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An Adopted Korean
"I promised myself that I would not explore that part of my life until I was ready, until I was older - I think now I am ready."
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By Hae-ok Miller
I listened to my first tango when I was five. It taught me to feel the intimacy of the musical language of loss, regret and passion. My mom calls me muñequita, or “little doll” in Spanish. My dad often needs the masa for a batch of empanadas in the kitchen, where we can hear my mom sing at the top of her lungs from our pottery studio in the backyard.
My parents are both Jewish from Argentina, who moved to Berkeley in the 60s. They adopted me when I was 13 months and my younger sister Anjin when she was four. There was a time in my life when the word adoption created a lump in my throat. Every time someone mentioned I was adopted I winced. I realized that in the eyes of a stranger all I amounted to was an Asian girl who did not even look remotely related to her parents.
My straight, dark hair and Korean eyes stand in contrast to my mom’s massive curls and my dad’s honey-colored eyes. Many times at the supermarket a Korean grandma would stare at me and my dad from left to right and gasp in shock. I was eight years old. How could I explain to her that I was in Korean school, learning to write and sing in Korean? My dad and I would just walk away. A year later, I left Korean school.
Growing up I considered Buenos Aires my second home, a place where the people plaster wet kisses on either cheek in the form of a saludo, or a greeting. Tio Luicito, Tia Rosita and Tio Carlos are just a part of mi familia in Argentina. In high school I preferred having friends from different backgrounds, but somehow I didn’t want to be friends with just Koreans. When I meet elderly Korean people I bow because I know that’s what I’m supposed to do. I’ve had boyfriends who are part Korean, too. I may not know how to cook any Korean dish, but I know what to order in a Korean restaurant.
But I chose to keep a distance from my Korean heritage because I didn’t feel like I needed it in my life. I believed that in order to have a strong sense of self I had to wear it on the outside, so I let everyone know that I speak Spanish to prove that I’m a true Latina. The Korean part of me can wait.
My mom and dad have some information about my biological parents. They tell me that I may even have a half sister. But I didn’t want to know about it, nor the Korean culture, until now. There wasn’t any particular turning point - I promised myself that I would not explore that part of my life until I was ready, until I was older. I think now I am ready.
When I hear the Korean national anthem, I feel a strong connection to it. Just knowing that this is the anthem of my biological parents and ultimately the country where I was born, moves me. Knowing that mom, dad, and my sister Anjin are behind me every step of the way, I feel secure in venturing out to unearth more of my personal history. It is honoring a part of who I am. One day I want to travel to Korea and perhaps reconnect with my biological parents. I know they’re out there. My parent’s love is what gives me comfort, and I know I will always take that with me.
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