers. Each of these sources was overseen by specially dedicated divisions inside the agency. The agency established a special processing division to expedite immigration administration and recruited specialized staff. For instance, a former staff member of the processing division said that those proficient in English received better treatment, since such language skills were rare at the time but highly sought after. Despite the better conditions for these staff members, the fee for a single intercountry adoption could cover their entire annual salary, which gives perspective to the amount of money involved at the time. This inflow of money cannot be overlooked, as it reveals the true motivations behind the upsurge in adoptions. In the 1980s, the level of fees collected from adoptive parents by Korean adoption agencies was known to be twice the per capita GDP of Korea. In sum, contrary to the belief that the high rates of intercountry adoption out of Korea in the 1980s were due to poverty or a growing orphan population, the swift upsurge may be attributed to the regime’s political will and the reforms it undertook to realize this will by improving the efficiency through which the agencies performed. This article is the first of two that covers the rise and decline of intercountry adoptions in the 1980s. The next article will discuss the reasons behind the downturn in intercountry adoptions in 1986 as featured in the graph. Image: The number of children sent overseas for adoption — Courtesy of Lee Kyung-eun

As I walked the streets in the Asian part of Rome near Termini Station, the Asian stores were mostly empty, perhaps as a result of COVID but I cannot say as I’ve not seen the streets in normal times. Still, what was striking was the gradual demographic change and mixture of skin tones darkening the further away I walked from the popular city center. Most paid little to no attention to me since I hoped I didn’t have a tourist air about me. Probably, though, it helped that I was not white. There have been a handful of times in my life when I have felt thankful that my Asian face is what it is. That day was another time to add to my list. As I walked with a smile on my face, I wondered at the recent comments and questions I had read posted on social media about racism in Italy. While I am aware that certain social media platforms are predominantly white, I am still amazed when I read people’s denial of race struggles in the world. For example, the U.S. is facing a massive increase in crimes against Asian people yet no one wants to call them hate crimes. Instead, many want to blame it on mental illness for those who are committing these crimes, which obviously does need to be addressed as another social and systemic issue, but the fact is that Asians are being targeted more than ever for whatever reason—though I think there is no question as to who or where it started in 2020. However, as I walked the streets of Rome, in a part of town mostly void of white Italians, I found myself feeling safe. I found myself comfortable. I found myself a part of the community of people of color walking about, and I felt proud to acknowledge it. I also felt thankful that I was not living in a place where I would have to worry about my safety walking around. More importantly, though, I was thankful that I was not white; that I did not carry myself as I imagined a white person would walking past Asian restaurants, supermarkets, clothing stores, etc. I did not view the space as them being less-than or worse-off than my privileged way of life. Instead, I felt connected and as if I could hear my heritage finally speaking out to me to own what is mine and to accept that I belong in these spaces just as much as someone who speaks or knows the culture as their own. For DNA carries more than just our genetic makeup but also the whispers of our ancestors. As I sat to eat a Korean meal on my own, an act I rarely do since I hate eating alone, I decided not to distract myself with my phone or pretend as if I had something to do to try to lessen a discomfort for dining as one. Instead, I chose to focus on the flavors, the bitefuls of sour and spicy mixing in my mouth. I imagined myself as a child in Korea first eating a bowl of rice or tasting the complexity of kimchi. I imagined I could hear the smile in my omma's voice as she encouraged me to take another bite. It was in this mindful space that I could appreciate that somehow against all odds, I had come to love the food of my motherland. I sat eating as if I had always known Korean food, as if it was something I had always eaten and was just missing while living abroad. The cook, and probably owner, of the restaurant asked me if I was Korean in Korean. I replied in English, “I am, but American.” She nodded with a smile and accepted my admittance. Food always serves as a way of bonding. The “breaking of bread” has long been used as a way of uniting people. In that restaurant there were people of all skin tones enjoying the same kind of food. In that space, we all had something in common. Isn’t it strange then, once we go back outside we are again defined by the color of our skin? When we go our separate ways, once again I will be seen as Asian, and they by whatever nationality they seem to look; yet, none of us will know that on the inside, we may be of all different colors. But, in that space, in that city, in that moment, I felt as if my outside and my inside were the same—even if it was brief. Image: Cathy Lu

Nothing What can you do when there’s nothing to do The sun shines bright and the sky so blue Yet sitting inside thinking of you It seems as so lately it’s all I can do When everything fails and nothing is new I sit and I wait until I can see you Far How many more moons until this feeling lifts Longing and yearning and still nothing fits It’s just like a puzzle and you’re the last piece What should I do to make this pain cease I look and I ponder of what I do miss It’s the feeling of whole, the feeling of bliss I write this here poem to remind you dear friend That even though we’re apart I’m with you ‘til the end Friend I just met you I know and you seem so shy What happened to you, I wonder why Soon enough though, we’ll be best of friends I help you as you do me and we’ll make amends I’m not here to harm you, just here to say I’m with you and I’ll love you every single day See Open my eyes so that I may see What exactly do you want of me What do I want is better to inquire Because as of yet nothing inspires What should I do to relieve this feeling Nothing to me feels appealing I do what I can to pass the time Get me to a point I’m feeling fine But I sit here alone feeling no purpose Give me something so I’m not feeling worthless Lauren is a regular contributor for The Universal Asian. To learn more about her, check out her Contributor’s Page here.

