The Universal Asian had the privilege of speaking with Rick Kiesewetter, a Japanese American adoptee now living and working in the U.K. as a stand-up comic and actor. You can connect with Rick on Instagram and follow him on Twitter or checkout his Facebook. Rick Kiesewetter was born in Okayama, Japan as Tokihiko Kawate and adopted when he was 3 in 1967 by a U.S. military family stationed there. At the age of 5, the family moved back stateside, where Kiesewetter eventually grew up in a small town near New Jersey during the '70s. He comments on how the times were different, “I was one of few Asians, if not the only Asian. This was at a time during the '70s where it’s not like it is now… There’s been a lot of progress in role models, in entertainment, in films, in politics and in sports, generally.” Still, as it was a period when international and interracial adoptions were not common, Kiesewetter reflects that with a German-American father from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania and an Italian-American mother from Columbus, Ohio, his family just accepted him as one of their own and treated him without any thought toward the issue of race at home. He emphasizes the difference in the times where there weren’t books, social media, or accessible information on issues or concerns that might arise from raising a child from another country and culture. In high school, he recalls trying to fit into a predominantly white school with around 4,000 kids. He recalls learning about Pearl Harbor and having to face the halls of kids when they studied about the Japanese surprise attack, “there was no woke sort of element of saying Japanese people died too and war is horrible.” Kiesewetter also knew that he wasn’t like other Asian American kids who had their culture at home. However, he points out that “anybody who is, whether you’re adopted interracially or not, young like that, you’re trying to figure out who you are and where you fit in society and how you can contribute.” So, he just felt that he was a normal kid from New Jersey. After high school, at the age of 17, Kiesewetter didn’t know what to do, so his options were to join the military or go to university. Following his father’s footsteps, he decided to join the army. Being stationed in Germany, he was able to meet a number of people who were highly trained or well-educated in various areas like linguistics or special operations. After serving his time and saving up money, he completed his four years and used the GI Bill to eventually attend Rutgers University. Kiesewetter says he decided to do political science because of his interest in history and stories. He says he might have been influenced by his learning about Pearl Harbor in high school and the national interests of countries to do the things they do. Upon finishing his degree, Kiesewetter decided to move to the U.K. thanks to meeting an English woman during his time in Germany and finding an interest in graphic design. “When I discovered graphic design, I thought, ‘oh my gosh, this is great because it draws together both the things that I like—telling stories and drawing,’ which has a bit of practicality and also creativity.” So, he attended the University of Leicester, fell in love, and got married. When comparing his time in Leicester doing a number of jobs with studying and growing up in New Jersey, Kiesewetter says that the U.S. is a bit more advanced or mature, in the sense of being more developed around issues of racism because the U.S. has been having this kind of discussion much longer. Still, through his experiences, he found that he would try to find ways to extend details so that people would find them funny and relate to him on a human-to-human connection rather than based on his race or identity. In 2015, after spending about 25 years in a creative agency, Kiesewetter moved into the stand-up comic scene full-time with the aim of really wanting to show that he, like all Asians, are human beings and there is more than one way to be Asian. Even though he knows different Asian groups, he still finds that the majority of their stories aren’t like his, so he tries to focus on sharing the feelings and sentiments of all types of Asians, whether adoptees or not. It’s not a matter of talking about race per se, but rather to share that he has these experiences that can be humorous. In 2013, he created an event titled “Yellow Christmas” highlighting emerging U.K. Asian comedians. “I thought about it being a bit like Monet’s studies of haystacks, there’s hundreds of studies of the haystack. [Instead,] you could concentrate on the light of each of them, not on the details of the subject itself. So, when you have a lineup who are all Asians, you think, oh, my God, we’re all different because we all have different experiences. It’s so beautiful to see. I’ve been into these shows where I’ve had Asians come up to me, and one young Asian man, in particular, said, ‘thank you very much. I’ve never seen anything like that. Just somebody standing up and speaking and being intelligent.’ I’m telling you, there’s so much value in that. There’s value in people knowing that there are other people out there like them.” The event continues to draw attention to Asians from all walks of life, but the main message is that we are all human beings. About ten years ago, Kiesewetter started to search for his biological mother. Though he says it was mostly for his kids, due to needing information for their birth certificates in France, he admits to his own curiosity in finding his origins. Upon looking up his family registry at the Japanese embassy, he was able to get in touch with a man who married his birth mother, Kasue Kawate, but hadn’t known anything about him. Kawate’s last husband, Mr. Matsushita, sent him photos of his birth mother which gave him a sense of connection in seeing someone who looked like him. It also resonated with Kieswetter that his children now have an understanding of where his family history is and he feels a sense of responsibility, as an adoptee, to be able to get as much information as he can for his own family. While his birth mother has passed away ending any ability to connect with her, Kiesewetter admits that he may decide to connect with other relatives later, or if his own kids decide they want to explore that side of their heritage. While he feels there’s a lot more work to do because there’s still very few Asians who are in entertainment that are just people who are talking and telling their stories, he’s happy there is a lot more education available now on parenting, interracial/intercultural adoption, birth family searches, etc. Ultimately, though, Kiesewetter focuses on the fact that ”when you appreciate the strength that you can find from whatever people are going through, you can find that a lot of people are stronger than they think. So, when you’re undergoing challenging times, it’s a storm—and like all storms, it will pass.”

On March 28, 1942, Minoru Yasui violated a curfew imposed on Japanese Americans, with Yasui intending to use the arrest as part of a test case to challenge the constitutionality of the curfew laws, which ultimately led to Executive Order 9066. Minoru “Min” Yasui was born in Hood River, Oregon in the middle of World War I. His parents were issei, first-generation Japanese, who emigrated to the U.S. Masuo Yasui, Min’s father, came to this country in 1902. The elder Yasui struggled and educated himself, eventually opening a store in Hood River. Min’s parents were married in 1912. His father was one of the few Japanese who could not only speak English, but also was able to read and write. As such, he served as a de facto civic leader, reviewing all manner of documents for people in the Japanese community. Min and his siblings were all nissei, the first children born in this country. They grew up in a warm home that was always full of ideas. Min graduated from the University of Oregon with a law degree, and took a job in Chicago, working for the Japanese Consulate. At the beginning of WWII, Min took leave and returned to Oregon where he opened a small practice in Portland. After the bombing of Pearl Harbor, the Japanese American community was plunged into an atmosphere of fear, recrimination, and confusion. The leaders of the Japanese communities were targeted and isolated in prisons and camps, and virulent misinformation campaigns targeted organizational structures the Japanese community had built over a few generations in the U.S. There was great discord in the Japanese community in the Pacific Northwest. Many felt Japanese Americans should comply with the legislative humiliations that racially targeted their families. On February 19, 1942, President Roosevelt signed Executive Order 9066. This order paved the way for the creation of internment camps. Min’s small act of civil disobedience occurred on March 28, 1942; the offense: walking around downtown after 11 p.m., or violation of a curfew that institutionalized a form of discrimination based on ethnicity. The arrest was used as part of a test case to challenge the constitutionality of the curfew laws imposed, which ultimately led to Executive Order 9066. In 2015, I participated in a reading of "Citizen Min," by Holly Yasui. The reading was part of a moderated panel that explored the role of social activists in our historical narratives. In 2016, this reading toured 17 cities in New Mexico, Oregon, and Washington. The play is a biographical dramatization of Minoru Yasui during the 1940s. It allows storytellers to educate audiences about an important civil rights leader and offers his story as a thread in the story of life in the U.S. I didn’t grow up learning about Minoru Yasui or Lt. Susan Ahn Cuddy, who was a Korean American gunnery officer during WWII; or Hazel Ying Lee, who was a Chinese American WASP pilot during WWII. Fred Koramatsu, Gordon Hirabayashi, Yuri Kochiyama, Vincent Chin, Soh Jaipil, and others are not figures in the American historical narrative. AAPI civil rights leaders were not part of a cultural heritage easily accessible when I was a child. I had an understanding of the role Martin Luther King Jr. played in the Civil Rights Movement of the 1960s. I knew of Rosa Parks and Malcolm X, had an awareness of Thurgood Marshall and Booker T. Washington. But, even Caesar Chavez and Harvey Milk were distant and vague ideas. Movers and shapers who were of non-white, non-European descent were few and far between. Media representations matter. Experiencing stories that reflect how we live gives us a vision of what our communities can look like and ultimately, who we are and who can be. We need to see people from all cultures and subcultures and ethnicities and nationalities represented in magazines and books and in film and television and plays and music and art and advertising and history books; when we hide the accomplishments and battles and failures of the people who came before us we disrespect the real work of real people finding ways to live together. I want to know Yurok stories and Hopi legends. I want to hear about Chinese American immigrants building the railroads, and to understand how our economic and drug war policies forced waves of families into displacement, causing generations to search and struggle for a chance to escape poverty and violence. These are all American stories. This is a time when we need representations of Americans of all shapes and sizes standing up and offering their truths. We must strive to understand the totality of the voices that raise families and build communities; we need to reject an ahistorical, linear narrative and embrace the turbulent and rich complexity that is human history on this continent. Learn more here. Heath Hyun Houghton (he/him) is a Korean American adoptee who grew up in rural Michigan and is currently based in Portland, OR. He is an actor, writer, and director. He holds an MFA in Creative Writing with a focus in playwriting from Goddard College and a B.A. in Theatre with a focus in performance from Humboldt State University. He also studied Korean dance and performance styles in Jinju, South Korea with USD Modern Dance. To read more about Heath, click on his bio in the Contributors’ tab.

