Torn in Two
The cultural struggle of being a transracial adoptee
I remember walking around the Halifax Shopping Centre with my mom and younger sister when I was eight. While they browsed the clothes at Aéropostale, I stared at the other shoppers, especially the Asian ones. I knew the odds were two out of seven billion, but as a kid I couldn’t help but wonder if they could be my biological parents. Sometimes, I still wonder. After all, my origin story is a mystery.
I was found somewhere in Chongqing, China. I don’t know where I was found or who discovered me. For all I know, my elementary school classmates could have guessed right by asking if I was found in a dumpster or the supermarket.
My birthday is also a mystery. My sister, Hana, was adopted in the Hunan province. Her biological parents allegedly left a note marking her birthday on June 28. No one left me anything. But whoever found me wrote down my birthday as April 1.
The only thing I do know was that I lived with a foster family in Chongqing for 10 months. When my adoptive parents picked me up, my dad said my foster grandmother and my adoptive mother played tug of war with me, neither one wanting to let go. My foster grandfather gave me a toy and a letter, which I learned about last summer but still haven’t had the courage to look at.
Most likely, I was abandoned due to China’s one child policy. It was implemented in 1978 to reduce poverty and develop the economy which, according to an Al Jazeera article, was due to the countryside’s rapid population growth. The policy ended in 2016 when the government allowed couples to have two children due to the aging population and a decline in the workforce.
China began its international adoption program in 1991 and, according to an NBC article, around 110,000 children have been adopted globally. In Canada, Chinese adoptees account for 53 per cent of all adoptions between 1999 and 2009 and there were 8,000 Chinese adoptees in the country in 2010, according to Statistics Canada.
The mystery of my past didn’t bother me when I was a kid. I wondered, but I never sought to connect with my Chinese roots or find my biological parents. But as I grew older, the hole in my heart grew and I knew I couldn’t ignore that part of me anymore.
I began my journey in 2017 — shortly after I moved from my home in Little River, Nova Scotia to attend St. Thomas University in Fredericton, New Brunswick — by trying foods outside the usual Chinese-Canadian cuisine of greasy chicken balls and fried rice. I took the opportunity to eat at authentic restaurants like J’s Asian Kitchen in downtown Fredericton and Tokyo Ramen on Forest Hill Road.
But my real attempt to connect with my cultural roots was in March when the pandemic was at its peak. I spent most of my time on YouTube, where ads of the DNA kit, 23andMe, appeared on my feed.
I considered taking a DNA test before because of my lack of medical history, but never did.
The same DNA marker can be found in different countries since human genetics aren’t linked to one country, according to a 2019 Vox video. The video also said DNA tests don’t tell people where their ancestors lived, but instead gives a probability of where they’re likely to have relatives today. Plus, I don’t like the idea of giving a company access to my private DNA.
But my curiosity grew as more ads appeared on my YouTube feed. Eventually, I couldn’t ignore my interest.
I was part of a Facebook group called Subtle Asian Women, a place where Asian women from across the globe could connect. The group helped me with dating and hair advice, I figured they could help with the DNA kits too.
I asked if anyone had used a DNA kit and had success finding their biological family. I never gave much thought into that part of my life before. I used to think it was better if they were dead because it would give me a sense of closure, but I couldn’t help but wonder.
A few days after my initial post, a member of the group invited me to join a new group, Subtle Asian Adoptee Traits.
Some of its members had done DNA kits before and found close relatives, like parents or siblings. But most only found fifth cousins. They were all open and friendly, all willing to chat with me privately if I wanted. But they warned I should be prepared for the results, whether I found something or not.
I spent the rest of my day reading through countless posts on the Facebook page. Most of the stories were like mine. Raised in a predominantly white community, most members of the group felt disconnected from their Asian roots. The once-a-year celebrations and occasional interactions with other Asians never felt like enough. Non-adoptive Asians felt like we were too white to be Asian, and the white community thought we were too Asian to be a part of their nationality. We had two cultural identities, yet none of them felt complete.
For the first time in my life, I didn’t feel alone.
Most of the time, I kept to myself. I preferred to sit back and read what others wrote. But when my journalism professor asked for story pitches for a more narrative-filled piece, I knew what I wanted to write about — transracial adoptees and their cultural identity.
Childhood celebrations
One of the most common childhood experiences amongst the adoptees I spoke to was their parent’s involvement in connecting them to their Asian roots.
