Join us in supporting A-Doc’s latest storytelling initiative, a series of micro documentaries sharing Asian-American stories during the time of Coronavirus (#AsianAmCovidStories/#ADocGoesViral). Asian American Documentary Network (A-Doc) is a national network that works to increase the visibility and supports the work of Asian-Americans in the documentary field. They are committed to sharing ideas and resources while advocating for equity and diversity in the production and distribution of non-fiction storytelling. Due to the impact of COVID-19 in disrupting people’s lives around the world, these non-fiction storytellers share these largely invisible stories from a unique perspective as members of the Asian diaspora. With the goal of increasing awareness and archiving current realities, these documentarists hope to inform the current population as well as future generations. Their CALL TO ACTION is: Share A-Doc’s Storytelling Initiative with your followers and community by directing them to our social media accounts. Encourage AAPI Storytellers in your community to tell their own stories (video/written+photo) and participate using #AsianAmCovidStories “Share your AAPI story using #AsianAmCovidStories” You can watch a replay of a Facebook Live discussion on virtual theatrical distribution scenarios here. Their entire playlist is available on these platforms: IG: bit.ly/adoc-igtv Facebook: bit.ly/adoc-stories-fb YouTube: bit.ly/adoc-youtube-stories For more information or queries, you may email A-Doc at aadocnetwork@gmail.com

Referring to themselves as “East Coast-bred, West Coast-living Asian ladies, but not the status quo,” The Universal Asian spoke with Joan and Esther. They are the duo behind "Ajuma Squad," which is a YouTube channel and Instagram TV series that sheds light on their stories of motherhood and being second-generation Asian-Americans. We learned more about their channel, the origins of "Ajuma Squad," and their views on Asian-American representation. Friends for over 10 years now, Joan and Esther first met in New York and reconnected, both as mothers, in California where they now reside. It was from there that their friendship blossomed and grew into "Ajuma Squad"—two good friends vlogging as mothers. The idea “spawned from us just having funny conversations,” explained Esther, “We used to joke around and say ‘we should post that somewhere’ or ‘I wish we could make a video out of this’.” This conversation sparked the start of Ajuma Squad, which came to realization in October last year. The term ajuma is Korean for a married, middle-aged woman and is sometimes used to call someone “aunt.” However, the duo decided to go with this name because, as Joan said, they “wanted to play on that word and make it like we’re not just washed up ajumas; we have things to talk about too.” Their channel appears to be the first of its kind and made Joan question “why we didn’t do this earlier.”  Esther also went onto explain: “We did a deep dive to see if there was anybody else who was Asian-American and who are moms and who are out there representing and talking about these issues, and there really weren’t a lot of people.” Now, with over 250 followers and 17 IGTV episodes (and counting!), the pair are no strangers to delving into a range of different topics, such as dating, self-care, and Asian-American representation in the media. Joan admits that “we have a calendar of all the topics we want to do, but we never stick to it because it just so happens that all these issues are just coming up naturally, so our conversations are always going to shift to what’s relevant.” Their conversations are on-the-fly and organic, which seems to be a central theme in their videos. “I think we just want to be real. We wanted to show that there is another side of motherhood that isn’t represented by what people think Asian American women are,” said Esther. They reiterate not being the status quo, as Esther explained: “The reason why we are kind of against the grain is that motherhood is not something that comes with a handbook and you kind of have to roll with the punches.” They also started "Ajuma Squad" to have their voices, as Asian-American moms, heard. “I feel like there hasn’t been much representation of Asian moms,” said Joan, adding, “It is really important for us because we want our kids to be able to grow up with being able to see the different sides of being Asian-American.” But why is it that Asian-American moms are not being heard? Is there another barrier or layer to being a mother and Asian-American? “I think it’s because people generally don’t care for what Asian moms really talk about,” said Joan. Esther added: “We are a lost demographic and we don’t have the time or skills to really go out there and tout things that millennials might.” Yet, this has not stopped them from delving into the nitty gritty of motherhood, rather it has become a way for them to create a sense of community for other Asian-American moms. “I think we have a sense of relatability that a lot of Asian-American women have not had,” Esther mused. Acknowledging that the struggles of the pandemic has meant many individuals have not been able to communicate with friends or family, she hopes to “provide a little sense of community and bring a little joy into their homes for a few minutes [and give them] that sense of ‘this is my squad’.” As well as building a community, they also look ahead to the type of representation they both want to see for their children. Wishing that they had seen other Asians in the media and on TV screens Joan shared: “It’s very important for my kids to see and recognize themselves and identify with and find someone that they could look up to.” One of the reasons they started "Ajuma Squad" was because, as Joan put it: “We want to have these conversations and maybe push that needle so that we can get more Asian-Americans in the media.” Esther expressed similar concerns and made the point that she does not want future generations of Asian-Americans “to feel they don’t fit the status quo, like they don’t belong. They belong here just like anybody else does.” Creating positive representation of Asian-American mothers has become the forefront of their channel. Many of their conversations around this serve as passing on knowledge to raise the next generation of Asian-Americans. “Moms are the ones that shape the kids…we are raising a generation,” Joan stated. After experiencing a recent racist incident, Esther shared some wisdom with her daughters. Wisdom that can be passed onto Asian-Americans of all ages: “Sometimes people treat others unkindly because we are a little bit different; that doesn’t make you any less of a human. We are Asian-American. We are Korean-American and that is perfectly okay.” Follow Ajuma Squad here: Instagram (@ajuma_squad) YouTube Twitter (@AjumaSquad)

As a child, I carried this fantasy that my umma was “the Queen of Korea.” I told myself the fairytale that she had me when she was still the crown princess, and that just a month or so before I was born, my appa—the prince—had been killed by an evil uncle who was trying to grab my parents’ rightful place on the throne. I told myself that in order to keep my identity a secret so as to protect me from this evil uncle, she had sent me to the far-off foreign land of hot sands, a bathwater-warm Atlantic, overly-chlorinated neighborhood swimming pools, and right-wing Baptist churches in a place known as Florida. I assumed that once she had gathered her army of loyalists and disposed of this evil uncle, thereby securing her rightful place on the throne, that she would send for me, and that I would be freed from my place of exile in the suburbs of South Florida. I spent my childhood waiting for her to send for me…. As I entered adolescence, I then carried in my other hand the possibility that she might have been “a prostitute.” I know for certain that I arrived at this because of when I was 12 years old attending a Holt Heritage adoptee camp in Eugene, Oregon. One of the staff said that if “girls at the orphanage” weren’t adopted by the age of 18 they were no longer able to stay there; that most of them would end up “becoming prostitutes,” and eventually getting pregnant, and leaving their babies on the doorsteps of hospitals or orphanages because…they were prostitutes. Even as an adult, something in me carried these two very opposing “dreams” of who my umma was—a princess or a prostitute. It was not until I first returned to Korea that it began to really hit me that the reality was that she was more likely to have been just a normal woman—that she was probably not much more than a girl herself when she had me. That more likely than not, she was in her late teens or very early 20s in the 1970s and facing the prospect of being a single mother in a country that to this very day stigmatizes unwed mothers and their children, and where only in April of 2019 did the Constitutional Court of Korea rule that the criminalization of abortion was unconstitutional (effective January 1, 2021). That not only was she not a princess nor a prostitute, but that she had probably been like one of the high school or university students I’d see out in Hongdae or Sinchon over the course of my eight years living in Seoul. That…she was like one of the young single mothers in Korean-Danish adoptee director Sun Hee Englestoft's profoundly moving documentary "Forget Me Not," which provides a quietly powerful portrait of the lives of three young mothers who are residing at Aeshuwon, a shelter for single/unwed mothers in Jeju, South Korea, as they must make the impossible decision of whether to keep their children in a society that treats unwed mothers and their children with contempt, utter disregard, and close to zero support in regards to social services, or give them up for adoption. Watching "Forget Me Not" made me feel that I was in some way peering back in time and being allowed to see her—my umma—in these women, many of whom are also not much more than girls themselves. She, too, stayed at a shelter/home for unwed pregnant women that was run by Holt; though where she stayed did not do as Aeshuwon does by allowing the expectant mothers to choose what they will do. Where my umma stayed, it was a requirement that she first agreed that she would relinquish me to be adopted out through Holt in order to stay there. Holt Korea denies that they ever operated these kinds of homes, but seeing as my umma told me she stayed at one of their shelters