A re-imagining of "Romeo and Juliet" taking place in 1926 Shanghai, two gangs are at war. Juliette is a member of the Scarlet Gang. Her first love, Roma, now oversees the White Flowers. When an unknown contagion rears its head in both gangs, Juliette and Roma must come together to stop the deaths or else the entire city will end in ruins. Wow! I was unsure about a Romeo and Juliet retelling, but this was fantastic. Despite this being a retelling, Gong added original spins to "Romeo and Juliet" that made it an entirely new story. The sci-fi twists were welcomed and kept me intrigued the entire time. Along with the sci-fi spin, the book takes place in Shanghai and features Chinese and Russian characters. The rival gangs each have their own cultural customs and traditions, and I appreciated the representation shown. It didn’t feel forced and helped me connect to "Romeo and Juliet" in ways that I couldn’t before. There was not as much romance as in the original story, and I preferred this. I appreciated how the characters were older and more mature. While there was some romantic tension between Juliette and Roma, there was more emphasis on them coming together as allies to save their home. There was more to them than just being star-crossed lovers. Juliette definitely had a lot more depth and I loved her independent nature. She was spunky and fierce. I rooted for her the entire time and could see many readers relating to her character. There was more gore and violence than I expected, but I didn’t find it to be an issue. If you are wary about violence, this might not be the book for you, but I recommend trying it out anyway. The ending was a bit ambiguous, but we can expect a sequel and I truly hope it comes soon!

What are you willing to do for love? Roma is stunned by Marshall’s death, and he is out for revenge. Juliette will not spill any secrets in order to protect the people she cares about most. A new monster now threatens the city and Roma and Juliette must again team up to try and save Shanghai. I had really enjoyed Chloe Gong’s retelling of Romeo and Juliet in "These Violent Delights" and was very excited to see how she would continue their story in "Our Violent Ends." This book did not disappoint. I actually enjoyed it more than the first because the characters were well-established and we could jump right into the drama and action. I didn’t pick this up immediately after finishing its predecessor, but as I reflected on both, I found "Our Violent Ends" to have more adventure throughout. This was a fast-paced book that kept me turning the pages. There was a lot to follow, and I did have to re-read some parts to take mental notes of everything going on ensuring I didn’t get lost in the story. I went into "Our Violent Ends" reminding myself that I think this duology is more sci-fi than fantasy. Knowing that made it more enjoyable. Even with monsters and traitors, I was more invested in Roma and Juliette and how they would end up saving Shanghai. The sci-fi elements added suspense and a common enemy, but it wasn’t my main focus for this book. While Roma and Juliette are still fiercely independent characters, we finally get to have some romance! I was wondering how their relationship would develop since this was such a unique and creative retelling. I was pleasantly surprised with their relationship development and felt there was enough tension and build-up to make their love story satisfactory. Like with "Our Violent Delights," I was very impressed with this book. As an extension of a retelling, I had no expectations for where the story would go. I loved how Gong remained true to the Romeo and Juliet plot while making the characters more complex and relatable. Overall, this was a fantastic end to a thrilling story. It offered representation in classical literature that I hadn’t had before and showed how with a little imagination, characters could have many more layers of depth to them than previously written.

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.”

Alice Stephens is passionate about writing and adoptee voices. She’s spent her life honing her writing skills and adoption knowledge, making her an essential figure in both spaces. Her debut novel, "Famous Adopted People," challenges the traditional adoption narrative. As part of the first generation of intercountry adoptees and a well-traveled adoptive family, she offers a unique perspective through the lens of someone intimately familiar with what it feels like to be an outsider. But, she didn’t always possess the awareness and skill she has now. Alice knew she wanted to be a writer from an early age, saying, “I had the desire to be a writer before I had the ability.” She loved to read and wrote silly stories throughout high school. Continuing to pursue her love, she majored in English in college, then got a job in academic publishing in New York City. After a time, she realized it wasn’t the profession for her and decided to take on writing her own novel. She and her partner moved to New Mexico, where she wrote that novel. “It sucked. It was really terrible. But I did it, and it was a very good learning experience. It was also very discouraging. I stopped writing for a long time, but I didn’t stop having the desire to write,” she confessed. In addition to needing space from the discouraging experience, she started a family, which consumed all of her time. While Alice took a break from writing for herself, her work was always based on writing. Once her children were older, the family moved to Japan. Alice’s husband gave her the idea for a historical fiction novel based on a mixed-race Japanese man. After seven years and a lot of research, she had a product she was proud of. They moved back to the United States, where she got in on the ground floor with the Washington Independent Review of Books. She started writing book reviews, her first public-facing pieces, and to date, has over 100 reviews and her own column, Alice in Wordland. “I think that’s a really important first step: to have that confidence to say ‘I wrote this!’ and be really proud of it,” she reflected. Her success with the book reviews and column did not translate into success for her historical novel. She got two agents, who believed in her and her work and sent her novel to some of the top publishers in the U.S. None of them picked it up. She decided to tuck that away and write about what she knew: adoption. Unlike the historical novel that took seven years, her novel came out in only 10 months. Alice’s agent relentlessly sent her book out, but couldn’t get anyone to publish it. In a last-ditch effort, Alice sent the novel to an independent publisher, Unnamed Press, on her own. In what felt like a fairytale, Unnamed Press published her book, "Famous Adopted People" (read more about the journey here). This achievement not only validated that her story was important and she had the skill to tell it but also prompted her to write more about adoption. Born in 1967 to a Korean woman and an American soldier father, Alice’s fate was cast before memory could capture what was happening. She was adopted by a white family in the United States, to whom she attributes her solid self-confidence. “I was a lucky adoptee. I was adopted into a family that told me that I was very smart and always gave me confidence in my mind. In fact, they told me I was the smartest one in the family. That’s an incredible gift to give an outsider child.” Although her confidence in her capabilities was high, like many adoptees, her confidence in her personality and ability to gain friends was not. She experienced the same types of racism most Asians face in America. Writing provided a refuge because she could get her words out into the public without being physically present. Alice’s family traveled extensively when she was growing up. Those experiences, in tandem with her transracial adoptee identity, gave her a fearlessness in exploring the world and discovering how vast the range of human experience is. “Traveling the world is wonderful because it opened my perspective on life, so I understood there’s more than just black and white. Like adoption, there are so many nuances and complexities to everything.” Speaking of nuances and complexities, although Alice said, “I’m a lucky adoptee,” she by no means subscribes to the traditional adoption narrative. She owns that her life couldn’t exist without adoption: If she had been a mixed-race baby left in Korea in the '60s, she wouldn’t have the life she has today. She said, “I’m not anti-adoption; there is a need,” but she also believes, “the more you learn about adoption, the more rotten it becomes.” The first thing that set her alarms off were all the stories she read about adoptees that painted them as helpless objects. “It’s not that adoption is wrong; the narrative around adoption is wrong.” That’s why she wrote "Famous Adopted People." She was tired of all the fairy tales, sappy stories, and false narratives. The adoption landscape has changed quite a bit since Alice was a child. As part of the first wave of adoptees, she was incredibly isolated and didn’t come across another self-identified adoptee until eighth grade (around 14 years old), or a Korean adoptee until her 20s. All the social media communities, conferences, books, and podcasts we have now weren’t options then, so she had no support or reason to wonder why she felt bad about herself; she just figured she was a rotten kid. Looking back on it, she recognized the deep sense of alienation, self-loathing, and desperate attempts to get people to see her the way she wanted to be seen. She had no idea the adoptee community existed until she published her novel, which connected her to this community that provided more context, language, and support for her experience as an adoptee than she ever had before. Alice admitted that "Famous Adopted People" didn’t garner the grandiose success she hoped for, but she also knows she shouldn’t have been surprised, possessing the knowledge of the publishing world as she does. Her novel doesn’t follow the traditional narrative, which makes people uncomfortable. But, Alice isn’t concerned with making those who uphold the status quo comfortable; she’s on a mission to shift the narrative—both through her own writing and helping other adoptees publish their stories. Writing has shown her how people think about and interrogate their past. She mused, “One of the gifts of being an adoptee is that we can look at our lives and say, ‘oh, I’ve changed my mind,’ and that’s ok. The world is changing all around us all the time, every day.” After perusing Alice’s work, it may not seem like she runs into creative blocks like the rest of us, but she assured me that she does. A lot. Working through them includes being part of a writing group, where prompts help to either spark something for her current work-in-progress or simply give her a nice piece, temporarily assuaging the frustration of not making progress on the main piece. Another way she works through the writing block is to not write. She suggests, “Take in other art, not just reading but movies, media, painting, sculpture, nature, whatever. Just kinda let your mind wander, but wander in a good way, in a way that focuses your mind on what you’re trying to write through.” Swimming also helps her empty her mind, making space for ideas to come up. Writing presents numerous challenges, including motivation to get going, finding a balance between being disciplined and too tough on oneself, and perhaps the hardest of them all, rejection. Alice notes, “The rejection is really hard. It happens a lot, and it happens even to famous writers. That’s the most difficult, but that goes back to self-confidence. You always have to have some sort of confidence if you want to be published.” While there are challenges, writing is also immensely rewarding. Alice’s face lit up as she enumerated the myriad benefits: it’s great for introverts because all she needs is power and the Internet, she loves creating stories and seeing them take shape on the page, having a finished product she’s satisfied with, seeing her work out in the world, reading what others write, and she especially loves the writing community and nurturing those fruitful exchanges. “That helps as a writer to know you’re not alone, having others who support you and genuinely want to see you succeed.” Due to countless situations, many adoptees are afraid to tell their stories. Her advice? Write your story and worry about the fear after it’s written. Just get it out of you first. If finding the words is the hard part, she said, “That’s a little trickier. The big thing about writing is organizing your thoughts, and the way to organize your thoughts is to write. So it’s kind of a circle, but the only way you can start that is by sitting down to write. You have to sit down and write and refine it and refine it and refine it until it makes sense and flows well. That takes time. Don’t get discouraged. Take writing classes, become part of a writing group, submit your work and see what people say when they return it. There are lots of ways to get better just by practicing, but really, you have to sit down and do it. That’s the first step.” Practicing what she preaches, Alice not only participates in writing groups, she’s also a co-facilitator in one, Adoptee Voices Writing Group, founded by Sara Easterly. Alice got looped into the group after Sara heard her on Haley Radke’s podcast. She admits she was skeptical at first, but after the first cohort, she was blown away by the adoptees and their stories. Though she facilitates, the experience helps her as a writer too, providing a broader view of the adoptee experience, which translates into her ability to write fuller characters. As a participant in this group myself, I get to witness the empathetic support, strategic feedback, and profound value she brings to the table, providing a safe place for adoptees to learn how to effectively tell their stories and hone their craft. Aside from her role as a co-facilitator in the adoptee writing group, Alice always has several irons in the fire. Her goals moving forward are to get two historical novels published, complete the current novel she’s working on, and maybe, just maybe, write a memoir. She also partnered with poet Marci Calabretta Cancio-Bello to facilitate the Adoptee Literary Festival on April 9, 2022. The full details are still in the works; however, you can look forward to hearing from the keynote speaker, Nicole Chung, during the event. Alice is an inspiring example of an adoptee who’s boldly shifting the adoption narrative while guiding and supporting other adoptees to do the same. She’s already made a profound impact, and she’s nowhere near finished. Cover photo: Bruce Guthrie

