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Archive for the ‘Adoption BS message’ Category

I have two birthdays.

One birthday is the day/ anniversary of the day on which I was born.

The other birthday is the one which appears on my birth certificate but has nothing to do with my birth. Originally it was an ordinary day which had abosolutely nothing to do with me, but an adoption agency’s workers attributed it to me as my birthday as they invented a family background story in order  to make me more adoptable/sellable and to prevent my family from finding me.

A birthday is a birthday.  One can be born only once in his/her lifetime. There should be no need of adding a modifier with a birthday.  But the land of adoption is a land apart where the language is tweaked and moral values are twisted [link], so I have to use a modifier to distinguish between the two birthdays. The day/anniversary of the day on which I was born is my real birthday. The day which appears on my birth certificate is my legal birthday.

Still the legal birthday feels more real and more natural to me as I’ve been using it since almost fourty years, every time I’m required to give my birthday to identify myself for legal matters or every time I’m asked casually when is my birthday or when I’m asked to prove my identity.

I also had two sets of parents (they are all deceased).

One set of parents whom I was born to.

Another set of parents whose names appear on my birth certificate. Originally they were complete strangers who had nothing to do with me, but an adoption agency matched me to them randomly and sold me to them.

A mother is a mother. A father is a father. There should be no need of adding a modifier to a mother or  a father, especially to a mother who gave/gives birth to; if there is any need, the modifier should be added to the others (step-mother, mother in law, adoptive mother). But  the land of adoption is a land apart where the language is tweaked and moral values are twisted, so I’m going to use the words “real” and “legal”.

Using the word “real” the same way as in my “real birthday”, my real parents are those whom I was born to. I’m using it in an authentic way, not in an emotional way. The other set of parents are my legal parents.

If I had to use the term “real” emotively according to my feelings instead of using it authentically, I would say that the legal birthday which has nothing to do with my birth and yet appears on my birth certificate and legal papers is my real birthday, because I’ve been raised/trained to use it as if I as if it was my birthday, and I would still be saying things all adoptees are raised/trained to say that “my real parents are those who raised me” or that “both my parents are real”.

For years I’ve used the terminology invented by  the adoption industry which separated me from my family, “birth mother/birth father” or “biological mother/biological father”,  but I don’t  anymore.

It would be ludicrous to say “birth birthday” or “biological birthday”, I found the terms “birth parents” and “biologial parents” ludicrous  as well and inauthentic.

A mother is a mother and a father is a father regardless,  except in the adoptionland where words are twisted, the meaning of the words are changed and moral values are tweaked and twisted.

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Had you not been adopted,

  • you’d have ended up as a prostitute or in the streets;
  • you’d have became an illiterate;
  • you’d be dead by now

My heart ached thinking of my father.   I missed him and it hurt me. I’ve consoled myself telling myself, “If I was with my dad, I’d be a prostitute or a homeless” I missed my family, but I’ve consoled myself repeating in my head, “If I wasn’t adopted, I’d be a prostitute or homeless like them [siblings, nephew, niece, cousins and friends].” My heart ached for my siblings, nephew and niece.

My life had became a hell because of my adoptive mother’s alcoholism, yet I still found a way to console myself thinking,  “They [siblings, nephew, niece, cousins and friends] must be living in the streets  or as prostitutes by now.” I imagined my sister, four years older than me, enduring sexual abuses. Her life similar or worse than mine made me apperciate my adopted life. “I’m lucky I was adopted.” I had decided that I would later adopt some children of the poor to save them from prostitution, street life, illiteracy, poverty and death.

My adopted life was nostalgia and melancholy.  I missed Korea, my country, my  homeland, my home; I missed my family, my friends; I missed Korean foods; I even missed the life of poverty where I had known happiness; I missed everything of Korea. I repeated the comforting words, “Had I not been adopted, I’d be dead by now.”

Adoption saved me and adoption nearly killed me.

After secret failed suicide attempts, the comforting words would sometimes come to my mind, “I should be grateful for being alive. Had I not been adopted, I’d be dead by now.”

But I survived the adoption.

Twenty-six years after being “saved”, I went back to  Korea to search for my family.