and what she had to agree to, I believe the person who lived it versus the industry that profited from her impossible situation. And, though it is clearly shown in Sun Hee’s work that Mrs. Im of Aeshuwon tries to provide a safe space for the mothers to weigh their options and choose, as the documentary goes on it becomes abundantly clear that the realities of Korean familial and societal pressures mean that no matter what each mother might truly intend and desire to choose for their child and their self—the decision was made for them long before they themselves were even born, just as the decision was made for my umma in 1975. For me, as a Korean adoptee, watching "Forget Me Not" was/is the closest I will probably ever come to understanding and seeing what my umma was like at 19/20 years old. It is a collision of times and worlds in that I saw my umma in these three young mothers. It is as Sun Hee says over the footage of the mothers at Aeshuwon rocking their babies as they try and decide what to do: “Being at the shelter is like traveling back in time. The women are all versions of my mother—and I’m a version of their children.” I saw my umma giving me up as a baby and myself as a baby being given up by her. I saw and heard myself from 14 years ago in Sun Hee’s opening footage of herself as she sits in that same silence I have sat in and felt and know in every fiber of my very being as she waits for the social worker to translate the Korean text in her adoption papers and interpret them into English. The pause…that pause...the necessary time it takes for a translator/interpreter to translate from Korean into English…. It is one of the longest, most suspenseful, scariest, uncertain, loneliest pauses I have ever known—for in that pause entire fairytales will be made real or destroyed. An umma will be found or lost, or worse—where you and she will remain in permanent limbo—in a pause with no end. I heard myself in Sun Hee as she addresses her own umma, juxtaposed against the backdrop of the monsoon-swollen skies of Jeju: “At least now I recognize the sorrow I have to live with and carry with me. It’s the sorrow we share that will tie us together. Always.” And though I did find my umma, unlike portrayed in stories of reunion told by non-adoptees, the story did not end there. She was neither a princess nor a prostitute. She was a woman, who was once a young girl, who had a decision made for her that for over three decades she kept as a secret in her heart. And, when you keep a secret like that for so long, eventually you are not the one keeping it, but rather that secret keeps you and there can be no fairytale ending. There can only be the consequences of time that change a young girl at 19 or 20 to an ahjumma too haunted to restart or rebuild a connection she was forced to sever when our umbilical cord was cut now more than 40 years ago. Even now, I wait for her, hoping she will send for me. From my vantage point, knowing what I know from my years of living in Korea being actively engaged with adoptee activist friends in Seoul and my now—more than decade of living the realities of post-reunion—"Forget Me Not" makes it clear in its compellingly truthful portrayal of the unwed mothers at Aeshuwon, without ever blatantly saying so, that the dominant narrative of adoption perpetrated by agencies like Holt in which they propagate the widely-accepted notion that we were adopted out because our ummas just coldly abandoned us on doorsteps is nothing but a lie that has been told in order to make us more marketable and to enable Korea, which has the 10th largest GDP in the world, in still not having to take serious social or economic responsibility for single parents and their children. It accurately conveys that Korea as a society at large does little to care for its own citizens and children, and that unwed mothers have little right to their own autonomous decision-making whilst we­—their bastard offspring—are shameful secrets to be sent away. "Forget Me Not" is, to my knowledge, if not the first, then one of the only Korean-adoptee directed documentaries that tells the story of adoption not from the important Korean adoptee-centric vantage points of search, reunion, post-reunion, memories of being in the orphanage, returning to Korea for the first time, etc. but from the only other voices that adopters and the adoption industry complex have spent more than six decades erasing—those of 우리 엄마 (our mothers)—made possible by one of their daughters. Near the end, when Sun Hee puts the camera down on its side to comfort the grieving mother who has just lost her child to adoption, I found myself wondering if this is the closest an adoptee can ever truly get to being able to travel back in time to comfort our own umma back when she, who was neither a princess nor a prostitute, but rather quite simply a woman, a mother who had just lost her child, and who in that moment of loss could only succumb to her grief just as this young mother does and letting her know…and letting her let us know, “It’s the sorrow we share that will tie us together. Always.” Click here to follow on Facebook. Trailer and and rental availability here. Starting June 3, 2021, "Forget Me Not" will be screening in 55 cinemas throughout Korea. Free online screening for KAAN Conference attendees (free to register): Friday June 25, 2021 9-10:15 p.m. EST (Saturday June 26, 2021; 6-7:15 a.m. CEST, 1-2:15 p.m. KST)

TEDx Woosong University Through his life story, Eric McDaniel shares the different sides, angles, and varieties to a true second chance to life, family, and discovering his true identity. From abandonment to adoption, reconnecting, reestablishing, and rekindling; McDaniel explains the life lessons that he learned and other possible outcomes. This talk is about finding love, identity, dreams, and passion through the life of a Korean American adoptee. Eric McDaniel is from a small suburb near Kansas City, Missouri. He was raised in a typical but hardworking, blue-collar family. Learning from his father’s hard work and his mother’s compassion, he tried to achieve his goals and dreams by exuding those values that he learned. Though his life has been faced with many obstacles, McDaniel used that as fuel to become a promising athlete as well as exploring various business ventures. His interests include entrepreneurship, entertainment and education. You can connect with Eric on Instagram.

Currently, there are countless terrifying experiences that Asian diasporians in the West have experienced in regards to anti-Asian violence and racist rhetoric that ever since the start of this pandemic have been on the alarmingly rapid increase not just in the States, but in Western Europe, and as reported by the U.N. around the world. Recently, in the States, there has been story after story in the mainstream media about violent attacks against members of the Asian community where the perpetrators shown are predominantly Black. This narrative is an incredibly dangerous one as it negates the reality that the overwhelming majority of attackers are white. It is incredibly dangerous for numerous reasons, one being because it adds fuel to the fire of anti-Black sentiments that are held by some Asian diasporians. Quite bluntly put, it is a tactic used by white supremacy to pit us against each other and for white supremacy to quietly sweep itself under the proverbial rug. There are numerous articles and pieces addressing this fact, and just doing a simple online search about anti-Blackness in correlation to Asian-American and Asian diasporic communities will give you countless hours of reading material. Anti-Blackness is never justifiable even from Asian communities that have and continue to experience horrific hate, violence, and vitriolic racist comments every single day from yes, SOME non-white, non-Asian folk, but predominantly white people. As the Associate Editor of TUA, I am writing this editorial to state very clearly for all of our readers and contributors that we DO seek and proactively work to exist as a safe space for a wide gamut of opinions and views by #hyphenatedAsians and #importedAsians. We do so in order to increase both awareness and representation, and to encourage healthy, robust, and respectful dialogues. However, the voices that we will never provide any kind of space for are ones that express anti-Black sentiments or any kind of homophobic, transphobic, or misogynistic views. The answer to combating racism, and in the case of Asian diasporians—to stopping anti-Asian hate—is not more racism. One of the many steps in combating the current and dramatic increase in anti-Asian hate is to take a stand against and call out all forms of white supremacy, even when it is voiced from within our #hyphenatedAsians and #importedAsians families and communities. Anti-Blackness IS white supremacy, and when an Asian person or community expresses such abhorrent rhetoric they are embodying and empowering white supremacists and white-colonist thinking. So, for our readers and contributors, whose voices we truly value and hope to provide a platform of amplification to and for, know that your opinions and experiences matter greatly to us. We, at TUA, want to share your stories, projects, art, thoughts, and more, even when we, as individual staff members, may not always agree with every single thing you have to say. This platform exists for you. The only “opinions” we do not exist to amplify or represent are voices that express anti-Black, racist, misogynistic, homophobic, and transphobic beliefs because TUA does not exist to give power to white supremacy. We exist to do the complete opposite—to reclaim our voices and power as #hyphenatedAsians and #importedAsians that white colonization has sought to stifle. Kim Thompson TUA Associate Editor