Moon face. I have a really big, round moon face. I never really considered my face until the boys at school wanted to point out that my face was flat. So, I was then known as flat face. I added this to the list of taunts that already got fired at me like missiles. Chinese, Japanese, Dirty Knees, Look at these. Ching Chong. I used to wish I could change my face to be small and petite. That the large bridge of my nose wasn’t so protruding, and my cheeks weren’t fat, flat tortillas on either side of my nose. I wanted blonde hair that was light and fluffy. You could spray that hair with hairspray, and it actually stayed in place. My thick dark hair refused to curl, always straight an hour after I got to school. Those rag curls my mother put in my head, futile. My mom said I was pretty. But no one cares what their mom says. Moms have to think you’re pretty. They are blinded by love. My eyes have monolids. It’s where the top lid doesn’t roll back into the eye socket. Instead, it curls up, under, and folds on top of itself like an accordion fan. That means if you put thick black eyeliner on, it’s going to smudge and disappear under your top lid and you end up looking like a raccoon. The discount version of a smokey eye. Oh, and Heaven forbid, you smile big or close your eyes tight when you laugh. Your eyeliner ends up on top of your fat tortilla cheeks. My ears connect to my head awkwardly. There’s no distinction between my cheek and my lobe. The bottom of my ear just sort of blends into my face like a merge lane. There’s no cute round lobe on the side of my head. Just a little triangular flap of skin I got pierced when I was eight at a mall kiosk in Indiana. The holes aren’t even. My unicorn earrings always sat weird, one dipping lower than the other. The real crux of the six-word memoir is that this face, this awkward, Korean-looking face, does not match me. My face doesn’t represent who I am. People who don’t know me look at my face and make a lot of assumptions. They assume I am Asian of some sort. They assume my face is Korean—if they are a good guesser. Some people assume I don’t speak English, that broken English should come out of my mouth, or that I’ll speak a language that sounds like pots and pans falling down the stairs, as the racist joke goes. When I was a greeter at Olive Garden in college, an older woman complimented me on my English saying I spoke English well. I said, “Well, I ought to since I’ve been here since I was 6 months old.” I thought I was American. I grew up in America. I ate American food. My lunch was Chef Boyardee. My family drove through McDonald’s and my parents’ favorite restaurant was Cracker Barrel. I spoke English. Yet, my face would say otherwise. My face came with baggage that wasn’t mine. My face gave some people permission to think they knew a part of me. When this happens, you are constantly trying to prove you are someone or something. How many times did I overcompensate for this? Did I speak extra American-like? I tried to do all the American things like cheerleading or ballet to show how white I was. I dated the white boy in high school…to be fair, there was only one Asian boy in my school, so choices were limited. I think I’ve spent a lifetime trying to combat my outward appearance instead of accepting it’s a natural part of what makes me, me. Acceptance is what we crave so much in our youth, yet we tend to find it much later in adulthood. I wish acceptance had come earlier. I wish I had given myself permission to feel like an outsider but had the confidence to know I really did belong. I know my face does not match who I am inside, but now I know it doesn’t matter. Cover image: Cathy Lu

I had always dreamed of having children. I grew up in a big family with lots of siblings, relatives, and cousins. There were so many adventures—it was a great experience. I just assumed my spouse and I would have kids of our own one day. He came from a big family, too. So far, there’s none. Apparently, it’s complicated. But that’s a different story. Over the years, I have done a lot of research on adoption, and I’ve certainly learned a lot. I always wanted biological children, but I was interested in adopting as well. There’s a lot of things to consider when it comes to adoption. As a woman of Asian descent living in America, there’s additional things I think about. What is the best for the child? What is the best fit? Does race matter? I had first looked into domestic adoption and spoke to an agency based in America’s Midwest. When I told the representative that my husband and I were both of Asian descent, he informed me that it would be difficult for us, as the Asian population is small and there are rarely Asian children to adopt. He also said that Hispanic children are a rarity, because they have large families and some relative typically steps up to take care of the child if the parents are unable to or have passed away. The representative encouraged me to consider adopting African American children, many of whom are in need of a loving, supportive home. My first thought was, yes, race doesn’t matter. A child is a child, a valuable human being, regardless of ethnicity, social constructs or labels. As a minority myself, I don’t discriminate. I just want to take care of someone, nurture, and guide my child, let the kid know that I’ll always be there for them and will help them through life. At the same time, I fully understand that pushing the colorblind narrative is outdated and actually harmful, especially when it comes to adoption. Even if I, as an adoptive parent, see past the child’s race, that doesn’t make race or ethnicity less important. As much as some say race shouldn’t matter, the reality is that race has always mattered. Whether I like it or not, race—with all the assumptions that go along with it—is the first thing that people see when they meet someone. People stereotype and make judgments simply based on surface appearances. I know that a child who is of a different race than their parents will have experiences that are unique and distinct from their family members. If I were transracially adopted, I would want my parents to hear me and see me and appreciate all aspects of who I am. I would want my concerns and