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

Reposted from The Korea Times “Dialogues with Adoptees,” a weekly column series originally published in The Korea Times, digs into the history and systemic injustice of intercountry adoption by South Korea through the sharing of adoptees’ voices. This series also resonates with those in the larger Asian diaspora, regardless of their countries of origin, since this issue of intercountry adoption encompasses the lives and rights of all adoptees as an important human rights area for all to understand. Over the next 15 weeks, we have the pleasure of being able to repost the writings of Dr. Kyung-eun Lee with links to the originally published pieces by various adoptees with The Korea Times. We hope that by sharing Dr. Lee’s and others stories, our TUA community may also be inspired to share their own voices in this dialogue. This article is the first in a series about Koreans adopted abroad. Apparently, many Koreans never expected that the children it had sent away via adoption would return as adults with questions demanding to be answered. However, thousands of adoptees visit Korea each year. Once they rediscover this country, it becomes a turning point in their lives. We should embrace the dialogue with adoptees to discover the path to recovering our collective humanity. — E.D. If you are from South Korea and have had the opportunity to live and work in either the U.S. or in a Western European country, you may have come across a situation where someone says to you, “Oh, I have a friend whose brother/sister was adopted from Korea,” or alternatively, “Do you know that our boss/friend has adopted a child from Korea?” Or you may have approached a person whom you thought was a native Korean, but after starting a conversation, discovered that this person has a very Western family name and has said to you, “Oh, I am adopted." In English-language literature, there are many books written on the subject of adoption, encompassing such diverse topics as: individual memoirs by adoptees or adoptive parents, investigative reports on unlawful and unethical adoption practices, birth family search stories, and so on. Many of the authors of such books are of Korean ethnicity. In Western countries, there are many stories that connect Korea to the narrative of transnational adoption. Why? Because Korea is the country that has sent the largest number of children out of the country for adoption. The length of the period in which Korea has been involved in transnational adoption is more than 68 years and the total number of adoptees is estimated to be over 200,000. It is a singular record in the world history of adoption. However, these facts are hardly known to ordinary people in Korea. It is partly because most adoptees do not physically live in Korea, and they are rendered invisible and inaudible within Korean society. It is also partly because Korean society turns a blind eye and deaf ear to the uncomfortable truths of its adoption history, for fear of being labeled a “baby exporting country.” Here’s a story about what occurred at an International Gathering of Korean Adoptees event held in Seoul in the early 2000s. The organizing committee invited Korean government officials to the gathering, and one of them attended, met with the participants who had flown thousands of miles to the meeting, then asked the assembled adoptees, “Why are you coming back? We sent you abroad wishing you well, so why are you coming back to this country?” This episode frankly revealed the mindset of Korean policymakers. Korea’s adoption system was set up to facilitate the sending of children out of the country. This goal has been deeply and long-embedded within the legal framework and government system. In short, Korea had been unable to anticipate that the children it sent out would return to this country when they became adults. Nothing was set up to meet the needs of adult adoptees as they returned to their country of origin. Why do adoptees return? Because it is human nature to seek the origin of their existence. Most human stories of minority groups in various parts of the world begin with the firm understanding of their own origins and identities. This grounding in their roots is necessary for diversity to flourish in their own lives. From the late 1990s, the Korean government began to provide adoptees with programs such as motherland tours, Korean culture camps, and Korean language programs. However, the government did not intend to begin the dialogue with adoptees for the purpose of mutual understanding, with a genuine heart and a serious mind. For more than six decades, Korea has been sacrificing the norms of essential human rights in order to facilitate the adoption business and to keep adoption within the private realm and outside of the provenance of government responsibility. It will not be an easy task to overcome such a legacy. If we are really determined to fix the issues at hand, we should confront the truth—however uncomfortable it may be. In many surveys regarding the policy needs of adoptees, the right to know one’s origin was selected as the highest priority. The origin of a human being encompasses one’s true family name, one’s own name, birthdate, and birth place, as well as one’s nationality, ethnic background, race, culture and language. There are of course other factors. The knowledge of one’s origin is the source of one’s sense of belonging and the foundation for establishing one’s identity. People build their life upon the fundamental foundation of this sense of belonging and upon knowing their identity. I had also been one of the people who, before I talked with adoptees, did not understand that this knowledge of one’s origin is a fundamental human right, nor why it is so important. Adoptees, especially from Korea, are deprived of the means of knowing their true identity. Through the systemic adoption procedures of this country, the government deliberately erased the biological family relationships and original names of the children, and issued false birth certificates classifying children as abandoned orphans, omitting any identity of their parents. Local government officials even signed papers that certified that the child was a “legal orphan,” so that he or she could be adopted abroad. These false papers were the essential visa documents for Korean children to facilitate their immigration to Western countries. Any human being has the right to know where they came from. One’s identity is not just a crisis that a person undergoes in adolescence, but is a lifelong desire that cannot be satisfied by anything else. Growing up with a happy adoptive family or establishing one’s own family are not replacements for an adoptee’s right to knowledge of their origin. In this series of the dialogues between adoptees and Korean society, we are going to discuss the elements of origin, for example: one’s birth parents and family, one’s name, nationality, birthplace, language, culture, food, etc. In searching for the meaning of one’s true identity and origin, we may be able to understand better why this right is so important for Korean adoptees. Why do we need such dialogues? Because we are human, after all. Lee Kyung-eun (Ph.D. in law) is director of Human Rights Beyond Borders and author of the Korean-language book “The Children-selling Country” and English book “The Global Orphan Adoption System; South Korea’s Impact on Its Origin and Development.” Cover photo: gettyimagesbank