The glint off the top of the commercial plane made Monica’s eyes hurt. She grabbed her bag and moved to a different seat where she felt more comfortable, away from the glare. She would have to wait at least another half hour before boarding her flight to L.A., but she didn’t mind. She was just happy to be moving somewhere new. The time had come to get out of Dodge—or Shiwanosh. Perhaps things hadn’t been insurmountably terrible; but to be honest, she had been getting some pretty weird vibes from people in town. At the time, she didn’t quite know what to make of it. Shiwanosh College was a small, local school nestled among the cornfields of rural Wisconsin. Just two weeks ago, Monica was sitting in a barn off-campus sipping beer with a bunch of sturdy, nineteen-year-old Wisconsinite boys, who were smoking cigarettes and swapping cow-tipping stories. She recalled how there was a distinct earthy scent of fresh hay and ripe farm animals. She was proud of the heartland where robust crops and dairy farms produced food and nourishment for so many. She was grateful for nature’s abundance, the result of hard work and grace of the universe. There were, however, a few things that made her feel a bit uncomfortable in that barn. For one, there was something concerning, something peeking out from under the brush on the ground, not too far from her feet. She wondered what it was and, to be quite frank, she started to really obsess about it. But, Monica made a massive, concerted effort to ignore it and not overreact. I mean, if she jumped up and down and started shrieking and pointing and running around like a chicken with her head cut off, that would be rude. She also didn’t want to lose her cool with her peers, these young folks she had just met. So instead, she leaned back on the creaking, rickety crate she was sitting on and tried to act all laid back with a frosty bottle of Schlitz in her hand. Yep. Just blend in with the boys. Speaking of the crate she sat on, uh, that was another little issue. Monica noticed that it seemed to have some quite large, possibly dangerous, sharp splinters. But no biggie. She just kept a laser focus on the dudes shooting the breeze. They were so chill and funny. When they laughed, she laughed heartily along with them. They were genuinely hilarious and they seemed to accept her in that moment. Someone once told her to ‘Just be yourself. Don’t try to be like someone else.’ A certain amount of acclimation made life a little easier at Shiwanosh though. She certainly pared down what she used to wear, and left at home the white leather boots, studded t-shirts, and gold necklaces that were all the rage at her high school. The 'oy vey iz mir' princess mentality certainly wasn’t a thing here. She may have dropped some of the glitzy attire and attitude, but the fact remained that she still stood out from the others at Shiwanosh, perhaps just as much as she did back home. Monica noticed that Chris, the tall, lanky blond, had been constantly staring at her in the barn. Monica wondered if her hair looked okay or totally gross. She had recently had her long, dark locks permed. That morning she had also lightly sprayed the sides to form wings, but they had already collapsed in the heat and humidity. She awkwardly pushed her hair behind her ears, still feeling the weight of Chris’s eyes on her. Then, Chris opened his mouth. “If I brought you home with me to where I’m from, my parents and I might accept you, but a lot of people would stare,” he said. “What?” replied Monica, who felt his comment was strange and out of place. “They’ve never seen someone like you. They wouldn’t know what you are,” explained Chris. Monica was annoyed. “Are you saying I’m like some kind of alien?” She forced to herself to lightheartedly chuckle. There was no response from Chris. His eyes were locked on Monica’s face, but his mind was somewhere else. Monica wanted to snap her fingers and say, “Hey, you. Snap out of it!” She tried to ignore him, but his staring was relentless. It was as if he was entranced. Monica seriously wanted him to stop. She had a notion to cross her eyes, pull her face into twisted contortions using both hands, stick out her tongue and make funny noises, just like she and her siblings and cousins would do as kids when they visited a relative, and a bunch of neighborhood ragamuffins would yell out, ‘ching chong!’ Monica and her siblings and cousins actually shared quite a bit of fun and laughter with their silly antics. Power in numbers, I guess. Anyway, Monica didn’t say or do any of the above. She had zero romantic interest in Chris, so he need not worry about taking her to his hometown to meet the parents and such. She did try to play off his odd behavior and ease the awkwardness though. “So where are you from?” asked Monica. “Me? I’m from a small town in upper Wisconsin called Eagle River,” answered Chris. “Where are you from?” interjected Jake, another guy in the group who had been clowning around wearing a Cheesehead hat, clearly a big-time Packers fan. “She’s from here, Shiwanosh, right?” said Chris. “She works at the sandwich shop.” “Oh, yeah, you’re the waitress girl Chris mentioned,” said Scott as he lit up his fifth cigarette and blew smoke out of the side of his mouth. “You work at Mitchell & Michelle’s?” he asked. “Yes,” answered Monica. It’s true that she had been waiting on tables that summer for extra money at the local soup and sandwich bistro. It was there that she had recently met Chris, who invited her to hang out with some friends that evening. What Monica didn’t say was that a relative of her family had randomly bought that on-campus restaurant. For some reason, they thought it was a good investment. The distant uncle had hired managers to run the place and didn’t show his face, because he was concerned about racism in that homogenous town. Jake took off his Cheesehead hat. “Where’d you get your accent from?” he asked Monica. “I’m not sure what you mean,” said Monica. “You talk like you’re a news anchor, like someone on TV. Your English.” “I don’t know,” replied Monica. She honestly didn’t know what Jake was talking about. “Where are your parents from?” asked Jake. “My Dad’s from out East…” “Yeah, see,” nodded Jake with an of-course-look on his face. “And your Mom?” he asked. “My mom’s from the West Coast. It’s funny because my parents were from opposite coasts and yet they met here in the middle, in the Midwest,” said Monica smiling. Jake sighed and shook his head. “Where were they born though? “My mom was born in the Bay Area and my Dad was born in upstate New York.” “NO!” said Jake with sudden irritation in his voice that took Monica by surprise. “So, like where were your grandparents born?” Monica was flustered and answered the question. “They were both born in California—" “Oh, come on!” yelled Jake. He actually sounded angry. Monica tried to better explain, “Well, see, my great-grandparents were also—" but she was abruptly cut off. “OH MY GOD! She’s not getting it!” snarled Jake who abruptly got up, grabbed his can of Pabst and walked off. Monica was stunned. What just happened? She was genuinely confused. What wasn’t she getting? What was she missing? She was answering his questions. She wondered if he wanted to know what her ethnic background was. But, he didn’t ask that. She was on her way to telling her whole family history anyway, but he obviously didn’t want to hear it. She couldn’t believe Jake just walked out on her. Things got a bit more weird and awkward after that. Monica was still trying to recover from the whole Jake incident when one of the big, sharp splinters on the crate started to really poke her tender tuchis and cause great discomfort. Perhaps those few sips of beer had gotten to her head too, because Monica began babbling that she was thinking about transferring to a school in California. “You’re not going anywhere,” grumbled Chris. “You’re just a waitress girl. Don’t get too big for your britches!” Monica was shocked by Chris’s rude reaction. “Meshuggeneh, you’re grody to the max!” was on the tip of her tongue. She wanted to blurt out that she was actually from Chicago, not Shiwanosh. In fact, she was actually from a pretty progressive, swanky suburb where she was raised to know that she could pursue whatever she wanted and expect the best. Sky’s the limit! She wanted to tell Chris off. She wanted to say, “Do you know who I am!” But, she knew how local Shiwanosh people viewed people from Chicago. They called them 'city slickers' and believed people from the big city were not to be trusted. She already didn’t exactly fit it. She wasn’t going to make things worse by divulging every detail of her background. Perhaps, she had already said too much. Then, she saw it come out. She had thought it was a piece of cow dung, but no. A mangy, brown rodent ran out from under some brush and headed straight towards Monica’s feet. Immediately, yet discreetly, Monica stood up from that horrible crate and put her foot down. She stomped once with her white Nike gym shoe with printed colored laces, and the little creature turned and scampered off to a corner under some hay. That was it. Monica was out. “I have to go back to the bistro for my shift. It was nice meeting you all,” said Monica as she put down her Schlitz and picked up her purse. Chris said nothing. He just watched as Monica walked towards the open barn door. Scott was preoccupied with trying to light up another cigarette. When Monica walked through the open doorway, she paused and then turned around and stared at Chris. Even from a distance, her bright, brown eyes held a laser focus. The intensity made him look away. “Don’t be such a schmuck, Chris,” said Monica. When Chris looked back up, perplexed, she added, “I hope you take care.” And then, she was gone. The airport gate was full of waiting passengers and Monica was still waiting along with them. The gate agent had announced they were cleaning the airplane cabin. Monica thought about tracking Chris down and telling him that she was on her way to L.A.—UCLA. Ha! But, what purpose would that serve? He would figure out his life. And, she was discovering hers. It was best to move on. Monica rummaged through her big, white leather purse embellished with studs and tassels. She finally pulled out a plastic bag filled with assorted treats that she had tucked away—some no-fat matzah, a small roll of haw flakes candy, and a round and flaky, black bean pastry. Monica chose the sweet and rich pastry. She had just sunk her teeth into the crisp, buttery shell when the gate attendant got on the microphone. “Calling group number two. United Airlines Flight 2649, Chicago to L.A. Group number two may board.” Monica quickly wrapped up her food and stuffed it back into her purse. She got up, pushed her sunglasses up on her head, collected her big, fake, Louis Vuitton bag and swung it over her padded shoulder. Onward to brighter, sunnier times, thought Monica. Monica Shue was nineteen and turning twenty soon. She was ready for new experiences and the next big adventure. Hopefully L.A. would be more her style. Samantha Der is a regular contributor for The Universal Asian. To learn more about her, check out her Contributor’s Page here.