Reposted from The Korea Times This article is the ninth 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. The scale and persistence with which Korea has historically exported its children remain unmatched by any other country in the world to this day. Over nearly seven decades, this country has sent away over 200,000 children. One major means that enabled such a large-scale phenomenon was the use of “proxy adoption.” “Proxy” is a general term that refers to the authority a person can grant to another party to execute legal activities on his or her behalf. While such a delegation of power serves a valuable function, its use should not be so limitless that it extends to the adoption of children. Instead, adoption must constitute careful legal processes that establish ties between the adoptive parents and the child, while protecting the best interests of that child. However, proxy adoptions have historically undermined such interests and violated children’s rights. When transnational adoption first emerged after World War II, American military personnel began returning to the U.S. with war orphans they had adopted while stationed in Europe. To leave with the child, the prospective adoptive parent first filed for and completed the adoption according to the court and legislation of that child’s country. Once in the U.S., the parents then re-adopted the child according to the relevant state court. As the U.S. military withdrew from Europe, this movement of European children to the U.S. decreased. The second wave of child migration emerged after the Korean War in 1953. At that time, Harry Holt devised a novel means of quickly transferring Korean children to American families. He referred to this method as “proxy adoption,” and argued that Americans willing to accept Korean orphans lacked the time and resources to visit Korea for adoption. Therefore, he acted as their proxy to bring those children to the U.S. U.S. legislation in the 1950s, specifically the Refugee Relief Act, temporarily granted the immigration of Korean War (1950-53) orphans via proxy adoption. While representing an unprecedented measure to facilitate adoption for U.S. citizens, it also created a serious loophole that threatened the safety of children. This danger did not escape the attention of U.S. social welfare professionals, who criticized Holt’s adoption practices as unprofessional and reckless. With the removal of the term “proxy adoption” from U.S. law, many scholars assumed that the practice had ceased. On the contrary, proxy adoptions were embedded and further reinforced by Korean law. Rather than serving as a temporary emergency measure to rescue war orphans, this practice became a permanent and recognized means of transferring Korean children overseas for adoption. In 1961, Korea enacted a new law to establish a specialized procedure for orphan adoption. One of the provisions provided that foreign nationals who sought to adopt Korean orphans could employ an agency to act as a representative for the adoption procedure in Korea. Since South Korean law did not prescribe any judicial or public procedure for child adoption, the first time foreign national adoptive parents met their child was at the local airport in the receiving country. The proxy adoptions performed by specialized agencies, which had been contracted out in Korea and in the receiving countries, benefitted both the adoptive parents abroad and the agencies. This arrangement allowed adoptive parents to avoid lengthy trips to Korea while dealing with only a few intermediaries that could handle all aspects of the adoption. These agencies did everything from locating a baby for adoption to handling the emigration and immigration procedures of both countries, to dealing with state court processes. As transnational adoption remained outside of Korea’s public child welfare system and operated as a private business, agencies wielded immense control, which enabled them to process such a large number of children for adoption. In the case of adoptions to the United States, the practice of proxy adoptions connects directly with the IR-4 visa of U.S. immigration law. Since a proxy adoption does not require adoptive parents to visit the state of origin, the child crosses national borders without having established family ties with the adoptive parents. The IR-4 visa stops short of granting citizenship and only guarantees the child’s entry into the U.S., his or her custody by the prospective adoptive parents, and permanent resident status. In other words, the IR-4 visa process means that the actual adoption procedure begins after the child arrives in the U.S. Once the child has become a member of the American family by the relevant state court’s decree, then that child may proceed to the naturalization process for U.S. citizenship. Whether these procedures are in actuality completed has relied entirely on the ‘goodwill’ of adoptive parents, rather than on any duty imposed by a public authority. Until 2012, nearly all Korean children were adopted to the U.S. through the IR-4 visa program, and thus, the acquisition of citizenship for more than 18,000 adoptees cannot be verified. While this situation does not mean they all lack citizenship, it does represent the vulnerability that adoptees have been exposed to through unethical practices. Adoptees’ vulnerability is evident in the cases of adoptees deported from the U.S. While some of them had their adoptions finalized, and for whatever reasons, never acquired nationality, others never had their adoption completed, let alone gained citizenship. The 2000 Child Citizenship Act (CCA) in the U.S. has been touted as a solution that grants automatic citizenship to transnationally adopted Americans. However, it does not apply to those who were over the age of 18 on Feb. 27, 2001, and consequently, falls short of helping those adopted during the ’70s and early ’80s, which accounts for the majority of Korean adoptees. The CCA also stipulates that family ties between the parents and the child must be established before the child enters the U.S. Before the introduction of court adoption orders in Korea in 2012, satisfying this requirement hadn’t been possible for Korean children, which is why Korean children received the IR-4 visa. To remedy the age limit of the CCA, a new bill, the Adoption Citizenship Act (ACA), is being pursued in the U.S. Congress. However, even if the ACA can amend any loopholes related to age limits, the inherent flaw and legacy of the IR-4 visa program remain unresolved. Click here to read the eighth article of this series, "The truth about our ‘abandonment’ and reclaiming our Korean identity" by Kara Bos. Cover photo: gettyimagesbank

The Universal Asian got to know Danny Cho, an engaging stand-up comic currently based in Korea. See his TEDx Talk here! You can also find him on Instagram. Tell us about your background. I was born and raised in Los Angeles, California. I grew up in a predominantly Latino neighborhood, where I was the only Asian family there. So, up until the end of middle school, I was part of the minority. Then in high school—my parents basically said, you need to go to a better high school because you’re not going to have a better future if you go to a high school in this area—so I went to a high school in the suburbs of South Pasadena. I went on to UCLA, and graduated with an international economics major and an accounting minor. So, that’s kind of my educational background. When I was a kid, there was this comedy series called "Deaf Comedy Jam." It was on HBO, and the kids would illegally record it and share the tapes around. Back then, "Deaf Comedy Jam" was a huge thing. A lot of stars broke out of there, like Chris Tucker, Dave Chappelle, Bernie Mac. It was all the Black comics, actually. I didn’t even know this was a thing. Like, people do this for a living. People make money doing this. I think for me, growing up in East L.A., there was a juxtaposition of being the only Asian kid in a predominantly Latino neighborhood. I learned the Pledge of Allegiance in Spanish, which doesn’t make sense, but they taught it. During recess, kids would do “Yo’ Mama” jokes, and we would basically just trash each other’s mothers. I think that was kind of the gym for me in terms of learning how to be funny or mean, or both, really. How did you get into stand-up comedy? Basically, the summer between high school and college, my friends dared me to do stand-up comedy. Even after I graduated and got a job at a consulting firm, I was doing stand-up part-time. I would leave the office, go to the comedy club, tell jokes, then come back to the office and finish work. I did that for three years. Then I decided—well, not just me—there were a handful of people who convinced me to quit my job to pursue stand-up comedy full-time. Number one was a comedian named Bobby Lee. Bobby Lee goes, “Hey, I need someone fat and weird looking on set tomorrow.” So instead of getting angry, I said, “What time do you need me there, buddy?” So, I get on set, and in between takes, he’s like, “Hey, man, do you have an agent?” He goes, “There’s two types of people that get famous on TV. Really good looking people and fucking mutants. And you, my friend, look like a mutant. You’re weird looking and you look like a human thumb.” On the spot, he calls an agent. He goes, “Hey, there’s this kid. He’s hilarious. He looks weird, he’s perfect.” And, the next day, I go to the agent’s office. No headshot, no resume, nothing. They signed me right on the spot. I quit my stable, high-paying salary job to become a person who tells dirty jokes. But, the high you get from performing in front of a live audience, them giving you that energy, you’re chasing that high. You know what I mean? It’s like a high that you’re going to continue to chase. I feel like I’m fully addicted to that feeling. How would you describe your sense of humor? I’m an asshole. I’m a jerk on stage, really. You know what I mean? I’m pretty filthy on stage. I’m pretty blue. So that’s also culturally shocking to be like, why is he talking about that on stage? In English, I’m not that dirty anymore, but in Korean, I just do it just to show it’s possible that there is this type of stand-up too. In the beginning, there’s going to be a lot of pushback because people are not familiar with it. But, the idea of stand-up doesn’t always have to be political. It doesn’t always have to be smart. It doesn’t always have to be dirty. There’s a variety of styles and genres of stand-up. So, it’s just me wanting to show people that it can work. And, it’s been working so far. How do you deal with tough crowds? In the beginning, if there were a hundred people in the audience, I wanted all of them to like me. But, as you do it for a long time, you realize that’s impossible. That’s just life. All I can do is be myself if I bomb. I’m not going to try too hard to not bomb. There’s a comedian, Patrice O’Neal who died many years ago, and one of his philosophies was, “I’m not going to die alone. We’re all going to die together in this experience.” He makes bombing worse so that everyone feels uncomfortable. There’s something admirable about that philosophy. I try to do that now and again, especially in Korea, where dirty jokes aren’t always everybody’s cup of tea. Once I venture into that, I can see people pull back, and sometimes I’ll attack them. I’ll be like, how do you think you got here? Like, do you think some magical bird dropped you off at your parents’ doorstep? The way you got here is because of what I’m talking about right now. Personally, stand-up is kind of like omakase. You eat what I make. If you can’t eat it, don’t eat it. How does Korean comedy differ from American comedy? In Korea, the concept of comedy, it’s usually more slapstick-y. I wouldn’t even say SNL, I would say more high school talent show improv. I personally don’t think it’s any good. I think most consumers in Korea go, oh, that’s what comedy is. There’s a lot of props, a lot of makeup, costume changes, things like that. I think that’s the number one thing people probably don’t get [about American comedy]. They’re like, “Wait, so let me get this straight. All you have is a microphone. You’re not going to get dressed, you’re not going to put on makeup or a funny wig. You’re just going to talk?” I’m like, “yeah, that’s what that is.” But, I think because a lot of people watch Netflix here and stuff like that, the sound of comedy exists, and they know that it exists. Even on YouTube, there’s a lot of people that subtitle stand-up comedy bits. What advice do you have for up-and-coming comedians? Don’t do it. It’s hard. It just sucks. I would not consider myself an actor by any means, but I’ve been in a bunch of commercials, I’ve been in movies and sitcoms and whatever, and it’s a rough business. My only advice is: you better really want it, because if not, all the hardships are going to really kick your ass. It’s going to kick your ass if you don’t love it—and even if you love it. People will say, for example, “Oh, my god, that’s like one day of work and you make $30,000. That’s amazing.” That’s not including how many auditions you failed, you know what I mean? That’s not including all that other stuff, the callbacks, all that stuff. So to me, the entertainment business as a whole is filled with so many talented people, you know? Nothing in this world is a meritocracy. Just because you think you’re good doesn’t mean that you deserve it. That’s something that I had to learn the hard way. That’s what I would tell aspiring entertainers:  you’re going to get your ass kicked a lot in this business. Also, I would say be you. You know what I mean? Draw some lines, stuff that you wouldn’t do. Don’t do it just to get famous. Don’t do any of this just to get famous. Do it because you love it. It has to be love. If it’s just to get famous, then get the fuck out of here. What would you tell your younger self? Don’t drink like that. I would tell my younger self: it’s kind of like being at the DMV or a deli line that’s fucked up. Your number is eventually going to be called. It’s just a matter of when. It’s a matter of "are you willing to stick it out till your number is called?" There’s no order. It’s like 1 and then 350, and so you go, wait what about me? I’m 10. I thought I was nine people back. But no. There are people who get their break early and there are people, like Morgan Freeman, who didn’t get his big break until he was in his late 50s. I would say "don’t give up" or those types of things. And, yes, I believe it. If you love it, stick with it. Oh, one more thing. Younger self—read some more books.