feelings validated. I believe that transracial adoption puts the onus on adoptive parents to learn about their child’s unique ancestry and cultural heritage and to share that knowledge with their child. Adoptive parents need to build a network of cultural relationships and activities that develops their child’s self-identity, supports good mental health, and keeps their child safe. Interestingly, I also spoke to a woman from an adoption agency in California who asked me to describe my husband and me. I told her that we were both of Asian descent. We were both born in America and raised in white suburbs in families with a Chinese American cultural context. Neither of us can speak Chinese or any other Asian language, though. We only speak English. She asked me if we are considering adopting white children. I was kind of surprised and told her that I hadn’t thought of it. I explained that I live in a part of the country that is very homogenous, so the child would likely comfortably fit into the community; he or she wouldn’t stand out. Since there were so few minorities where we live, however, I wondered how the child would feel about having two Asian parents. I admitted to her that I’ve never seen nor met Asian parents with a white child. The woman seemed taken aback and told me with sharpness in her voice that I should be open to adopting a child regardless of skin color. She stated that they have had several families of non-white backgrounds, including Asians, who adopted Caucasian children. I explained that I used to live in California where it was racially diverse, open and progressive in general, so I understood where she’s coming from. I don’t live in California anymore though, and I wondered how a white child in the more conservative, traditional Midwest environment would feel growing up with parents who looked different from their friends’ and classmates’ parents. Would the child be teased and grow to resent us? Transracial adoption when the child’s ancestry is from a race that is the same as the dominant culture could be easier, but surely some work must be done to ensure the child adjusts and grows up feeling good about themselves and their family. Ultimately, I see that an open adoption—whenever possible (and usually the case with all domestic adoptions) —is always the best for the child. I have read stories that feed into the fear of things becoming complicated when birth parents get involved. But, I believe that the inherent desire and need to know where I came from and how I got here is often undeniable. I would rather have the opportunity to support that journey than not at all. Overall, I have personally seen more in the past few years than ever before, that life is incredibly short. Why not help make the experience, while we’re here, as positive, painless ,and encouraging as possible? Despite our multitude of differences, there is something that bonds all of us humans together. We all experience the same thing. Something beyond our control caused us to enter this world from somewhere none of us knows. We live our lives, and then eventually, inevitably, we transition back over to some other place—a place that I like to believe is peaceful, inclusive, wholly accepting, all understanding, and beautiful. Cover photo: Kevin Liang

Reposted from The Korea Times This is the 14th article of the series on Korea’s policies on adoption. The history of the politics of adoption permanently affects and fundamentally changes the lives of those it touches. The reason we should know the truth of this history is not for contemplating or passing judgment but for moving forward to restore the rights of adoptees. — E.D. In 2018, an adoptee recounted to me a meeting with a group of Korean government officials. They had met to discuss measures to support deported adoptees’ resettlement in Korea. When they sat at the table, the adoptee noticed that on the official’s agenda, deported adoptees were referred to as “people who failed their adoptions and returned to their birth country.” Upon seeing this, the adoptee became infuriated and questioned how these officials could essentially blame the adoptees for their unfortunate circumstances. He said, “It is not the adoptees who failed their adoptions; it is the Korean government that failed to protect its own children.” These words hung in the air and brought me back to the previous year. Between July and December of 2017, the Korean media had reported the deaths of two adoptees. This news affected me because I had personally known a third adoptee, who had taken his life that same year but whose story was never reported. Philip was born in Korea in the 1970s, but after living in the U.S. for 27 years, found himself deported to Korea in 2012. He had tried to survive here, but it’s not easy for a middle-aged man to suddenly find himself thrown into a “foreign” country. He was not just adjusting to Korea; he was starting an entirely new life in his 40s in a country where he did not know the language nor had the requisite educational background and skills to earn a living. Without adequate connections to his friends or family in either country, he struggled over the years, going in and out of mental health facilities until he eventually committed suicide in 2017. Like Philip, Jan was also born in Korea in the 1970s. Adopted to Norway in 1980 at the age of 8, he chose to return to Korea, settling in the city of Gimhae along the southern coast. He had been on a five-year journey to find his birth parents, which led him to a small orphanage in the city. This orphanage facility was mentioned in his adoption file and served as the only link to his origins. It historically functioned as a “feeding orphanage.” Like many of the child welfare institutions that existed throughout the country at the time, these places provided children to adoption agencies. Jan rented a small one-room apartment near his orphanage to continue his birth search. However, despite his attempts, he failed to find any new information. He grew depressed and spent his last few months mostly alone before the building staff found him. He had died from what doctors described as excessive alcohol intake. The third death of 2017 was Joe. He was born in the 1970s and