My eyes trace the swirling vines of tiny white leaves—the imagery sharp against the dark tan color of the clay vase that Josh slowly turns in his hands. The next piece he picks up is a jewelry box. Its flawless execution of shape and craftsmanship is enough to make you hold your breath as he turns it downward. This reveals the intricate micro-design twirling to life in a garden of pale leaves bending around flower blossoms. He explains to me that in Korean culture, flowers can represent meanings, such as “prosperity” or “longevity.” For example, he uses the plum blossom, “that blooms in the winter, [which] means this kind of prosperity because it’s blooming despite winter conditions.” Josh uses ceramics as a way to connect to his history and culture. Being raised as an Army brat meant moving… A LOT! He told me that moving every other year during his childhood, and living in six or seven different states, really made it hard for him to find a community. As the son of a Korean mother and a white father, he struggles with his identity. Although his mother exposed him to the Korean language, history, and culture at a young age, he was conflicted by the expectations of his father to be “American.” Growing up, Josh rejected his Asian side and searched for belonging by trying to “fit in.” He found challenges, however, due to his appearance. Being the only person in school and public environments that looked like him, he struggled to validate his place of belonging among the Asian community, and is just recently reclaiming his identity at the age of 29. “I’m not Asian enough to be Asian, but I’m not American enough to be American,” he states. While we both agree that visibility for Asians like him is improving, he explains that there’s still a lot of objectifications of Asian Americans on both sides. Josh brought up the incredible book, "Crying in H Mart" by Michelle Zauner, as an example. Its pages contain a story about a person of mixed Korean and white identities that so many others can relate to as many are similarly searching to connect, or reconnect, to their Asian roots. Through his work, Josh has found it therapeutic to find ways to connect to his culture and history. He’s found that it makes him face issues he’s suppressed and, in many ways, didn’t know that he had—such as his insecurities about being Asian. He also admits that his work often conjures up memories of his mother and his family’s expectations of him to go into medicine. However, his need to create and express himself through this outlet is ultimately how he chooses to honor himself and reclaim his identity. Josh began this journey in 2015, when he was shown Korean ceramics during his time in art school. So much of his inspiration is taken from forms and silhouettes that are historically inspired, with his own ceramic twist to it. Josh finds inspiration in the works of artists like Steven Lee and Sam Chung. He explains to me how they use their pieces to express contemporary thoughts and he compliments their technical skills. He continues on to describe the beauty he finds in another artist’s masterpieces that she creates on skin. Sion Kwak, whose medium is tattooing, reveals complex flowing lines that create beautiful traditional Korean knots. Red and bursting open like a lotus flower as the tail flows, appearing to lay over the body rather than an image embedded in the flesh. Her imagery, which is created as though printed onto delicate fans, can only be described as something you could find hand-painted on ancient East Asian porcelain plates and tea pots—so soft and intricate, the beauty of her art is undeniable. It’s easy to see how Josh is drawn to these artists. His detail and designs captivate the eye and evoke a deep connection to his Korean heritage. When showing me the lid of a jewelry box, he explains that it is inspired by historic cosmetic boxes. He hand-carves out wedges from the lid and fills the space with a white-colored clay, creating a beautiful inlay pattern around the lip. “This technique was invented by Koreans,” he explains to me as he slowly turns the piece over in his fingers. One of the most endearing traits I find Josh to have is that he isn’t afraid to put in the muscle and get down and dirty for his work. He makes all of his raw materials himself; stirring up large batches of clay that start as a powder similar to concrete. He said it took him two years to master his craft. And, while he may work six to seven active hours on a single piece, the entire process can take up to four weeks from start to finish. In the future, Josh hopes to continue to network and participate in more online art shows. His hope is to keep creating until he makes his break into the ceramic and art world. As the conversation winds down, I ask him if there’s any advice he could give other artists or anyone out there trying to achieve what he has with his work. His response is as genuine and as chill as he is: “Nothing anyone else will make will ever be exactly the way you’re making it, with all your different influences. It’s going to be uniquely you. No one else is going to be you. You have the right to your own identity, whatever that may be. There’s never a perfect time. Even if I’m not having the perfect day, I’m still working on it, I’m still trying.” To view and purchase Josh’s work go to: joshsingletonceramic.Etsy.com. Follow him on Instagram: @joshsingletonceramic

Artists An Laurence and Annie Tong Zhou Lafrance, both Chinese adoptees, launch their 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). This project was made possible by the Chinatown Biennial. Description: UP CLOSE offers a behind-the-scenes look into the creative processes that birthed our artistic works as Chinese adoptees raised in Quebec. How can transracial adoptees reappropriate their stories? Why use artistic creation as a means to search for what’s been lost? We hope that UP CLOSE can help amplify transracial adoptees’ voices and spark conversations with other Asian diasporic communities. How to buy UP CLOSE in presale (USA and International outside Canada) CAD 20 USA delivery CAD 25 International delivery Send CAD 20 (USA) or CAD 25 (international) to @anhiggins/anlaurence.higgins@gmail.com via Paypal Send An Laurence a private message containing your mailing address Use: Instagram messages, Messenger, email (anlaurence.higgins@gmail.com) How to buy UP CLOSE in presale (Canada) CAD 15 pick-up in Montreal, next to Jean Talon station CAD 18 delivery included Send CAD 15 (pick-up) or CAD 18 (delivery included) via e-transfer to anlaurence.higgins@gmail.com Send An Laurence a private message containing the e-transfer password + mailing address if you want delivery Use: email, Instagram messages, Messenger

In a place plagued by drought, the Wild West is where only the bravest would dare to tame nature. Only those with the most courageous and unbreakable spirits can adapt to thrive there. People made of resilience and emboldened with purpose. People like Kristyn, a California farmer looking to sow the seeds of education, with literal seeds. Her dream to one day have control over food access and supporting Asian American farmers, is one that she is making a reality as you read this. I have to admit, when I imagined how this interview would go prior to meeting the Namu Farm founder, I didn’t anticipate the rebel spirit behind the person I was sitting down with. Her life experience and fortitude extend beyond her years. Her mission couldn’t be clearer as she says: “Being in white areas can feel very isolating, and can be hard, psychologically, and emotionally, to deal with how communities of color have been pushed out. And, the ability to have land—I see this shifting more, and understanding this—is part of our shared history. And, erasing the contributions that our community has been responsible for helping to create, we’ve become invisible.” One of Kristyn’s recollections of her earlier years working on other farms was that she got to a point where it became obvious there was a disconnect from the vegetables she saw at farmers’ markets. She remarks on how they didn’t seem to be reflecting the communities that she was surrounded by—catering more toward the perceptions of who a farmers’ market is for. Fortunately, there were many Asian American chefs in the Bay area interested in having access to organic produce. So, Kristyn started her side project of growing primarily Korean vegetables. “Korean ingredients don’t have a good substitute. It’s something very special to speak to that relationship when something is distinctly ours. As immigrants, people were resourceful and traveled with different seeds because there wasn’t anything similar,” she explained. Kristyn shared that she’s putting most of her energy into seed preservation, and ways that she can gain access to seeds and ensure that they’re kept within loving and respectful environments. Her focus is on trials and breeding for seed production and seed banking. Up until now most seed banking has been held by governments that are only concerned about crude data and the utility of potential breeding schemes. “If you look at places that have had wars or civil unrest, governments go to take seeds from those places. But that often doesn’t show cultural diversity. It shows a narrowness to those whose tastes are being catered to.” She went on to explain that her hope is to be able to strengthen the narrative and bolster economic channels. “Reclaiming our culture through food.” Namu Farm was manifested into existence out of pure love. When I asked Kristyn what made her decide that farming was her passion, she explained that at an early age she recognized how valuable this skill was—a way to have the means to make sure that the people she loves are taken care of. For her, that meant tapping into the most primal of needs—food. She admitted that she wasn’t strategic about the long term when she was younger, and that she has found that a lot of her progress has felt accidental in very serendipitous ways. Finding that many of these opportunities were simply connections she’s become aligned with while riding a current that’s lead her to communities of many other young Asian American farmers who are returning to agriculture. Kristyn herself confirmed that the people who have been most responsive to the success of her farm thriving have been people around her own age that are wanting to teach their children about these traditional Korean foods. One of the biggest challenges that requires regular adaptation to is drought. “It’s not so much a drought, so much as a constant state of being,” she laughed. Heat and dry conditions have been the central stressors working on a farm. Soil management and finding natural ways to reduce tillage have remained an ongoing focus. Kristyn explained that they use earthworms to create pathways through the soil to mimic tilling. Namu Farms has also utilized natural farming methods from Korea and East Asia in order to disturb the soil less, and operates using the elegance that eco systems do. Endless hours are devoted simply to the time spent calibrating to the surroundings. However, the rewards are far greater than the struggle. Kristyn’s connections throughout the years have created some of the most meaningful partnerships. Namu, a restaurant in San Francisco, buys produce to use in their modern and creative eatery. She describes their food as being able to feel both new and very old by not only looking to the past to take cues about what makes us Korean, but giving the latitude to move forward, evolve, and reinvent those traditions. “Chefs provide such an amazing platform. The rise in food culture is this glamorous thing, and chefs are powerful storytellers. It means a lot in terms of farms trying to diversify,” she said. It has been incredible to learn how many different channels there are linking us to food and the history and stories behind what makes Namu Farm so vital. Not only is this a retreat to learn about plants, culture, and the effects of climate change, but it’s also become a place where children and families can find a real sense of collective ownership of. Kristyn holds community events and programs sharing about food and cooking. She shared: “In these moments when we’re experiencing this trauma, talking about food builds trust so quickly and also gives us something to talk about. In this climate where there’s been this really, kind of noxious narrative and contempt toward Asian communities, that’s always been here historically, but for kids to find these inroads of being really proud and recognizing that these stories are linked to ancestral wisdom. There’s a sense of collectivism and accountability moving forward. It’s hopeful for young people to be saturated in a positive narrative, and [they] can have this solid footing in being proud of their culture and their food.” Namu Farm: https://www.secondgenerationseeds.com/

Studio ATAO has started their end-of-year fundraising efforts to support their 2022 initiative, "The Neighborhood’s Table," that aims to combat gentrification by creating a responsible development framework for hospitality businesses in gentrifying areas to combat displacement and sustainably invest in their community. Their goal is to raise USD 20K so they can properly apply their methodology to this initiative, equitably compensate their advisors and group participants, and appropriately allocate the internal resources needed to reach multiple communities in the U.S. If you would like to donate, visit https://bit.ly/theneighborhoodstable. If you’re unfamiliar with Studio ATAO, they are a 501(c)3 nonprofit that creates educational tools, resources, and spaces for individuals and organizations to advance systems-based change through a social justice lens and the all-affected principle. You can read more about their work on their website.