Reposted from The Korea Times This article is the first in a series about Koreans adopted abroad. Apparently, many Koreans never expected that the children it had sent away via adoption would return as adults with questions demanding to be answered. However, thousands of adoptees visit Korea each year. Once they rediscover this country, it becomes a turning point in their lives. We should embrace the dialogue with adoptees to discover the path to recovering our collective humanity. — E.D. Sun Hee Engelstoft, a movie director who is a Korean Danish adoptee, recently released in Korea a documentary film called “Forget Me Not.” Engelstoft believes she knows her mother’s name, and the circumstances of her relinquishment. Despite the likely true story about her birth, her official Korean birth registration document indicates that she was an “orphan” who was found “abandoned.” Normally, Koreans can easily check their birth registration document through the website of the Supreme Court, which contains the name, birth date, address of the birth place, as well as the name and identification number of the parent(s). But almost all Korean adoptees were given a so-called “orphan hojuk” (until 2012), a one-person document which lists the orphan as the head of her/his own family, and contains only the name of the child and birth date, plus the address of the Korean adoption agency. The orphan hojuk does not contain the birth parents’ names or any biographical information. There are two myths which have sustained the system of transnational adoption for so long here. One is that certain parents (i.e., unwed mothers) are not fit to raise their own children, and the other is that orphans are “saved” by adoption. Even if the parents were unmarried, if at least one of the parents is known, the child still has a living parent and may not be considered a true “orphan.” Why were all children believed to be “orphans”? To explain and understand this discrepancy, people have devised concepts and terms such as “economic orphan” or “social orphan.” The truth is that children were legally orphaned for the purpose of transnational adoption through the official government processes of the state of origin (Korea) and of the Western adoptive countries (primarily the U.S., Australia, and West European countries). Surprisingly, “orphan” is a legal term. In the immigration law of the receiving country (I will take the U.S. as an example; however, other European receiving countries likely used the same system because Korean adoption agencies provided the same documents to those countries), the status of “orphan” was stipulated as an immigration qualification, such that Western citizens could bring orphan(s) into the country for the purpose of adoption starting in 1961. In response to this measure, in the same year, Korea enacted a new law called the “Orphan Adoption Special Procedure Act,” which lifted the restrictions of its traditional adoption, or “yang ja,” system to facilitate the process in cases where a foreigner wanted to adopt Korean orphans. This is the beginning of the modern adoption system for children in Korea. Transnational adoption is not only a matter of family relations—it also involves the immigration process of the Western countries. The immigration authorities require official documents for immigrants. U.S. law allows the definition of an “orphan” to include children not only whose parents have died, but also who have been abandoned and relinquished by single parents. Among these possible categories, Korea chose to use the definition of an “orphan” by abandonment, in order for the Korean government to provide the required documents for immigration. Why? I assume that it was because this was the easiest route from the perspective of the public officials at that time. They may not have desired to undertake the long and winding legislative reform to embrace the modern adoption system for protection of the child into its general Family Law. Instead, they may have chosen the easiest way to have children recognized as “orphans.” So, the relevant laws have been providing the legal framework and procedure by which a child could be recognized as abandoned by the public authority. However, even this procedure was just nominal, and if the heads of orphanages or adoption agencies reported to the relevant district offices of the local government that a child was found “abandoned,” then the issuance of an orphan hojuk was almost automatically processed. In short, the state has deliberately and systematically hidden and erased the real identities of children. As a direct consequence, for all Korean adoptees, it is fundamentally impossible to know their real origin through the official document which was provided by both the Korean and Western governments when they were born and subsequently moved across borders. Consequently, so many adoptees have to undergo a harsh and often futile birth family search process by relying on the “unofficial” and presumably “private” documents kept under lock and key inside the adoption agencies, or alternately through DNA testing. Only with great effort and sparse luck are adoptees ever able to trace their true origins. The Korean government officially acknowledged that more than 90 percent of the transnational adoptions involved children of unwed mothers. Official birth reports statistics, which began to be reported in 1976, show that until 2011 (for 35 years), the number of children reported as being found abandoned stood at 143,763. During the same period, the number of transnational adoption stood at 133,531. A whopping 92.8 percent of children reported as being “found abandoned” during this period were sent overseas. The correlation of these statistics is a chilling manifestation of the link between “abandonment” and transnational adoption. Are orphans adopted for better protection, or are they orphaned to be adopted? The prejudice against certain groups of people in society is one thing, but it is another that there existed a systemic and legal procedure which legitimized the discrimination and facilitated the social exclusion. In the latter case, the accountability of the state arises. The facts described above delineate the foundation of the argument that it is the state which has violated adoptees’ right to know their origin. What should we do to fix the current situation and to restore this right? There is no single solution. We should begin by figuring out the clearly discriminatory features. The birth records should be public information secured and governed by public authorities. In contrast to non-adopted Koreans, the true birth information of adoptees is still left in the private realm, which is considered the private possession of adoption agencies. Adoptees should be able to demand their right to access the information of identity to the government authorities. This authority must have the expertise and autonomous power to decide whether and how much of the information should be disclosed. In Korea, general birth registrations are under the control of the judicial body and the Ministry of Justice. Therefore, adoptees too should be able to knock on the doors of such authorities to request the disclosure of the information of their true identity, and to not have to deal with the private adoption agencies, which too often conceal such information by arbitrary and ungrounded decisions. Click here to read the second article of this series "Why Do Adoptees Learn Korean?" by Jonas Sang Shik Eberle. Cover photo: gettyimagesbank