Kylie Bartz, 23, is an Indian adoptee from Avon, Minnesota. Her parents made sure to keep her Indian culture alive by involving her in community events, such as the ones put on by the Indian Student Association at St. Cloud University.
“Every year they would put on like five different events. My parents would often take me to those events and try to allow me to explore that side,” she said.
When she was 14, Bartz said her mother drove her two hours to a shop where an Indian woman made traditional clothing by hand. Bartz and her mother spent hours in the shop talking with the designer until they found what suited her. They ended up purchasing a red dress with faded royal blue at the bottom. Gold beads were hand-sewn in a diamond design and she wore a matching scarf pinned to her shoulder. After the dress shop, Bartz said her mother took her to four or five different stores to find matching shoes.
Kiona Zandvliet, a Chinese adoptee from the Netherlands, said her parents used to take her to an annual weekend getaway at the beginning of October. She would meet with six to nine other families from the Netherlands, though one family was from Sweden, who adopted at the same time as Zandvliet’s family. There, she would reunite with her sisters from the orphanage.
Zandvliet said the families took turns organizing the event and the location changed each year, though they always rented a big house so everyone could stay. The first day is spent catching up with everyone over snacks and drinks, while the second day is focused more on activities.
Some of the activities were China-related, like the dragon boat activity. Zandvliet said there were two boats and one person on each boat had to sit on a drum and play while the others rowed. Another activity was dumpling making. But for the most part, Zandvliet said the activities weren’t China-related. They would go to an amusement park or explore a near-by city, visiting a rock-climbing wall or doing a scavenger hunt.
“I don’t really recall talking about adoption. It’s more ‘what are you doing at school?’ But I think the parents are talking more about adoption and the time when they were in China to get us,” she said.
My parents also planned weekend getaways with families who went to China at the same time as they did. They would drive my sister and I six hours to Port Hawkesbury, Cape Breton to celebrate the Lunar New Year.
The four of us would stay at the Boudreaus, family friends, in their three-bedroom home. Darlene and Garnet Boudreau went to China twice with my parents to adopt their two children, Monique and Keelan. My sister and I would room with Monique while my parents took Keelan’s bedroom. He would sleep either on the couch in the living room downstairs, or on an air mattress in his parent’s bedroom.
The Lunar New Year celebrations were held at the civic centre. The smell of egg rolls, fried rice and greasy chicken balls filled the hallways. Until I was 15 or 16, my parents used to dress Hana and I in traditional Chinese shirts. The parents would also have the kids walk around the centre carrying a pink paper dragon over our heads to symbolize the dragon dance. At the end of the evening, they would give all the kids red envelopes full of chocolate coins from the dollar store.
Wearing “traditional” Chinese clothes felt like wearing a Halloween costume. I wasn’t sure if they were traditional and, while I’m Chinese by blood, I didn’t feel like I had the right to the culture. The celebrations were bittersweet. I was glad my parents took the time to acknowledge my Chinese heritage, but at the same time, it was only once a year and was celebrated through a Canadian lens. For example, the dragon we used wasn’t a dragon, it was a Chinese lion. Still, I was grateful my parents tried.
Surrounded by racism
Bartz’s parents wanted to make sure that when they brought their daughter home from India, she would be in a welcoming environment.
“They had told people in their life that if they couldn’t accept a child for whatever reason, because they’re not white, because they’re from another country, they didn’t want them around me,” said Bartz.
But her parents couldn’t protect her from everyone.
When Bartz started learning about the slave trade in the fifth grade, classmates told her to “go back to your country” because she was a “fugitive slave” and didn’t understand she was Indian, not Black. White people made up 99.2 per cent of the population in Avon, Minnesota in 2018, according to Data USA. Bartz said because of the lack of diversity in her area, most people only saw race in terms of Black and white.
In the same year, students told Bartz her eyebrows were too bushy, so she shaved them off. But the worst moment was when Bartz found a note in her locker that read die or “go home,” causing her to write a suicide letter.
“[My mom] cried for days because a) her 5th grader was suicidal, but also b) she knew she wouldn’t understand and didn’t know what to do,” said Bartz.
Her mother stepped in and brought her to the school’s social worker so Bartz could talk about her experiences. Still, it took 19 years for Bartz to embrace her Indian identity.
Before, she used to tell people that she was German and Swedish like her parents, but now she tells them that she’s Indian. She said the racism she faced is a part of her and helped her become a better advocate.
I understand the difficulties of living in an almost all-white area.