"In an ideal world there would be no need for adoption. But, we do not live in an ideal world and I doubt we ever will…" I am still a work in progress. I have learnt a lot, but there is still a lot to learn and to change about myself. I’m still working on that puzzle…. This was in response to the six Asian women killed in the Atlanta shootings. For me, one of the biggest things that happened very recently was being able to begin to understand where the rage and despair came from. When COVID started making itself known around the world in early 2020, a rise in anti-Asian sentiment quickly followed. I took this very personally and was incredibly upset by it—and the question came again from Asians and non-Asians alike: “Why do you get so upset with racism?” I started making works around this notion in 2014. Collections of elegant and priceless blue and white porcelain is found in grand homes throughout the U.K., Europe, and the U.S. for at least two centuries. Yet, it is relatively recently that an Asian would ever be accepted into those homes as a social equal. This version is a strange version, full of beasties and scary things (look for the fruit made to look like the COVID virus), made in 2020 during lockdown. This question has been asked of me throughout my life, but I did think a lot about it last year and into this year. “It is hard to process racism when the perpetrators look like members of your own family.” Many Asians living in Western countries have experienced racism. As a child, they go home to a family who look like them, and even if nothing is said, there is a shared experience. A child will watch how their parents and older relatives react to and manage racist incidents and microaggressions. They will learn how to react and handle themselves, but most likely, they would be believed. I learnt very quickly to stay silent after being dismissed or told, “not to tell tales” soon after starting school. And, as recently as a month ago, in an exchange with a sibling, the penny finally dropped. I was told: “We always assumed you were one of us"; therefore, I would be immune to any racism as my family did not see me as Asian. “But this was the '60s, '70s, and '80s. The accepted way was to raise inter-country/transracial adoptees as 'color blind'; we didn’t know any better at that time.” This makes perfect sense to me now and another piece of the puzzle slotted into place. However, as a child and throughout my teenage years, I noted the difference in how I was treated compared to my white siblings or classmates. I saw people’s attitudes visibly change when one of my parents came into view and I was confused, then hurt, then angry. I am 55 now. I am a professional artist: exhibiting and licensing my art globally. I wake up with a purpose every day and am thrilled to have reached an audience in many countries around the world. I had the support and encouragement from my husband and family to follow my dream, which is something I am truly grateful for. My birth mother and I continue to communicate, and while I am sad about aspects of our relationship, I feel incredibly lucky to have her in my life. Whenever we connect, I feel so much joy. For me, I would love to change the narrative around inter-country or transracial adoption. There’s a common assumption that adoptees would face a life of neglect, poverty, and abuse if they were not adopted. In many cases, and especially in 2021, this just isn’t true. It would be more beneficial, in my opinion, to put steps in place to enable children to stay within their families or communities—where applicable. Every case is different. I have no ready answers. Since 2014, I donate time and art to a number of adoption-led organizations in Australia and elsewhere. I sometimes run art workshops for inter-country adoptees; and I get as much of a kick out of it as they do. I share my stories because if it helps someone else connect the dots then it’s worth it after my own years of struggle. I credit younger transracial/inter-country adoptee connections for educating me on a lot of things, as well as friends and my husband for telling me to pull my head in when needed. And, I’m starting to show up for causes I believe in—because I need to. I am in charge of my own happiness. And yeah, I’m pretty happy. You can read Gabby Malpas’s "On Meeting My Birth Mother" here. All artwork and text by Gabby Malpas Cover image credit: “Socks and TV,” Gabby Malpas

Reposted from Korean Quarterly Mid-February 2021, I had just lost a long-time friend. The third in three months. Preoccupied with grief, on March 16, the first words about the Atlanta spa murders only grazed my consciousness. My body connected to the upheaval before my mind did. Realization of what had happened there unfolded over time. I read a few headlines late Tuesday. Not another shooting..., I thought. Wednesday, the rest of the information trickled in. A witness quoted in the South Korean Chosun Ilbo newspaper heard the 21-year-old killer, Robert Long, scream: “I am going to kill all Asians” before shooting at one of the three spas he attacked that day. Atlanta Police Captain Jay Baker explained the killer’s motive to the nation sympathetically: “He was pretty much fed up, and kind of at [the] end of his rope, and yesterday was a really bad day for him and this is what he did.” From the police captain’s perspective, killing eight people (six of whom were Asian women) seemed like nothing more than a tough/bad decision. An accident. Our lives might just have to be sacrificed for a 21-year-old’s bad day. There were so many layers of rage and grief in reading the shooter’s declaration of hate. I am an adoptee. I grew up in a small town where I was the only minority in the entire school. I was no stranger to racial jokes and slurs, physical assault, discrimination; starting around age six. My white family’s good intentions did not understand, would/could not support my racial experience growing up. Before I learned to love my ethnicity, I had already spent four and a half decades internalizing racism that became self-hatred. Ideas about being Korean made me very uncomfortable and alienated. The closest thing that I had to Asian pride was acknowledgement of my race through self-deprecating jokes. Growing up, I had conversations about race that included whitewashing, such as “Everyone is the same/We don’t see color.” I noted inaccurate perspectives of post-racial America: “We marched for civil rights back in the '60s, so racism isn’t a problem in America anymore.” I also heard a lot of denial, because, for some, making a problem invisible is the next best thing to solving it: “Why do you have to bring that (racism you experienced) up? Are you trying to upset everyone?” “Can’t we just have a nice time? You ruin everything.” “Get over it.” “Forget about it, keep working, you will be fine.” I also was subject to outright gaslighting: “Racism is probably just in your head.” “You don’t know if that (bad behavior doled out to the only minority in a group) was racism. Don’t be like that.” “You are handicapping yourself by thinking people are against you.” I was conditioned to never play the race card. I’ve worked a myriad of customer service jobs. Dealing with microaggressions, blatant racism, and intrusive questions affected me and continued to shape my ideas about the way others saw me. The dreaded question “Where are you from?” sometimes included every ethnicity except Korean. I was asked if or [sic] routinely told that I looked Japanese, Chinese, Vietnamese, Hmong, Thai, Cambodian, Laotian. I knew there were many Asian countries, but in America, Asians are perceived as “all the same.” Remembering Vincent Chin, I knew this could be fatal to people with faces like mine. In 2018, decades after Hallyu, I returned to the Motherland. I learned to take pride in being Korean for the first time in my life. Early 2020, I was one of the people who initially did not think the coronavirus was a threat. I perceived the first threat to be the immediate rise in violence against Asian people. When people I knew referred to COVID-19 as the “virus from Wuhan,” called it “the China virus,” or spoke negatively about China’s government, I would get upset. This was not because of national politics, but because I already was starting to fear for our safety, the safety of Asian Americans. In 2015 the World Health Organization (WHO) amended guidelines, advising national authorities, science and medical communities to not name diseases with terms that include: “geographic locations, cultural or population references, or terms that incite undue fear” (WHO, 2015). A disease named after a location motivates backlash against people related to that place, and backlash includes violence and murder. Yet some “liberal” white friends still did/would not connect how calling COVID the “China virus” contributes to the threat of harm against all Asians, and my own safety. Asian Americans were assaulted while grocery shopping with infants, taking out the garbage, walking their dogs, going to work, sitting on the bus. In seeing so many reports with “Asian attacked” or “Asian assaulted” in the headlines; the only commonality that I saw was an Asian face scapegoated. Over and over. I know what I saw. I recognized it. I recognized the denial by the media and law enforcement that these were “not hate crimes.” It was a very old and familiar frustration. Witnessing repeated acts of racism followed by public denials of prejudice in America. In a way, truth made public was finally validating, but it was the kind of validation that I never wanted. When Atlanta happened, my body physically reacted with shock, trauma, and grief beyond what my brain was able to comprehend. It’s impossible for me to discuss Atlanta without relating it to George Floyd, and most recently Daunte Wright. Injustice to one is injustice to all. When I just turned 21, one of my Black friends explained to me why they would not tolerate anti-Asian/any racially hateful statements. He was one of the first persons to verbalize the idea: “I don’t tolerate anti-Asian talk, because the same people that call Asians ‘ch**ks’ use the N-word behind my back.” I felt I found my family. I started to learn about solidarity. George Floyd was my age, we both worked in security around town. I felt connected to him. For that and other reasons, his public execution by police affected me. Deeply. For about half of the summer of 2020, I couldn’t sleep more than a few hours. I was experiencing hypervigilance. Since I couldn’t sleep, I read, and learned quite a bit about trauma response and the sympathetic nervous system, as I tried to make sense of what was happening internally. Following the Atlanta mass murders, I recognized this reaction returning. For the first four days, I would cry every morning, and throughout the day. By end of the week, I would only cry once a day. Progress. I constantly was frustrated and angry. I felt isolated. Alone. Enraged at the police press release that sympathized with the murder; “news” and law-enforcement that still insisted: “there is no proof that the Atlanta shootings were hate crimes.” One day, I offhandedly mentioned I felt like going down there. That thought, that verbalization, sparked the first alleviation of anxiety, stress, anger, and frustration that I was feeling. I mentioned this to a few more people. On a Korean adoptee page, somebody I didn’t know offered to let me stay with their family. The more I started to plan, the less despair I felt. I wanted to go and see for myself what was really going on. I wanted to show up in solidarity for my community. I wanted to connect with some organizations, and bring back knowledge to help people in my city. I wanted to see Koreatown in Atlanta. I wanted to eat Korean BBQ. A few nights before I left, I participated in a Zoom meeting with AFAB (Assigned Female At Birth) Korean adoptees from the West Coast, East Coast, southern USA, and Europe. It was such a relief to be able to talk about the tragedy without having to navigate any white fragility. It was no surprise that our reactions were almost identical. Though the group members were different ages, occupations, had different adopted family experiences, religious/political backgrounds; we all were crying, anxious, unable to sleep, frustrated, and exhausted. Even among those isolated from Asian communities, we felt the same, around the world. I did not have many expectations. It was raining the day I left. It rained every day I was in Georgia. I visited my first H Mart (a Korean-specific supermarket) in Atlanta, then we went to Gold Spa and the Aromatherapy Spa. Approaching Gold Spa, my mind went momentarily blank. My shock melted into sadness, seeing the gigantic word “L O V E” arranged in the parking lot, constructed with tree branches and flowers. So many flowers. Signs. Messages. Memorial offerings. I read notes about each person lost. That was the most difficult. The pain of their families was my pain. The loss of their community was loss of my community. It was the loss of our family, our community. 