When she speaks, I imagine my Korean name Jung Ran Jo. I see my foster mother’s photograph vanishing into the sky like gray embers from a smoldering fire the smell of burning papers disguised as truth seeps deep inside my lungs. I catch my breath. My thoughts lost in slow motion.
“Why do you distrust me? Of course I wish there was no imminent military threat from North Korea but your adoption file is not here.” I watch her long fingers fumble a thin Manila folder marked United States; her eyes divert from mine. Why are you blaming North Korea? I want to shout, “It’s not 1953!” I want to pound my fists on the table in a fit of rage and scream, “I am more than a fucking paper orphan among an empty family registry!”
I am a wife,
I am a mother,
I am a sister,
I am a missing daughter
a yellow foreigner-”Chinese, Japanese, dirty knees look at these,” a classmate chanting from the swings pulls back the corner of his eyes. I feel my face grow hot with embarrassment. I try to yell but my words are like chalk stuck inside my throat-
No, I’m a Korean adoptee.
Now twenty years later I am sitting in a stiff blue chair across from a new social worker at my adoption agency still trying to reclaim what is mine. Two hundred thousand babies exported overseas and I wonder if she feels any shame. I turn away and look out the small picture window. I can glimpse in the distance black haired strangers who are mirror images of myself hurrying down the crowded streets and I am triggered by an aching feeling of loneliness.
She interrupts my thoughts, “Ah, here is your adoption file. I’m sorry if this caused any misunderstanding.” She acts as if I’m supposed to be grateful because she conveniently found my file; granting me access to understand how I came into this world. I clench my folder like a fist against my chest. Decades of grief turns back into rage. I meet her eyes and I snap. “I refuse to be silent anymore.”