The Universal Asian got to know Mai Young Øvlisen, lead singer of Meejah. The Danish-Korean band recently released their debut album Queen of Spring (2021) which is available to stream on Spotify. Follow them on Instagram here! Tell us about yourself. All right. My name is Mai Young Øvlisen, and I live in Copenhagen, Denmark. I grew up in Aarhus in Jutland. It’s the second biggest city in Denmark. And I’m adopted from South Korea. So I was born in Seoul, and then I came to Denmark when I was two months old. How did you get into music? When did you start playing? I started playing when I was about 7 years old. I started playing classical piano, but before that, I started dancing classical ballet as well. My father is very passionate about music, so we were listening to a lot of classical music and also a lot of American singer-songwriters, like Neil Young and some other bands and acts like Janis Joplin—people with big voices or big emotions. I was playing the piano for several years, but at some point I felt the need to express some of my inner emotions more, and I started singing and playing with bands. When I was about, I don’t know, 16–17 years old, I started writing music on my own. How would you describe your sound or genre? It’s definitely alternative. It comes out of alternative rock music. I like acts like Radiohead, Nick Cave—some have large soundscapes and some have a sort of melancholy through them. Then, I also like bands that think of their album as a whole piece of art, a concept album. Our sound and my band, Meejah, is a combination of singer-songwriting and big soundscapes, but also various inspirations from electronic music, from edgy, gritty hip hop, post-metal (new genres that have evolved from artistic metal in the last decades), experimental music, and then I also combine Tibetan singing bowls. I’ve also taken inspiration in Korean Pansori singing. Like the concept of the album, it’s a mixture of the North and the East. We also try to do it with the sounds. Is there any significance to the name of your band? Yeah, it’s called Meejah, and it’s a paraphrase of the romantic period that thinks of the artist as a medium for divine inspiration. I also learned that it’s similar to a Korean female name. That was by mistake, but it makes a fine story: that I carry some of my unconscious Korean heritage with me. Do you have a songwriting process? I can tell you about what happened when the album started taking form. I was in a very heavy sorrow process at the time. There were a lot of feelings of loss and also feelings of—I think you can call it [urgency]. It felt like it was bigger than my body could contain. And then, it happened in this sort of overspill state. In just over a weekend, 2–3 days, I created four songs. It was a crazy weekend. It was almost like I couldn’t be inside myself, but I could create music. They just came one by one. And they were quite significant. It felt like that “medium” thought, like they called me in or something like that, like “It’s time!” Then it became very clear that there was sort of a concept to them. They were created over the four elements in the Korean flag: fire, heaven, water, earth. After that weekend, I felt quite relieved. I think that’s how I write songs in general. I think it’s when I’m in a process and things are just about to land or transform themselves, it’s then that I use the music to take them further. I also just think of all these emotional states as states of energy. It’s a way of molding the energy, changing it, building something with it, instead of it being a heavy weight. Can you tell me more about Queen of Spring (2021)? It’s the philosophy of the elements of the Korean flag. Also, I have been lucky to go on some trips back to Korea with other Korean adoptees—not just from Denmark, but from Scandinavia, Australia, Europe, and the U.S. Sometimes, the adoptee story is very much a fairytale story. Somebody goes into the woods to find something or to slay the dragon and returns and lives happily ever after. But, I don’t think that’s how an adoptee feels in real life. It’s an ongoing inner discussion or dialogue you have with yourself, and that can bring really beautiful things if you want to interact with that part of yourself. So, I think I collected experiences and questions that I wanted to translate into sound, into songs, and into a collaboration with my bandmates, Daniel and Andreas, because they weren’t as involved in the inner conversations. They just hear the sounds and the songs and the structures, and use their ability to understand and to translate stories into music. So maybe it’s not a direct inspiration, but it is an artistic rite for me to collaborate with others and to be in that space where you create something new. Is there a significance to the order of the tracks? Yes. After I created the first four tracks on a composition, I found out that there were other tracks that wanted to be written. They felt a little bit like bridges between the four big elements. I looked into Korean philosophy and found out that there are not just four trigrams, but eight trigrams. The others are thunder, wind, lake, and mountain. So, the album is built over these eight trigrams, and the philosophy is the unity of all opposites. And also, the only principle is the principle of change—which is also from Chinese Taoism. The album is called Queen of Spring because, as I understand it with my Western mindset, you have to go through a full circle of these heavy elements—and some of them are challenging and some of them are beautiful—and then you purify, and the next time you play the circle, it will have changed and you will have elevated your understanding and your level of enlightenment. I just like the way the album, and the way we have planned the eight tracks, sort of transforms your inner emotional state. What do you want listeners to take away or experience from your music? I want them to feel the change. I want them to feel the elevation. It is an exploration of how you can tell stories in sound. And, I think the Asian-European narrative is not that known. I also think we have other stories or other nuances to tell than the Asian-American community, and I think that we can interact with each other and inspire each other. I’m from the North, from Denmark and Scandinavia, and I’ve also spent a lot of time on the Faroe Islands, which is a very small group of islands north of Scotland, just before Iceland. The Faroese culture tells me very much about old historical roots. It tells a story just in how they are, how the culture is about how it was before in other Scandinavian countries. So, I hope that the listener will try to connect to all these historical movements that we have tied together in a new sort of story. I also hope they will get inspired to think about their own heritage—it’s not just about ethnicity or different continents coming together, it can be just the meeting of any two cultures. It can also just be your mother’s line and your father’s line and how they’re different and how they influence who you are. What advice do you have for aspiring musicians? First of all, I think that they should believe in their own expression, and insist on their own expression. Find playmates, soulmates that they really enjoy spending time with. I think communication outside the music is very important as well. Because, you can have different opinions on genre, and you can have different musical inspirations, but if you can understand each other on that existential level, then it can really be a benefit. So, the communication also means to me that you are able to translate your ideas and thoughts, and understand them, of course. I have tried to be very mindful about what I wanted to tell, and I wanted to build something new. I wanted to build a new line of stories, and I think it’s also very cool if you just want to spread good vibes or party or be the coolest person in the room. I just think you have to be honest. It is some kind of change you want to create, because when people press play on your music, it immediately affects the body and the brain. So yeah, just some kind of honesty. Be honest with yourself. How do you feel when you perform your music? Do you still get nervous from time to time? I try to stay open to that particular evening and that particular audience. Also, our own states. Because then every concert feels different when you perform it. I also try to have a rooted connection to what each song wants to express, and it’s a lifelong rehearsal to do that, to be that medium, to step aside and be an instrument for that story to tell itself. I try to be as good as I possibly can on my instruments. I think a lot about what I want to say between songs, and how I can compose the concert as a whole. If I stay focused, I don’t get nervous. I just get excited. It’s a good thing, because then the energy rises and you have something to send out. A big congratulations to Mai, who was nominated for the Danish Music Critic’s Award “Steppeulven 2022″ as the first Asian Female leadperson/frontperson in a band ever in the category "Hope of the Year."

In her daring and confrontational artwork, An Laurence Higgins explores transnational identity as an adoptee of Chinese origin. “My teacher once told me that I should not go into music because it’s a very hard life, and I was almost convinced that I was not going to lead my life as an artist,” says An Laurence Higgins, 安媛, from her flat in Montreal, Canada. “I could give everything up tomorrow and very easily, do a degree in whatever, but to not be able to do Music would be very depressing,” says the Canadian musician, performance artist and guitarist. An Laurence recalls the hesitation she had before deciding to pursue a degree in music: “I was never afraid of not being able to see what to do with my life. So, it was always in my mindset that if music doesn’t work out then I just do something else.” “I was not very confident about my skills. And, in Quebec, it was pretty affordable to just reorientate yourself.” However, when she started to play music when she was 12, she found a love for it. “I always was a very introspective person even as a child and I feel like music was really helping me to cope with loneliness and not being able to connect so much with a lot of people around me. I was able to really dive into the music I was listening to.” She also describes how she started to play guitar because she wanted to play “electric bass in rock bands.” Now, An Laurence is a specialist in new and experimental music whose works often address human relationships, memory and transnational identity. She says, “New music is a dissonant branch of classical music, of contemporary music. In the 20th century, there were a lot of experiments around classical music as a performance, in visual art or some other form.” For An Laurence, sometimes she uses visuals or electronics to make different narratives of music. She tells me she also likes to collaborate with other artists. “I like to enter into the dialogue with other artists and to find common points that we share, that we can recognise ourselves in,” she says. As a Chinese adoptee, she was brought to Canada by a French-Canadian couple when she was very young. Her transnational identity has since played a significant part in her works. In 2018, she created a multimedia installation “Confidences en trois temps” and in 2021, the interactive performance “Approchez, je vous raconterai ce que j’ai oublié/Come Closer, I’ll tell you what I forgot.” In “Come Closer, I’ll tell you what I forgot,” which is the latest performative installation that An Laurence has done, she shared monologues about her birth, her mother’s struggles due to China’s birth planning policy, and how she was finally given up by her mother due to pressure from her in-laws to have a son. An Laurence remembers the disconnection she had when producing this piece: “It was a question I had when I started working on it as I had already been doing research on it for about a year and a half talking about adoption. But it was not really associated with the story of adoption, I felt that there was a strong disconnection between when I was talking about my own adoption or just adoption in general; I felt I was talking about something else.” She added: “There was no music in the performance because I didn’t feel like any music would belong there.” An Laurence also recounts the struggles she had in telling a personal story she had no traces of. “When I started working on this project, my research project question was ‘how can we or how can I relate to a story that I don’t remember, that I don’t have traces of?'" “And I had no idea how to answer this question.” After reading a book in which real accounts of adoption were documented, An Laurence suddenly felt a connection. “When I was reading them, it was, for me, really, really strong, because it was the first time I ever felt a feeling of belonging. Before, my birth parents were just concepts; they were not really people in my mind.” When she read the stories about other people who were adopted just like her, An Laurence felt that her birth and her birth parents were real. “It could not have happened any other way. When I was reading them, I kind of found an answer.” Therefore, in this multimedia piece "Come Closer, let me tell you what I forgot," An Laurence depicted a very original story behind its very interactive components. “I wanted also to create a relationship with the public, and also I was a bit confrontational.” If it wasn’t for COVID-19 where social distancing must be followed, An Laurence says she would have invited people to come into a space and sit around a table. She says: “Every time a person would sit in front of me, I would start telling this story of adoption. It would be a different story every time a different person sits. “So, all of those stories are adapted from stories I’ve read from the books. And the idea there is that I’m not telling my personal story but I’m embodying the room, a collective narrative that belongs to all of us.” Now, as an avid collaborator, An Laurence collaborates with artists of various disciplines, and thrives in settings that stretch the limits of traditional music performance. Her performance style ranges from contemporary classical to electronic music, as well as spoken works and sung performances. An Laurence along with Annie Tong Zhou Lafrance have also launched a collaborative zine UP CLOSE, detailing their creative processes that led to the creation of their works “Come Closer, I’ll tell you what I forgot” (An Laurence) and “From China, To Canada” (Annie Tong Zhou Lafrance). You can read more about how to get a copy here.