“Writing Your Truth.” It’s a phrase I hear a lot nowadays. It implies there’s a hidden story, a secret one that no one knows. Maybe your voice has been stifled by more powerful voices in the room. Maybe a writer has been scared to share their truth for others to hear. Writing is such a powerful tool that can expose the author and invite unrequested judgment and criticism. And, what if you do share your truth and it involves someone else? Is there a line where exposing my truth exposes their truth and they weren’t ready for that exposure? Do I owe that person their right to privacy? To what point do we censor ourselves to protect someone we love, yet still share our truth and create our authentic story? There’re lots of stories I can share and not worry about repercussions. I can share the story about how in first grade Monroe Nugent threw me down on the playground and punched my gut until the wind was knocked out of me, how I cried and told the playground supervisor but she ignored me. And then, how I saw his name in the arraignment section of the newspaper 13 years later. There’s not a lot of risk in that story. My sharing is pretty vanilla and clearly the other party can’t complain about my sharing since it was in the newspaper for all to see. I can share the story of how my grandmother got the passenger window of her Chevette shot out when she was driving at 12:30 a.m. on a Halloween night and got caught in the crossfire of some conflict. Grandma lived on the rough side of town in Saginaw. It was one of those cities that was racially and economically separated by a bridge and she was over the bridge. We asked her why the heck she was out driving at night that late and on Halloween! She said she had to take bread to someone. Grandma has been gone since I was in high school; so again, there is minimal risk in sharing her story and those who knew her are mostly gone as well. But there are the good stories, the deep stories. The ones you really sink your teeth into and come out the other side all exhausted and spent. But, these stories often involve other people who are close to you and who you care about. As I want to share my truth, how much can I share the story of others? As I work to create my own boundaries of what is and is not acceptable, is sharing my truth going to cross my husband’s boundaries or my new found sister’s boundaries? I have a strong desire to write my truth. I know others can relate to my story and learn from my journey. My life is not a Hallmark Channel movie, more like a Lifetime Original. Can you tell your truth at the expense of others? My husband’s grandmother used to write journals. She used those old spiral bound steno notebooks. By the end of her life, she had pile after pile of stories she had written about her life. She was a crazy lady. I have this series of pictures of her and her friends when she was in her 20s—laughing, smoking, and drinking in a park. She evidently ran with the Saginaw mob at times. She was in the psych ward of the hospital when my husband was born, diagnosed as manic depressive, going through shock therapy, and eventually going on lithium. I was dying to get my hands on those notebooks when she passed. I wanted to read her stories, unearth her secrets, and really see her for her. Right before she passed, she purged them all. They were all gone by the time they entered her home to prepare her for burial. All those memories—gone. Her truth was never told. Maybe some truth is too much. To share or not to share is a question no one can answer for you. But, it’s nice to know I have the option to write my truth, in a little notebook, that may just happen to disappear before I die. Cover image: Cathy Lu

Reposted from The Korea Times This article is the seventh in a series about Koreans adopted abroad. Apparently, many Koreans never expected that the children they 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. From early 2000, Korea witnessed the permanent return of children it had once sent to the U.S. for adoption. Unlike adoptees visiting on motherland tours, these individuals had been deported by the U.S. after committing petty crimes. Despite having grown up in the U.S., they had never acquired American citizenship and therefore were regarded as foreign criminals since their Korean nationality remained intact. These cases have had tragic consequences. In 2011, Philip Clay, born Kim Sang-pil in the 1970s, suffered such a fate. Like the other deportees, his adoption was never finalized, and he failed to acquire U.S. citizenship. After a long struggle to adjust to Korea, he committed suicide in 2017. While Clay had Korean citizenship, his adoption should have guaranteed him U.S. nationality. Adoption is meant to serve as a permanent and secure solution for children deprived of parental care, and becoming a national of the receiving country represents a fundamental basis for achieving such security. While notions of nationality had once been regarded as the rights of a country to secure resources for conscription, mobilization, and taxation, they eventually shifted after World War II. With the development of human rights norms under the United Nations, states had a duty to protect the rights of their citizens; thus, the right to nationality entitles a person to rights. In other words, citizenship represents the right to have rights. When children are born, they must be registered immediately after birth and acquire the nationality of a country so that they may be treated as people before the law and receive equal protection. The failure of some Korean adoptees to obtain the citizenship of their receiving country raises a fundamental question—what happens to the nationality of children when they are adopted to other countries? Transnational adoption illustrates the phenomenon of middle-class parents from the Global North adopting babies from the Global South. It involves an immigration procedure solely for the adoptee. By severing the child’s ties with the birth family, with the country of origin, and with the original nationality, the immigration procedures of the receiving country permit that child to enter for the purpose of becoming a citizen. The significance of acquiring the receiving country’s nationality is further reinforced in international legal frameworks on adoption and child protection. As the safety and welfare of a child remain most vulnerable to harm while crossing national borders, the receiving country bears the responsibility for protection of that child. The European Convention on the Adoption of Children, established in 1967, explicitly prescribes that “[if] the adopted child does not have […] the same nationality as the adopter […], the [country] of which the adopter(s) are nationals shall facilitate the acquisition of its nationality by the child.” Accordingly, transnational adoption procedures call for the child to obtain the citizenship of the receiving country. Failing to do so at the time of adoption leaves the child exposed to harm and instability. One of the worst consequences of this is deportation to the state of origin, as was Philip Clay’s case. Under the U.S. federal system, state courts deal with adoption decree matters while the federal government has authority over immigration and naturalization procedures. Due to these separated systems, acquisition of citizenship was not automatic upon the finalization of the adoption. It was possible for children entering the U.S. for adoption by U.S. citizens to have either one or both of these procedures uncompleted. One may ask, “What happens to the child’s South Korean nationality?” Children adopted from South Korea crossed the border with Korean nationality while bearing a Korean passport. Until the child acquired the nationality of the receiving country, that child maintained Korean nationality. International legal frameworks do not require that transnational adoption cancels the person’s original nationality. Some countries permit dual nationality, and matters of citizenship vary across countries. However, in the adoption arrangements between the U.S. and Korea, priority should have been placed on ensuring that the child acquired the nationality of the receiving country as this is a basic safeguard for adoptees. In addition to the separate systems handling naturalization and adoption matters in the U.S., South Korea’s Nationality Act adds a further complication. It prohibits dual citizenship, except in special cases. The voluntary acquisition of another country’s citizenship by a Korean citizen automatically cancels that person’s Korean nationality. This legal measure has been applied since the beginning of Korea’s transnational adoption program. Korean law imposed a duty on adoption agencies to report to the Ministry of Justice the child’s acquisition of the adoptive country’s nationality. Once the ministry receives this notice, it publishes the name of the child in the official gazette to ensure the automatic cancellation of that child’s nationality. Despite having such procedures to verify whether a child has become a citizen of the adoptive country, there remains a lack of evidence that those involved—the government, adoption agencies, and public organizations—whether in South Korea or in the U.S., gave due attention to monitoring and confirming the naturalization of adopted children. As of 2018, it’s been reported that the acquisition of American citizenship for over 18,000 people adopted by families in the U.S. cannot be verified. This negligence testifies to six decades of illicit and unethical adoption practices between Korea and the U.S. Transnational adoption should not be considered an act of charity determined by private organizations. It has a lifelong impact on the human rights of adoptees, as well as their families. When such rights are violated at the earliest stages of people’s lives, the impact reverberates throughout the rest of their lives. Click here to read the sixth article of this series, "How falsified adoption papers make it even more difficult to search for my origin" by Rebecca Kimmel. Cover photo: gettyimagesbank