우리 (uri, or “our” in Korean) grief had rippled around the world. People could try to deny or ignore it, but our bereavement did not care, and did not rest. I also attended a conference at the Korean American Coalition (KAC) in Atlanta. Researching different Asian organizations in Georgia, I noticed KAC did not list an address on their website. I assumed it was for protection of the building and Koreans who were there. KAC also held a vigil, which was grounding. There were prayers from Muslim, Buddhist, and Christian denominations. Black and Jewish community leaders represented unification, spoke, offered solidarity. There was music and poetry. There was healing strength in unity. My takeaways: It is important to reach out to like-minded people, and that positive activity, even a validating conversation, can decrease negative rumination, depression, anxiety, anger. I found like minds in the Minnesota Asian Safety Squad. The MN Asian Safety Squad is a volunteer group that does community security walks around the Frogtown neighborhood of St. Paul, in a popular Asian American shopping district. They also offer free rides to elderly/differently abled people in need. Walking together for this shared purpose of solidarity has been very meaningful to me. In all of our struggles, we are all interconnected—like it or not. As individuals, our struggles may be different, but there are important intersectionalities. We have more in common with each other than we do with our oppressors. Now is a time for change. The old ways of avoiding racism as Asian Americans: “Put your head down, let it go/get over injustice, and keep working,” are not the path to safety that we were once led to believe. Not anymore. At this point, upholding silence and endorsing Asian invisibility has gotten us hunted and murdered. We (Asian communities and all marginalized people) need to continue to connect, adapt, and evolve. We need to be seen, heard, recognized, respected. We need to lose the “divide and conquer” mentality. Today, I had three work meetings discussing diversity, equity, inclusivity. I experienced the healing power of connecting, and gained strength in discussing our truths. Lived experience is real. People, both Asians and non-Asians, are learning about anti-Asian discrimination. Asians are coming to grips with the racism they have battled and navigated their entire lives. Atlanta has been an awakening for many people. Now is a time for world change. We have a chance to redefine ourselves, and fight for our right to exist in peace. Unity is the only way. Solidarity for the win. Lastly, demanding accountability for crime and wrongdoing is part of that. Police, politicians, and our own communities all need to be held accountable. The status quo model of how we treat marginalized communities and what we will put up with as minorities is not working. What is the definition of insanity? Repeating the same methods, expecting different results. We need to demolish and reconstruct. The disaster of COVID has left some benefits in its wake, including the opportunity to rebuild something for our future. Let’s build. "Inside the chaos, Build a temple of Love." Rune Lazuli Mae Ouhr (they/them) is a food-obsessed data systems manager, voter, dog parent, consumer of visual arts, social justice warrior, occasional gym rat. Born in South Korea, they were adopted and raised in Minnesota. They value life learning, are hopefully done with college loans and wonder what’s up with those campaign promises, President Biden? This article was previously published in Korean Quarterly, under the title: “Visiting the Gold Spa Parking Lot.” Cover photo credit: Mae Ouhr

Note from editor: “Taniya,” “Su Lee,” and “Lee Hei Sung” are all different names of the author’s during the different chapters of her life. TW: the account below contains references to mental, physical, sexual, and emotional abuse; violence experienced/witnessed; and substance abuse. Intro: I have the opportunity to write the story about my life as a Korean adoptee. I was adopted twice. The first adoption was very abusive and caused a lot of trauma, but I was too young to understand that I needed help. My second set of adoptive parents did not know the extent of the abuse I went through, plus they were trying to deal with their own traumas that they experienced in their youth. I thought I was doing well throughout the years; I thought I was normal. There were times I was depressed, but I thought everyone got depressed every now and then. I did not seek help because my mood swings were stable, or so I thought. It wasn’t until I experienced the truth about my second marriage, by the way, as soon as I turned the big “50,” my life took a big turn and what I found out was an opening to Pandora’s box, which led me to the path of peace. Taniya, 2 or 3 to 9½ years old: I cannot remember much about my childhood. My counselor told me it is because I have suppressed a lot of the memories from my early childhood. I was adopted two times—the first adoption: an American couple adopted me; the husband was in the military and his wife was German. I believe I was adopted when I was around 2 or 3 years old. The couple soon divorced, and I moved to Savannah, GA. I ended up living with the wife, whose name was Veronica. I lived with Veronica and her son. Not long after, she remarried; my stepdad’s name was Boris. I cannot remember too much of my past, most of the memories were the abuse I experienced. Veronica made “Mommy Dearest” look like an angel. She was so evil. At the time of the abuse, I thought it was normal, and I did not understand that I should try to run away and get help. Veronica mentally, physically, sexually, and emotionally abused me—any kind of abuse you can think of; she did to me. I had to visit the hospital numerous times because of her abuse, which included, but was not limited to, having her beat my head with her high heels, needing stitches, having a broken arm, needing a cast, getting my stomach pumped because she had me drink glass after glass of water filled with salt, etc. I was constantly sent to foster homes because of her abuse. Neighbors would witness the abuse and call the police on her. I remember times of being choked by her, and then I would pass out and be revived by her punching my bloody face. She seemed to love to torture me because she felt the last punishment was not enough. She had me wear wigs around town, shaved my eyebrows, and dyed my hair red and told me to tell others I just woke up with it like that. She showed me pornographic pictures of Asian women and said that the women were my mom and I was found in the garbage. She told me how much she couldn’t stand me and I was going to be her slave. The punishments kept getting worse, the meals became less, and she constantly kept me out of school. By the time I was 9½ years old, which at that time I did not know how old I was or when my birthday was, I watched her get murdered by Boris. After she was murdered, my adoptive brother and I went to a facility to wait for my first adoptive dad, who was my brother’s real dad. When Mr. Martinson came to pick us up, he brought us to California. There, I met his other kids and his new wife, who did not care for us to be a part of the family. My brother and I never felt welcomed. I found out later I was going to be sent back to the state. My mom (Paula), whom I have now, wanted to adopt me. She worked with Mr. Martinson and knew the situation about me being given to the state. I ended up staying with her and her husband for two weeks. I thought they were babysitting me. My mom had such a sweet disposition about her. She was always smiling and was very artistic. She had a beautiful singing voice, was so smart, loved to read, and loved to laugh. She was so affectionate and always told me she loved me. My dad (Lee) had such a kindness about him and a great sense of humor. When I first met him, he walked from the front door and knelt down to my level, and with a handsome smile introduced himself to me and explained I was going to be staying with them for a while. I stayed for two weeks, which was awesome! I was sad when I had to leave and go back with the Martinson family. A couple of days later I was asked if I would like to live with the couple I stayed with for two weeks for a very long time. I was so excited I said “Yes!” I moved in with them, and I never said goodbye to my adopted brother. I did not understand I was never going to see him again. I never had a chance to say, “I love you,” to him. Su Lee, from 10½ years old to present day: My mom told people when she first got me that I had scabies, was malnourished, and most of my baby teeth were rotten. I lived with my new family for almost a year before I was officially their daughter. During that time, I learned how old I was and when my birthday was. I also changed my name. My new parents were so young—my dad was 26 and my mom was 24—to instantly have a 9½-year-old child. My parents were from Houston, Texas. My dad was not racist, but because of his Southern upbringing, he always identified people by their race and liked to make racist jokes. My mom is colorblind (literally); she loved all cultures. I did not understand at that time why you need to describe someone by the color of their skin instead of by what they are wearing or where they are. Before my dad died, he told me a little girl had taught him not to describe people by the color of their skin. After my adoption my dad and mom were married for about two more years. They divorced when I was 11½ years old. My mom and I moved to Texas to live with her parents in Waller, Texas, which was a small country town. I was the only Asian girl that spoke English fluently, and I heard a lot of racist comments most of the time. I always stood up for myself, and, eventually, the other kids got to know me and stopped with the racist comments. I loved school and socializing. Even when I lived with Veronica, school was the place where I could be free to play, laugh, and get a meal to eat! When I was around 12½ years old I moved back to live with my dad in California. This was the summer I was going into seventh grade. My dad drank a lot, dated, cried for my mom, and really showed his hurt when he was drunk. A lot of unhappy events happened to me while living with my dad that summer. He showed a lot of anger. He was an emotional roller coaster. The drinking resulted in him crossing boundaries he never should have crossed. That summer I was sexually molested, and I was physically and emotionally abused. Once school started, I hardly saw my dad because he worked night shifts and dated, but my grandmother (his mom) was always around—she was an alcoholic too. When I would