adopted to the U.S. He grew up with a loving family and became an award-winning teacher. In the early 2010s, he returned to Korea to reunite with his birth family who’d been searching for him. However, despite this reconnection, he still could not overcome the unanswered and unresolved questions plaguing him and ultimately took his own life. Some have argued that focusing on such tragedies undermines the “love” of adoptive parents and harms the “dignity” of adopted people. But, can we divide inter-country adoption into such dichotomies? Can we say there is only darkness and light? No life is free from pain or suffering, so why must we judge an adoption as “successful” if it only seemingly lacks such experiences and feelings? So-called optimistic narratives seek to portray adoption as ethical and safe while downplaying the tragedies do a disservice by overly simplifying adoption experiences. Furthermore, dismissing cases of abuse and suicide as “exceptional” and “rare” ignores the system under which all adoptees were processed. It must be noted that four adoption agencies have monopolized transnational adoption in Korea and employed the same set of practices. In other words, rather than being atypical cases, the so-called “failed” adoptions were conducted under the same procedures as every other adoption. Over the years, a number of adoptees have shared their adoption records with me, so I’ve examined these issues from a variety of positions—as a professional, a scholar and a witness. I’ve seen numerous documents from immigration officials from different receiving countries from different periods and from different agencies. Despite such diversity, the records reveal a surprisingly similar pattern—a massive quantity of files approved in such a fashion that it seems as though bureaucratic machinery indiscriminately processed cases. There was no evidence that any public or private entity in either the sending or receiving countries conducted individual case assessments or reviews on Korean children to determine whether they were adoptable or should be placed in alternative care. Instead, a collection of Korean government bodies issued orphan-related documents, including the orphan hojuk, orphan certificate, and guardianship certificate (granted to the head of adoption agencies). Many, if not most, adoptees have questions about their origins and identities. While their individual experiences are unique, their cases remain connected in a sense. Regardless of the differences in their lives, they all began life under the same set of adoption procedures. It can also be said that even today, all of us in this country are connected under the same legal system and laws. Therefore, rather than turn away, we must confront the uncomfortable truth. We must avoid dividing people’s lives and experiences into darkness or light and success or failure. If we hope to find answers, then we must acknowledge and begin to understand the prejudices and discriminatory actions that, although they happened yesterday, constitute the problems of today. Click here to read the 15th article of this series, "The search for origins is also a search for dignity" by Ross Oke. Cover photo: gettyimagesbank

Reposted from The Korea Times This is the 13th article in an adoption series. Some adoptees have echoed the previous article’s question, “What is the real reason this country cannot protect its own children?” To elaborate on this inquiry requires that the series broach another question: Is this country incapable of offering such protection, or is it resisting efforts to do so and refusing to take responsibility? Shifting away from the individual experiences of adoptees and beginning to address the state’s accountability is an important step in moving forward to rectify the “right of origin” for adoptees. — E.D. If, as the dominant narrative claims, transnational adoption is about rescuing war orphans, then the surge in inter-country adoption in the 1960s unravels such assertions. So let us drop the pretext of war orphans as an impetus. What about “economic” or “social” orphans? Then we must ask how poor is poor enough to warrant casting children from their own country on a massive scale with such persistence. As this series explored earlier, the immigration laws of the receiving countries spurred the trend of adopting foreign babies by employing an array of weak regulations that facilitated inter-country adoptions. Concurrently, Korea (later followed by other sending countries) responded by initiating corresponding measures to move children abroad. The “pulling” effect from the receiving countries’ legislation, coupled with the favorable “pushing” effect from Korea’s laws and inter-country adoption system, explains the reason for the sharp increase in the graph. Moreover, relevant global statistics and evidence reveal that transnational adoption stemmed from deliberate policy decisions of political leaders rather than from the consequences of external factors. This phenomenon is evident in the development of the Korean transnational adoption program that originated in the aftermath of the Korean War (1950-53). Although the government barely functioned enough to perform even the most basic tasks, it still managed to institute a program that targeted mixed-race children to send abroad for adoption. It began by issuing a presidential emergency order to permit transnational adoption, then established a government affiliated agency specifically dedicated to fulfilling the aims of this order. Mixed-race children fathered by foreign soldiers of the allied forces were tracked down, and their families solicited to place the children for overseas adoption. Unlike what many may assume, the majority of these children were living with their families not residing in orphanages. From 1955 to 1966, the number of children sent away reached 5,000, which attests to the priority this order occupied on the country’s policy agenda. The period of 1961-1979 served as a particularly crucial period for the systemization and entrenchment of inter-country adoption in Korea. During these two decades, the government enacted a legal framework exclusive to such adoptions, instituted specialized agencies to facilitate and