(Part 1) America’s entertainment landscape continues to evolve. In the past, Asian/Asian American men typically could not get romantic lead roles in studio-produced Hollywood films. Malaysian-British actor, Henry Golding, changed that with the film "Crazy Rich Asians" (2018) co-starring Constance Wu. "Always Be My Maybe" (2019), starring Ali Wong and Russell Park was another Netflix romantic comedy hit where the leading couple are both Asian American. Hollywood also rarely, if ever, cast an Asian male with a non-Asian female in a leading romantic role. We seem to have turned a corner with that as well. Henry Golding co-starred with Blake Lively and Anna Kendrick in the film "A Simple Favor" (2018). Henry Golding also co-starred with Emilia Clarke in the romantic comedy "Last Christmas" (2019). Chinese-American actor Jimmy O. Yang also co-starred with Nina Dobrev in the romantic comedy "Love Hard" (2021). Twenty-two years ago, in the movie "Romeo Must Die" (2000), which was based on the romantic "Romeo and Juliet" classic, Hong Kong actor Jet Li gives his co-star Aaliyah a hug in the final scene. Today, Asian actors, like Golding and Yang, actually get the girl in the end and kiss her. Critics have also long complained that the “model minority” image is a myth perpetuated by the media. Not all Asians are wealthy and successful. This too is changing as we have begun to see stories of Asian Americans with more varied backgrounds. Actress Awkwafina aka Nora Lum, for example, defies blanket assumptions about Asians with her role in the HBO comedy series "Awkwafina is Nora from Queens" (2020–present). Her character, Nora, didn’t go to college, gets fired from her job, accidentally burns down a friend’s apartment, works at a cannabis dispensary, and lives in a modest, urban home with her dad and quirky grandmother. While a number of releases have been mentioned in this article, there have been many other successful movie, book, music and streaming TV projects that have featured Asians/Asian Americans artists in the past three years. Many more are currently in development and in production. Opportunities have clearly opened up in recent years for Asians and Asian Americans in entertainment.  A few of the many recent “firsts” for Asians in entertainment must be mentioned. Actor Simu Liu is the first Asian Marvel superhero. He plays Shang-Chi in the movie "Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings" (2021). Bowen Yang is the first full Asian on-air cast member of "Saturday Night Live" hired in 2019. Awkwafina is the first woman of Asian descent (Korean and Chinese) to win a Golden Globe award for Best Actress in a Motion Picture – Musical or Comedy for her role in the film "The Farewell" (2019). Chinese-born filmmaker, Chloe Zhao, is the first Asian woman and second woman ever to have won an Academy Award for Best Director for her film "Nomadland" (2020). "Nomadland" also won for Best Picture. Actress Yu-Jung Youn is the first Korean actress to win an Academy Award for Best Supporting Actress for her role in "Minari" (2020). The previous year, at the 92nd Academy Awards, the South Korean film, "Parasite" (2019), won four awards: Best Picture, Best Director, Best Original Screenplay and Best International Feature Film. It was the first non-English language film to win an Oscar for Best Picture. Speaking of non-English speaking entertainers, the Korean wave or hallyu, has made a significant impact on American pop culture as well. The Korean streaming TV series "Squid Game," released in 2021, is Netflix’s most-watched series, ranking number one for the most watched show in 94 countries, including the United States. Other milestone “firsts” include those in music. The South Korean K-pop band, BTS, for example, is the first group since The Beatles to have six No. 1 songs on America’s Billboard Hot 100 in just over a year (Aug 2020–Sept 2021). Imagine turning on the radio in Oklahoma City and hearing Suga rap in Korean! BTS has turned the Empire State building in New York their signature purple in 2019; had a McDonald’s meal named after them—the BTS meal in 2021; are regular guests on late night talk shows; were on the cover of Time magazine in 2018 and were named Entertainer of the Year by Time magazine in 2020. They have won countless awards, including many from American cultural institutions—MTV, iHeart Radio, and the Billboard Music Awards. Most recently, they won Artist of the Year, Favorite Pop Group, and Favorite Pop Song at the American Music Awards in 2021. They are nominated for a Grammy in 2022. The fact that BTS first became popular in the United States and worldwide by singing in Korean is another testament to changing times. CNET reporter Roger Cheng, in a July 12, 2021 article, references today’s “golden age” of representation for Asians. When one compares images of “Long Duk Dong” from the movie "Sixteen Candles" to the hysterical American fans screaming saranghae (I love you) to Asian K-Pop and K-Drama actors, it is striking to think how far we’ve come. While there is a lot of hate and self-hate that Asian Americans must deal with, there is also a whole lot of love for the people and culture. Asian America will undoubtedly continue to evolve in new and surprising ways. As mentioned, social media has certainly helped to increase awareness and access to Asian and Asian American artists, musicians, creators, and entertainers. The intimate and personal nature of platforms such as YouTube have also helped to legitimize and humanize minorities who were previously unseen. Changing demographics in the U.S. have also created an environment more receptive to Asian faces on screen and on stage. Darnell Hunt, dean of UCLA’s social sciences division said in an Associated Press article dated October 26, 2021: “People basically want to see the TV shows that look like America, that have characters they can relate to and have experiences that resonate with them.” How Americans look and racially identify will also continue to impact how Asians and Asian Americans are perceived and accepted online, on-screen, and in real life. Interestingly, the fastest growing demographic in the country is multiracial people. According to U.S. census data, in ten years, there was a 276% increase in multiracial people—from 9 million in 2010 to 33.8 million people in 2020. That equates to roughly 1 in 10 Americans now identifying as being of two or more races. A Washington Post article dated October 8, 2021, quotes Richard Alba, demographer and professor of sociology at the City University of New York: “The mixing of all sorts [of races] is really a new force in 21st-century America…. We’re talking about a big, powerful phenomenon.” U.S. Census data showed that from 2010 to 2020, the population of specifically multiracial Asians grew faster (55% increase) than the Asian alone population (35.5% increase). In 2020, there were close to 5 million Americans who identified as Asian American or Pacific Islander in combination with another race group. When 1 out of every 5 AAPIs is mixed race, that will certainly affect social/cultural perceptions and behaviors within and outside the AAPI psyche. The influence of these demographic changes can be seen on social media. Some of the biggest and most popular, most watched YouTubers are of mixed race—Alex Burriss (Filipino and white) with 11.5 million subscribers; Liza Koshy (South Asian and German) with 17.5 million subscribers; and Lauren Riihimaki (Japanese and Finnish/Ukrainian) with 8.6 million subscribers. Recently trending are also the highly watched channels of members of a new creator house in New York City called “urmom’s house.” The roommates include Korean American Elliot Choy and three American biracial Asians—Kelly Wakasa (Japanese and German), Ann Marie Chase (Korean and Finnish/German), and Ashley Alexander (Korean and British/French). Their videos also include people in their circles—an ex, siblings, and friends of the group—who are also multiracial Asian. The talk is that these fun-loving roommates are “the modern day ‘Friends.’” In their videos, the creators are high energy, entertaining, and funny. There’s even a possible Rachel-Ross love dynamic developing.They comment how well they relate to each other, how they’re like a family and feel at home with each other. Multiracial Asian Americans have their own distinct experiences and common identities and may not fit traditional Asian stereotypes. The rapid expansion of this particular Asian American demographic has spawned terms on social media, such as “Blasian” (Black and Asian) and “Waysian” (white and Asian). It has also led to the creation of online community groups like r/hapas on Reddit, tags on social media, and the growth of multiracial student clubs on college campuses. The growing trend of multiracial Asians dating other multiracial Asians as seen in media and offline is also an emerging social dynamic. Rather than trying to blend in to either race, multiracial people are taking pride and ownership of their own unique communities. Life for Asian Americans and Pacific Islanders hasn’t been easy, but the experiences and identities of the group have continued to develop in unique and positive ways. Today, it is more plausible than ever to become all that you can be—in any field. Courageous Asian Americans have been reaching new milestones; they are achieving many “firsts” and inspiring others to reach for the stars. Cathy Park Hong writes in her book, "Minor Feelings: An Asian American Reckoning": “I like to think that the self-hating Asian is on its way out.” Hopefully the kind of extreme self-hate and subsequent Asian repulsion for other Asians, as Hong describes, will be diminished given the increasing prevalence and popularity of relatable, well-rounded Asians/Asian Americans in film, TV, music, books, and social media. Of course, the world is not without challenges; but each day is a new opportunity to move past all the haters, go after your dreams—in a way that’s authentic and on your own terms—and make them a reality. America is waiting. Cover photo: Joseph Gonzalez; @prettysleep1; HiveBoxx

Reposted from The Korea Times This article is the fifth in a series about Koreans adopted abroad. Apparently, many Koreans never expected that the children who were sent away via adoption would return as adults demanding answers to questions. However, thousands of adoptees visit Korea each year. Once they rediscover this country, it becomes a turning point in their lives. We should embrace dialogue with adoptees to discover the path to recovering our collective humanity. — E.D. Privatization has been one of the most powerful and worst legacies of the Korean adoption system, continuing to affect the lives of adoptees in the present. In general, “privatization” refers to the process of moving something from the public sector to the private sector, mainly for the supposed purposes of promoting efficiency and lowering bureaucratic costs. However, not everything can be privatized. Essential government functions, such as national security, the police, or firefighters are not considered to be within the realm of privatization. Child protection and adoption should also be considered in the same category as those essential public functions. In South Korea, adoption has remained in the private realm. Actually, it may be inappropriate to say that it was “privatized,” since it was a private business from the very beginning and has never been included in the public welfare system. Orphanages and transnational adoption emerged for the first time in Korean history in the aftermath of the Korean War, and were fueled by an influx of foreign aid. The concept of “child welfare” in Korea was brought to Korea by private organizations funded by foreign charities and has been left in their hands. “An adoption shall be valid only if it is granted by a judicial or administrative authority.” This statement is the first essential provision of the European Convention on the Adoption of Children, established in 1967. Thus, the fact that the concept of private adoption was prohibited was an international norm as early as the 1960s. What does the term “private adoption” mean? The term means an adoption