get up for school, Grandma always made sure my grits and cheese were made for breakfast. There were mornings where I would see her with a black eye. I would ask her what happened, and she would tell me she got into a fight. There were a few black eye mornings. I loved my grandmother; she was a beautiful soul—except when she was drunk. She was never mean to me when she was drunk. Well, there were times she felt I did something to her liquor bottle, which I would empty down the drain, but she was so intoxicated that she would move on. Overall, she was mostly mean to others. Dad remarried and we moved to Santa Cruz, which was an awesome place to live! The marriage only lasted a month. He made bad choices and hurt so many people he loved. I used to hear how he served in the Marines and was a Vietnam veteran. I was too young to understand the trauma he experienced while stationed in Vietnam as an American soldier. Dad eventually started going to Alcoholics Anonymous, remarried, and decided he wanted a family. The lady he married was a hippy stuck in the '70s—she was pretty cool. I loved the rainbow and butterfly décor in her home, the reggae music she played, and her son. I told my dad he should give her a chance, and that I thought she was a great lady for him. He always gave me credit for telling him that. I was almost 17 years old. After so many years of living a single life, with no parental guidance, and all of a sudden, he wanted to be a family. I lived in a home with roommates whom my dad rented rooms out to. I barely saw him because he stayed at his girlfriend’s home most of the time. He would come home and make sure the fridge had food, and we hung out every now and then. I was fine with that because I did what I wanted to do. (By the way, I could cook all kinds of ramen noodles! I would throw hot dogs, eggs, spinach, etc. in there. I made up all kinds of recipes with ramen noodles.) When he got married, we became a family and there were rules. I was not used to this kind of living, and I rebelled. I got into trouble hanging out with the wrong crowd, so I was sent to live with my mom. My mom and I spent every summer in Texas. When I went back to live in California, there were months that went by where I would not hear from her. I loved spending my summers with her. Sometimes, she would be living with a boyfriend and other times she was alone. My mom moved to a small town in Texas called La Porte. She worked 12-hour shifts and lived the single life. I had a lot of freedom again. I was a junior in high school the year I moved back. Since I did so badly in my sophomore year at Santa Cruz High School, I only had six classes to go to, but I only went to two: P.E. and Health. I attended P.E. because my friends were in that class and Health because I had a crush on a guy. Needless to say, I had to go to night school, summer school, and I had to have a full schedule my senior year, plus I could not fail any classes in order to graduate on time, which I did! In the beginning, living in La Porte was hard. I was the only Asian female in the school who spoke English fluently, partied, and dated white guys. I made it big over there. There were racist comments in the beginning as usual, but long story short I was put in the spotlight one day in social studies class. A guy said that the President needed to send “all the slanted-eye zipper heads back where they belong.” I froze. I could not speak. I could not believe I did not say anything. The next day I gave this speech in class that extended after roll call all the way until it was almost time for the bell to ring. I talked about how the only ones that should be telling us to go back to where we belong are Native people; how those with blonde hair and blue eyes shouldn’t be the only ones considered to be “Americans”; and how there are good and bad individuals to be found in all races. After that day, the racist comments stopped. I graduated on time and moved back to Santa Cruz. I loved living in Santa Cruz, where the beauty of nature permeated the city. Most people I met were so open and friendly. Growing up in Santa Cruz, I did go through many identity crises. I loved hanging out with surfers; they were very accepting and so I could be myself around them. By the time I was 20, I moved back with my mom to go back to school and get my life together. I worked, went to school, and partied. I ended up in a car wreck, which changed my way of thinking about my life. I realized my life could be over in a snap. I almost went through the windshield, almost lost my left eye, and I had to have my tongue stitched back together. I kept losing consciousness. I could have died and there was nothing I could have done about it. Months down the road, I started working at a 7-Eleven convenience store, which is where I met my first husband who was in the Army. We dated, and three months later we were married. He was 10 years older than me with two kids: a 5½-year-old little girl named Rita and an 8½-year-old little boy named Jimmy. Before I was married, I loved kids. I used to babysit, so I thought helping to raise two kids would not be hard. Well, it was, especially since I did not have much guidance to fall back on. The children were the same ages as I was when I was being abused. I did not realize that when children experience abuse-related trauma there are three reactions they can do: fight, flight, or freeze. Most children freeze, and the memories of abuse are suppressed. There were so many memories I tried to avoid and not think about. I never wanted to become like Veronica. We moved into a subdivision where I would walk my dog. One day when I was out with my dog, there was a Korean lady in her front yard and I said “Hi” to her. She started walking with me. We talked about my being adopted, and I told her I would love to learn how to make Korean food. A week later there was a knock on the door, and it was that same lady. I asked her to come in, and she had bags of groceries with her. She taught me how to make kimbap. I was elated! I made it all the time and loved the taste. That was the first time I had real Korean food. I never saw her again, but I am still so grateful to her. Our family was about to move to Heidelberg, Germany. I went to update my social security card with my married name. I gave the woman at the social security office my adopted birth certificate. She told me that this was not proof of my being an American citizen. I was 20 when I found out I was not an American. On my passport, my first adopted family had left my citizenship open for me to decide. Luckily, I was able to be sworn in as a U.S. citizen with a federal judge. We ended up moving to Heidelberg for three years. My ex-husband was a recruiter and was hardly ever home. He traveled with his captain all over Europe while I stayed home with the children. I also had a baby girl before moving to Germany. She was my true love. The first time I ever felt her, she was a part of me, and there was a real connection. My baby had big beautiful blue eyes; they stayed blue until she was 4 years old. My sweet baby was named Danielle. It seemed her mind was wired to draw; she was such a talented artist at a very young age. When we moved to Germany, the military wives that were Korean were very clannish. They were very sweet and invited me over to their homes, which I was happy and willing to do. Once I was there, I would just sit while they spoke Korean to each other. I did not feel like I fit in with Koreans. However, I did love to cook Korean food and I learned how to make kimchi. I also bought a Korean cookbook. I was very proud of Korean food. I worked for the Civil Service in payroll in Heidelberg. The payroll department would have luncheons where everyone brought a dish of food. I would bring in kimbap every time. Once, I had two ladies from Oklahoma ask me what I was going to bring for the next luncheon. I said, “Kimbap,” and they said, “You bring that every time, bring something different.” I asked “Like what?” One of the ladies said, “Mashed potatoes, just something different.” I brought in kimbap again. Why? Because I do what I want! After a few years in Germany, I became pregnant again with another baby girl—Andrea—and once again it was true love! We eventually moved back to the States. In my early 30s, I divorced my first husband. We just grew apart. I was tired of being alone and no longer loved him. I only loved him as a good friend. Our divorce was hard on the family. I eventually remarried. I stopped talking to my dad, as I started to remember what he did to me and how sad I felt when we talked on the phone. My mom and I still continued talking, but I started to have anger towards her. I could not understand why she would send her child to live with a person she knew had an alcohol and drug problem. My mom and dad never sent me to a counselor to get help with what I experienced, which I also did not understand. I felt that both of my parents lived for themselves. I could not understand why they adopted me if they both wanted to be part-time parents. As I mentioned earlier, I did not mind being alone when I was growing up. However, it wasn’t until I became a parent that I learned how much children of all ages need their parents. It is so important to guide your children, show interest in their hobbies and their passions, and guide them along their path as they discover their purpose. I did not pay attention to my mom’s mental and emotional health until I was a senior in high school. One day, she took me to a psychologist who told me it was not my fault my mom was coming to see her. I never knew my mom was going there or that I knew where she was taking me that day. My mom went through a lot with my dad and she had other dark experiences in her past that no child should have to go through. It wasn’t until I was in my 30s that I realized my mom and I were not that close and her memories of our past together did not match. She always had to be right. She lacked empathy, and she could not relate to my life issues. My mom and I were not very close after I moved out and had my own family. When I married my second husband, I was so in love. We loved being together; he was so much fun with a great sense of humor, and I loved every moment with him. Years later, our marriage was full of turmoil where we fought all the time and he was hardly around. Then, finally, the truth came out, and my marriage was no longer stable and secure. I had a dark cloud around me for years. I could not set goals because I did not know what the future held. I tried so hard to forgive him, but he would not let me forget the past. I knew I needed to heal, which is when I reached out to my dad and asked him to forgive me. I learned about suffering—I learned how those who are suffering look for peace, especially those who experienced trauma. Most people live via their subconscious levels and are not able to make rational choices, which ends up hurting others and themselves constantly. I had so much anger in my life towards my dad. I wrote him a letter. I told him I did not understand the suffering he went through when I was younger. I understand it was not just the Vietnam War, but also his upbringing. My dad wrote me back, and we started talking again after 15 years of not talking to each other. We saw each other, and about three months later he died. I was so grateful that the Lord brought my dad and I back together and that we had closure. I loved him just like I did when I was a little girl; all the anger was chiseled away. The postmark on my letter to my dad was stamped “May 16, 2019 Macon, Georgia,” and I believe he received the letter about two days after that date on May 18, 2019. Exactly one year later, he died on May 18, 2020. I know that the Lord lined everything up so my dad and I could have a peaceful closure, because we really did and do love each other. I am so