Asian in America: That Moment When I Realized I Was Adopted
People have asked me throughout my life, “When did you realize that you were adopted?” or “Did your parents tell you? How did you know?”
The answer to these questions is incredibly simple. I realized I was adopted when I was about three or four-years-old. I figured this out by merely looking at my own reflection in the mirror. Simple. My parents told me I was adopted when confronted with my observation that I did not look like the rest of my family.
There’s something magical that happens in a child’s brain as they start getting into their early years; they begin to formulate the sense of identity as their brain builds new neural pathways and translates inputs from the outside world. As with me, on the cusp of becoming a fully realized individual, a glance into the mirror made me realize that something was seemingly amiss.
My eyes were different. My skin was different. My nose was different. In fact, for years my parents and I joked that the one quality I did share with the family was that both my father and I had straight black hair and brown eyes. Aha! Proof Positive of being related! It was usually the most common and cheesiest joke we could throw at a waiter at a restaurant, befuddled by the white people with an Korean child:
“What? Don’t you see the resemblance…we have the same hair!” Pause for uproarious laughter and applause…or, more often than not, a barely audible chuckle and patient smile.
Well, there came the day where I plopped myself down on the hideous orange couch in our living room; a monstrosity that looked more like a flowered, flannel shirt than a piece of furniture. I looked at my parents and asked, “Why do I look different?”
It was time for ‘The Talk.’ My parents had no intention of hiding the fact that I was adopted. The very nature of my outward Korean heritage precluded any subterfuge on the part of my parents. Unless, I was simply comically ignorant like Steve Martin in ‘The Jerk,’ I was in for a new revelation: I was not of eastern European Jewish stock!
My Own Misgivings As I Reflect: I will always continue to laud my family for providing me a loving and attentive upbringing. Yet, as a 35 year old, looking back at my family photos, I’m struck by how I stand out. “No S**t, Sherlock!” you may say as you sarcastically roll your eyes at my patently obvious notation. This, indeed should come as no great surprise to me. Yet, what I truly find myself shocked and surprised by is the cognitive dissonance created when viewing my family. I associate myself with the family, but as an adult I get the strong sense that I’m somehow an outsider; at least from viewing photographs alone and out of context.
I was told I was adopted and that there was very little information about me other than my (estimated) birthday, the orphanage I was found at, and the name the orphanage gave me: Lee Kim Kwon. When I was a few years older, my parents even asked if I wanted to change my name in some way to honor my original Korean Moniker. I graciously declined the offer; as by the time the offer had been presented to me, I had been using the name “Daniel” for quite some time. I can only imagine the social nightmare of having to re-educate all my friends, family, and general acquaintances of a new name. As an interesting aside, my father wanted to name me after the prophet Malachi…but thankfully, my mother, being a very sensible woman, dissuaded him from that particular choice. Had the case been that I would live with the name Malachi Singer for the duration of my life…well…perhaps the decision to change my name would have taken a much different course than the current reality.
Children’s books about Korea were furnished to me. These books stood lonely on my bookshelf, unread for the most part. My parents even sent me to the local Korean Presbyterian Church on Sundays for Korean school for a brief stint. A combination of disinterest, a desire to not be stuck in school on the weekends, and general yearning to get on with my life led my parents to pull me from Korean School upon on my own urging. Little did I know, what they had in store for me, later on when I got older…something far more tedious and unpleasant: Hebrew School at Temple Beth Shalom! Eventually, through a similar campaign of complaining and cajoling, I was able to convince my long suffering parents pull me from Hebrew school a few years later. Both my brother and sister, to this day, bemoan the fact that they were forced to go through Hebrew school, their Bar/Bat Mitzvahs, and attend Camp Solomon Schecter for the summer whereas I was able to weasel my way out of such commitments.
The point is, my parents were incredibly supportive and made absolutely every effort to better acquaint me with my Korean heritage. I simply refused and dug in my heels, on learning about anything Korean. You can argue this was a case of being a stubborn toddler; that this was simply a kid who just wanted to play and have fun…instead of be consumed with learning every facet of Korean Culture and history. On an unconscious level, I think that I wanted to distance myself from my identity…that if I somehow embraced that Korean identity I would be leveling an unspoken insult to my adoptive parents. I think that my rebuke of my asian cultural education was a means to communicate my own love for my adoptive family. Being Korean is behind me…I have a family that took me in, fed me, clothed me, and loved me…that was good enough for me! This is a much larger topic of discussion when thinking of the myth of the ‘Model Minority’ concept that influences immigrant communities to outwardly reject their heritage and assimilate into White Protestant American culture. I would, in fact, proudly proclaim myself a model minority as a teenager, until I realized how truly racist this concept is in trying to drive wedges between various immigrant/minority communities (in addition to the racist implication that with a ‘model minority’ there somehow exists an exact opposite). I, however, digress…It’s an absolutely sweet sentiment to understand and embrace the connection to your adoptive family and their culture fully as part of your own upbringing.
The revelation I have come to in recent years is: As an adult, I can embrace my heritage and love my family at the same time! These need not be mutually exclusive! I can say…Korea is behind me, but one thing remains true for all immigrants is that: I can change my clothes. I can change the way I talk. I can shift my interests into ones that are more “white.” I can even change the color of my hair. At the end of the day I cannot change the color of my skin, the shape of my eyes, or elongate my nose. It’s simply not happening…not without expensive and extensive plastic surgery (and a serious underlying, unaddressed psychological baggage). It’s unfortunate that it took me over three decades to come to this realization, but there is no reason I need to reject my Asian-American identity in order to better love my parents. I have no need to pretend I’m Caucasian, even though I’m not.
By the same token, I’m not listening to gigabytes of K-Pop on my phone. I’m not grilling bulgogi every Saturday. I haven’t found any fondness for Kimchee among my taste buds (seriously, I think the stuff is disgusting — to be fair, my wife thinks Gefilte Fish is disgusting). I haven’t quit my job and joined an eSports League. Hmmm…what other stereotypical Korean behaviors are there…?
The point is: I don’t view my existence as a binary one. The person I am today is the product of my upbringing and other environmental factors. That person, does not have to be in a perpetual state of conflict with his identity as a Korean-American, or more broadly: an Asian-American. My true self and my identity and heritage can co-exist in the same space. I can take pride in my Korean heritage, while still celebrating Passover.
This may seem strange…but I would relate my newfound relationship with my Asian Identity with that classic inspirational photo of a single set of footprints on the beach; a testament to Jesus carrying members his flock during the hardest moments of their lives. Confusing imagery coming from a Korean Jew, but bear with me. I visualize myself walking on the beach. This is my true self. The man I am today. The man formed by over three decades of life as a Jew…an Army veteran…a Husband…a Chihuahua owner…Me. In this make-believe image, I’m holding hands with a ghostly figure beside me; pale and luminous. It’s my Korean-American Heritage! This specter isn’t a scary ghost out to terrify Scooby and the Gang. This translucent spirit, is merely a presence…an awareness on the periphery of my own consciousness. Sometimes that Asian-American voice whispers into my ear…waking me up and making me aware of that heritage. Sometimes that Korean g-g-g-ghost is silent. Yet, regardless of circumstances, that particular spirit of Asian Identity has been with me my entire life, I was either in denial of its presence or truly didn’t know about it. That identity is a collaborator in my life that has been walking at my side, as an equal…the only difference today is that, I now know who this collaborator is…and we can effectively work together, now that we can acknowledge each-other’s existence.