I had left a third-world country where all children but few needed to be adopted/saved from street life, prostitution and illeteracy if not from death. I was back in a prosperous country with more advanced technology than in my adoptive country.

If  the statement “Had you not been adopted, you’d have ended up as a prostitute or in the streets; you’d have became an illiterate; or you’d be dead” was true, then  there would be less people  or the country would be populated by illiterates, prostitutes and children of prostitutes.  I found instead more people, rich people, eating more,  living in large modern apartments or houses, addicted to their advanced technology in a rich country.

I should have then admitted that the statement  “Had you not been adopted, …” was false, but I didn’t.  Adoptees are brainwashed to believe all the statements they hear repeatedly. And a brainwashed person doesn’t come to her senses in an instant.

I cried walking in subway stations and Seoul streets. I  poured out my heart to God begging him to find my family.  I thought my brother was homeless or in a prison.  I took a random alley where  I saw four men playing cards; they looked much older than my brother but I thought one of them could be my brother who must looked like an old man due to hardship. My heart leapt when I saw from a bus a drunk man lying under a bridge. In the subway, I tried to recognize a face that looked like mine among the women, but none could be my sister because none looked like a prostitute…

I went on TV to find my family two weeks before the end of my trip. My two sisters called me while the show was on air.  I had to wait to meet them during the next show which would be air the next week.  During the wait, I’d prepared a list of questions for my two sisters (I was told my brother had died a few years earlier). For my second sister I had  some questions such as, “where you sexually abused by the man of the family for whom you worked as maid?” But the language barrier prevented me from asking the silly questions.

My siblings, cousins and friends were born and left in a third-word country from which I was adopted.

None of them ended up as homeless; none of them ended up as prostitute.  My sister whom I had imagined as a prostitue was married and mother of two children aged 8 and 9. Had I not been adopted, I would have ended up neither as prostitut nor homeless.

None of them became illiterate. Had I not been adopted, I wouldn’t have become an illiterate. As you can see here and here, I could read and write before being adopted. But those who have the Adopter Saviour Syndrome believe reading and writing only Asian language is equivalent of being illiterate.

Two of my family members died during the years of separation, but none of them died of poverty. My father died of cirrhosisby overdrinking three years after losing me. My brother died, hit by a motorcycle.  Had I not been adopted, I wouldn’t have died.  When it’s your time to die, you’ll die wherever you live. When it’s not your time to die, you’ll live wherever you live.

The third-world country from which I was adopted is no longer a third-world country since years yet it continues to export ts children. Instead of selling children of the poor, it sells children of unwed moms. Individuals economic situation improved with the economy of the country. My elder sister had moved to a modern western style house five or six years after I went missing.

Adoption didn’t save me.

Adoption served adoption agency and its clients. The first made money from my adoption and the latter got what they needed. Their clients needed me to fulfill their desire; I didn’t need them.

My adopted life is nostalgia and melancholy.

I’ve endured  and I’m enduring pain and heartache caused by international adoption for no valid reason.

Lies are no longer comforting, but the hurting truth is better than the comforting lies.

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From the time I had started learning/understanding my adoptive parents’ language (now my first language), my adoptive mother often told me that I was her living doll that she’d asked to Santa Claus; her Christmas gift which came just on time for Christmas.

I’ve also heard many times my adoptive mother saying to her friends and family that destiny had joined us together.
She saw signs of destiny in my body so different from hers: we both had a black mole on our backs and we both had a small skin outgrowth on our shoulders. She spoke more often of the latter sign. “…On her left shoulder exactly like mine, at the same place,” she would say.
I didn’t know yet the meaning of the word destiny. To my understanding, destiny had led me to her and I was her destiny, which meant destiny (I) had killed my first mother and torn my siblings apart and forced my father to get rid of me. That was my understanding of the word destiny at the age of ten.
I wanted to become like her, I wanted to be her real daugther, but I didn’t want to be her destiny. Each day, I scratched and pinched my sign of destiny until it hurt me. She applied wet compresses to prevent me from scratching it as it nearly got infected. The sign of destiny disappeared after several days.

Years later, my adoptive mother got into all kind of beliefs. She then said that I was her father in our past lives hundreds years ago and that I had came back to her as her daugther in this life to set unresolved things with her.