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It was an honor and privilege to get to know Linh-Dan Pham earlier last month. She is an esteemed and decorated French-Vietnamese actress, her career spanning from the Oscar-winning film "Indochine" (1992) to "The Beat That My Heart Skipped" (2005)—which earned her the César Award for Most Promising Actress—to her most recent release, "Blue Bayou" (2021) directed by Justin Chon. "Blue Bayou" (2021) follows the heart-wrenching story of Antonio, a Louisiana-raised Korean-American adoptee. His world is promptly torn apart when he finds himself facing deportation due to a legal loophole. In the midst of the chaos, he finds a grounding friendship in an enigmatic woman named Parker. “Parker is a Vietnamese refugee who arrived in America with her dad,” explains Linh-Dan Pham. “In the process of fleeing Vietnam, she lost her mom and her brother. She’s at a point, in the movie, where she’s got cancer and she doesn’t have much time to live. Meeting Antonio…somehow she has this feeling that she needs to transmit her roots and sense of family to him. So she pursues that relationship.” And pursue it she does. Parker is relentless in her presence. She shows up at just the right time in just the right place with profound words of well-earned wisdom resting on the tip of her tongue. Linh-Dan Pham’s performance is exquisitely layered, and her relationship with Antonio brings a much needed breath of fresh air from the convoluted bureaucratic struggle of his looming deportation. “I think when she meets Antonio, something kind of vibrates in her, you know?” Linh-Dan says on Antonio and Parker’s dynamic. “I think she had given up, and somehow he’s given her a last breath of life, some would say. I think that’s why she pursues the relationship. And the fact that he talks to her like a normal person. I think she feels like she’s living a little bit again, and she wants a piece of that.” Unlike Antonio, Parker has a very close relationship with her heritage. She fully embodies what it means to be a hyphenate, blending her Vietnamese and American sides seamlessly. When asked about her own French-Vietnamese background, Linh-Dan Pham said, “I was lucky enough to have parents who were always very keen on me keeping my Vietnamese roots. So as a result, we spoke Vietnamese at home, we gathered—actually what she does, what Parker does in the movie, we do. We meet up every weekend when I’m in town, we have long lunches, and someone somehow will always end up singing. If there’s a guitar, we bring out the guitar; and if there’s a karaoke machine, we’ll end up on the karaoke machine. All of this—what we have as a family, and extended family—is about transmitting your culture and who you are, and your identity. So I think, like Parker, I’m very much at peace with who I am, which is a woman with Vietnamese origins and French nationality. I think it’s a strength to know different languages and different cultures. It makes you who you are.” Now, after the movie’s release, Linh-Dan Pham reflects on what it felt like playing the role. “Because of Parker’s illness, she’s kind of accepted the unknown,” she says. “It’s really about not knowing, and I’m someone who likes to anticipate and know things. I just had to give in. It was really difficult for me. I felt super lost, you know? I was this French actress coming to Louisiana. I’d never been to New Orleans. I was dropped into that team and crew of all Americans and I was trying to find my marks, and so Justin [Chon] said to me one day, ‘Linh-Dan, just enjoy the uncertainty.’ I think that was the key to Parker, actually. And so sometimes when I’m worrying too much, I just think ‘Okay, think about Parker.’ That’s what I learned from her.” “I researched,” she continues, recalling her preparation for the role. “I read a lot of books. But also, unfortunately, I’ve had the experience of losing loved ones to cancer. For me, it was kind of a tribute to them. Everyone said, ‘Oh, but you shaved your head; what about your hair?’ But that was really the minimum I could do to honor them, the people that I loved that aren’t here and who have gone through that. That helped a lot. It changes you, the way people look at you, the way you look at people, the way you feel. Most of all, I was very worried about my American accent. I worked on that accent with a coach. It was very important for me that Parker had no ‘Asian’ accent.” With her extensive background in primarily French film, this is the first time some American viewers have heard of Linh-Dan Pham. The same can be said when the terms are reversed, when it comes to her exposure to American-based filmmakers. “First of all, I’m ashamed to say I had no clue who Justin Chon was,” Linh-Dan admits with a laugh. “He sent me this email saying, ‘I wrote this script, and I think you’d be perfect for Parker. Have a look at my two movies "Gook" and "Ms. Purple," and here’s the script.’ I was like, ‘Okay, why not.’ I watched the movies and I was like, ‘Oh my god, who is this guy? How do I not know of him?’ I didn’t have to read the script. I knew I wanted to work with him. When I did read the script, I was so moved, and I cried so much, and of course I wanted to be part of it. It was really a no-brainer. He has everything that I look for in an artist or a project. The talent, the heart. He wants to give visibility and representation to the Asian community and be inclusive. He wants to portray America. I thought that was a great endeavor and I just wanted to be part of it.” “He’s got so much energy,” she says about working with Justin Chon. “He’s amazing and talented in the sense that he wrote the script, he directs, and all of my scenes were with him. I got experience with the three facets of his talent and personality. He’s someone who’s very much in the moment. He gives so much; it was such a pleasure to be there.” "Blue Bayou" (2021) has made its way through the festival circuit to mixed reviews, and it continues to be that way in theaters. No matter what, though, Linh-Dan Pham has high hopes that the film will “shed light on what is happening in America—and around the world—for adoptees who are facing deportation, and support securing help for them.” “But also,” she continues, “I think it’s really about family. No matter where you are and who you’re with, you choose your family. I think that’s very important, to be surrounded by people you love and choose.” "Blue Bayou" (2021) is an official selection of the 2021 Cannes Film Festival and is currently playing in theaters across the U.S. Cover image: Courtesy of Focus Features