I grew up in a small lobster fishing village called Little River, located a half-hour outside Digby, Nova Scotia. In an area of around 2,500 or 3,000 residents, there are only a handful of racial minorities. Digby Regional High School had about 500 kids from Grades 7 to 12. There were only four non-international Chinese students, including me and my sister, and one non-international Japanese student in the school.
Given the whiteness of the town, I stuck out like a sore thumb, especially in the eyes of middle-aged white men.
I worked at the Admiral Digby Museum during the summer when I was 17. I used to spend my lunch hour walking downtown by the waterfront, enjoying the sun and salty ocean breeze. Sometimes, I would take a break and walk on one of the back streets to look at the colourful Victorian-styled houses. It was on one of these walks when a man approached me.
He was in his 60s with a balding head and a big beer belly. His truck was parked on the other side of the road, with a lawnmower sitting on the back of the attached trailer. The moment he saw me, he strode across the street and asked, “You from China?”
I took a step back, trying to keep my cool. He was too close, and I didn’t like his question. The gas station was within sight, but I wasn’t sure if I could run fast enough before he could grab and drag me back to his pickup truck. I told him that I was “technically” from China.
“I heard it snows a lot in China,” he said. I shrugged. I told him I was adopted and that I didn’t know. He babbled on for a few minutes and, whenever I could, I reminded him I was a local. If I didn’t, I was afraid he’d take me. Eventually, he walked back towards his pickup truck and sped away.
My parents always said everyone was equal, no matter their skin colour. That proved not to be true. But the racism we faced only made us stronger and, for some, motivated us to connect with our Asian culture.
A better future
Kate Sherga, 32, is a South Korean adoptee from Plano, Texas. She said her husband, Matt, is more supportive in discussions about race since he’s willing to ask questions when he doesn’t understand something.
The two met on an online dating site, OKCupid, in 2012. She friend-zoned him after their first date at a Dallas restaurant. But after hanging out with him during the summer, they started dating. They married in 2016 and had their first son, Felix, soon after.
Sherga didn’t want to ignore her son’s Korean heritage, but she said trying to incorporate Korean culture in her son’s life is weird since she’s still learning about it too. She bought a hanbok, a traditional two-piece Korean dress, for Felix’s first birthday. Koreans usually give their children the hanbok to celebrate their first 100 days, but Sherga said the 100 days had passed by the time she learned about the tradition.
Sherga also bought Korean children’s books to read and tried to introduce her son to Korean food. But as a fussy eater, she hasn’t had much luck with the latter.
“We do want him to have exposure to what I was missing from my upbringing,” she said.
Lyla Mills, 25, is a Chinese adoptee from Alpharetta, Georgia who started a program called Adopted, Chosen, Loved. She began the program in March with the goal to pair older Chinese adoptees with younger Chinese adoptees.
The group is whatever people want to make it, Mills said. Partners can have Netflix watch parties, play games through Zoom, help with homework, cook or whatever works best for them. Mills said she never wanted to tell people what to do.
“I thought [Adopted, Chosen, Loved] was important because I would’ve liked to have somebody when I was younger,” said Mills. “I would’ve liked to have a ‘big sister’ to look up to and to ask advice from and to talk to.”
Filling the empty
Adoption is traumatizing. One decision, one choice changed the course of my life. I love my adoptive parents, but I can’t help but wonder if I’d still have the same emptiness in my chest if I were raised in China. Even if I learn more about my birth culture, can I fill the empty?
I don’t know how far I’ll go on my journey. Maybe I’ll travel to China once the pandemic is over and experience the culture first-hand, or reach out to my foster family and see if they can remember me.
All I know is that I’ve opened Pandora’s Box and there’s no turning back.
About the author
Jasmine Gidney is a fourth-year journalism student at St. Thomas University in Fredericton, New Brunswick. Her love of journalism began when she volunteered at The Digby Courier in Grade 12 for a co-op placement. She continued to follow her passion when she began STU in 2017 where she joined the university’s newspaper, The Aquinian, as a reporter. In September 2019, Gidney became the features editor where she strived to tell diverse stories. She created a bi-weekly column called Home where students from different cultures could express what home meant to them. Now, Gidney is the 2020–21 managing editor for The Aquinian. When she’s not rushing to meet a deadline or tracking down someone to interview, you can find Gidney at the movie theatre or exploring Fredericton. This story was written for the Senior Seminar in Journalism.