All these said along with her message: “adopted children are no different from biological children” – “adopting is same as giving birth” – “I felt the pain of childbirth when I saw her at the airport…”

Adoption is wall of truth built with bricks of lies.

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The “Gotcha Day” as I remember

I recognized the American couple that I had seen on a photo.

Many weeks earlier, I was told by the social worker who gave me the photo that the couple would be my new American parents. My thought then had been: “The American woman is well-dressed and pretty but she doesn’t look like a mom; she wears too much of make-up like a woman of bad life. The American man can’t be a father, he is too fat.”

I was having the same thought in front of them when the yellow-haired woman grabbed me. She hugged me, she touched my face and my arms, she took me in her arms, and then she touched my hair, my arms and everywhere, while talking non stop in their strange language.

Meanwhile, the babies who had traveled with me were given to the other Americans — one baby for each couple. It was very noisy. The babies were crying. Adults were crying, laughing and talking aloud. The yellow-haired woman continued to hug me and kiss me, calling me by a new name, Kimmi. I was totally disgusted by her lips on my cheeks and I hated her smell and her perfume. I grimaced and discretely wiped my cheeks with my hand when I had a chance. The room became quiet after other Americans left with the babies.

The fat American man lifted me up and put me on a bar stool, and then he also left the room. The yellow-haired American touched me again while talking to other men at the bar. They were all staring at me. I heard them saying “cute” and “pretty”. I felt embarrassed and uneasy. I took a few sips of a Seven-Up — the first soft drink in my life — to avoid their gaze. I almost burped, I found the tingling sensation in my nose funny, and I pinched my nose several times. I realized the men were still staring at me. I knew they were all talking about me.

I looked around me while they were busy talking. I felt like I was dreaming. The fat man came back and said something to his yellow-haired wife. He seemed very nervous. I sensed their panic. The yellow-haired woman took my hand and started running forcing me to run myself. She ran so fast that I had difficulty following her.

She suddenly stopped in front of a door. Inside the room were several doors. She took out a coin from her purse and inserted it in a slot of a door. The door opened… to an American style toilet! I thought, “Americans are crazy, they have to pay to pee! Americans are rich!”

The yellow-haired woman brought me in the toilet cabin and peed in front of me. I blushed. I had never seen a naked adult in my life before, not even my own parents. I turned my head toward the door but driven by curiosity, I cast a quick glance at her. The poor American was hairy as a monkey! I thought, “She must have often cried and laughed at the same time. Oh no! I too have laughed and cried many times. I don’t want to become like a monkey!” [My brother would always make me laugh whenever he saw me crying, and then he would say, “Myung-Sook, if you cry and laugh at the same time, hair will grow on your bottocks like monkeys.”]
Using a body language and making a noise with her mouth like a monkey, the American woman told me it was my turn to pee. I shook my head, because I didn’t want to pee in front of a stranger.

We met the fat man again. They gave me a pink teddy bear and the woman clothed me in a snowsuit. I had never seen such a toy and such cloth before. To hide my shyness and my distress, I took off my identification bracelets and put them on the teddy bear’s arms, and then I looked at it and held it tight. The yellow-haired woman said, “Pierrot”. I understood it was its name — a strange name.

It was dark and cold outside. I felt alone with the two strangers in this amazing place. The Americans made me sit between them in a taxi. The yellow-haired woman kissed me non stop on my cheek. I felt like my cheek was all wet. I wiped my cheek discreetly with my hand from time to time. Her smell mingled with that of her perfume was nauseous. I was too shy to show my disgust… To make things worse, I needed to pee… I couldn’t wait any longer! I made them understand by moving like all children know how to in such case. The yellow-haired woman asked the driver to stop. While I was peeing on the edge of the road, she stayed annoyingly near me as if I was her dog.

Next thing I remember is being in another smaller and empty plane, sitting between them again. There were only two stewardesses in the plane. The yellow-haired women talked to them non stop, such that the stewardesses couldn’t say a word. One of them told me “cute, cute” from time to time as if I was a little baby. The other left us and came back with a pin [Eastern airline pin] and gave it to me. As usual, the fat American man stayed quiet. I thought he must be shy as I was…

After landing, we were in a huge indoor parking garage (which I’d never seen before). I thought Americans must be very very rich to own a car. While the fat man was looking for his car, the yellow-haired woman picked up a public phone and started talking loudly with excitement. I had time to cast a look in her purse and saw many compartments filled with coins. I thought “My American parents must be rich”. [I must have hallucinated, as when I opened it a few days later, there was no such compartment in her purse. However, there were many coins in it.]