that occurred without the intervention of public authorities, such as the courts. Parents should not be allowed to give up their own children for adoption to another person or to a private entity. People should not be able to give and take babies, no matter what the intention. Why? Because it is too dangerous for the life, security, and safety of the concerned child. However small they may be, they are entitled to human rights and it is the state’s obligation to protect them. By allowing adoption to remain in the private realm, Korea’s adoption laws have given private agencies absolute and comprehensive power over a child once he or she is given up to the adoption agency. In my previous article, I explained the procedure of how children have become legally orphaned. Private entities have been endowed with the power to create new identities for people. Those identities can be fake or distorted. Adopted children’s identities have been switched with that of other children. Such corruption is possible because it occurred outside of the scrutiny of public authorities. If such acts were committed by individual brokers or by intermediaries in one of the countries notorious for exporting orphans, it would be criticized for laundering children or fall under suspicion of human trafficking. However, the governments of Western countries receiving the orphans, which should also bear co-responsibility in the process of transnational adoption, publicly acknowledge that they trust Korean adoption agencies’ practices as being transparent and ethical and keep on receiving babies through them. In South Korea, it is against the law to engage in the transnational adoption business without permission, and there have been only three or four agencies that acquired the authorization from the government. The same law granted the agencies to receive adoption fees from foreign adoptive parents. Their revenue structure depends on the fees. So the number of children adopted decides the amount of revenue of those agencies. Seeing the National Assembly’s Minutes of the Health and Welfare Committee in 1965, Korea decided to allow the adoption agencies to receive fees from foreign adoptive parents, by stating that “…in the process of carrying out orphan adoption to receiving countries, we can acquire about 130 dollars per person when we send them overseas and also save (welfare) costs on housing orphans at the same time. It is like killing two birds with one stone.” Some may argue that we could not help giving up children at the time, because we were war victims and poor. Thus, we overlooked the export of babies with the excuse that it was being done to save war orphans. However, what would these same people say to the fact that the philosophy and scheme of transnational adoption has not changed even in the present day? This country is still outsourcing child welfare to private entities and evading its responsibility to protect minors. In 2014, the government of Sweden, which has adopted almost 10,000 babies from Korea for decades, conducted an on-site assessment of adoption fees. According to their report, the official fee (not including other costs and donations) that Swedish parents pay to adopt a Korean child is 221,526 Krona (about 30,000,000 won). This amount is paid to the Swedish adoption agency. The portion that goes to the Korean adoption agency is 143,816 Krona. The report said that most of the amount paid to the Korean counterpart agency is accounted for as the “child protection cost.” The report shows that this country still relies on foreign adoptive parents for the protection cost of the Korean children. It is evident that both the adoption agencies and the Swedish government are well aware that these children were under the control of private businesses, and not under the public child protection system. Since adoption procedures were privatized, adoptees’ identities have been privatized too. Adoptees’ birth records are considered the private possessions of those organizations. In order to do a search into the birth family or verify their true identity, adoptees are subjected to the so-called “post-adoption services” of private organizations. In many cases, access to adoption documents is denied or restricted by the arbitrary and inconsistent decisions of these agencies. If an adoptee chooses to disagree with the non-disclosure decision or questions the truthfulness of the files, there is no appropriate method of appealing or seeking mediation. Justice delayed is justice denied. Since justice has been delayed for so long in adoption, the right to know one’s identity is being denied. The Korean adoption system must not be allowed to be driven by profit. People’s identities should not be privatized either. If human rights violations are caused by legislation, the government has an obligation to change the law. The receiving countries, too, must undertake their co-responsibility to restore their citizens’ rights to knowing their identities. Click here to read the fourth article of this series, "An Adoptee’s Missing Family" by Tanya Elisabeth Bley. Cover photo: gettyimagesbank

I was in fourth grade when I had my first mental breakdown…over a B+. Over the years, I would reference this moment and laugh at it, finding humor in the fact that something as minuscule as a grade of B+ could make me cry so many tears when there were “so many other real-world problems.” I also found humor in the fact that one of my teachers in elementary school placed me in a math competition when in fact, math was one of my worst subjects (still is). In college, a mental health educator introduced me to the model minority myth, and suddenly I realized that my elementary school mental breakdown was only the beginning of my challenging relationship with my mental health. More importantly, I realized that so many fellow Asian-American students suffered from the same pressures of finding success in a country that already expects so much from us, and that this pressure ties heavily into our mental health. Welcome to the model minority myth. The model minority myth creates a false narrative that all Asian individuals are naturally smart, hard-working, and successful. What is seemingly a positive stereotype actually has the capacity to produce negative circumstances and experiences for victims of the stereotype that can never seem to live up to these standards. The model minority myth could sound like, “You’re Asian, aren’t you supposed to be smart?” or “So-and-so’s son is a doctor now, why aren’t you one yet?” I began struggling with anxiety and depression in my early 20s, finding myself unable to cope with my emotions and a never-ending quest to be “good enough” for anyone, or anything. At the time, I had no resources and no knowledge of how to help myself besides scrolling through Google for hours trying to diagnose myself through the internet. We’ve all been there, right? I thought to myself so many times, that something must have been wrong with me. Why did the thought of failure scare me so much? Why was not being “enough” such a burden on me? We all grew up hearing the stories of how our parents and ancestors went through so many lengths to provide us with a better life here in the states, so in return, we had to succeed…right? According to Mental Health America, Asian-American and Pacific Islander (AAPI) adults are the least likely racial group to seek mental health treatment, about three times less likely than Caucasian adults. Some of the most common reasons that AAPI individuals experience mental health issues include intergenerational trauma, anxiety over integrating both American and Asian identities, and trying to reach unrealistic standards set by the model minority myth. According to the American Psychological Association, one of the most common reasons that deter AAPI individuals from seeking mental health treatment is the stigma and taboo that surrounds the topic of mental health. What they don’t teach us in schools growing up is that being Asian-American and children of immigrants or refugees meant that we were more susceptible to becoming victims of the model minority myth, living in the shadows of the high expectations placed upon us. So many of us would grow up minimizing our mental health issues and our pain, because we felt ashamed seeking help when our ancestors literally fought in wars and escaped to the states in boats. Those of us who were brave enough to speak up about our mental health issues were returned with lectures about what “real” problems were. Those of us who finally expressed that we were depressed were told that “it’s all in our heads.” I wish someone back then would have told me that I could simultaneously honor my parents’ and ancestors’ past hardships while still acknowledging my own. I wish I would have known that my ancestors’ struggles do not make mine any less deserving of attention and care. Our parents experienced a type of trauma that we may not ever truly understand, but if we want to break this pattern of intergenerational trauma, we need to teach them that our experiences matter as well, no matter how big or small. It took years and years of unlearning these toxic cultural norms and messages before I was able to finally admit that I needed help. I had to keep reassuring myself that my problems were valid, that I truly deserve to feel better, and that I could feel better. Most importantly, however, I had to get myself to make that appointment with a therapist and remind myself that it doesn’t make me any less of a person to do so. We need to advocate for our fellow AAPI individuals and get rid of this stigma around mental health that has permeated our communities for so long. We’re currently living in an era where hate crimes are continuing to increase due to stereotypes that have been created by the pandemic. Our AAPI communities are especially vulnerable to the anxiety and uncertainty surrounding this pandemic, and the lives of the loved ones we have lost. If you are someone who has been silent on mental health issues in the past, begin speaking out on these topics. If you don’t personally struggle with mental health issues, speak out on these issues anyway so that the ones you care about feel comfortable doing it. Stay informed on mental health resources and outlets so that you could refer yourself or someone you know to get treatment. Create and share the space for someone who is going through a difficult time, because being a good listener is one of the most important ways you can be a support system for someone who needs it. Finally, if there’s one thing the failure of the model minority myth can teach us is to not compare our path to anyone else’s, that we are all valid of love, care, and healing. Photo: @jeshoots