perform adoptions, and devised a revenue scheme. It was not coincidental that the government took these measures after Korea’s first military coup d’etat in 1961. Legislative measure In 1961, General Park Chung-hee led a successful coup and founded a provisional body called the Supreme Council for National Reconstruction, which he led as the chairman. The council wielded overarching power over the legislative, administrative and judicial bodies of Korea. While unconstitutional and autocratic, it enacted many of the fundamental laws that remain to this day. Until that point, most of the modern legal system remained underdeveloped and fragmented under Korea’s first government, which began in 1948. This council passed many basic laws without any parliamentary discussions or democratic procedures. The Orphan Adoption Special Procedure Act is a notable example. The Act derives neither from Korea’s traditional laws nor from any other country’s legislation. Instead, it was a product designed with primary economic aims. This intention is evident with the government mentioning that “sending orphans overseas is killing two birds with one stone since it brings 130 dollars per person [which was also the per capita income of that time] and saves welfare costs on the housing of orphans at the same time” (1965 National Assembly minutes). In other words, Korea’s inter-country adoption policy had a dual purpose—to simultaneously generate revenue while relieving the national budget of child welfare expenses. Infrastructure building With these aims in mind, the government introduced the necessary statutes and infrastructure to systematize the placement of children for overseas adoption. It authorized four agencies to carry out these tasks. Each of them signed deals with partner agencies in the receiving countries. This configuration set a clear division of labor with the agencies in the receiving countries overseeing duties related to prospective adoptive parents while the agencies in Korea managed those tasks related to adoptable babies. To ensure they had sufficient capacity, the Korean agencies secured control of a wide variety of childcare options, including orphanages, foster homes, and in-house facilities. Ironically, these arrangements would prove to be a major obstacle for the Korean government when it attempted to redirect its policy direction decades later. The provision of alternative forms of care for newborn babies has historically been concentrated under the control of the adoption agencies. Thus, the country never developed any substantial policies or programs to protect its own children by competent authorities. Consequently, the basic infrastructure of protecting and caring for babies remains in the hands of private bodies. Revenue scheme of private adoption agencies Though the adoption agencies proclaim themselves as child welfare organizations, the business of inter-country adoption is not connected to the public welfare system. Instead, it relies solely on the fees received from foreign adoptive parents. From the very beginning, this scheme was guaranteed by the laws and regulations on orphan adoption. To this day, it remains to be seen whether any competent authority of the Korean government has ever undertaken a comprehensive audit into the finances of the inter-country adoption business of any of the agencies. Essentially, the 1960s marks the dawn of the worldwide spread of global orphan adoption. During this early era, eleven countries (the U.S., France, Denmark, Sweden, Norway, the Netherlands, Belgium, Germany, Canada, Switzerland, and Italy) received nearly 60,000 Korean children. While the number of sending countries was less than 20, Korea constituted 50% to 70% of the total number of transnational adoptions. Returning to the original question posed in this article, what is the real reason for the current situation? The lack of capacity or the resistance to take responsibility? I would suggest both. These two factors reinforced each other as history developed, and as we shall see, this series will continue to examine other historical events to learn lessons and devise better solutions for the future. Cover photo: gettyimagesbank

The Korean Consulate sits on a busy roundabout in the Dupont Circle area of Washington, D.C. It is indistinguishable from the surrounding buildings except for the life-size statue of Phillip Jaisohn, the first Korean-born U.S. citizen, looking proudly into the distance. Inside the gold-colored doors, I step forward into 1980s Seoul, the fluorescent lights bouncing off the bland walls and the faces of five stern Korean women behind five glass-covered windows. Large blue signs in both English and Korean cling to the walls designating each one for some service that does not match what I need. There is no sign saying, “DNA Tests for Abandoned Babies Looking for Their Birth Family.” When I tell people I am adopted, the conversation often turns to my birth family. “Do you know your birth family? Have you searched? I saw something on the Today Show about these adopted twins reunited through a DNA test.” Asked with innocent curiosity, these questions feel voyeuristic, a yearning for proximity to a sensational story, a casualness to something so intimate. If I had infinite time and a bit more gumption, I might explain that a birth family search for a Korean adoptee is a daunting and mostly futile process. Adoptees, who search, regularly find the alarmingly scant paperwork in their files falsified, their names and birth dates fabricated, and the adoption agency social worker telling them that there is nothing more to be done. I might explain that DNA testing is expensive, requires giving up your anonymity to private companies, and those twins on the Today Show are the exception not the rule. I could explain that the options offered by Korea, fought for by the hard work of adoptees, involve making public pleas in newspapers, on YouTube, and even on the back of government health insurance mailings akin to those “Missing” notices on milk cartons in the 1980s. I imagine my picture lazily strewn on a table with a coffee mug stain on it, a grocery list scrawled in the margins, or looked at with a quick, “Aw, sad,” and then thrown into