The Universal Asian had the privilege of interviewing Moses Farrow as he shared his adoption story, surviving an abusive and chaotic adoptive home, and his journey to becoming an advocate for mental health, more adoptee research, and the telling of adoptee stories to maintain a living history of the adoptee experience. Moses Farrow was born in South Korea with cerebral palsy. He believes this is telling of the condition and situation that his birth mother must have been in during her pregnancy and his birth. At about 2 years old, Farrow was adopted into his high-profile family—though at the time his adoptive mother was recently divorced—as the youngest of seven children in the house but the first to be adopted into the family. His adoptive mother would later adopt another seven, mostly disabled, younger children over the years. Most of his early childhood memories are centered around physical and speech therapies to address his disability. This created in Farrow a need for control and ownership, especially over his own body. He struggled to accept that he couldn’t musically or athletically join in with his older siblings or peers. Still, he said he was fortunate enough to not feel that he suffered from teasing or ridicule at school, though he felt his challenges internally. This lack of confidence was further exacerbated by the abuse he experienced at home. He described growing up in a New York City apartment with his seven other siblings, who were all a wide range of ages, as being chaotic where everyone shared rooms and spaces. Underneath the hubbub of life was a growing sense of fear and anxiety for Farrow as he grew older and gained more independence with his disability. He shared that he was constantly having to be on high alert as to when he might get yelled at, in trouble for some unknown offense, and blamed for things. He worried about what might be said or what he had unwittingly said. Initially, he thought this was a normal way to live. One early memory, Farrow recalled, was when he was about 5 and was abruptly awakened by his adoptive mother dragging him to her bathroom accusing him of taking her pills despite his half dazed denials. He second-guessed his own denials and received the punishment of a bar of soap in his mouth for an unknown period of time until his adoptive mother decided it was enough for him to go back to bed. Another example Farrow gave was when he was playing with a Speak & Spell and the sound became garbled. He took it to his adoptive mother, and she immediately blamed him for breaking it. “The next thing I know, I’m laying across her lap getting spanked. It was just a switch; from playing, bringing it to my mom to find out what’s up with it, and the next thing I know there is screaming and crying and getting blamed for it.” In the end, he found out that all it needed was a new battery. While independently these examples may seem benign, the consistency of such behavior took a toll as he felt the environment was always unsafe and unstable. Although some are able to survive these kinds of situations, like Farrow has, there are others who do not. Within Farrow’s own family, the lack of safety and trauma experienced was unbearable for three of his adopted siblings, who are recorded to have been lost due to suicide or suicidal decisions. Because he was (still is) estranged from his adoptive mother’s side of the family, which includes many of his adopted siblings, Farrow sadly acknowledged that it still weighs heavily on him that he was not there for them as an older brother. Despite the difficulty and stigma around suicide, Farrow believes that it is important to talk about it and address the pain. He admitted that there have been points in his life where he also felt suicidal. Farrow believes that although one could argue that anyone who is raised in an abusive home can feel tremendous isolation and loneliness, which are often the catalyst for a suicide victim, he also emphasized the additional weight of adoption trauma. “You can’t undo lived experiences. You can’t undo relinquishment. You can’t undo a forced separation. You can’t undo something that might have happened to you during pregnancy.” Adding on to the trauma of adoption, abuse and external lack of validations are pieces that challenge the survival of adoptees. Farrow feels it is important to understand that “too many of us wonder what is wrong with me, and am I really to blame?” and that there is more to the overall context than just the individual. Farrow expressed that adoption itself stems from a series of losses that causes trauma to the adoptee that moves beyond just needing to survive, so his own experience is multilayered with the chaotic nature of his adoptive home. When he became a young adult, Farrow was able to make a change for himself. He was asked by an adviser, “Who is Moses?” This started him on his journey to self-discovery and created his ability to live fully rather than react to life passing by. He had to deactivate the survival instincts, or fear of threats, that he had developed, and learn to feel safe within himself and his social environment. To achieve this, he had to change his physical environment, which included distancing himself from his family. Farrow found friends who offered support and care. These friends became like family, which led him to redefine what family is. He also has a renewed relationship with his adoptive father that he still maintains. This change provided him with examples of love, compassion, and what it means to trust; thereby giving him a new perspective where he has been able to find emotional security and safety. He shared that it is still a constant exercise and effort to be aware of his past and of the activation points that set him off as a reaction against the imprinted traumas of his childhood. Furthermore, he found a way to survive by discovering a sense of purpose and giving back to the greater good so as not to give in to the personal suffering and weight of his own pain. Still, he shared that he continues to struggle with confidence, but a Ted Talk by Kristen Neff on self-compassion gave him inspiration to continue on his journey toward healing and advocacy. According to Farrow, there needs to be a stronger understanding of what it means to be adopted and about the types of adoptions. In other words: “Is a child abducted and adopted? Or, is a child trafficked and adopted? Is the relinquishment forced and then adopted? More research is needed around adoption origin stories.” He believes there will continue to be more interest, funding, and information available as more adoptees’ stories come out and are talked about. Farrow left us with this message: “We need to come together and have these platforms to acknowledge amongst ourselves our unique but shared experiences of being adopted. It is important to have these spaces as modern day historians to record our experiences as more children continue to be adopted so that we can continue to move forward and change the trajectory of experiences. No matter where one is on their own journey, whether a positive one or not, all that matters is that we have a historical record. The more that we share our stories, the more accurate a picture we create so that we know how to shift the conversations, adjust the adoption experience, and avoid repeating previous mistakes.” Everything in his life has culminated into now and what he can uniquely offer. As such, Farrow actively advocates for human rights, suicide prevention, and mental health. He is dedicating his life to raising awareness and representing the voices of those who are no longer with us.

I sat down recently for a virtual chat with 양 천식 (Yang Cheon-Shik), who is also known by his adopted name, Jeff. He was seated comfortably on the floor of his home in NYC, dressed in a beautiful wine-colored modern hanbok with a plaid pattern made from 12 yards of silk and taffeta. There was also a 망건 (manggeon) adorning his head, a headband traditionally topped with a Korean hat known as a 갓 (gat). Tell us a little bit about yourself, your childhood, how you came to the U.S., whatever you want to share. “My Korean name is Jeff, or my Korean name is Cheon-Shik. I am a Korean American adoptee. According to the birth adoption records that I have at my disposal (whether or not those are valid is to be determined), I was pre-arranged for adoption by a single mother, a factory worker in Korea. I came over [to the U.S.] at six months old, was adopted by a white family, and grew up in upstate New York in an idyllic, country town. For the most part, the only other Asians I knew were adopted kids, and all of us were within a year or two of each other in age. I played oboe in school. In music classes, there were always other Asians kids, which I didn’t think was unusual; it was almost…expected. I continued to pursue music through conservatory, and found a new community in the musical theatre circles of NYC.” That road to various creative communities eventually led Jeff into Asian design. He is known for designing and wearing modern hanbok every day. He owns a few t-shirts, a pair of jeans, and an emergency back up suit, but says he primarily dresses in 19th century (1800s) Joseon Dynasty–inspired hanbok. Jeff commonly puts on the traditional amount of layers and wears the garments everywhere—to work, to Starbucks, to pick up lunch, and anywhere else he goes in the city. I want to touch on something I heard you say in your introduction; you mentioned “Asian,” “Korean,” and “adopted.” Can you tell me more about whether you agree with, or use these sort of categorizations, given the way the world can sometimes use them as labels? “I use specific labels at certain times now, because [before], I didn’t know what they meant. I used to sort of go with it, like an ‘indifference mentality’ in order to survive. But now, as I am almost forced to explain it [wearing daily hanbok], my current self image is a product of being an adoptee in America embracing my Korean heritage, but also being a part of the ‘monolith’ of Asian-Americans in the West. I know the link between ‘adopted’ and ‘Korean’ is intertwined. I identify so strongly as Korean, that ‘-American’ is almost an afterthought—used only because I am in this environment. I was born in Korea. I was adopted from Korea. I am the immigrant. I am the first one to cross, so in my mind, I have always thought of myself as a Korean, contrary to what purists and gatekeepers may say. I was born to a Korean family with generations of Korean ancestors on Korean soil. I was the last person with any choice in where I was brought. My Korean-ness is an undisputed fact. Being adopted leads me to be as aggressively Korean as I am now.” Your social media bio includes that phrase you just used, “aggressively Korean.” Can you go into more detail about that? “My Hanbok twin, as I call my friend, shared that sentiment once, and I liked it. This journey is solely for me, and furthering my relationship with Korea. I’ve been trying to build that separate from my search for my birth family. I didn’t want how I feel about being Korean, my Korean identity, and my self [identity], to be affected by whatever outcome might happen. I am entitled to every hurt, rage, and anger from that outcome, but I want to still love Korea and who I am at the end of the day.” As fellow adoptees, we went on to talk about the idea that we do not need permission to be what we are: Korean. Jeff went on to share that native Koreans, and maybe some Korean Americans may not understand the adoptee lens we look through. He articulated that many of them simply do not know what it’s like to not be surrounded by Korean culture, customs, and norms. He did not eat kimchi until his 20s, nor meet a Korean elder until his 30s. He often wonders if the relationships he has with elder Korean mentors and friends are projections of what it might be like to have a Korean father or mother. Let’s talk about your journey into studying about and wearing hanbok. “I stumbled across others on YouTube living their daily lives in historical wear, and I wondered what the Korean version of that was. So, I bought a used hanbok set and learned how to use a sewing machine. I copied the exact pattern off of the one I bought and also started with a few pieces from various modern hanbok outlets in Korea.” Jeff uses traditional patterns and garment types that are traditionally layered with the proper accessories and silhouettes, but he makes them with Western fabric and execution due to availability, cost, and personal design preference. He purchases fabric from his connections in the garment district of NYC. For example, instead of sheer silk, he might use organza. His patterning is not the same as those that are more traditional to Korea, but his designs are inspired by the Joseon Dynasty era. He finds modern inspiration that sometimes has nothing to do with Korea, but then looks at that through the lens of hanbok, such as a Sherlock Holmes look he completed a few months ago. You are someone who really appreciates the details of hanbok. What are your favorite details or components about traditional wear that impress you most? “The sheer genius of how they do not waste fabric is what fascinates me. Traditionally, a bolt of fabric would be much thinner, so the patterns are based on how wide that bolt is. Everything [in hanbok] is long rectangles; the front is one long rectangle and the second is stilted at an angle. My sleeves are giant rectangles and curves are sewn into it. Traditionally, they wouldn’t cut any fabric. If a sleeve got dirty, they would flip it inside out and use the non-sun-dyed side. Historical stitching is hand done, and so [it is] light and non-permanent. If it’s a nice silk, they’ll undo that, clean it, and stitch it back up. If the sleeves of a garment are too tattered to be worn, maybe they cut them off, and refashion it into a vest. That is a common thing for men’s robes. The scraps can make