Let’s be real. Right now is a pretty dangerous and trying time for folks of Asian descent who live in America. The ongoing pandemic has triggered hostilities that make it clear that Asian Americans have always been perceived as “other.” It is not easy to seek peace and a place in a divided and racialized country. And yet, in the midst of these bleak times, something curious, something fascinating has been happening. An explicable burgeoning new era is revealing itself—right before our eyes and ears. Who are Asian Americans and Pacific Islanders (AAPIs)? The U.S. Census Bureau defines “Asian” as a person with origins from China, Korea, Japan, the Philippines, Malaysia, Pakistan, the Indian subcontinent, Thailand, Vietnam, and Cambodia. “Native Hawaiian or Other Pacific Islanders” include a person with origins from Hawaii, Guam, Samoa, or other Pacific Islands. The reality is that AAPIs are a minority, coming in at 6.2% of the total population or 20.6 million, according to data from the U.S. Census Bureau in 2020. If you add those who identify as AAPI and another race, there are 25.6 million people as per the U.S. Census data from 2020. Despite having lived in the United States for centuries, AAPIs are often still perceived as foreigners, different, and not the “norm.” In today’s polarized environment, it isn’t surprising that a group of people are experiencing both extreme lows and highs. Poet and essayist, Cathy Park Hong writes in her book, "Minor Feelings: An Asian American Reckoning," that “Asian Americans inhabit a vague purgatorial status: not white enough nor black enough; distrusted by African Americans, ignored by whites.” Asian Americans are considered people of color; but some have said they enjoy “Asian privilege,” are “white adjacent” and are, therefore, immune to racism. What has been happening since the start of the pandemic has shown otherwise. Because of their race, this heterogenous group of people have experienced ongoing surges of verbal attacks and physical assaults, some brutal and fatal. In fact, a total of 10,370 hate incidents against Asian American and Pacific Islander (AAPI) persons have been reported to the Stop AAPI Hate coalition from March 19, 2020 to September 30, 2021. Furthermore, a national survey conducted by Stop Asian Hate and the Edelman Data & Intelligence team found that one in five Asian American and Pacific Islanders—an estimated 5.1 million AAPIs—have experienced a hate incident in the past year. The survey results, published November 18, 2021, showed 31.5% of Asian American and 26.4% of Pacific Islander respondents experienced a hate incident at work in 2021. One in three or 30.6% of Asian American parents and 31.4% of Pacific Islander parents stated that their child experienced a hate incident at school in 2021. Unfortunately, it’s not just hate from non-Asians that AAPIs have to contend with. Some of the hate comes from within. Asian Americans who internalize racism, often develop feelings of self-loathing and are repelled by others who look like themselves. “Not enough has been said about the self-hating Asian,” writes Pulitzer Prize finalist Cathy Park Hong in her aforementioned book published February 25, 2020, right before the pandemic shut down. “Racial self-hatred is seeing yourself the way Whites see you, which turns you into your own worst enemy. Your only defense is to be hard on yourself, which becomes compulsive, and therefore a comfort, to peck yourself to death.” Hong admits to feelings of discomfort with other Asian Americans. She explains, “You hate that there are so many Asians in the room. Who let in all the Asians? you rant in your head.” She also writes about receiving a pedicure by a young Asian boy: “We were like two negative ions repelling each other” and speculates that “he treated me badly because he hated himself. I treated him badly because I hated myself.” Indeed, solidarity among Asian Americans and Pacific Islanders, for belonging or protection—even to fight against racism and discrimination—cannot be assumed. Whether it’s identity challenges or ethnic differences, AAPIs do not think or act similarly; they are not a monolithic group. They are comprised of more than twenty ethnicities. Their heritages are uniquely different with distinct cultures and languages. Some also bring with them various prejudices and biases against people from other Asian countries due to contentious political histories. Additionally, there are often strong generational differences, including differences in expectations and behaviors, between Asians who were born and/or raised in America and those who were born and raised in another country and immigrated to the U.S. as adults. Moreover, Asian adoptees have their own unique experiences and outlooks. AAPIs are, therefore, a vast and varied group with some even questioning the meaning or purpose of the label Asian American itself. The challenges of being a minority, of growing up Asian American, of having an Asian face in America right now, are inarguable. Nevertheless, the assumption is that educational, economic and career opportunities, especially for women, are better in the United States than in the ancestral home country. For many, the benefits still outweigh the disadvantages. Many people of Asian descent do find happiness and fulfillment in America. Celebration of one’s unique individuality; personal self-acceptance; belief in the intrinsic value of all humans; cultivation of healthy, meaningful relationships; and having a sense of purpose can lead to great life satisfaction. To recognize one’s Asian cultural heritage while maintaining one’s American identity is also accepted and supported in the many multicultural communities of the United States. Regarding unjust harassment and racial targeting, Asian Americans draw on personal strength, friends, family and communities for support and solace. Education and activism have also been constructive responses. After the violent killing of 84-year-old Thai American Vicha Ratanapakdee in San Francisco in January 2021, the Atlanta spa shootings of six Asian women in March 2021, and ongoing racially motivated attacks and murders across the country, Stop Asian Hate, anti-Asian-violence rallies were held across the country that Spring. Over 1500 participants rallied in San Francisco; 1200 rallied in Berkeley, for example. Engagement was widespread with a total of 105 Stop Asian Hate rallies in 43 U.S. states, Canada, and Taiwan. AAPIs are organizing, standing up for themselves and making a difference. On May 20, 2021, President Biden signed the COVID-19 Hate Crimes Act into law after overwhelming support from both chambers of Congress. He also stated, “My message to all of those who are hurting is: We see you and the Congress has said, we see you. And we are committed to stop the hatred and the bias.” The law specifically addresses the “dramatic increase in hate crimes and violence against Asian Americans and Pacific Islanders.” While the hate has unfortunately continued, something else remarkable and unprecedented has been happening. The love for many things Asian/Asian American has been on the rise over recent years. Sometimes the adoration can even be fanatical. Overall, though, there has also been a refreshing mainstream movement towards an appreciation for authenticity, nuance and diversity that’s intimate and personal. Take food, for example. Chinese American cuisine has long been part of the staple of mainstream American fare. Americanized dishes like egg foo young, chop suey, and fortune cookies, however, were created to please the Western palate. First wave immigrant Chinese Cantonese restauranteurs typically cooked more authentic food at home. By comparison, today’s third wave Chinese immigrants open restaurants that serve authentic food that Americans enjoy—spicy Hunan and Sichuan dishes. Likewise, Korean restaurants didn’t have to modify their cuisine for American mass consumption. There is no crab Rangoon, Americanized Korean dish equivalent. Instead, mainstream America has grown to love and appreciates Korean food like kimchi and galbi in its original, unadulterated form. Moreover, the popularity of Asian food chains in America has also been unexpected. Across the country, there are Korean Bonchon Chickens and Filipino Jollibees, H Marts and 99 Ranch Markets. As Asian food offerings have evolved, mainstream tastes have become bolder. Similarly, after decades of limited authentic representation, there has been a visible rise of prominent Asians and Asian Americans in American pop culture, the arts, film, music, and entertainment. Social media platforms such as YouTube, launched in 2005, have played a significant role in helping to fuel the surge in popularity of Asian entertainers, creators, and artists. Some of the earliest and most influential American/Canadian YouTubers were of Asian descent, including Lily Singh (3.5 billion channel views); Ryan Higa (4.36 billion views), and Mark Fiscbach (17.1 billion views). American born Ryan Higa, who is of Japanese descent, was the first person on YouTube to achieve 2 million and 3 million subscribers. His channel also had the most subscribers on YouTube for 677 consecutive days from 2009–2011, an achievement surpassed only by PewdiePie. Social media gave Asian Americans like Ryan Higa the opportunity to freely showcase their talents and prove their worth when established industries like TV and studio movies were nearly closed off to Asians. The widespread popularity of these influencers meant that the image of Asians as stereotypes, racist tropes, and insignificant one-dimensional side actors began to erode. American audiences got to know people of Asian descent as real people with personalities, emotions, and depth. Before social media, traditional mediums like television influenced how society perceives minorities. The 1994 TV sitcom "All American Girl" was groundbreaking, because it was the first show to feature stories centered on an Asian American family. Asians were historically seen on TV as minor characters or sidekicks. Unfortunately, the show was short-lived and it would take another 21 years before a television show revolved around primary characters who were Asian. The year 2015 brought us two shows, "Fresh Off the Boat" and "Dr. Ken"; both focused on the comedic interactions between members of an Asian American family. "Fresh Off the Boat," starring Randall Park and Constance Wu, was the more popular of the two and was on air for six seasons. Then, in 2018, the major motion picture release of "Crazy Rich Asians" featured an all-Asian cast, something that hadn’t happened since "The Joy Luck Club" in 1993. "Crazy Rich Asians" was the highest earning romantic comedy film of the decade, grossing $237 million worldwide. The success of the film opened doors for other stories featuring Asian actors in more prominent roles. “‘Crazy Rich Asians’ success has Hollywood scrambling for similar Asian-centric stories,” read a headline for an NBC News article written September 5, 2018. “When a movie with all Asian leads brings up $35 million in the first week, executives sit up and take notice.” Consequently, there has been an increase in the visibility of Asians in movies, books, music and streaming TV. They are also being portrayed in ways they haven’t been before. The Netflix teen romance film "To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before" and its subsequent installments, for example, would never have cast an Asian American female to play the main character in the past. But in 2018, it did. Vietnamese adoptee Lana Condor played Lara Jean, a typical, all-American teenager. The series was told through her character’s point of view, which again, is a notable achievement. Asian women historically only played minor roles or were portrayed as prostitutes, dragon ladies, or foreigners with broken English. Recent years have shown that Asian actors are getting more diverse opportunities. Like Lana Condor, they are able to take leading roles where the story is not about being ethnic or Asian. Korean American actor John Cho, for example, played a father in San Jose, California who is desperately searching for his missing daughter in the Hollywood studio produced movie, "Searching" (2018). Incidentally, the film "To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before" was based on the book of the same moniker written by author Jenny Han. The book is noteworthy for two reasons: the story is about a teenager who is half Korean American and the novel was on the New York Times Best Seller list for 40 weeks. In regards to the literary arts, analysts Kate Hao and Long Le-Khac have stated in the Post45 Journal dated April 21, 2021, that “Asian American literature has grown dramatically in recent decades, reflecting a broader acceleration in contemporary cultural production.” (to be continued) Cover photo: Jasmin Chew, Milo Milk, Jason Leung, and Cottonbro