the trash bin. These options are desperate, unsettling, and for the majority of Korean adoptees, our only choice. It took thirty plus years for me to initiate my search. The desire roused by the adoption of my sons from Korea and galvanized by my pregnancy with my daughter, I contacted the American agency that handled my adoption and they contacted the Korean agency. I received an email with a few documents attached, all of which I had seen before in the green binder in my mom’s closet. As a child, when no one was looking, I would open the binder, hide under the powdery scent of my mother’s clothes, and read the same words over and over again. Birth mother: unknown. Birth father: unknown. Status: Foundling. Both adoption agencies said there was nothing more they could do. Over the next several years, in starts and stops, I took various DNA tests in hopes of connecting with someone from my biological family. With each test, hopes ran high and my imagination ran with them. I fantasized that my birth mother made her way to America settling somewhere on the East Coast, just hours away this whole time, waiting for me to come or that a sister adopted by another family in another town yearned for that elusive connection to Korea and found it in me. For a blissful few weeks as I waited, I lived in these reveries, only to be yanked out with each negative result. I berated myself for being hopeful, for jinxing the results, and each time I vowed never to test again. Of course, I always do. The most recent DNA test brings me to the Korean Consulate, surrounded by beige, trying to make eye contact with the woman behind window number three. “Hi,” I wave and smile, trying to hide the nerves that turn my stomach every time I speak with a person who looks like me. “I have an appointment at 3:00,” hoping she does not notice it is already 3:22. She does not wave back as she glances at the clock. “What for,” she asks without smiling. There were lots of answers I could give but somehow, even though she speaks English, I did not think these things would translate. I give her a paper with a certification stating that I am an abandoned child and entitled to a DNA test on the Korean government’s dime, another service fought for by my fellow adoptees. She skims the paper and looks back up at me for a second too long, and then picks up the phone. I look around as other Korean people navigate this world effortlessly, approaching the stern ladies with a bow that softens their faces. Would this have been me if I hadn’t been adopted? A short, slightly pudgy man in his 20s rushes in, a binder swinging in his hand reading “Adoptee DNA Tests.” I take a breath and follow him to a separate area. He efficiently explains how we got here, like a lawyer reciting the procedural history of a case, and I played the role of the defendant nodding along as if her future were not on the line. “Your DNA will be matched against the DNA of Korean families who declared their children missing. God willing, there will be a match. After today there is nothing else we can do for you. I will pray for you,” he says, pity in his eyes that infantilized me despite being at least a decade his senior. After the paperwork is completed, an older gentleman comes down with a box in hand. “Annyeonghaseyo,” he says to me. “Annyeonghaseyo,” I return and quickly follow it with, “How are you?”—the perfect defense to stop him from continuing a stream of Korean I cannot understand. “You don’t speak Korean?” he says more than asks. I quell my conditioned response to apologize for my inability to speak the language my face tells him I should speak, a habit I have had my whole life to allay the confusion of my existence to Americans and Koreans alike. “Can you write your name in Korean?” he says, like a teacher asking a kindergartner. “Yes,” I respond, a pupil eager to please, conjuring the image of the Korean name given to me by the adoption agency and trying to copy the letters. And, just like a kindergartner, I write one of the letters backwards. “Open your mouth, please.” He proceeds to take a flat circle shaped cotton swab that looks like a lollipop and rubs it on the insides of my cheeks and under my tongue. My face flushes as this older Korean man inspects the inside of my mouth and swabs my Koreanness onto that tiny cotton lollipop. My chest hardens, my fists tightens, and tears blur my vision as I submit to this act of desperation and violation. When he mercifully finishes, he wipes the swab on two circles on a cardboard card with my handwritten Korean name, places it in a sterile bag, and walks away, back to his paperwork and coffee. Whatever happens after that moment is a blur. I rush out of that room, that office, that building, pushing down the rock in my chest and holding my eyes open to evaporate my tears. I run to my car and as soon as the door shuts, I let it all go. The embarrassment, the pain, the anger, the loss, and the abysmal yearning folded in the depths of me emerged in a piercing scream. I imagine my DNA, the microscopic proteins that live in my cells and make me who I am, flying back across the ocean I flew over decades ago, in an airplane marked along with other diplomatic mail to a government that sent me away, a country I am not a citizen of, and who, despite its status as a world economic leader, still cannot properly support its own families. Groveling to the government that embedded the trauma in me, in my two sons, and now in my new baby is its own kind of re-traumatization. Amidst the tumult in my heart, sitting in my car on a side street crying alone, a streak of light emerges. I imagine my birth family waiting in Korea, hoping their child will send a part of herself back home before it’s too late. The fantastical hope of another DNA test. I wait. Born in Busan, South Korea, Cynthia was adopted to Washington, D.C. by her Jewish adoptive family as an #importedAsian. As a recovering perfectionist and overachiever, she left her legal career in favor of caring for her two sons, both adopted from Korea, and her biological daughter. Cynthia looks forward to exploring issues around parenting, adoption as an adoptee, and the overall adoptee experience. You can find more of her writing at her website.