On September 17, 2021, Justin Chon’s new film "Blue Bayou" was released in American theaters amidst a building tidal wave of controversy, particularly regarding Adam Crapser’s stance that the storyline was heavily based on his life without his consent. The Universal Asian stands as a balanced platform that highlights and shares the voices, work, and stories of both #importedAsians and #hyphenatedAsians without bias or prejudice toward one side or the other. This may or may not reflect the individual opinions of the team members of TUA; however, as a platform, we remain true to our mission and values. Therefore, we are—as neutrally as possible—sharing the information that has been publicly put onto social media or given directly to us by both parties to allow for each of you to reach your own conclusions. "Blue Bayou" tells the fictionalized story of a young, Asian-American man who was adopted as a child and grew up in New Orleans. After getting caught up in false police charges, he discovers through a paperwork technicality that he could be deported from the only country he has ever called home. The film is written/directed by and stars Justin Chon, and co-stars Oscar winner Alicia Vikander from "The Danish Girl." It was released in theaters in the U.S. on September 17, 2021. Official Public Statement from Adam Crapser via Facebook: Official Public Statement from Adoptees for Justice via Instagram and Facebook: Justin Chon’s Statement: “During the entire writing process I spent hundreds of hours doing research, including speaking and listening to 13 adoptees who shared their personal experiences with me. In order to respect their privacy, I agreed with their request to remain anonymous. However, nine of those adoptees believe in the film so much, they have now come forward to provide their names and issued a statement through Adoptee Advocacy in support of the film. This film is not about one person. From the onset, I did not want this film to solely reflect just one individual’s details. It’s an issue that affects thousands of adoptees in this country. My research also involved speaking with an immigration attorney who is a Korean American adoptee. It was very important for all of us to make sure the depiction of the deportation process was accurate and authentic. Every draft of the script was shared with the core adoptees and their input impacted the entire creative process. As with every film, there are always challenges and changes. I listened to the concerns raised from beginning to end, hopeful that my film could reflect the experiences that many adoptees face. The film is stronger because of everyone’s input, and I am grateful for that.I understand that much of many adoptees’ lives have been void of choice. The choice of where they would live, the choice of whom their adoptive parents were, even sometimes the choice of when or even IF they wanted to look for their birth parents. This is NOT my story nor do I claim to understand what it feels like to be an adoptee. I made this film because I became aware of an inhumane policy that needs attention. I hope that this film can continue to bring awareness to the impacted adoptees in this country.” Official Statement from members of Adoptee Advocacy: "Press Statement 9/27/2021 Statement from the Deported and Impacted Adoptee Community in Support of Blue Bayou September 27, 2021 – We the undersigned, all internationally-adopted to the US and personally impacted by the citizenship issue, would like to make this statement in support of the movie Blue Bayou and address the recent attacks against it. All of us have been deported or are living with the explicit threat of it. This movie isn’t about only one person, it is about the whole community of deported adoptees. The script is all of our stories — we see strong similarities to many of our histories: abusive families, getting in trouble with law, being deported while leaving behind small children. There are also details that resonate as belonging to several individuals among us, that help make it our personal story as well. No movie can represent all adoptees, or even all impacted adoptees, and this movie focuses on those of us who have been deported. To that end, it is a movie we all fully support. Which is why a boycott of this film by the adoptee community has been a devastating gut punch to us. We see Blue Bayou as a chance to shine a light on the injustice we have suffered, yet it is our own community that is now piling another injustice on us. We were abandoned by our country, and now we are being abandoned by people we thought were our brothers and sisters. Even worse than being abandoned, we feel we are being treated as the enemy. It is a terrible betrayal that Adoptees for Justice, which was specifically created to address the citizenship issue and support deported and impacted adoptees, would lead a campaign to boycott Blue Bayou and turn its back on us. Here are some facts to consider: No fewer than 8 deported adoptees have viewed this film and stand behind it as a meaningful and accurate representation of our stories, and request community support for this film. No fewer than 14 adoptees, including 5 of us who are deported or impacted, had the opportunity to read and provide feedback to the script. Major script changes were incorporated based on this feedback. Among these 14 were the entire board of Adoptees for Justice, who read the script and subsequently voted to have the organization’s name behind the film, with Kris Larsen as Adoptees for Justice Executive Director being the group’s main representative to the film. It was only after the film was shot and in post-production that anyone at Adoptees for Justice raise an issue about the film, even though it matched the script that was previously reviewed and agreed to. With the unexpected withdrawal of support from the Adoptees for Justice board, Anissa, who was the only remaining deported / impacted adoptee on the board, resigned and formed Adoptee Advocacy. Justin Chon came to us and promised to tell our story. We feel he has fulfilled that promise. While he added dramatic and plot flourishes to appeal to a mainstream audience, he gave many of us opportunities to consult and contribute, and made changes based on the feedback. We are incredibly grateful to him. Ernesto, who had chosen not to appear at the end of the movie, called us in tears after watching the screener: “If I would’ve watched this movie prior to saying I didn’t want to put my face at the end, I think I would’ve done it differently, because this thing has touched me at so many levels, that I think the rest of the world needs to hear. I don’t know if it was good that I watched it alone. I don’t know if it would have been good to watch it as a group, but I know that I felt alone, and I don’t wish this on anybody.” We hope those of you who have been fighting against this movie will see how much it means to us and involves all of us, and will instead support and advocate for this movie with as much excitement. We also hope that the words flooded all over social media trying to bring this movie down will be outnumbered by new words pushing for citizenship for all adoptees. Sincerely, Anissa Druesedow – Panama Crystal Moran – El Salvador Ernesto – Panama Frank – St. Kitts Kris Larsen – Vietnam Mauricio Cappelli – Costa Rica Mike Davies – Ethiopia Monte Haines – S. Korea Reny Javier – Spain Contact: anissa@adopteeadvocacy.org and kris@adopteeadvocacy.org" **ACTION ALERT** How YOU can support the Adoptee Citizenship Act 2021: Sign the petition Call/email your members of Congress Check out Alliance for Adoptee Citizenship — AAC and their NEW website Sign the petition in support of Adam Send a letter of support to your members of Congress to pass an inclusive Adoptee Citizenship Act of 2021 NOW!