Reposted from The Korea Times This article is the first 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. Sun Hee Engelstoft, a movie director who is a Korean Danish adoptee, recently released in Korea a documentary film called “Forget Me Not.” Engelstoft believes she knows her mother’s name, and the circumstances of her relinquishment. Despite the likely true story about her birth, her official Korean birth registration document indicates that she was an “orphan” who was found “abandoned.” Normally, Koreans can easily check their birth registration document through the website of the Supreme Court, which contains the name, birth date, address of the birth place, as well as the name and identification number of the parent(s). But almost all Korean adoptees were given a so-called “orphan hojuk” (until 2012), a one-person document which lists the orphan as the head of her/his own family, and contains only the name of the child and birth date, plus the address of the Korean adoption agency. The orphan hojuk does not contain the birth parents’ names or any biographical information. There are two myths which have sustained the system of transnational adoption for so long here. One is that certain parents (i.e., unwed mothers) are not fit to raise their own children, and the other is that orphans are “saved” by adoption. Even if the parents were unmarried, if at least one of the parents is known, the child still has a living parent and may not be considered a true “orphan.” Why were all children believed to be “orphans”? To explain and understand this discrepancy, people have devised concepts and terms such as “economic orphan” or “social orphan.” The truth is that children were legally orphaned for the purpose of transnational adoption through the official government processes of the state of origin (Korea) and of the Western adoptive countries (primarily the U.S., Australia, and West European countries). Surprisingly, “orphan” is a legal term. In the immigration law of the receiving country (I will take the U.S. as an example; however, other European receiving countries likely used the same system because Korean adoption agencies provided the same documents to those countries), the status of “orphan” was stipulated as an immigration qualification, such that Western citizens could bring orphan(s) into the country for the purpose of adoption starting in 1961. In response to this measure, in the same year, Korea enacted a new law called the “Orphan Adoption Special Procedure Act,” which lifted the restrictions of its traditional adoption, or “yang ja,” system to facilitate the process in cases where a foreigner wanted to adopt Korean orphans. This is the beginning of the modern adoption system for children in Korea. Transnational adoption is not only a matter of family relations—it also involves the immigration process of the Western countries. The immigration authorities require official documents for immigrants. U.S. law allows the definition of an “orphan” to include children not only whose parents have died, but also who have been abandoned and relinquished by single parents. Among these possible categories, Korea chose to use the definition of an “orphan” by abandonment, in order for the Korean government to provide the required documents for immigration. Why? I assume that it was because this was the easiest route from the perspective of the public officials at that time. They may not have desired to undertake the long and winding legislative reform to embrace the modern adoption system for protection of the child into its general Family Law. Instead, they may have chosen the easiest way to have children recognized as “orphans.” So, the relevant laws have been providing the legal framework and procedure by which a child could be recognized as abandoned by the public authority. However, even this procedure was just nominal, and if the heads of orphanages or adoption agencies reported to the relevant district offices of the local government that a child was found “abandoned,” then the issuance of an orphan hojuk was almost automatically processed. In short, the state has deliberately and systematically hidden and erased the real identities of children. As a direct consequence, for all Korean adoptees, it is fundamentally impossible to know their real origin through the official document which was provided by both the Korean and Western governments when they were born and subsequently moved across borders. Consequently, so many adoptees have to undergo a harsh and often futile birth family search process by relying on the “unofficial” and presumably “private” documents kept under lock and key inside the adoption agencies, or alternately through DNA testing. Only with great effort and sparse luck are adoptees ever able to trace their true origins. The Korean government officially acknowledged that more than 90 percent of the transnational adoptions involved children of unwed mothers. Official birth reports statistics, which began to be reported in 1976, show that until 2011 (for 35 years), the number of children reported as being found abandoned stood at 143,763. During the same period, the number of transnational adoption stood at 133,531. A whopping 92.8 percent of children reported as being “found abandoned” during this period were sent overseas. The correlation of these statistics is a chilling manifestation of the link between “abandonment” and transnational adoption. Are orphans adopted for better protection, or are they orphaned to be adopted? The prejudice against certain groups of people in society is one thing, but it is another that there existed a systemic and legal procedure which legitimized the discrimination and facilitated the social exclusion. In the latter case, the accountability of the state arises. The facts described above delineate the foundation of the argument that it is the state which has violated adoptees’ right to know their origin. What should we do to fix the current situation and to restore this right? There is no single solution. We should begin by figuring out the clearly discriminatory features. The birth records should be public information secured and governed by public authorities. In contrast to non-adopted Koreans, the true birth information of adoptees is still left in the private realm, which is considered the private possession of adoption agencies. Adoptees should be able to demand their right to access the information of identity to the government authorities. This authority must have the expertise and autonomous power to decide whether and how much of the information should be disclosed. In Korea, general birth registrations are under the control of the judicial body and the Ministry of Justice. Therefore, adoptees too should be able to knock on the doors of such authorities to request the disclosure of the information of their true identity, and to not have to deal with the private adoption agencies, which too often conceal such information by arbitrary and ungrounded decisions. Click here to read the second article of this series "Why Do Adoptees Learn Korean?" by Jonas Sang Shik Eberle. Cover photo: gettyimagesbank

Five 20-year-olds are about to experience the adventure of a lifetime. Called to Beijing by a mysterious Chinese corporation, they unite as a crew to steal back China’s beloved art pieces from the various museums displaying them. Each member has a complicated relationship with China and their identity as a Chinese-American, but they all hope that they can right history. Splitting the 50 million–dollar reward for the art retrieval is also a pretty attractive offer. Can this group of amateurs pull off the perfect heists? I have mixed feelings about this book, though mostly positive. I was very excited to read this, and the summary and hype had prepared me for a truly thrilling story. However, it was more subdued than I had expected. The beginning started off very strong, but after the first heist, that plot line became less important. The heists were a bit rushed, but I wasn’t expecting an extremely detailed and accurate description of multiple heists from a young adult fiction novel. For a novel that seemed to be mostly about stealing back art, I had expected a bit more, though. I tend to prefer plot-driven stories. The thrill of stealing back art dissipated as the book progressed and I didn’t feel the rush to turn the pages quickly like before. This was balanced with more insights into the characters I really enjoyed the five crew members and being able to see how each struggled with finding themselves. They were all connected in different ways and the heist is what brought them together. While they all seemed very dissimilar on the outside, I also saw how they shared similar sentiments about not being American enough nor Chinese enough…how they wanted to prove themselves and claim their Chinese identities. As a Chinese adoptee, I related to a lot of this and their feelings of loss over family and culture. I wanted to see their relationships a bit more. The characters were complex and deep and their connections with their friends/crew members could have been too. There were some hints about their relationships and tension during the planning, but their interactions felt a bit shallow. The ending was redeeming, and I got to experience each character’s coming-of-self moment as well as their relationships deepen. It was the last chapters that had me hoping for a sequel. "Portrait of a Thief" is a solid debut novel that explores the complexities of being between two cultures and wanting to claim an identity. While for a novel about art heists it lacks a bit on the thrilling side, it is a unique and creative story about five individuals willing to lose it all to strengthen their connections to their culture and themselves.

