This I Believe

My brother, Andrew, was born in Chong Chung Bok Do, South Korea on 26 March 1996 as Nokwon Park. On 8 July 1996, he boarded his flight and arrived in the United States at 1 in the afternoon. As a three month old baby, Andrew had flown halfway across the globe to his new family without shedding a single tear.

Every 8 July my family and I watch the tape recording of my brother’ s arrival. We watch as the stewardess carries Andrew over to my parents, as my mother and father — in their prehistoric 90s clothes — hold their son for the very first time, as they cry tears of happiness.

My parents, whom spent thousands of dollars on fertility treatments and were still told that they were unable to have biological children, cherished every microsecond of time that they spent with Andrew despite the multitude of negative reactions they received from people. Every single time my parents stepped out of the house with Andrew they would receive curious, sometimes even derogatory, stares from other families. My mother can vividly recall a specific incident that took place in an elevator. Upon entering the the elevator, a woman glanced at my mother and brother, who was a mere three and a half months at the time, and audaciously asked, “Oh, Is he yours?”

Regardless of obnoxious — and sometimes, just plain stupid — encounters such as the this, my parents adored finally being a family. So much so that they began to consider a second adoption. Two years later, just as my mother had finally convinced my father to file paperwork for a second adoption, my parents were stunned when they discovered that my mother was pregnant.

Naturally, as the older sibling, he would become jealous of all of the attention I received from our relatives and friends. And I, the smaller, inexperienced one, would marvel at his wisdom — how ever much wisdom a three year old could have. We would fight together, we would play together, we would laugh together, and we would cry together. Andrew and I were ordinary siblings.

Throughout my childhood, I never understood why people saw us as different. Why they automatically assumed that we couldn’t be related because we didn’t have the same skin color or the same facial features. Or in school, when at the mention of our mother, a third party would silently gasp, eyes wide, jaw dropped, and echo in disbelief, “our?”

Why is it the cashier would always look at Andrew and say “Can I help who’s next?” not realizing that he was a part of our family.

Why, even today, people pull me aside and ask “who was that Asian kid you were with?”

What is it that they couldn’t wrap their heads around — that they couldn’t fathom — about us being siblings?

When people think of a family, they think of genetic continuity. They think of a brother and a sister who look alike, who have the same eyes or the same nose or that same dimple in their chin when they smile.

Well, I say to hell with that. When I think of a family, I think of spending time together and playing video games and watching Harry Potter marathons all day. I think of our weird and awkward Voldemort hugs. I think of the “L” word.

When I think of a family, I think of love. Not eyes, or noses, or dimples.

Love.