It’s still dark out. I feel myself coming out of a slumber, by a pull that is often stronger than my first brain—my stomach. As I slowly squint my blurry eyes to look at my phone, I barely make out that it’s 3 a.m. If it’s 3 a.m. here, that means it’s dinnertime on the other side of the world, in my motherland of beautiful Korea. I lay in bed, debating whether I should give up all hope of sleep. My second brain grumbles its opinion. I pretend not to hear, as I close my eyes. My stomach has other plans. An image pops in my head. I can feel the warm heat of a stranger’s shoulder next to me. We sit, side by side, in a busy Gwangjang market stall in Seoul. In front of me, I can imagine a giant bowl of one my favorite dishes called bibimbap. If you grew up in Korea, it’s a dish you know well. But, I didn’t really grow up in Korea, and yet I am very much Korean. I was born in Korea and came to the United States like many other Koreans as an adoptee. Unlike many other adoptees, however, I was adopted as an older child at the age of seven. This means I came along with an invisible custom luggage set of memories. Many of the details have fallen to the wayside, as my memory seems to be catching up with my age, but my taste buds have not forgotten. Now, I really am hungry, so I move quietly out of bed so as to not wake up my husband, and I go sneak a bite of kimchi from the fridge. Ever since I came back from my first trip home to Korea (October 2019), I live in two time zones, or at least often my stomach does. And, just like my stomach, my heart is as hungry for it, too. The colors, the smells, the essence of Korea; it lies in its food, or at least it does for me. It magically connects me to my ancestors and to my biological family, who I recently became reconnected with in March. It connects me through space and time to my umma, my Korean mother. She was a highly-regarded cook and owner of a restaurant. Perhaps that’s why I chose the name Bibimbap (Mixed Meal) for my handcraft shop. Bibimbap translates to mixed rice, but for me it’s more than just a dish. It is a mixed meal that feeds far more than just my physical appetite. It also describes how I see myself—as a bit a mixed meal between my American and Korean influences. I was inspired to draw and paint from an early age. When I discovered silk painting, it spoke to me, in the very same way as a steaming heart-filled bowl of my beloved dish. Silk painting paved the road for many other creative mediums later in my life. I have always been creating something out of scraps and materials I have around me. If there was one positive word I can use to describe myself, “resourceful” comes to mind, but only when my creativity and heart drives it. It’s always been a fickle relationship between creation and motivation. Fast forward to my college days and I received my Bachelors in Industrial Arts, thinking it would be my gateway to being a paid artist—two words that admittedly seem often in opposition. I became a successful package designer for a high-end makeup company based out of San Francisco. Yet, despite having my dream job. I was severely depressed and unhappy. Ultimately, I left the graphics world when I realized all my creative hard work became beautiful trash to add to the landfills. I have slowly found my creative fire again by embracing myself as a fine artist and to create what is true to me. Now, I do my best to create with consciousness. Currently, I’m offering wire-sculpted jewelry inspired by the plants and flowers that I remember from my younger days in Korea. I’m digging deep into the recesses of my memories. By offering a little of my own mixed-up meal for the heart and soul, my wish, is that it brings moments of unexpected joy, peace, or happiness in this crazy mixed-up world for others. Kim Mee Seon was born in South Korea, adopted, and grew up in California, USA. She is an artist and owner of Bibimbap (Mixed Meal) online shop. She is also an activist and writer of the Tiny Lions Big World blog. As an artist, she works in multiple mediums but specializes in silk painting and wire jewelry. As an adoptee, she is committed to being an activist and advocate for other adoptees as well as children still in the system. Mee Seon is also a homeschooling mother to two awesome little people who remind her to laugh everyday.

The short essay below is by Kyla Mitsunaga's dad, Victor Mitsunaga, who is a third-generation Japanese-American whose parents were put in internment camps during WWII. Kyla’s dad, who was born in 1942, was 3 years old at the time, and her uncle was born in the camp. I never gave any thought to the emotional issues faced by #hyphenatedAsians. I guess it makes a lot of sense. I know for me there was a time I was embarrassed by how different my parents and I was compared to my Caucasian friends when I was in school. Whenever I visited them it was clear to me that there was a big difference in our families. I never invited any of my friends to my house because I was ashamed of how different we were. I don’t think it affected me except to become more withdrawn from my friends. I think relating to friends at Japanese school on Saturdays and at church on Sundays probably kept me sane because I always viewed myself as Japanese, more so than as a (white) American. It wasn’t until I started working, where I was surrounded by Caucasians, that I figured I should become more “American.” An acquaintance once asked me whether I saw myself as Japanese or American. I told her that it depended on whatever social situation I was in and would become one or the other—whatever was easiest. I don’t know whether that means I was very adaptable or just trying to blend in. In either case, it made things less stressful and, therefore, less harmful. I may have had problems handling certain emotional or social issues, but I think it was more because of the way I was raised rather than my Japanese/American confusion. I guess I was fortunate it didn’t cause me any mental or emotional damage; except once. I was transitioning from high school to college. Fortunately, it was Junior College because several of my closest friends (Mike, Terry, Marlene) also attended and we saw each other virtually every day. I wanted to be popular in college as I was in high school and tried really hard to do so but it didn’t happen. I started to worry myself sick, and developed a stomach ulcer. It lasted for a year or so when my mother told me it’s impossible to make friends with everyone and I should just live my own life.