their way down to being baby diapers. In terms of textile use, and the Korean process of that, the garments are also so free (moveable). The pants are drawstrings so they can grow and be comfortable with the body, like when we eat a big meal. The seven layers were made to not feel like any pressure on the person. For women’s wear, the empire waist is often thought to not be flattering by Western perception, but the Korean historical silhouette is beautiful regardless of one’s accurate body shape. We are essentially crafting body silhouettes from the garmenture, rather than being self conscious about what our body actually looks like.” Are there any other exciting, upcoming projects that you are excited about? “With the return of 'Game of Thrones: House of the Dragon,' and the almost complete lack of East Asian representation in that show, I love the idea of a Targaryen hanbok. Leather, fur, and heavy embroidery. I also think [I’ll work on] a more simplified black linen with white peek-out underskirt (based on Chanel inspiration) to wear over my louder outfits while I’m in transit.” Is there any advice you would give from your own experiences (you’ve mentioned identity in music communities, connection with Korea through everyday hanbok, etc.) that might help others to begin embracing culture, heritage, or identity? “We are universally visually inspired people, so [use] whatever means you have. In my case, I searched for ‘Hanbok Fashion’ or ‘Asian Modern Style’ on Instagram. I also think visibility is helpful, universally in itself. To look more, to see yourself more…to be inspired. You won’t know you need or want it until you see it being done. Maybe it’s reading a book on history or tradition. Learning more, taking peeks into where you come from. It may ground you and enhance what is already inside. One question can take you somewhere even further. Be curious, I guess. Universally, we can all tap into that curiosity of where we come from. In my case, it’s Korean, but really, [we can do that] from any background.” A few years ago, Jeff purchased a Leesle brand modern hanbok jacket and paired it with jeans, thinking it was scandalous and new. Now, he is unabashedly afraid to embrace fully-inspired Korean hanbok wear as a part of his daily life. You can connect with Jeff on Instagram @yang_cheon_shik. He hopes to restart his YouTube channel, Cheon-Shik Yang, soon, as well.

The Universal Asian had the opportunity to chat with Monte Haines to hear about his incredibly painful adoption story that sadly ended up with him being left houseless and penniless upon being deported back to the country he was originally stolen from. Having only come across Monte Haines through all the noise surrounding "Blue Bayou (2021)," we were not quite prepared for the full story that he was about to share with us. He sat in his small apartment, which is provided by the Korean government, and took us through his story of tragedy after tragedy to the present moment. A 4- or 5-year-old Han Oh Kyu, now Monte Haines, was outside playing in South Korea and somehow got disoriented trying to find his way home. While lost, he was snatched off the street, and taken to a police box where he was subsequently sent to an orphanage as he didn’t know the names of his parents to be able to go home. He stayed in the orphanage for about six months before being sent to the U.S. in 1978 to be adopted through Holt International, for which he says they received USD 45,000 for his abduction in 1981. Haines also states that throughout his ordeal, Holt International has been absent and has denied that any wrongdoing occurred related to his adoption origins. Without knowing where he was going, why he was on a plane, or who the people were when he arrived, his nightmare in the U.S. began. Upon arrival, the people who were meant to help and take care of him put Haines in a closet, fed him bread and water, and regularly gave him a beating all over his body with a tree branch. One particular recollection he shared was a time in the winter when he was taken out of the closet, stripped down, chained to a pole with the dog allowed to nip and bark at him. This inhumane treatment went on for over a year. Although allowed to go to school, Haines was warned not to say a word about what was going on at home, and to make excuses about falling down or getting bit by the dog if it ever came up. So, he spent most of his time on his own without friends trying to hide everything going on at home; until one day, when a teacher touched him while he was sitting and he jumped, which caused the teacher to raise the alarm. The teacher had also noticed that he wasn’t going out to eat with the other kids. So, when another touch on the shoulder by the teacher caused Haines to jump, they raised his shirt to see all the black and blue marks all over his body. As he had been instructed by his guardians, he said that it was the dog and all the other excuses he had been told to say. Despite his claims, the teacher and school did not believe him, so Child Protective Services (CPS) was waiting for him when he arrived home after school that day. Haines was transferred to a foster family immediately. Even as a 6-year-old, he was confused as to what was happening and was still afraid that he would get in trouble if he said anything even though CPS was there to presumably help. His stay in his first foster family lasted five months. Then, Haines thought there was some hope when his second foster family wanted to adopt him. Cruelly, fate was unkind and they weren’t able to adopt due to an unfortunate coincidence of their biological son sharing the same name as Haines. Even so, he stayed for about a year and a half, during which time he was happy and comfortable. Sadly, he was sent to another foster family where he stayed for another year and a half and then was moved again to a third possible adoptive family in Nebraska. Finally, on July 15, 1981, Monte Haines was officially adopted. Relief at finding a perfect lasting home did not stay long. By this time, Haines was about 10. It was five or six months after his adoption that his adopted brother (A-brother), who was going to college and also an adoptee, got kicked out of the house by his adoptive father (A-dad). It was later revealed that his A-brother was being abused by their A-dad. Once his A-brother moved out, Haines’s A-dad moved on to him with the physical, sexual, and mental abuse. For seven years, he endured being beaten. He recalls getting hit over the head with a board and having his head slammed against a concrete wall when he went to help out at the family restaurant. This led to a hospital visit for a concussion where he would go in and out of consciousness. The situation continued until 1988 when his parents divorced. At that time, despite having the chance to live with his adoptive mom (A-mom), Haines chose to stay with his A-dad out of fear that he would get worse treatment if he wasn’t living with him. Unfortunately, “I made the wrong choice," as it was even worse when he and his A-dad were on their own. Some days he couldn’t walk because his A-dad would break his toe or put out cigarettes on his feet. Haines showed us the scars on his arm from being cut open by twigs with thorns that his A-dad would rake across his flesh. Haines escaped from the abuse when, one day, the police came to the school to tell him that his A-dad had been arrested for child abuse. He was sent on a plane to his A-mom’s, but even though he still loved her, he blamed her for being taken away from his A-dad. So, he rebelled until he realized that the reason his A-dad had been arrested was for abusing him. Once he learned the truth, he apologized to his A-mom. Despite all that was going on at home, Haines continued going to school and channeled his energy toward his studies, which resulted in him graduating early and starting college ahead of his peers. However, around the time of the first Gulf War, he decided to drop out of college and join the military instead. He said that he was moved to fight for his country. Haines went to basic and advanced individual training (AIT), where he gave it his all and did well. However, he soon regretted his decision to drop out of college. Despite his success in his training, Haines faced racial discrimination and bullying once he entered his unit. He was the only one getting hazed, pushed around, and spoken to with anti-Asian racial slurs. Although he believed that those in the military were supposed to be equals and not see color, he was never included in social activities because he “didn’t look like them [the others].” Haines never said anything about the racism and bullying since it was something he had faced from a young age. Instead, he endured the military conditions for three and a half years all the while wondering why it was happening to him. Still, he did his tours in Kuwait for his country believing he was a U.S. citizen—after all, he had a social security number, driver’s license, etc. The only thing he didn’t have was a passport since serving in the military meant he didn’t need one while he was on active duty. After getting out of the military in 1996, Haines worked in security for a while. Eventually, he moved onto a truck driving job. It was through this job that his bad luck worsened and he found out that he wasn’t a U.S. citizen. According to Haines, he was going through a border control checkpoint on a truck driving job. Upon handing over his manifest and paperwork, the guards requested to open his truck. He refused, as was in accordance with company policy. The guards insisted, but he continued to state he needed permission. By the time he was able to get down from the truck, the border patrol had opened the truck and arrested him claiming they had found 1,750 lbs of weed in his truck. Caught completely off guard, as he had only picked up the truck from his company yard with no knowledge of what was in it, he didn’t know what to do. He went to county jail on a drug possession charge for the night. The next day, he went to court where he stated that the border patrol lied to the judge claiming that Haines had said it was okay to open up the truck. Despite his rebuttal, his public defender did not succeed in keeping him from being sent back to jail. After three or four days inside, immigration officers came to inform him that he wasn’t a U.S. citizen. He was confused as to how that could be since he had all the paperwork and had even served in the military, and they refused to accept any of it as proof of citizenship. After two months in county jail, Haines was then sent to federal penitentiary for three years to serve his drug possession conviction. Then, he was transferred to an immigration detention center. When asked how he felt at what seemed to be the lowest point of his life—even more so than surviving abuse in his homes—Haines replied that he was just asking himself over and over: “What did I do to deserve this?” “I didn’t even choose to come to this country, but still served and put my life on the line for it. I felt betrayed by everyone who was supposed to be supporting me.” Even still, this wasn’t the worst of it, Haines said. He was kept in an immigration detention center in Haskell, Texas while waiting for a court hearing with an immigration judge, and was told that if he left voluntarily, then he could return to the US in 10 to 15 years. He agreed to do so. However, unbeknownst to him, his A-brother had hired an immigration lawyer, which ultimately prevented him from taking the deal to leave voluntarily. Although his lawyer argued that he fell under the Child Citizenship Act of 2000 and should automatically be considered a U.S. citizen, the judge denied the claim. Regardless of any arguments presented to his right to be considered a U.S. citizen, the judge refused to accept his status and said “this is his [the judge’s] country and [Haines] didn’t belong there.” This made Haines question if he would ever find anyone to be on his side as everything and everyone so far was against him. Finally, in December 2005, he was released, but was required to check in every month with immigration to report on his progress in getting the necessary travel documents to return to Korea. When Haines went to the Korean consulate in Houston, he was told that they didn’t know who he was as he was not registered anywhere in the Korean system. In response, the U.S. Immigration Office told him that he either had to go to Korea or find another country to go to. Throughout everything, he continued working to earn money. He found a job in construction and continued checking in with immigration as he was figuring out what to do. Furthermore, all this time, Haines and his A-brother had kept in touch and talked openly about what had been going on with their abusive A-dad. One day, his A-brother decided to confront his A-dad about the abuse. Although Haines had offered to go with him, he went on his own, so Haines went to work the next day. Before he had a chance to talk to his A-brother, he got a call from his A-mom with the news that his A-brother had shot himself. His only ally in his life had killed himself. This was a crushing moment when Haines questioned if he was cursed, that bad of a person, or jinxed to have all these things happening to him. Again, he asked himself: “What did I do to deserve this?” He questioned what he did wrong and what he should do now that his closest and only ally in life was no longer there. Haines, left with PTSD and depression, isolated himself from everyone and everything. Finally, he pulled himself out of it by thinking about what his brother would have wanted. It was during his grieving period that he missed his monthly immigration call. As soon as he returned to work, ICE agents came to his workplace in full gear to get him. He thought that he was going to wind up killed as they told him that he was being charged with threatening an ICE agent when he asked them to leave