grateful. During my journey of healing, I was angry. I searched for answers. I linked the people who hurt me internally and I tried to find the commonalities that they all shared—all of them were hurting inside too. It wasn’t until my dad passed away that I would wake up every morning thanking the Lord for bringing dad back to me and for us having the closure we needed. Then, I started the healing process with my second marriage. Eventually, I started having thoughts of appreciation and thinking more about the present moments instead of the negative thoughts of the past. Everything I went through in my life helped me learn how to heal in regards to all the ways in which my dad, mom, Veronica, and husband had caused me to experience different levels of suffering. With my dad, the Lord showed me the grace and miracle that love is so powerful, and no matter how much suffering you feel, as soon as you open your heart to forgive, you will free your soul and breathe again. I realized my dad was always a gentle soul, but he did not know how to love until years later when he learned to give himself to others, which is what he did with the community, the children, and the veterans. I believe that he adopted me because he wanted to make up for what he did in Vietnam. My experiences with my mom taught me that people love you the way they know how to. Veronica was so evil. After she was out of my life, I remember as a little girl that I was so grateful she was gone. I did not deal with the abuse I experienced, and I suppressed most of the memories until later in my life where I began to deal with her and my memories. I believe gratitude helped me. I knew others had it worse than me and that was my perception as a little girl. My time with my current husband has taught me to face my reality, to know humans are not perfect, to know that the suffering we endure will eventually come to an end, and we have to be aware of the hurt that is inside of us and how we lash out at others without knowing it. My husband taught me to be stronger, to know that there is a limit to the hurt, and that there are boundaries. He also helped to teach me that people can change if they really want to, and if they are strong enough to face the hurt that they have caused others, they will take the responsibility to change. It is not easy to change. I have also learned that love is not owed. Just because you have parents, a spouse, your children, etc. anyone that is close to you does not have to love you the way you want them to love you. When you expect a certain kind of love, you could be let down. Love is only given the way it is learned; and unfortunately, there are limits to giving love. People love the only way they know how to give. One day, we all have to deal with our suffering, and just learning how to heal can be the lessons and the blessings. Throughout growing up I could not deal with being adopted. I accepted it, and there were times where if I really stopped to think about who my mom was I did not think I had any chance of meeting her. A representative at Holt Adoption Agency told me years ago (2005), that there were no papers about my mom, when I was born, or where they found me. I have felt hopeless, but the other day my husband did get a hold of Holt, which was not like before, and he was given other options for helping me find out more. I am getting older and time is running out to meet my [birth] mom and her family. I am trying to work on my healing before I can move on. I did join Ancestry.com and 23andMe, and I had a fourth and second cousin reach out to me. Lee Hei Sung: My Korean name was Lee Hei Sung. I was given Cheongju as the place of my family origin on 2/14/66, and Lee as my family name, but no record of my mom or dad. The only permanent address I was given is: San 46-1, Nok Bun Dong, Suh Dai Mun Ku, Seoul, Korea. I was sent to the United States of America on March 1, 1968. I have been a realtor for 16 years, and as of this year, am a board member of a non-profit organization for child abuse. All of my children are married with their own families and are doing well. I am very honored to have been asked to write my story. It has been hard to bring myself to do so, as I have had a lot of pain and healing during this journey.

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

Reposted from The Korea Times This article is the 23rd in a series about Koreans adopted abroad. Apparently, many Koreans never expected that the children it had sent away via adoption would return as adults with questions demanding to be answered. However, thousands of adoptees visit Korea each year. Once they rediscover this country, it becomes a turning point in their lives. We should embrace the dialogue with adoptees to discover the path to recovering our collective humanity. — E.D. The Netflix documentary “Wonder Boy” chronicles the journey of Olivier Rousteing, a transracially adopted French designer, to uncover his true identity. Born under France’s anonymous birth registration system, Rousteing visits with the French child protection authorities who provided him with his adoption file, which offers limited information on his birth parents. He learns of their racial identity, their nationality before coming to France, and everything else except that which set him on his journey: their names and address. According to the “sous X” registration system, a system unique to France, mothers may hide their identity by writing an X on the child’s birth certificate. Consequently, the baby falls under the protection of the state and becomes adoptable. Without the parents’ consent, the birth parents’ identities remain anonymous indefinitely. In Rousteing’s case, the French authorities offered to trace the birth parents and ask them if they would agree to disclose their identities. Despite this attempt, the birth parents declined. Anonymous birth systems exist elsewhere, such as in the United States. While state governments issue birth certificates, some states will seal the original birth certificate if a person is adopted. Once the court finalizes the adoption, a new or “amended” certificate, which bears the new name and information of the adoptee, is issued. The secrecy surrounding birth records has led adopted people to demand access to their information and prompted them to initiate efforts to reform the relevant legislation. They argue that current laws unreasonably favor the personal decision of one party, such as the birth parents, without weighing the interests of both parties. Furthermore, they contend that information vital to a person’s identity cannot be regarded as secret, and that any decision to curtail access is beyond the matters of privacy and personal choice. Whatever may come from these legislative efforts, the government owns the original birth records, so providing access is primarily a matter of deciding whether to open the records. However, Korea’s case isn’t as simple as opening records. As explained in previous articles, intercountry adoption from Korea started with government bureaus establishing an orphan registry and issuing orphan certificates. The true identity of the person, including their familial relations, was erased to complete the process of fraudulently declaring him or her an “orphan found abandoned” for the purpose of intercountry adoption. Therefore, if an adoptee seeks information about their true identity, the official document issued by the Korean government is void and useless. This “orphan” registry system has frustrated and angered many adoptees, leading them to adoption agencies. Under the assumption that their true documents rest in the agencies’ “unofficial” and “private” file rooms, adoptees have developed a diverse range of strategies to extract as much information as possible from the staff. Some of the tactics have included persistently visiting the agency or begging, pleading and even bribing them by donation. One must ask, if the government fails to maintain records of a person’s true identity via his or her official birth certificate, then how can one expect a private agency to do better? Based on my observations, in cases of adoptees’ birth family searches, the trustworthiness of the adoption agencies’ records is highly suspect. After undergoing DNA testing, some adoptees have come to discover that they were not actually related to their supposed birth families despite the agency’s claims arguing otherwise. In other cases, the agencies deliberately delayed notifying the adoptees of their test results or attempted to conceal the results. In light of these circumstances, one must consider the integrity of those records inside the adoption agencies. Do they bear truthful information about adoptees? How many of the files were either destroyed or stolen? Were the contents forged or misrepresented or even switched for business purposes? Who can guarantee the reliability and veracity of the records? Consequently, many adoptees have found that DNA matching companies are the last resort and the most reliable means to search for one’s biological family. In North America and Europe, multiple DNA testing and matching firms provide services for biological family tracing. People can provide their DNA samples to these firms, and their results will be checked within the company’s database to determine whether there are any matches. These efforts have resulted in adoptees from across the world recounting many fascinating stories of finding their birth parents, siblings and relatives. While DNA testing has provided a breakthrough in the search for origins, the fact that adoptees must resort to such measures reflects the defects of Korea’s birth registration system. Historically, under the feudal Joseon Dynasty, people belonged to clans rather than a country and were registered according to their kinship ties. The head of the clan ruled over family members, deciding their fate. As long as an individual belonged to a family, he or she was protected, and any act of disownment was like a death sentence. Children were not seen as individuals but rather as possessions of the family, and they were expected to act for the preservation and prosperity of their clan. Despite the passing of time, the vestiges of this paternalism remain in Korea’s current registration system; they are evident in current legislation, which still largely depends on the decisions (or obligations) of the parent(s) to register a child. On account of this, it is not uncommon to see news reports about cases of people discovering that they have never been registered, or instances of individuals (including unborn babies) being listed on multiple registries. In other words, birth registration failures extend beyond cases of intercountry adoptees, which reveals the pervasiveness of the flaws in Korea’s birth registration system. The prevalence of secret births has been ingrained enough in Korean society to prompt many K-dramas to employ adoption as a plot device frequently. In these stories, the main character discovers that he or she has a birth family and then attempts to restore their relationship. Despite the frequency with which these stories appear in the media, dramas, and even in academic research, people rarely ever question why so many stories about false birth documents exist or why the state has not been held accountable. Fundamentally, these problems prevail due to this country’s failure to ensure accurate universal birth registration. While Korea’s development into a highly modernized democracy continues to be touted, the fact remains that this country fails to perform an essential function that any developed nation should fulfill: ensuring the accurate legal proof of identity for each and every child immediately after birth. Click here to read the 20th article of this series, The problems we face while helping adoptees’ search for families by Kim Yu-kyeong. Cover photo: gettyimagesbank