Born in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, Taiwanese-American trombonist, Peter Lin, has been recently described by Downbeat Magazine as “solid, fluid, and smooth.” He received his B.A. in Music from William Paterson University and M.M. for Jazz Trombone Studies at Rutgers University. He is currently a faculty member at Jazz House Kids in Montclair, NJ. Peter Lin studied with jazz legends such as Slide Hampton, Steve Turre, Conrad Herwig, Robin Eubanks, Steve Davis, and Frank Lacy. He has performed with many notable artists including Slide Hampton, Winard Harper, Charli Persip, Kenny Barron, Rufus Reid, Victor Lewis, JD Allen, Valerie Ponomarev, and Radam Schwartz. Lin’s album "New Age Old Ways" is a 2019 release from his TNT (Trombone N Tenor) Quartet. This album draws on his experiences performing in New York City with the TNT Quartet and his life as a musician. This self-released album relies on his eight original compositions, each composed for the unique instrumentation of trombone (Peter Lin), tenor saxophone (JD Allen), bass (Ian Kenselaar), and drums (Nic Cacioppo). Throughout the course of the album’s eight tracks, the musicians create a fluid and highly-improvisational landscape thanks to the piano-less setup of the ensemble. With Lin’s compositional prowess, one does not feel like anything is missing from the group. The album begins with “A Path To Understanding.” This composition is Lin’s call for unity through the process of understanding and respect. Opening with a bass groove, which is quickly punctuated by Cacioppo’s energetic drumming, “A Path To Understanding” is a strong start for this release. Swinging with a lyrical melodic arc, Lin’s solo illuminates for the listener a vivid picture of the implied harmony amid the song form’s style changes. His concise trombone solo segues into Allen’s powerful tenor saxophone statements. Allen, a veteran of the NYC jazz scene, comes into the fray with his bold voice on the saxophone and an athletic, yet vocal, approach to the instrument. The composition closes with Cacioppo’s explosive drumming building over the bass line into the close of the piece. “Celestial Being” is an homage to the anime "Gundam Mobile 00." Representing the mechanized, outer space warfare of the source anime, “Celestial Being” has a brief melodic section and quickly ventures into Kenselaar’s bass solo. Blooming from the initial melodic motif, Kenselaar’s compositional approach to the bass expands upon motifs present in Lin’s composition. His solo is a trombone fireworks show, showing his technical prowess contained within a melodic improvisational framework. Kenselaar and Cacioppo support Lin’s energy in lock-step. Allen’s virtuosic contribution shines as he hands the baton to Cacioppo for a fiery drum solo that makes one’s adrenaline surge. The album continues with the title track, which conveys the idea that musical systems of expression and analysis have been recycled and reused, yet many jazz musicians today work hard to communicate in a relevant way to today’s audience. Consisting of melodic material that includes an approach to dissonance that makes one recall that of Thelonious Monk, this composition features a bass solo that showcases the synergy between Kenselaar and Cacioppo. Allen continues with a driving saxophone solo that showcases his ability to create new sounds while paying homage to the rich ancestry of the saxophone. The listener earns a well-deserved reprieve in the heartfelt ballad, “Akong.” Akong is the Taiwanese word for grandfather and this song was composed for Lin’s own akong. Playing with a rich palette of emotive textures, the admiration for everything that Lin’s akong accomplished during his lifetime is clear. There is a distinctive reverence that paints the picture of a beloved individual. The transparency of the texture during Lin’s solo provides a heartfelt intimacy befitting of such a tribute. “Song of the Amis” is a dedication to the Amis and their cultural contributions to Taiwan. The fiery display of Cacioppo’s drumming cannot be understated–the energy is infectious. “TNT Theme” harkens back to the work of Sonny Stitt and Gene Ammons. One of two interpretations of the blues showcased on this record, one does indeed feel that Lin has perfectly encapsulated the open, jam session style of the Stitt and Ammons sessions. “Red Label” refers to Johnnie Walker whisky. Though it is another take on the blues, Kenselaar takes center stage with a thoughtfully-developed improvisation on this soulful composition. The relaxed feel of this composition is a welcome addition to this album and rounds out a thoughtful program of Lin’s compositions. Finally, the closer, “Mantis Shrimp,” is an ode to the creature of the same name. A lively composition over rhythm changes, “Mantis Shrimp” consists of cascading counterpoints in the A sections and a pointillistic and dissonant B section that does suggest the eponymous creature. Allen’s final statement on the record shows his command of the instrument with his use of the overtone series, false fingerings, and his trademark bold-style of tenor saxophone playing. Lin glides over the chord changes in his solo. Lin is the inaugural voice in this new music commentary section on The Universal Asian, and he makes a commanding statement with this album. Unique in its instrumentation, the eight immaculately-crafted compositions, the band’s chemistry, and Lin’s own smooth improvisations, make this album a must-listen for every fan of energetic, improvisation-driven, hard-bop.

I See A Place (Paradise) I see a place that’s far, far away A land that we could go, perhaps today An island, maybe, for just you and me No harms, no worries, just peace I see a place that’s warm and sunny Where there’s luxury, but no need for money The birds they fly, but never disturb Is imagining this so absurd? I see a place made just for us Somewhere where there’s no need to ever fuss A getaway that’s so very nice I see a land that we call our paradise The Ocean Here I am, standing in the sand With only my notebook, pen in hand I take a seat and stare into the ocean I think for a second and write the title with one swift motion I’m writing a story, inspiration is the sea I’m reflecting Reflecting on my past, looking at my future, just me I see the waves, sweep in, sweep out They’re so care free, nothing to worry about I envy the ocean and it’s free spirited ways While I have so much stress that has built up over the days I wish I were a wave so that I could finally be free I want to be part of the ocean so free, so me Space Look to the sky Look beyond what you see Beyond the clouds and the atmosphere See the galaxy A place we have such little knowledge on Places beyond the Earth, moon, and sun Millions of stars so brightly lit Billions of places to go in little rocket ships Out in the great beyond searching for adventure High in the sky, no gravity, light as a feather Look to the sky Imagine all of space Maybe, could you believe, there’s more than the human race? Lauren is a regular contributor for The Universal Asian. To learn more about her, check out her Contributor’s Page here.