him alone to deal with his brother’s death. On October 27-28, 2009, he was taken to the immigration office in handcuffs and put into the Dallas Ft. Worth County jail for a couple of days. Then, he was told he was being deported. Somehow, ICE was able to give him a temporary travel document to return to Korea. On November 4, 2009, Haines was escorted at gunpoint by five ICE agents to the airport check in and left dressed in only shorts and a t-shirt with USD 20 in his pocket, and the travel document they gave him. Upon landing in Korea, Haines again wondered if anything good was going to come to him. He couldn’t speak Korean and he didn’t know where to go. He hadn’t eaten anything other than “nasty” airline food for two days. He wandered aimlessly around Incheon airport for almost a week without eating or knowing what to do and having nowhere to turn. Somehow, Haines managed to get a ticket on a bus, but didn’t know where he was going or where he would end up. He got off the bus with no idea of where he was or what to do. In his shorts and t-shirt and travel document in early November in South Korea, he walked around, slept in a subway station, and finally bought a subway ticket to Yeouido. By this point he had depleted his USD 20 and did not have the means to eat nor a place to sleep. So, he found enough boxes to put on the ground and cover him. He rummaged through trash cans to eat and survived for three weeks sleeping under a bridge in the cold wearing only his shorts and t-shirt. After a while, Haines realized he could call collect to the U.S. and told his mom what had happened. She gave him a church contact. Somehow, he found the church and got his first reprieve. He recalls that he had water and steam coming off of him as he literally defrosted on the ondul (floor heating system). The contact gave him warm clothes, some money, and a temporary place to live in a missionary apartment. From there, he was able to open a bank account with his travel document and put the money she had given to him in it. Haines was also able to get a cell phone and started looking for a job despite not having a resume. Luckily, from that point forward, he has been able to work. First, he managed to get a job teaching English over the phone for about a year. He happily moved on to working in a restaurant in 2012 at a Korean-Mexican fusion restaurant with no resume needed. Later that year he was contacted to be interviewed by SBS, who had found out about him through someone at the church. His was the first that SBS had heard of such a story. Haines was a pioneer in raising awareness around deported Korean adoptees. During his interview with SBS, Haines said that he unloaded everything. He was able to unburden himself because someone was actually listening. Although he had held out hope for more help from this interview, even now, nearly 10 years later, in 2021, he is just surviving and trying to figure out how to make it with no help from the U.S. side, and little help from the Korean government. While he gets some help with his housing, he lost his restaurant job due to COVID-19, which has sent him again into a downward spiral of wondering if life is ever going to improve. His outlook at 50 is bleak. He shared that he lost his sense of humor years ago. His health is failing from PTSD and stress. He said that he has nearly given up a couple of times, but he continues living because he now finds strength in being able to spread the word about deported adoptees. Through it all, Haines’s strength and conviction to stay the course as a responsible and honorable human being shines through despite the adversity he has faced. When asked how someone could help him, he replied that he needs financial aid to help him pay his bills and eat. If he were able to get himself financially situated, Haines expressed that he would work to bring the struggle of deported adoptees and the reality of the lack of support from the States and their home countries to light. If you would like to financially help out Haines, you can contact him directly on Facebook or email. If you would like to learn more about the Adoptee Citizenship Act of 2021, you can follow Adoptees for Justice for how to take action.

Andy Burdin is a Renaissance man. He’s a Korean adoptee, graphic designer, and nationally registered EMT (though we didn’t have time to talk about that last one). His thoughtful creativity and playful personality jump out from everything he touches, from his website to the projects presented throughout. His Instagram is full of vivid images that highlight some of his biggest loves: the outdoors, design, his wife, and dog. Perusing his website, with projects ranging from "Honda Head2Head" to Marvel to a collaboration between Adidas and Ninja (one of his favorite projects), one might think design was a path he always knew he’d pursue. However, Andy stumbled into his career by chance. During high school, he discovered Photoshop, started learning from free online tutorials, and fell in love with this medium that allowed his creativity to bloom. When he got to Boise State University, he didn’t know what major to declare. All Andy knew was that he loved Photoshop, so he looked for a major to further develop that skill. That started his trajectory into graphic design. After a year at Boise State, he transferred to another small school in Idaho and studied print design, learning everything from book design to billboards. His love of movies drove the goal of creating a movie poster for a blockbuster film one day. Giving and receiving constructive feedback is essential as a creative. A film instructor told Andy that he was good, but he had to be even better if he wanted to work in the entertainment industry. He had to hone his skills technically, creatively, and artistically to achieve his goals. Andy entered several design contests in Idaho. Then, as chance would have it, an L.A. advertising company ran a key art competition for an "Iron Man" movie that he entered. While Andy didn’t win the competition, it was his first foray into working with professional photo assets, which confirmed that this was the path he wanted to explore. When Andy was about to graduate, a creative director discovered his work and asked him to join his team as a junior designer. He moved to L.A. and learned the ins and outs of professional production design in entertainment. Andy’s love of movies, video games, and design came together to shape his unexpected career. Throughout his 10 years as a designer, Andy has learned that one of the most challenging aspects of creative work is that it’s highly subjective. What one person likes won’t be the same as what someone else does. Humility and flexibility are key when balancing what a client wants while still injecting a personal touch. “It’s a different formula and playbook every single time,” he explained. I asked Andy if he ever ran into creative blocks and, if so, how he works through them. Without hesitation, he said: “Oh man, all the time. My best looks different every day.” Working through these blocks involves surrounding himself with people he respects who can give honest, constructive feedback. While the work is extremely challenging, it’s equally rewarding. Collaborating with incredible creatives on projects he really likes keeps him excited and continuously growing. One of the best parts is when his hard work pays off, and his clients are happy with his design. “I’m very, very grateful for the opportunities I’ve been able to have a hand in,” Andy shared. Another area of Andy’s life that has proven to be both challenging and rewarding is delving into his Korean adoptee identity. He was born in Seoul, and adopted by a white American family when he was around 6 months old. He has an older sister he’s close with, who was also adopted from Korea. They grew up in Washington state. His family moved to Idaho when he was 13. Like many adoptees, Andy and his sister didn’t have much contact with other Asians growing up. Their parents were supportive and encouraged them to do whatever they felt they needed to do, whether that was celebrate Korean holidays, explore Korean culture, or initiate a birth family search. But as kids, they didn’t have much interest. “When you’re kids, you don’t realize the dynamic of looking different from your parents. It’s easy to forget how you look when you’re surrounded by all white,” he shared. Andy went on to explain how as kids, it was clearer that their parents were their parents; people could figure it out. As adults, that changed. When he was at lunch with his mom, the server asked them if they wanted separate checks because she thought they were separate parties. His mom was confused because to her, it was obvious—Andy's her son. Situations like those have led them to have conversations about the ways others perceive the difference in appearance and how it affects how he and his sister are treated in America. Another situation that magnified how he stands out happened in college. The resident assistant (RA) in his dorm had seen Andy with his parents at the beginning of his freshman year. At the end of the year, she asked him if he was adopted. When he told her he was, she got excited and said, “Oh my gosh! A real-life adoptee!” and told him her family was considering adopting a baby from China. “It was kinda jarring because I was like, I’m not a zoo animal, I’m a person.” While he knows she wasn’t trying to be offensive, it distinctly showed that others see him as different. The rise in anti-Asian racism accelerated his exploration of Korean culture. He realized that, culturally, he’s the same as all his white friends, but how he looks puts him in another category in many minds. He experiences the same racism as other Asian Americans, but without the cultural upbringing. “I can’t culturally identify with first/second-generation Asian American culture, but I receive all of the same negative stereotypes. It wasn’t until I started to process that in the past year that I realized I should have every right to be proud that I’m Korean American. It’s not something I should have to hide. At this point in my life, I feel proud not only that I’m a Korean American but that I was adopted, and that in itself adds a huge dynamic.” He continued: “Sometimes it’s easier to assimilate with what’s around you. When I was younger, I felt like I was rocking the boat or trying to stand out as a Korean American. Frankly, I had little to no knowledge of Korean culture at the time. I didn’t have a pedestal to stand on to be proud of being a Korean American because I didn’t have the cultural upbringing. It was easier to just assimilate into white American culture and ignore that. Now, as an adult, I have a sense of pride. I’m Korean American. I’m an adoptee. And there are others out there like me that I can reach out to, and we all have shared experiences.” Diving into Korean culture has helped him learn to be willing to take risks, be wrong, and not feel a sense of shame as he learns. “I’m okay struggling through this. It’s easy to get discouraged investigating these parts of a culture we’re a part of and getting judgement from Koreans and non-Koreans alike for not knowing what it looks like we should know. I think that’s why I avoided Korean culture before.” While finding a sense of pride as he learns, he also admits that it can get emotionally draining trying to understand unfamiliar customs and traditions and stumbling over communicating in a language he doesn’t know. He also invests a lot of himself when he introduces people to Korean food because he feels it’s a reflection of him if they do or do not enjoy it. “To experience Korean culture through food may be one of the only entry points a lot of people have to Korean culture. For me, there’s a weight of hoping they enjoy it,” Andy stated. On the flip side, it’s incredibly rewarding when people do enjoy it. He said: “You always have a good time introducing people to something you love and seeing them enjoy it as well,” with the understanding that sometimes, it doesn’t matter how great it is. Some will not like it anyway. Recently, Andy initiated a birth search. So far, he has very little information, and like so many adoptee records, the information may not be accurate. “It’s easy to watch documentaries of adoptees finding their families and think, ‘that’s the benchmark for success.’” He likened this process to the California Gold Rush when people invested huge amounts of time, money, and resources to go dig for gold. Along the way, they’d hear stories ranging from it being a major success to it was a massive waste of time. As his story unfolds, he’s working to maintain a balanced perspective as he hears other search stories. As we wrapped up, I asked Andy what advice he has for other adoptees. He empathetically said: “Be kind to yourself. I think it’s easy to look at pictures of gold: you’ll find your birth family and be reconnected, and it’s this big family reunion. That’s a lot of people’s pictures of gold. To me, I look at it more like that picture’s a little bit blurry, and it looks different to every person. Whatever that looks like to you, is right for you. There is no right or wrong answer. How you feel about processing these things, how you unpack it, how you go about it, how much you share or don’t share is completely up to you and completely right. There’s no right or wrong way to feel emotionally about this, despite whatever social media and documentaries may show you. Don’t let anybody else’s successes or failures change how you personally feel. It’s an easy thing to verbalize, but it’s difficult for a lot of people, including myself, to put into action and weave into your picture of emotional and mental health. Be kind to yourself. Be forgiving and understand that this is a difficult, nuanced subject to talk through and process. There’s no right or wrong way to feel about it.” Connect with Andy and explore his work on Instagram and his website.