Reposted from The Korea Times “Dialogues with Adoptees,” a weekly column series originally published in The Korea Times, digs into the history and systemic injustice of intercountry adoption by South Korea through the sharing of adoptees’ voices. This series also resonates with those in the larger Asian diaspora, regardless of their countries of origin, since this issue of intercountry adoption encompasses the lives and rights of all adoptees as an important human rights area for all to understand. Over the next 15 weeks, we have the pleasure of being able to repost the writings of Dr. Kyung-eun Lee with links to the originally published pieces by various adoptees with The Korea Times. We hope that by sharing Dr. Lee’s and others stories, our TUA community may also be inspired to share their own voices in this dialogue. This article is the first 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. If you are from South Korea and have had the opportunity to live and work in either the U.S. or in a Western European country, you may have come across a situation where someone says to you, “Oh, I have a friend whose brother/sister was adopted from Korea,” or alternatively, “Do you know that our boss/friend has adopted a child from Korea?” Or you may have approached a person whom you thought was a native Korean, but after starting a conversation, discovered that this person has a very Western family name and has said to you, “Oh, I am adopted." In English-language literature, there are many books written on the subject of adoption, encompassing such diverse topics as: individual memoirs by adoptees or adoptive parents, investigative reports on unlawful and unethical adoption practices, birth family search stories, and so on. Many of the authors of such books are of Korean ethnicity. In Western countries, there are many stories that connect Korea to the narrative of transnational adoption. Why? Because Korea is the country that has sent the largest number of children out of the country for adoption. The length of the period in which Korea has been involved in transnational adoption is more than 68 years and the total number of adoptees is estimated to be over 200,000. It is a singular record in the world history of adoption. However, these facts are hardly known to ordinary people in Korea. It is partly because most adoptees do not physically live in Korea, and they are rendered invisible and inaudible within Korean society. It is also partly because Korean society turns a blind eye and deaf ear to the uncomfortable truths of its adoption history, for fear of being labeled a “baby exporting country.” Here’s a story about what occurred at an International Gathering of Korean Adoptees event held in Seoul in the early 2000s. The organizing committee invited Korean government officials to the gathering, and one of them attended, met with the participants who had flown thousands of miles to the meeting, then asked the assembled adoptees, “Why are you coming back? We sent you abroad wishing you well, so why are you coming back to this country?” This episode frankly revealed the mindset of Korean policymakers. Korea’s adoption system was set up to facilitate the sending of children out of the country. This goal has been deeply and long-embedded within the legal framework and government system. In short, Korea had been unable to anticipate that the children it sent out would return to this country when they became adults. Nothing was set up to meet the needs of adult adoptees as they returned to their country of origin. Why do adoptees return? Because it is human nature to seek the origin of their existence. Most human stories of minority groups in various parts of the world begin with the firm understanding of their own origins and identities. This grounding in their roots is necessary for diversity to flourish in their own lives. From the late 1990s, the Korean government began to provide adoptees with programs such as motherland tours, Korean culture camps, and Korean language programs. However, the government did not intend to begin the dialogue with adoptees for the purpose of mutual understanding, with a genuine heart and a serious mind. For more than six decades, Korea has been sacrificing the norms of essential human rights in order to facilitate the adoption business and to keep adoption within the private realm and outside of the provenance of government responsibility. It will not be an easy task to overcome such a legacy. If we are really determined to fix the issues at hand, we should confront the truth—however uncomfortable it may be. In many surveys regarding the policy needs of adoptees, the right to know one’s origin was selected as the highest priority. The origin of a human being encompasses one’s true family name, one’s own name, birthdate, and birth place, as well as one’s nationality, ethnic background, race, culture and language. There are of course other factors. The knowledge of one’s origin is the source of one’s sense of belonging and the foundation for establishing one’s identity. People build their life upon the fundamental foundation of this sense of belonging and upon knowing their identity. I had also been one of the people who, before I talked with adoptees, did not understand that this knowledge of one’s origin is a fundamental human right, nor why it is so important. Adoptees, especially from Korea, are deprived of the means of knowing their true identity. Through the systemic adoption procedures of this country, the government deliberately erased the biological family relationships and original names of the children, and issued false birth certificates classifying children as abandoned orphans, omitting any identity of their parents. Local government officials even signed papers that certified that the child was a “legal orphan,” so that he or she could be adopted abroad. These false papers were the essential visa documents for Korean children to facilitate their immigration to Western countries. Any human being has the right to know where they came from. One’s identity is not just a crisis that a person undergoes in adolescence, but is a lifelong desire that cannot be satisfied by anything else. Growing up with a happy adoptive family or establishing one’s own family are not replacements for an adoptee’s right to knowledge of their origin. In this series of the dialogues between adoptees and Korean society, we are going to discuss the elements of origin, for example: one’s birth parents and family, one’s name, nationality, birthplace, language, culture, food, etc. In searching for the meaning of one’s true identity and origin, we may be able to understand better why this right is so important for Korean adoptees. Why do we need such dialogues? Because we are human, after all. Lee Kyung-eun (Ph.D. in law) is director of Human Rights Beyond Borders and author of the Korean-language book “The Children-selling Country” and English book “The Global Orphan Adoption System; South Korea’s Impact on Its Origin and Development.” Cover photo: gettyimagesbank

As the tree lights glistened, they illuminated the delicate ornaments, creating a magical effect. The fire pit cracked as the scent of warm firewood and fresh pine flooded my senses. The background noises from "Home Alone" playing in the other living room reminded me of my American childhood. As I took the first sip of the perfectly hot oolong tea and reflected on all the unimaginable opportunities presented to me, I couldn’t get rid of a feeling of longing and isolation. I thought back to my childhood when times were simpler. I thought back to when I excitedly hand picked each ornament to place on the tree, when I would spend hours creating paper “gingerbread” houses as a present for my mother, and when the holiday street lights would transport me to a world of inspiration. I wondered when my childlike spirit dimmed, silenced from the world. For many, the holidays are a time of celebration, joy, and reunion. I listened to my coworkers and friends share their favorite family traditions like spending their day making pasteles, a traditional Latin American food, or celebrating quality time through hot pot and karaoke. The more I listened, the more I ached for a genuine connection with my family. When I was younger, I never noticed I was the only person of color in my family. I used to think I was awkward which was reinforced when family members asked why I was so shy, as if this would suddenly change my personality. It wasn’t until I got older and began to understand the complexities of being a person of color that I realized I’m actually outspoken and lively. However, during family parties I was expected to code-switch to fit in with white culture. Because of their ignorance, I was forced to be the token individual, gaslighted when I tried to share my experiences. With age, I realized I would rather be alone than surrounded by people dedicated to misunderstanding me. One Christmas Eve, one of my extended cousins asked if I was going over for Christmas lunch. She was one of the whopping two family members that understood white privilege, and my spirit beamed at the hope of a close family connection. My father and I had originally planned to eat lunch together, but I didn’t see the harm in postponing until dinner. On the drive home, I asked what he thought of the idea of changing our plans, and asked what time we should head over to my cousin’s. “We’re not going, we’re eating lunch at ours,” he stated in a firm tone. I was confused at his unwillingness to listen, especially because it was only us two and we had planned to eat together the next day, so it didn’t really matter which meal it was. I expressed how much this meant to me, but he stayed firm in his answer, each time his tone getting sharper and firmer. As his voice began to raise, it became harder to control my frustration. For me, this was something deeper; it was a chance for a relationship I always craved. Within minutes, speaking morphed into shouting and hope dissipated into tears. Without the communication skills and knowledge I needed to have this conversation, I couldn’t control my reaction. “You don’t understand what it’s like being the only person of color in an all white family! I’m finally connecting with a family member who understands, and you’re keeping me away from them. I’m asking one small thing, and you can’t even explain why you’re so adamant about not going tomorrow.” I cried with tears streaming down my face. “Why do you always need to bring up race? No one sees you as different because of it, and we’re eating lunch tomorrow here. That’s it!” he shouted as we arrived at our house. I grabbed my bag, wiped my tears, and hopped out the car heading straight for my room. That night, I cried myself to sleep, longing for any type of connection. A loud crack from the fire brought me to the present moment. As I recalled that memory, I reminded myself that we are allowed to feel a range of emotions simultaneously. Being grateful for a supportive family can coexist with feelings of emptiness, and we don’t need to feel guilty about those emotions. Holidays, birthdays, and other special occasions can often be particularly emotional times for some adoptees. These times may represent the mysteries of our lives, whether that’s the unknown piece of our story, the missing traditions of our heritage, or the thought of what our biological families are like. However, as we continue to heal, there is hope. With increased advocacy and awareness, we’re able to connect with our community and fight the feelings of longing and isolation. There is hope to build those strong connections, hope to begin new traditions and customs, and hope to create a healthy family of our own.

It’s hard for adolescents to find themselves. They weave through personalities and identities trying to find the right fit. They switch friend groups, hobbies and goals hoping something sticks. But, is finding identity harder for an adoptee? Does the fact that we begin our lives with a family who isn’t biologically tied to us level-up our journey to finding our identities? We have defining moments as we grow, both good and bad, that help shape who we are today. Like the time that blonde girl fell into the orchestra pit during rehearsal. The time my cousin lost her 2-year-old son and I had to watch a tiny casket roll down the church aisle. The first time someone close to you betrays you, or worse, when you betray yourself. When I think about my moments, many seem centered around my race and my “otherness.” Like, when I went roller skating with friends and the only boy who asked me to skate was the one other Asian in the rink. I was repulsed. I didn’t want to be associated with him. Hanging with him just affirmed how different I was. I think that’s why I had such a hard crush on Ricky Schroeder when I was younger. He was blond and blue-eyed. He was my ticket to normalcy. My identity revolved around not being different. Then, there was the time I took a student trip to Russia and the counselor had me room with the only other Asian girl on the trip. She was a skinny little Chinese girl who sang like Snow White with too much vibrato and she thought she was the shit. I was less than enthralled. I remember thinking, ugh, why am I rooming with her? Did they think I had some subconscious bond with her because our hair was black and our eyes were slanted? I hated standing out like that. But really, is that any different than any other kid growing up? Sorry I didn’t skate with you Ross. I’m sure you were a nice boy. And, sorry Snow White. I was too judgmental back then. I’m a little better now in my old age. I think by the time high school came around I got tired of trying to fit in. I got used to the fact that the small town boy wasn’t going to taint his bloodline for the dragon lady. I started dressing in black, listening to The Cure and wearing a fake nose ring. There is no way in hell Carla—my adoptive mother—would’ve allowed a real one. I think children who are constantly ostracized begin to own it and revel in it. It’s like, you’ve felt like an outsider all your life, so why not own it and find others you can identify with. We rationalize our treatment, thinking it’s deserved. I was always so dramatic anyway, so the whole persona really welcomed me in—teenage angst mixed with loner insecurities. I went from the girl who hated to stand out to the girl who said fuck it; might as well find joy in standing out since I’m going to anyway. But really, is that any different than any other kid growing up? Can the non-adoptee fall back into a family that looks like them, that are tied to them by blood? Can they at least feel like they have a place where they belong? I was always loved by my parents. They did their best to raise me like I was a Bradford. I never felt like the “adopted” child even next to my brother who is their biological, bonus baby. But, when you’re Korean and your mother is an overweight strawberry blonde Christian and your dad looks Amish, it’s hard not to feel “other.” Finding one’s identity can be a daunting experience. But for the adoptee, there’s more layers of complexity as we begin our life abandoned. Whether conscious or unconscious, we were alone and separated from all we knew. For us, finding our way back to self has extra detours. Heather Lewis, or 노 영 미 as her biological sisters have named her, was born in Seoul, South Korea and raised in the U.S. at 6 months old. Heather has had many professions: waitress, ballroom dance instructor, middle school English teacher, and her current role in operations. She has a Master’s in English, a Master’s in the Critical Studies of Teaching English and a Master’s in Business Administration. She is a proud KAD (Korean Adoptee) and likes to explore identity through writing. She loves being married to “fake Dave Grohl” and raising her only daughter. Despite still not knowing her birthday, she’s sure she is a Capricorn. Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/lewie73