Eunsoo Jeong is a Los Angeles-based artist and creator of Koreangry, a comic/zine series based on her daily struggles as a Korean-American immigrant woman and artist searching for her identity in today’s political climate. Koreangry is a seven-inch puppet/doll/armature/character that she created, sort of her alter-ego. The Koreangry zine series is an ongoing search of my life told with this character—photographed with hand made props in a set I built. My zines include written excerpts, word-play, poems, comics, crude sketches, and experimental digital collages. Eunsoo welcomes your connection via social media! Website: www.koreangry.com Social media: @koreangry @madeinkorea1988; Facebook, Twitter

Mainstream stereotypes have created an image of what it means to be Chinese-American. Fortunately, The Universal Asian had the opportunity to chat with the co-hosts of 2Crasians podcast, Cindy Yep and Nancy Lee, about how they humorously and honestly address these realities in hopes of helping others feel camaraderie in commiserating and coping. I think it was Episode 10 or something like that, when you two shared your origin stories, but for those who haven’t heard it yet, could you give us a brief on your backgrounds? Sure. Well, the reason we met and started our podcast is because we were working together and started talking. We had such similar life stories as Chinese-Americans. But, we are second-generation because our parents came from China. Cindy: Nancy, you were born in Pennsylvania like me. My parents had taken a similar journey to yours. [Nancy’s] parents came to New York. Then, they went to Pennsylvania, and had kids. While [Nancy’s] parents stayed there, my parents took us to the West Coast. It’s just really interesting how we both had this story of both our moms being from Taiwan. Plus, there were other examples, like Cindy’s grandfather or great grandfather was a high ranking official in China and so was mine. Nancy: Yeah, and we found we had the same mythologies that our parents had, etc. So that’s how we got started. Cindy: We’d known each other for like a month. And I was like, you’re my sister. This is how it’s going to be. We went traveling together to Portugal. While we were on the beautiful beaches of Portugal, we’re like, we’re going to start a podcast. Wow. So growing up as Chinese-American, did you identify with being Chinese? Or, did you have one identity that was stronger than the other? Nancy: I grew up in a very Jewish-American town. Like all Asian parents, mine wanted us to have the best education possible. So, my parents asked the realtor where all the Jewish people lived and took us to a small town called Huntingdon Valley in Pennsylvania, right outside Philadelphia. They owned Chinese restaurants and I grew up spending weekends at my parents’ store. The weekdays were spent going to school with my white Jewish friends. Eighty percent of my school was Jewish. So, I definitely had this challenge with my identity. I’d look in the mirror—confused with sounding [one way], but also looking like this. And I was like: Why don’t I have brown hair, blue or green eyes like my girlfriends? Why are my eyes so slanted? Where are my eyelids? Plus, I always was having to apologize for my parents and be a translator for them, and I was embarrassed. When you’re young, you just want to fit in. I realized as an adult that I’m a pleaser, so I tried really hard to assimilate with the culture. So much so, my girlfriends would say, “You’re like a Jewish girl, anyway.” And, I was fine with it. But, at the same time, I was like, no, I’m actually Chinese. Cindy: I was always trying to appease people. I was class president. I was in all the clubs. At work, I did everything. I wanted to be social and popular. Then, I did a semester program at sea. The first country we went to was Cuba. Then we went to Brazil and ten other countries. By the time we got to China, which was country eight, I had gone through all these different cultures and thought, “Wow, it’s really cool to be different.” We learned about how people are so proud of their heritage and their culture, their food, their music, their entertainment, their history. So, the fact that I was able to see it through the lens of other people’s culture and accept it, arriving in China gave me this sort of weird out-of-body experience. I got there, and everyone thought I was American because I’m not Chinese enough. But, at the same time, all my classmates wanted me to be around because I spoke broken Chinese. I think the moment that was like my aha thing: I was at Temple of Heaven in Beijing and I was on a tour and they were talking about the paint used in this temple and how the paint actually has some sort of natural ingredient that [is dust repellent]. I was like, these people that are Chinese, who are my ancestors, they had the foresight to think it’s going to get dusty up there. I was so proud. I started to have this different relationship with my identity, where it’s not all one thing or the other. We can be proud one moment, and then we can be ashamed the next. We can have these injuries, then try to explore them. That’s why we make sure that we’re not always just cutting down our traditions [in the podcast]. We also talk about what’s great about being Asian and trying to lift each other up. So talking about the podcast, what is your overall aim or mission with it? When we were deciding to start this podcast, we discussed: do we say it’s Asian-American, Chinese, American immigrants? Who are we targeting? We eventually landed on Chinese-American because we’re both Chinese-American and that’s what we can speak to. Our mission is to try to explore characteristics that we have in common from our childhood and try to do it in a fun and entertaining way. We didn’t want to make it this big production of things. We just wanted to have a conversation between the two of us as friends and make it very candid and lighthearted. But through telling our stories similar to others, they can feel like, “Oh, yeah, my mom’s not that crazy?” Being able to share stories and demystify these feelings that you are the only one that feels like this allows people to understand and also realize, all our moms are crazy. To be honest, we grew up feeling different from people around us and even mainstream Asians, but saw comedians like Margaret Cho and later, Ali Wong who made us realize our “otherness” makes us unique and possibly…cool? Nowadays, there are lots of role models for outspoken “crasians” like us and we’re finding more things in common than different. Actually, a lot of the people that listen to the podcast are not Asian-American nor Chinese-American, but they are of hyphenated backgrounds. It’s about trying to interweave your mother culture with this culture that you also gravitate toward and feel very comfortable in. But, how do you intertwine the two? You guys have the tagline of “The Asian-American podcast where The Joy Luck Club meets Drunk History”; how did you come up with that? Just one of those instant magic things. Joy Luck Club is like a seminal book for anyone who’s kind of our age. They had the very serious family relationships, but we’re not that serious. So, with Drunk History, that’s where the lighthearted energy comes from. How do you decide upon your topics for the podcast episodes? We’ll have a brainstorm or just talk about something that’s been rattling around in our heads. For example, we have done two on the Coronavirus. One was like, “it’s probably not that bad.” And then the next one was like, “oh, the world is over. Oops. Sorry, guys.” In your About section on your website, it says that you have disturbing childhood flashbacks and you lovingly blame it on your immigrant parents, could you explain a little bit more what that means? God, my parents don’t even like me having this podcast. Nancy: My dad was not happy about the podcast. I think it’s something to do with the fact that Chinese-Americans are always not wanting to really ruffle feathers, and I’m putting his opinion out there. He really just wanted me to kibosh it. As a good Asian girl, I want to obey. But, at the same time, it’s something that I really enjoy and I think is a platform that helps others not feel alone in how they feel or the experiences they are going through. Cindy has so many fun, interesting stories with her family. All the old wives tales that we covered in the first couple episodes that we did were like my punchline stories that I’ve told people for years. We talk about what we know, which are our own stories. And sometimes we’ll have flashbacks and be like, oh my God. So, it’s like group therapy for us and, hopefully, others. Still, we don’t want it to become a thing where we’re just bashing our parents all the time. Cindy: My dad is Hakka Chinese from India, and my mom was born in China and grew up in Taiwan. Growing up I didn’t know things like what Hakka is, so the podcast has been a way to explore things like that and learn about myself. They [my parents] did the best they could. They are kids of their parents. We’re enormously privileged to have been born here and speak English. But still, they gave us a lot of material and it was really funny. So, we want to put it out there. What would your takeaway be for younger, aspiring universal Asians, or how would you encourage our universal Asian population to pursue their art or to do whatever it is they want to do in life? Don’t over try to produce it. Don’t go trying to perfect it. Just get it out there. If you’re not a speaker, then be a writer. If you’re not a writer, do music or something. Just, if you have something to say, just put it out there and do not overthink how people are going to perceive it or how perfect it has to be before you do it. Because, in the time and space that we are in now, there are so many things that are overproduced, and then there are things that are very raw, like ours. So just learn by doing. You have to have some way to express yourself. Check out the 2Crasians podcast and follow them Instagram!