The Universal Asian had the wonderful opportunity to chat with Senior Foreign Services Officer for the United States State Department, Robert Ogburn. While there were several different areas that could have been shared due to Ogburn’s varied experiences, both personally and professionally, we are honored to be able to start the conversation with him here. Robert sits casually in his chair with pen and paper in hand. Throughout the interview, he jots down notes or thoughts for reference later. Ogburn speaks in a thoughtful, calm, and compassionate way as we traverse through various topics related to his background and life. Although he humbly appreciates being described as a visionary, we find just how apropos this assignation is to Robert’s character and inclinations which guided his childhood interactions into his seemingly perfectly-suited career path. Robert Ogburn was 2 years old when he was “picked out from a set of pictures” of children available for adoption by a U.S. military couple stationed in Okinawa, Japan who wanted to start a family. A couple of months after adopting Robert, the family moved to northern New Jersey, USA where he had his first taste of public attention when he was highlighted in the Trenton newspaper as a newly naturalized and adopted child from Asia, specifically Korea. Upon recalling his early childhood memories, he shares that before he was old enough to go to school, he used to be outside and the school children across the street would often come over to talk to him during their lunch break. It wasn’t until he was an adult that he realized that this might have been odd, and the reason they may have given him so much attention was because they had never seen, nor interacted, with someone from such a different background given the limited exposure to minority groups in the area he lived. His awareness of other minority groups came when he and his family moved to Maryland where he lived from age 9 to 13. Ogburn made friends with those from all the different groups in the neighborhood, but realized they didn’t necessarily interact with each other much. This was amidst the riots of 1968 and the social/political activity that was happening not far away in Washington D.C. Still, growing up in the time of the moon landing, Ogburn felt a sense of optimism believing that “the sky’s the limit” despite the unrest that seemed to be around him. This positive attitude helped him to avoid potential trauma in dealing with identity development as a youth. In fact, he admitted to pretending that he knew kung fu as a way to combat any kind of bullying or tension with middle school–aged kids, who questioned his identity or belonging—as any kid that age might face. Further, he mischievously laughs at his use of the Asian stereotype to his favor to get through high school math and science classes so that he could focus on the subjects that interested him more. While Ogburn was not immune to being asked the inevitable "Where are you from?" question, he replies that by not having the vocabulary to answer the real question behind the words it didn’t really feel that it was much of an issue for him. Perhaps his high school being 60 percent white and 40 percent Black helped, as the students were encouraged not to develop biases—although they still tended to hang out with like for like—which afforded Ogburn the opportunity to mingle between the two groups and gain more awareness of the various issues each faced without any prejudice of his own. When the issue of being adopted arose in a family conversation when Robert was about 8 years old, he recalls his mother said, “Don’t worry about it—you’ll always be my son,” which he felt was handled well for him. In fact, Ogburn’s adoptive mom played an important role in how he viewed his adoption experience and how his life would go. Despite the fact that there were no programs or infrastructure available to help adopted children stay connected to their heritage, Ogburn’s mom put up a Korean flag up in his room and would remind him that it was the country in which he was born and suggested that perhaps someday he could go and visit there. She even encouraged him to possibly study at the University of Hawaii to be closer to his roots and experience the hybrid of Asian and American culture. Although he didn’t study there, it was an interesting thought that she put out there to direct his future and can probably be directly linked to his chosen career path. Still, it took a while for Robert to become aware of his own Asian-ness. One of his early memories of becoming aware of the fact that he was a person of color was when an African American man drew him into a conversation about the color of their skin and pointed out that Ogburn was also a person of color. At the time, he didn’t understand the significance or meaning of this, but later it became an important moment in his acknowledgement of being of a different race. Further, his first engagement with being Asian was in college when he began to interact with first generation Asian-Americans. One particular incident was when a comic strip was printed with two dogs as the speaking characters pointing to a Korean restaurant and saying that they couldn’t eat there because Koreans eat dog. Ogburn got picked to use his "white American" status to be the voice for the Korean American students, who were outraged by the comic, to reach out to the paper and explain why this wasn’t a culturally sensitive thing to print. This was his first proper diplomatic action in bringing together two sides to discuss an issue resulting in a positive outcome with a deepened understanding of new perspectives. He naively believed that that would be the last incident he’d face related to cultural and race issues—back in the early 1980s. Thanks to his background and family being involved in government positions, Ogburn was interested in studying International Studies, which was a rare, or mostly unheard of, area at the time. Fortunately, he was able to self-design his own path in Latin American and Asian studies through his tertiary and graduate education, respectively. Although Ogburn initially did other jobs, his entrance into the foreign service was an ideal fit as it matched his interest in being involved in different areas and working with a variety of people. Ogburn’s first overseas experience was to Korea during the 1988 Olympics—making his mother’s foreshadowing come true. In reflecting on his adoption and further into his career in foreign services, Ogburn expresses his full appreciation for his freedom to “muck around” in finding one’s identity and how far one is allowed to dream without being told who or what one is. Despite having the challenges that can arise with the diversity of democratic societies, it affords us the chance to define who we are as individuals on our own terms through our own experiences, Ogburn reflects. Still, he believes that it requires a bit of a sense of humor to maneuver through some typical experiences where one’s face may not meet expectations. In response to the anti-Asian hate movement alongside Black Lives Matter, Ogburn states that he thinks this sentiment has always been there and was severely under-reported before. The sense that Asians are the model minority or naturally successful and that our experiences haven’t been impacted is starting to come to light as not necessarily true. Robert suggests that if people start to practice open-mindedness, then they can find that teams, businesses, and organizations can be stronger and more positively impacted just by having a variety of skills and viewpoints. Upon reflecting on adoption, in general, Ogburn feels that it has been an immensely positive experience during his time. It can also be an interesting opportunity to learn what it means to be “Korean” (or any native Asian heritage) for both an adoptee and those in the native country who interact with adoptees or #hyphenatedAsians. Wearing his foreign services hat, Ogburn reminds us that countries do indeed pursue national interests, but allies pursue issues in common as partners. “A willingness to challenge each other to do better is what makes lasting partnerships and most effective changes.” Ogburn believes that his being adopted and seeing the flag in his bedroom contributed greatly to his career path and perspective on the world. Although he fully acknowledges that there are many less than positive adoption experiences, for him, being adopted allowed for him and others to see beyond various challenges and deep-seated notions as individuals, as a society, and in the world. He further thinks that adoptees are a natural fit for considering public service and even international service, since their backgrounds and their imaginations stretch around the world. If the name Ogburn sounds familiar, The Universal Asian shared his daughter, Calista Ogburn's, book of poetry last August.