Warning: possible spoilers ahead! Available in cinemas on March 25th On behalf of The Universal Asian, I had the privilege of attending an early screening of A24’s latest offering: "Everything, Everywhere All at Once," written and directed by the dynamic duo known as Daniels (Daniel Kwan and Daniel Scheinert). Starring Michelle Yeoh, Ke Huy Quan, James Hong, Stephanie Hsu, and Jamie Lee Curtis, this frenetic film is nothing short of brilliant insanity. Previously known for "Swiss Army Man," Daniels have crafted a film that truly manages to be everything, everywhere all at once. It encompasses every genre, every tone imaginable all while offering a kaleidoscopic commentary on family, intergenerational trauma, and existential ennui. Michelle Yeoh is inimitable as Evelyn Wang, an exhaustedly numb Chinese immigrant everywoman, as she tries to juggle a tax audit, her emotional distance from her daughter (Joy [Stephanie Hsu]), her father’s perpetual disapproval of her life choices, and a mission to save the multiverse—unceremoniously dropped into her lap by an alternate version of her mild-mannered husband, Waymond (Ke Huy Quan). As she pinballs between versions of herself, she slowly pieces together a realization that family, simultaneously enduring and dysfunctional, is the answer to everything and nothing at all. “She is just absolutely incredible in this role,” says Ke Huy Quan. “Michelle Yeoh, the person, the actress, is very glamorous and beautiful, and for her to so willingly shed all of that and get into this humble, middle-aged woman who is struggling to keep a family together and to finish her taxes at the same time, to see her deliver that performance is amazing to watch, and I’m just in total awe of her talent.” “[This movie] shows the depth of her talent,” James Hong, esteemed veteran actor, adds. He plays Evelyn’s austere father with surgical precision, able to cut into Evelyn’s most vulnerable parts with a single word, in a way only family is capable of. “She’s not just a kung fu artist, as they cast her in a lot of other movies. She is truly a brilliant actress. I think people will see the different dimensions of her.” In my conversation with Ke Huy Quan, it is surprising to learn that this is his first major role in decades. The resurgent actor delivers his performance with a sweet sincerity, completely natural and believable. “I don’t think I could have done this character had it been given to me 10-15 years ago,” Ke admits. “I was really nervous when the role was offered to me because I hadn’t done it for so long. So, I hired myself an acting coach, a dialogue coach, [and] a voice coach so the [versions] of Waymond could sound slightly different, and most importantly—and more interestingly too—a body movement coach. I wanted the audience to be able to tell which Waymond you’re looking at just by the way he stands and the way he walks and the way he moves.” His hard work most assuredly paid off, giving us three solid facets of Waymond Wang. In a glittering world of entertainment industry success for Evelyn—which takes inspiration from Michelle Yeoh’s own phenomenal career—and corporate success for Waymond, Ke Huy Quan channels the slick vulnerability of a heartbroken ex-lover against a backdrop awash with a sumptuously saturated color palette straight out of Wong Kar-wai’s "In the Mood for Love." In another universe, Alpha-Waymond is a fighting force to be reckoned with in a jaw-dropping fanny pack sequence. But, my favorite version of Waymond is the one in “our” universe, an unfailingly kind, empathetic, nurturing soul with an endearingly meek physicality. He is the backbone of the film, a steady reminder that sometimes strength is not found in battle, but in surrender. It is Waymond who breaks the cycle of trauma in his family with a desperate plea for peace. “I was afraid that I wouldn’t be able to go there emotionally when we did that scene,” Ke Huy Quan reflects. “It was in front of so many people. [But] once I stepped in front of the camera and I started speaking—the first word out of my mouth—it began to hit me. What this character means and what it represents. I’m glad I was able to go there, to give the performance the Daniels wanted. I’ll let the audience decide, and hopefully I don’t disappoint them.” “I wanted it more than anything on the planet when this was presented to me,” he continues, recalling the audition process. “And I’m so grateful to [Daniels] for offering me the opportunity to play this kind human being that believes in empathy and love and respect for each other. And to do this with Michelle and James Hong and Stephanie, and of course the great Jamie Lee Curtis, was just a dream come true.” “The two Daniel guys, they’re crazy,” James Hong says with a chuckle. “In [writing] this movie and directing it. Of course, the producers did a very good job and A24 took a chance in distributing it. I hope it’s a success. I sit here and I wonder, will the people like it? Will they understand what this movie is about?” Amidst the chaos that is "Everything, Everywhere," it’s difficult to hold onto the idea of a single narrative, theme, or message. To me, that is exactly the point. This film is a massively ambitious attempt at a theory of everything, and not in the sense of theoretical or quantum physics. The film swings wildly between existentialism and nihilism. It proposes a meaningless universe in conjunction with a directive to find meaning as a mode of survival. In other words, the world is what you make of it, nothing or everything. Perforated throughout the film is a recurring discussion of the complexity of family and the movement of trauma down and alongside the generations. “There’s a great valley of difference between the two generations,” James Hong acknowledges. The Minneapolis-born actor is a son of immigrants himself. “The old generation from a foreign land, between that group and the one that is born here into rock and roll and jazz and all that modern stuff.” It is this valley that’s slowly and steadily crossed in "Everything, Everywhere." There is a tangible divide between Evelyn and her father, which leads to a jagged edge between Evelyn and her daughter. The friction between the three characters sends sparks flying in a particularly tense scene when Evelyn balks at her father’s seemingly cruel order to kill her daughter to keep them all safe. And, in the background of the multiversal madness, Evelyn struggles to balance her support of her daughter’s sexuality and her fear of her father’s reaction to it. There is something precious in the imperfection of Evelyn’s character, a monument to the somewhat hypocritical nuance of humanity. Cover photo: Courtesy of A24

Ever Wong has always had different ideas for her future than her parents. Her parents immigrated from China so she could have the best opportunities. Her father, a doctor in China, now works as an orderly because the USA would not honor his medical license. Ever now feels the pressure to pursue medicine and have the life her father sacrificed. Her real dream is to pursue dance, a field her parents would never approve of. To get Ever more connected with her roots and become the Chinese daughter they always wanted, Ever’s parents send her to a Chinese camp in Taiwan. Unbeknownst to her, this camp is unofficially known as Loveboat. Teens are searching for sizzling summer romances and at night, all the rules are broken as they sneak out of camp to explore the night markets and clubs. Will Ever return to America the way her parents envisioned? "Loveboat, Taipei" was a fun coming-of-age story that was a creative and original story. All of the characters had intriguing backstories. I appreciated that while, at times, they did act like typical 18-year-olds away from home for the first time, they also had depths that explained their choices, and we could see the family pressures they were all facing. The story moved along fairly quickly, but it did feel a bit repetitive at times. There was a lot of back-and-forth with relationships and the drama of summer camp friendships. Despite this, "Loveboat, Taipei" was paced nicely and once it really picked up around the 60 percent mark, I couldn’t put it down. There was good plot and character development, and the resolution was satisfying. Ever had substantial character development that really made this a solid coming-of-age story. She went from a girl at summer camp just wanting to have fun to a young woman with a passion she was willing to fight for. "Loveboat, Taipei" was a great debut novel that will soon be a movie! And, if you need more excitement and want to follow different characters, the sequel, "Loveboat Reunion," was recently published in January 2022.