“this is it” is the second collection of poetry from Calista Ogburn. This poetry book brings to light the rising anti-Asian racism as the spread of COVID-19 has increased. It captures Calista’s experiences of loneliness, heightened anxiety, and feeling lost during a global pandemic. “this is it” takes the reader by the hand through the most difficult times and finds hope for the future. Click here if you’d like to support Calista’s work. Calista Ogburn is a Korean and Vietnamese-American college student at the University of Maryland, Baltimore County studying Public Health with a minor in Asian Studies. She has studied at International high schools overseas which has given her a global perspective. She reaches her readers by sharing her feelings and experiences through poetry. Calista considers empathy and compassion as important values in creating her poetry and touching her audience. She relates her poems with women about identity and gender oppression, body image issues, and building the foundation of self-worth. https://www.instagram.com/calista_ogburn/

Rebel Satori Press introduces Daniel W.K. Lee's first collection of poetry titled "Anatomy of Want." As just the fifth poet of the Asian American Writer’s Workshop contributors to the anthology, "Take Out: Queer Writing from Asian Pacific America," Lee writes about how queerness further complicates topics of belonging, community, and home. For more information, you can follow Daniel W.K. Lee on Instagram @strongplum or email him at strongplum@yahoo.com. The Universal Asian will be interviewing Lee, so stay tuned for more on Lee in upcoming issues.

I had never heard of Chuseok. It was 2016, and I was living in Seoul as a research scholar for the Fulbright Program, an American government exchange program that supports mid-career professionals to teach or conduct research in countries around the world. I remember sitting alone in my grant-funded one-room apartment in a trendy area of this massive city, lined with coffee shops more akin to bespoke coffee ateliers as well as the mom-and-pop mandu, or potsticker, restaurants where you could order from a steaming window. But something was happening. I could feel it in the air. The local supermarket suddenly had huge displays—almost reverential—of Spam and cooking oil gift boxes. There was a rush of activity, more than usual, and crowds of people rushing around to grab last-minute food items for what I would later understand to be Korea’s biggest holiday. I chuckled at the Spam and cooking oil gift boxes priced at 50 to 80 USD—my American eyes saw them as a humble, if not a declasse, gift choice to extend to a party host. I would later learn that those items are appreciated and are nostalgic to Koreans, hearkening back to a time of scarcity after the Korean War where such items were only available on the black market or through connections with the U.S. military. From my desk perch, I could even hear the silence engulfing my corner of the bustling city. People were leaving in droves, packing up for hours-long car and train rides to the places where their families were from, before their generation had successfully moved up in the world to be able to call Seoul home. Stores were closing down. The only people working in convenience stores were young people who couldn’t afford to take time off or those similar to me—a foreigner with no family to meet. Once there, generations of families would gather and the women would prepare an elaborate table of traditional foods. The men and children would catch up on rest, drink soju—a distilled, colorless spirit that is consumed with meals and used to mark life’s celebrations—and eat and eat. The family would also pay a visit to the ancestral burial sites to pay their respects. As a Korean adoptee, back living in her native country after more than four decades of being abandoned and erased from her family, it suddenly struck me like a kick in the gut or sinking into a muddy pool: at that moment, my family was gathering and doing exactly these things potentially only one-hour away from me—and I had no idea who they were or how to find them. How strange it is to discover a holiday that marks the passing of time for an entire nation for the first time as a forty-something year old, who if not for being adopted internationally, would’ve also been marking my calendar and loading my shopping cart with fruit and tins of Spam in fancy packaging? Who would later be posting Instagram posts of a sleepy car ride or pouring soju out for my clan’s forebears near a grassy burial mound? It made me think about how physical proximity, being in Korea, did not bring me any closer to my biological family. How I still remained, now even more so, a foreigner, unknown to people who share her blood, who remember her, who held her for those 11 days before passing through hands and time to an unfamiliar place across the vast ocean to people who did not speak Korean nor had ever set foot in the country, who celebrated their roots by making lefse, a humble, rolled potato pancake frosted with sugar. They did not know about Chuseok, and neither had I. When adoptees talk about loss, it is not just about losing one’s natural language or the person who carried them for nine months in her womb, or the family members who may have ultimately decided her presence was not wanted. It’s also the loss of being a Korean, to feel respect for one’s ancestors, to cherish this time to be thankful for family and prosperity, to look forward to the holiday with anticipation, and to hunger for the food and opportunity to slow down. And while not all Koreans may crave all this family togetherness each year, to me it unearthed a loneliness I never knew I had. That circumstances beyond my control, no matter how many degrees I earned or prestigious international exchanges I would be granted, or how many online Korean classes I sign up for, knowing what Chuseok means as a Korean, an insider, is something I can’t ever teach myself or substitute with prepared food from a local Korean restaurant or grocer. To me, the pours of soju and eating songpyeon, a rice cake eaten at room temperature, will always feel performative, whose taste feels a bit odd, if not a reminder of all that I have lost. Kaomi Goetz is a Korean adoptee living in St. Paul, MN. She produces a podcast on (mostly) Korean adoptee stories called Adapted Podcast. Currently, she is raising money to translate its fourth season into Korean. You can find out more here: http://kck.st/35fRuWW.