The Universal Asian got to know Linda Rounds, President of 325KAMRA—a non-profit organization dedicated to helping Korean adoptees reconnect with their birth families. Tell us a bit about your background! I am a Korean adoptee born in Nopae-dong near Paju in South Korea. I was raised by a mixed-race Korean couple in Itaewon (Seoul) until I was nine. My family moved to San Diego in 1973. I moved to Texas in 2013. I did not find out I was adopted until I was 28 years old. It was quite a shock. I have a B.S. in Business Management from Pepperdine University and a certificate in Human Resources Management from Phoenix University. My professional responsibilities include finance/accounting, legal/compliance, human resources management, recruiting, real estate investing, and property management. I have three adult children; one is married, so I now have a 1-year-old granddaughter. I also have a German Shepherd. As my children got older and started driving and hanging out more with their friends, I began volunteering my free time to my community and several non-profits. I actually currently hold board positions for three non-profits. I believe in giving back and paying it forward, as I am very grateful for all I have and my experiences in my life. What was the inspiration behind 325KAMRA? The founders of the organization were mixed-race Korean adoptees. They found paternal birth family members via DNA testing and came up with the idea of DNA testing birth families in Korea. In the beginning, 325KAMRA was an acronym for Korean American Mixed Race Adoptees (KAMRA) to represent who the group of founders were. The number “325” was the hotel room number where their meeting took place while attending a weekend conference in San Francisco. Over time, the dynamics of our organization changed, and we also realized that our acronym was not inclusive to the community we serve. So we updated our name. While our acronym remains the same, we decided that the following better represents who we are and what we do: Korean Adoptees Making Reunions Attainable. How does the DNA testing work? We provide free kits (after vetting) from FTDNA, which has one of the largest databases of people from around the world. These are autosomal tests, so they can provide a range of close to distant relative matches. The DNA tests available in Korea are processed differently. For example, the ones that the Korean Embassy distributes for the Korean National Police Agency is, simply put, more like a paternity test, a one-to-one test. Those will match you to a specific parent or sibling. Half siblings typically do not match. Neither can cousins or grandparents match. DNA tests are administered by either a cheek swab or saliva collection into a small tube. Then, it is shipped off to the DNA company lab, and results are usually available within six weeks. With autosomal tests, shared segments of DNA are measured by centimorgans (cMs). When there is a match of 200 cMs (typically second cousin range) or more, our birth search angels (volunteer genealogists) get to work. Their knowledge and research skills help us narrow down who potential close family members are if there isn’t an immediate family match. We also end a birth search case with DNA testing to confirm the family relation. If you’re willing to share, what was your experience like searching for and reconnecting with some of your birth family members? It took over two years for the search angels to find my birth father. Sometimes it can take a while; so we say it is a journey and patience is needed. Actually, he and his immediate family had not been DNA tested. It was a cousin just under 200 cMs who was a DNA match to me, which is why it took time for research from the search angels. I had just about given up on finding him when I got a phone call late one night that there were two brothers where one might be my father. It took about another week or so to get in contact with one of the brothers. He admitted by phone that he had a baby girl in Korea in 1964. We were connected by phone later that evening. It was so surreal. I told him that I could not get emotionally invested until he took a DNA test to confirm that he was my father. He agreed. Being the patient person that I am (lol), I flew to his house the following day with a DNA kit. We spent a couple of hours chit-chatting and having dinner. He showed me a stack of old photos from his service in Korea, with a young Korean woman. He also showed me many pictures of the Korean woman with a baby that she’d mailed to him after his tour ended and he returned stateside. One of those pictures was the only baby picture that I had ever seen and had in my possession. It was the same picture of a 2-month-old baby. For us, that was plenty of confirmation he was my father. And, of course, the DNA test that was processed also confirmed it as well. My dad’s wife had always known about me. As did his best friend, his brother, and his daughters so I wasn’t too much of a surprise to them. They have been so warm and welcoming. We have a great relationship. We visit a few times a year and it’s always so much fun. I will always spend Father’s Day with my dad (except when COVID-19 prevented us last year). What advice would you give to someone who is on the fence about searching for their birth family? It is all such a personal choice. I didn’t start searching until both my adoptive parents passed in 2015. I actually didn’t think it’d be possible to find any birth family since they never gave me any adoption paperwork or information about my early life. They had always intended to keep my adoption a secret and so I never wished to make them feel badly about me searching or being curious. I started out just curious about my ethnicity and heritage. And then when I had a third cousin match, plus other distant relative matches, the birth family searching bug bit me. It was amazing to see blood relatives on paper (website)! Sometimes, an adoptee feels that they don’t want to be rejected a second time, as many have adoption paperwork which says that the baby/child was abandoned. We have found that adoption paperwork is not always accurate and that “being abandoned” was used more frequently than it actually happened. We have also made birth family connections where it’s the adoptee who chooses not to pursue meeting or having a reunion with the family. So, it’s just all a personal choice. But, I think we start wondering about our birth family when we start to have families of our own. Or, if we have a medical condition because we have no family medical history. DNA testing does not require travel or money. My advice would be to DNA test. Once the results are in, then they can decide whether to pursue finding family or not. However, another point about DNA testing is that your matches may actually help another adoptee who is searching to find family! We have had that happen. That’s why I say we are all in this together. How has the pandemic affected the way 325KAMRA operates? At the beginning of the pandemic, we weren’t sure what would happen. We felt that things would slow down. And it did for in-person events we had for DNA testing. However, we actually had an increase in requests for DNA kits by mail! We also got very busy doing research and matching family members. It felt like we were averaging birth family introductions and reunions every 3 – 4 weeks. These were handled by KakoTalk or Zoom. What would you like to see in 325KAMRA’s future? I would love to see every Korean adoptee learn and know about their true family heritage/background whether they wish to reunite with family or not. I think that’s something that every person has a right to. For instance, medical history becomes important when an adoptee begins having medical issues. I would love to see every Korean family searching for a lost family member be reunited. Many who were lost were taken to orphanages and adopted to the US or Europe. So, what I see in our future is a more concerted effort to distribute 240,000 – 500,000 more DNA tests. It is estimated that there are up to 250,000 Korean adoptees. We are only working with close to 7,000 testers to date. That’s only a drop in the bucket for how many adoptees and families we are currently helping. We need donations to help us achieve that goal. We have no paid staff at this time, so donations go directly to purchasing more DNA kits. While we have a major donor who has made it possible for us to purchase our kits thus far, more corporate sponsorships and government grants would be wonderful. What advice would you give your younger self? There was a perfectly good reason why I didn’t look at all like my parents! I did not resemble them in looks or personality at all. I am very similar in personality to my birth dad. Anyhow, I’ve always felt like something was missing. “Missing” isn’t even accurately describing it. Longing? Acceptance? Whatever it is, I’m sure it has to do with being separated from my birth mom as a toddler. So my advice to my younger self would be: “Don’t try so hard to be the good girl, the smart girl or the pretty girl, or to be perfect. You are perfect just the way you are and you are loved.”

Life is not what you alone make it. Life is the input of everyone who touched your life and every experience that entered it. We are all part of one another. — Yuri Kochiyama Before talking to Nick, I heard his name from his podcast cohost, Jon Oaks. The way Jon described Nick and their friendship made me want to find out more about the other half of this dynamic, community-building duo. Nick’s easygoing and compassionate personality stood out immediately. As we dove into his life and what drives his desire to support adoptees in their journey, I could see why people are drawn to him. Like many adoptees, Nick’s exact history is hazy. He was told he was born in the Gyeongsang Province (he generally says Busan since that’s more well known). Immediately after birth, he was swept up into the system and adopted by a family in New York when he was a few months old. Growing up in a white family and predominantly white area, he didn’t have any Asian role models. He learned how to be a social chameleon to fit into the unspoken expectations. In 2017, he wanted to find out more about his birth family. At that time, he wasn’t as connected to the adoptee community as he is now, so he had no idea how vast it is or what kind of support existed for his journey. “You could’ve told me there were five million of us or 1,500. I would’ve believed either.” Nick initiated his search through his adoption agency. Unsurprisingly, the search didn’t yield much. The adoption agency said his birth father passed away a couple of months before Nick was born and that he had a few older siblings. None of the information is complete or verified: “It could all be right, it could all be wrong, or it could be somewhere in between.” He sat on the newly discovered information for about two years and decided that if that’s all he would be able to find out, he was ok with it. Around that same time, he got the itch to explore his Asian/Korean/adoptee identity further. He expressed this to a few close confidants. That led him into the adoptee community, which eventually led him to meet his now close friend, Jon. “What Jon told you about how we met in his interview was spot on,” Nick said. He went on to give a glowing review of Jon’s character and courage, stating that due to Jon’s influence, he mustered the courage to explore his own identity and take pride in his story and background. “Jon never pressured me to tell my story. He deserves a lot of the credit. He’s so unashamed and proud of his story and background. Having an influence like that encouraged me to be open about my own story. You can positively impact those communities (Asian American and adopted) when you’re so comfortable with being a part of them. Jon really lives that. Seeing that helped me get over the precipice to be more public about my own story.” Over time, Nick got more involved with the adoptee community. He’s made incredible progress with overcoming his fear of exploring his identity. “I was afraid, because it was something I subconsciously, sometimes consciously, avoided most of my life. I could look in a mirror and know I didn’t look like my family or most of my network. On the outside, I never showed I knew there was a difference. But how I interacted with the world was different from my adoptive siblings and others around, who were primarily not Asian. It was an emotional soft spot I didn’t want to reveal. There’s the expectation to be a man and not show emotional vulnerability, so I avoided that as much as possible. A few adoptee friends recommended I go on "The Janchi Show" to talk about my story. I was terrified to do the podcast and put it out there. You can’t hide things on the Internet, and I knew my family would eventually come across it. I wondered, ‘Can I do this? Should I do this? Do I want to do this?’ I finally came to grips that I’m ok with what I know about myself, so I needed others to be ok with it too.” Revealing this part of himself to his family was one of the hardest parts of the journey so far. After his appearance on "The Janchi Show," Nick posted the podcast link on his social media, knowing his family would eventually find and listen to it. Terrified of their reaction, he avoided their messages for a week until he gathered the courage to open them all. Thankfully, his fear was for naught. There were no negative reactions or misinterpretations. His family, especially his dad, surpassed the expectations he didn’t have. An unexpected benefit was that "The Janchi Show" plugged him into the adoptee community on a whole new level. He started meeting adoptees from around the country. “Hearing other adoptees’ stories has so many positive impacts: it helps bring more awareness to issues and addresses misconceptions about adoption and what adoptees experience. It’s very rewarding.” I asked him what he does when the journey becomes too overwhelming or if he starts judging his journey against someone else’s. He noted the importance of tapping into the adoptee community. “There’s always someone in a similar position in their process. Running the situation by them doesn’t necessarily give clarity or an answer, but it provides the reassurance that as long as I’m ok with where I’m at, it’s ok. It doesn’t have to match what anyone else is doing or has done.” Nick takes pride in supporting others the way Jon supported him. “Any time I can help someone be more comfortable exploring their own story and past, I feel incredibly accomplished.” Since he’s become invested in the adoptee community, he’s felt more pride in his Asian identity. “I didn’t used to pay much attention to the advancements of Asians in society, but now that matters to me. I enjoy watching Asians, Asian Americans, and adoptees get elevated for their accomplishments. What matters to me has evolved.” Wrapping up our time together, Nick offered a little advice for adoptees: “It’s never too late to start your journey. I was over 30 when I started. There’s no line of when to begin or end. There are a lot of ‘I don’t knows’ throughout  the search, so you’ve gotta go into it with a certain level of acceptance for uncertainty.” He added: "Don’t feel as though you have to follow suit with whatever societal stereotypes there are of Asians. We’re good and bad at different things because of the environments we’ve been in and our efforts, not because of our race.” I asked him what support looks like on his journey, and he shared, “Therapy gets slung around a lot. One thing I didn’t recognize for a long time is the misconception that therapy is only going to a therapist. It’s not. Therapy can be whatever is therapeutic for you as an individual. That can include hearing other adoptees’ stories, successes, struggles, and what they do to navigate them. Each person needs to figure out for themselves, ‘What help do I need and how do I get that?’ The form it can come in is about as varied as we are as individuals.” During this interview, Nick demonstrated how community is built: through authentic, open conversations, where vulnerability is a strength and path forward. Connect with Nick on Instagram, Facebook, and his podcast, Funny Is Part of My Name.