Reposted from The Korea Times This is the 12th article in an adoption series. So far, this series has covered the right to origin of adoptees from Korea. The second phase of the series will discuss the historical development of the politics surrounding inter-country adoption with an aim to move beyond those sad stories of the past often depicted in the media. Instead, the next set of articles will illustrate how the system of inter-country adoption that led to such stories remains to this day and continues to govern the politics of adoption. — E.D. History is the sum of the choices that we, as a nation, have made thus far. This graph shows the number of children who were born in this country but left shortly after birth (more than 90 percent were under the age of 1) to become the sons and daughters of families in Western countries. Each dot on the graph represents human beings cast out of the protection of this nation. While more than 80 countries throughout the world have sent their children overseas for adoption, Korea’s experience remains noteworthy. It began as the birthplace of inter-country “orphan” adoption in 1953 and has persisted in engaging in the practice. This nearly seven decade–long history of exporting children is not found anywhere else in the world and has led people both inside and outside the country to ask, “Why can’t this country stop this practice despite its economic achievements and progress?” The most frequent reply is that Korean inter-country adoption is a product of the Korean War and the stigmatization of unwed mothers. However, when we look at the graph, the period in which Korea sent the most children abroad was not in the aftermath of the Korean War, but during a time of prosperity when it recorded two-digit annual economic growth. This leaves the excuse of discrimination against unwed mothers, which allows Korea to hide behind vulnerable women while simultaneously using society’s disapproval as justification for sending children away. Instead of confronting such intolerance, blame continues to be cast on these mothers as the “shame of the family and the nation.” Taking a closer look at the graph, the small boxes containing different years capture major regime changes throughout Korean history, while the shaded areas from 1960 to 1993 depict periods of military authoritarian regimes. The unshaded section after democratization in 1993 represents the current system in which presidents serve five-year terms. A noticeable pattern in the shaded areas is that the curve dramatically shifts while making smaller incremental changes in the '90s. One may surmise from this trend that the graph reveals that the dictators were the villains of adoption politics; however, the truth is that every leader has participated in the systematic movement of children for inter-country adoption by making choices based on their interests. In other words, each turn of the curve represents a political decision based on each regimes’ economic interests rather than a determination of special protection for children. Research by British scholar Peter Selman helps provide an objective understanding. His work has demonstrated that in 2003, the global number of inter-country adoptions peaked. At the time, Korea ranked fourth in the top five states of origin, alongside China, Russia and Guatemala, with an adoption rate of 7.9 per 10,000 head of population under the age of 5. Additionally, when examining Korea’s per 1,000 live births, we can find that babies at a rate of 4.1 were sent out of the country. While these figures may not have drawn much attention within Korea, the country’s practices have been conspicuous enough to attract international scholars’ scrutiny. Turning our attention to the U.S. State Department’s annual inter-country adoption statistics, we can see that in 2016, families in the U.S. adopted 5,372 children from 91 countries. Among those countries, only 12 sent more than 100 children to the U.S. Six of these countries have ratified the Hague Inter-country Adoption Convention, which provides a minimum set of international standards for the safety and protection of children. Of the six that haven’t ratified it, Korea ranked third in terms of inter-country adoptions, having sent 260 children to the U.S. that year. Scholars tend to attribute poverty and high birthrates as prominent factors in whether a country chooses to practice inter-country adoption. However, closer examination of the actual data does not support such claims. Major sending countries are not as poor as often portrayed. South Korea is perhaps the most evident example with a GDP that rivals some of the European receiving countries. In terms of birthrate, the rates of the top five sending countries do not exceed those of the top five receiving countries. In particular, Korea continues to record the world’s lowest birthrate. Today, matters surrounding inter-country adoption extend beyond the practices of sending children abroad and underpin core issues around the safety and protection of all children born in this country. Moreover, the threats and vulnerability that force families to give up their children to private agencies also harm the soil of society in which we raise our children. Therefore, it is time to begin asking the right question: What is the real reason this country cannot protect its own children? The heart of the answer lies within our own history, and we must confront this to reconcile our present and future for the coming generations. Accordingly, this series aims to explore the past with adoptees and readers. The former may find the truth in this journey to explore their origins, while the latter may gain a better understanding of this global phenomenon of inter-country adoption that spans across 100 countries. Click here to read the tenth article of this series, "I’ve been searching since I was lost" by Christine Pennell. Cover photo: gettyimagesbank