“The only way to survive is by taking care of one another.” — Grace Lee Boggs As I waited for Jon to log on for our interview, I perused his website to get more familiar with him and his work. What struck me most was his clear desire to create inclusive environments, from his classroom to adoptee spaces, so that everyone who comes in contact with him can find a sense of belonging. Before getting lost in thought, Jon appeared on my screen. His kind authenticity made starting the conversation effortless. Jon is a man of many talents: he’s the Korean American Adoptee Adoptive Family Network (KAAN) webmaster, an award-winning math professor, a podcast host, and a community-builder extraordinaire. But, life wasn’t always as full of community for him as it is now. At around 3 months old, Jon was adopted from Korea by a white couple in a rural area of Michigan outside Flint. When he was around 5, his parents moved into the city so he would have access to a better school system. Jon reflected on how blessed he was to have gone to a school where he could take language courses, which helped him better understand the world around him. Growing up as an adoptee, he felt a disconnect with his adoptive parents because they didn’t understand his attachment issues from being torn away from his birth parents and culture. It was a struggle growing up without any Korean or Asian influence. Reminiscing about going to a Korean summer camp when he was a child, he asked his parents why he never returned. They said it was because he didn’t like it (though he doesn’t remember that). He wishes they would have understood the significance of having his identity reflected back to him and encouraged him to try again. He delved into describing what felt like such a familiar situation. In high school, he knew two other Asians, one who was also an adoptee from Korea. Though, they never connected about it. Jon mentioned that he tended to avoid situations where he might be singled out as different when he was younger. He’s come a long way from where he was to where he is today. One of Jon’s first epiphanies happened on his 13th birthday. He painted the scene: his trusting parents provided food, told him he could have a party with his friends, and left for the evening. Arriving home, they found him curled up, crying in their bed—no one showed up. He recognizes that perhaps some parents weren’t comfortable with an unsupervised party. But as a child, it was difficult having “friends” say they’d show up, then not. That’s when he realized he didn’t belong to a community. “You can choose your friends, but not your family.” From then on, Jon knew he wanted to do something that would allow him to form the community he didn’t have and help people build friendships, connections, and networks. I asked Jon what inspired his career in math. Without hesitation, he began telling me about when he was in kindergarten. Jon is colorblind. So, when his class was doing coloring lessons, he would peek over at the first graders’ math lessons. He believes that gave him a head start, finding what he could do in the midst of what he couldn’t. Additionally, the 1980s movie "Stand and Deliver" inspired him. He saw how Jamie Escalante’s dedication to his students not only brought out the best in them but also created a tight-knit community. He showed them they can achieve more than what their environment told them. “Once you’re out of where you are, you can come back to give to your community,” Jon said. He explained that’s why he wanted to teach in an urban environment. Diving into his dream career as a math professor, Jon began cultivating the community he had always dreamed of. Jon’s compassion for his students extends well beyond the classroom walls. He discussed how teaching is so much more than conveying material. The most successful teachers invest in their students’ lives and stories because it also influences their classroom work. He wants his students to know they don’t have to choose between their lives and education. When they struggle, he does everything he can to show the support he wishes he would’ve had growing up—from helping them find language learning resources to offering his own space heaters when the heat is out in their homes. “If a student comes in feeling like they don’t belong anywhere, I don’t want them to leave feeling that same way. The phrase ‘there’s strength in numbers’ is quite real.” Jon’s colleague, Bill (who had a Korean adoptee roommate), often asked him if he wanted to go to the Korean barbeque his roommate hosted. Jon always declined, but when Bill retired, he finally agreed to go as a retirement gift. That opened the door for him, and he got connected with the Michigan Korean Adoptees (MIKA) group. From there, he made more connections with other adoptees in the area. One night, he went out for drinks with a friend and woke up the next morning to a text that said, “Are you excited about your trip to Korea?” Puzzled, Jon thought, “What trip to Korea?” His memories are hazy on when and how the trip got booked. He felt a bit anxious since it would be his first international trip and the first return to his birthplace, but he decided he couldn’t back out. He determined that he wanted to see the orphanage he stayed in and compare the records there against the ones he already had. Jon began the arduous process of requesting a visit to the adoption agency. He learned that he needed to initiate a birth family search even just to visit. One day on the subway in Korea, Jon received a call from Holt saying they made contact with his birth mother. They said they would fill him in more the following day when he visited. He broke down on the crowded subway, trying to conceal his emotion. “It was a surreal experience. I wasn’t expecting them to find any birth family, especially not quickly or while I was in Korea. At best, I thought I’d find out months later.” The next day at Holt, Jon learned that his birth father refused to respond and didn’t want any contact. His birth mother wrote a letter saying she didn’t want contact because she was married now (she wasn’t married when Jon was born). He also learned that he had a half-brother. In a quick turn of events, his birth mother called Holt before he arrived, saying she had changed her mind about not wanting contact. He could contact her, but she couldn’t guarantee she’d respond. Her husband didn’t know about him, nor did his Japanese grandfather, whom she was the most afraid of telling. Frustrated, he struggles with not being able to meet his mother and half-brother, largely because of his grandfather. Jon’s first visit to Korea gave him a deeper connection to his birth country and opened the door to find his birth mother. One day, he wants to get dual citizenship to spend more time in Korea. He hopes he can further explore the culture and convince his mother to meet him. Currently, Jon teaches in the U.S., spends time with the adoptee community, and hosts a podcast called "Funny Is Part of My Name" with his good friend, Nick Ha. Jon and Nick met through a mutual friend, went to a Red Wings game together, and the rest is history. Some of that history involves a Saturday evening of Korean barbeque, a good bit of soju, and a casual mention from Nick about a podcast. Jon being a go-getter (especially after a few drinks), said, “We can start a podcast Monday at 10 p.m.” Waking up the next day, Jon thought, “Oh no, I told Nick we could do a podcast. I better come up with something.” The podcast name was inspired by Nick’s family name, “Ha.” They build their topics around math, current events, jokes, trivia, and guest appearances with the hopes of building a community that can feel a little less alone as they tune in on Monday nights. Building community is woven throughout everything Jon does. In addition to his other activities, he’s also the KAAN webmaster. He volunteered for that role as another way to be involved with the adoptee community, honing his skills to further support a community he loves. I asked Jon for a final piece of wisdom for adoptees who might be struggling and feeling alone. He said: “No matter how hard things are, give yourself the right to self-care. It’s so important. For many years, I felt like I had to just work, so I neglected things in my personal life. I missed opportunities to make connections. At some point, I realized these connections matter. Surround yourself with people you like, take care of yourself, and remember the work will be there later.” He added, “Remember, you’re only alone to the extent that you lock the things and people out who want to be in your life. Be open to new experiences and people.” Learn more and stay connected with Jon on his website, Instagram, and podcast, "Funny Is Part of My Name."

As the screen flickers, Mila appears in front of me. Her dark hair is pulled up in a sleek side-parted bun. Her long turquoise chandelier earrings graze the pink collar of her white '80s style Power Ranger t-shirt. I’ve known of The Empress Han, on Instagram, for some time now. But, this is the first time I’m having a conversation with the person whose work and message metaphorically slapped me out of my white savior-glorifying, self-diminishing, adopted puppy coma. So, when I see her face blink onto the screen in front of me, with a smile that’s warm with a hint of mischief, I know it’s going to be a great first interview. Her slender hands tell a story of their own as she passionately explains how compelled she felt to speak up as an Asian-American after the Atlanta shootings. Living only seven miles from one of the targeted salons, it literally hit too close to home for Mila, and she began sharing her story and being featured on media outlets such as CNN, National Geographic, and the LA Times. As a Korean adoptee, she recognizes the shared experience of racism between herself and a community that has become so racially targeted. Because adoptees are so under-represented, she was encouraged by her dear friend, Kavi Vu, to share a narrative that’s valid and vital in order to expand what it means to be an Asian American Pacific Islander (AAPI). Mila is among the many adoptees who have struggled to find belonging throughout her life. She became more involved in activism in the hopes to also explore her Asian-ness. But, Asian adoptees trying to speak up against the hate have sometimes been met with rejection by some members of the Asian community due to the duality of being an Asian person living in a predominately white environment and growing up around people who constantly isolate us in our Asian-ness. Yet, we are also somehow not “Asian enough” to be considered part of the Asian community by some. Mila has clearly risen above all of this as she explains that she realizes she can’t “become” Asian. “The world simply needs to expand what it means to be Asian. And,” she continues, “while adoptees will never have the context of Asians who grew up in an Asian home knowing about their food, traditions, and culture, I can define what being Asian means and what that looks like.” Using her platform on social media, Mila expresses herself creatively as a form of self-therapy. Lately, she’s been performing in a series of TikTok videos as a way to regain some of her power back. Many Asians can relate to the dismissive and gaslighting comments she uses in her videos titled, “If I spoke to white people the way white people speak to me.” Through recreating micro-aggressive moments experienced, this is her way to push back against aggressors that she wasn’t able to find a retort for in the moment they occurred. These light-hearted videos pack a punch! Not only are they extremely comical, but the raw, in-your-face message is relatable by so many on a variety of levels. In other words, it’s funny because it is true. Mila believes in the value of finding ways to express yourself as a way to feel seen. However, I have to confess that I feel like she’s perfected using humor as a tool for insight and education. “Comedy is rooted in pain,” Mila shrugs. She goes on to explain that her art saved her life. Being a lifelong sufferer of emotional and mental health symptoms, she said that she found a home in the concept of Han. The Empress Han is the title Mila goes by creatively and within the online community. In Korean culture, the concept of Han is explained as an emotion that is a form of resentment, grief, and hatred. As Korean adoptees, often our identities are diminished and erased, leading to traumatic difficulties in finding where we fit in the world. Mila boldly states, “We’re tired of being told how we’re supposed to feel, and how we’re supposed to think, and how we’re supposed to frame our adoption story. I’m sovereign over my story. Over my pain. Over my trauma. I get to decide what it means to me. How I’m going to process it. How I’m going to live through it. How I’m going to embrace it.” She is trying to find meaning and empowerment through her experiences and gives gratitude to Han for helping her realize she doesn’t need to be ashamed of her sadness. One of the most important things to know about Mila is that she is magical when it comes to expressing herself. Her most recent accomplishment is the release of her musical poetry album, Shrine. It’s the first installment of her three-piece collection. Mila explains that the idea of a shrine can represent a person or a history. And, her poems are her objects offered to honor her journey. But, she hopes that all other adoptees traveling their journey can see their reflection in pieces of her poetry in Shrine. Mila best expressed healing as being like the Japanese art of kintsugi: taking something broken and fusing the pieces back together with gold, making it more precious and honoring the broken parts. That’s an important message to process because everyone living—adoptee or not—has been broken whether in big or small ways. And the world has told many of us that it makes us imperfect and that makes us unacceptable. But, when we can find the strength to put ourselves back together, we should recognize and honor the fact that our value is greater after. That’s what I find so incredibly inspiring about Mila. She always finds a way to radiate positivity. Even when the trolls in her comments section are reporting her, her response is a simple: “I feel so affirmed.” In return, I smile, knowing the amount of strength she has in her that she continues to radiate to others, whether through her work or through simply being herself. She’s raw. She’s fearless. She’s unapologetically herself. She is The Empress Han! You can follow Mila Konomos as The Empress Han on Instagram, her website, and TikTok.