We arrived at their house. A red-haired old American woman was waiting us [She was one of the employees working at their business]. I understood her name was Nanny. The yellow-haired woman started talking to Nanny. Whenever Nanny had the chance to say something, she would look at me and say: “…cute” or “…pretty” in the same voice that adults usually take when they talk to babies. I then understood what cute and pretty meant. Despite my fatigue, I noticed how the house was huge. I felt like I was dreaming but I knew it was for real. [I didn’t know enough words to describe how I felt then, but today with the words I know, I can say that I felt like I was in another planet or in a science fiction movie.]
They told me, “…tired… tired…” The yellow-haired women took me to my bedroom. I had never seen such room, bigger than all the rooms where I’ve lived with my family, all decorated and with beautiful furniture. I thought: “I’m a princess.” The woman gave me a pajamas. I didn’t want to undress in front of her, as I was a big girl. Fortunately, the woman understood me despite my silence and she left the room.

After lying on the bed, I thought how I would be sleeping alone for the first time of my life because in Korea, a family of 7 to 10 persons would sleep in such room. I felt very alone and anxious, but I preferred to think that I’d be living like a princess in this country of fairy tales called the USA; I’d be spoiled by my new American parents and I’d meet my friends who had came to the USA before me before going back to Korea.

The “Gotcha Day” as told by my adoptive mother

My mother died 11 years ago, but I’ve heard her recounting the “Gotcha Day” numerous times ever since I learned to speak her language up to the time of her death. The following is as she would tell it(translated from French).

When I received your photo, I thought you were a boy because of your shaved head. I called them and told them: “I don’t want a boy; I want a girl.” When they told me you were a girl, I became attached to you instantly, I loved you and I waited for you. I was eager to see you every day. I was hoping to see you before your birthday; I wanted to throw a big party for your birthday. You finally came on December 2. I’d asked Santa Claus to give me a living doll as a Christmas gift. You are my Christmas gift, my living doll.

[Talking to others]: We were given a VIP room. Everyone was excited and talking at the same time. It was noisy. We were like crazy while waiting for our children. What’s amazing is that all the parents recognized their babies of a few months old that they’d seen only in pictures, while they looked all the same to me with their slanted eyes. I felt the pain of childbirth when I saw my daughter. It seems that many women feel the pain of childbirth at the arrival of their adopted children. Other parents started crying as soon as they got their babies in their arms like any parent would after giving birth. Adopting a child is no different than giving birth. You love them as much as you love your biological children, and even more[…] Immigration said there was a problem. They had to send my daughter back to Korea because we did not have U.S. citizenship. We were going to lose our minds at the idea of losing her. Leo left us at the bar and went to plead our case.

You were so cute. You took a few sips of Seven Up and pinched your nose. Everyone at the bar was looking at you. One man told me that you were so pretty that he would marry you. I became angry at him and I told him, “I just got her! Give me a chance to enjoy her for few years!”
Your father came back and he told me, “Take the little one and run! Go hide! Run fast!” He has obtained a one-year visa for humanitarian consideration, but he was still afraid to lose you. We didn’t want to lose you. We were like crazy, I ran and went to hide in the restroom. […] You refused to pee. While we were in the cab heading to another airport, you showed me you needed to pee, you were adorable, so we had to pull over.
Your father was so nervous that he couldn’t remember where he had parked his car. I called mom while he was searching for the car. I told her, “Mom, we got the little one, we got the little one!” Mom cried. She told me later that she cried at every birth of her grandchildren; she felt the same emotions as when her other grandchildren were born.

[Talking to others]: Mom accepted my daughter as her real granddaughter; she never made a distinction between her and the other grandchildren. She told me once that my niece Julie and my daughter were the youngest of the family and she’ll soon add them to the family tree.

What “Gotcha Day” means to my adoptive parents

As a French speaking person, my mother would use the equivalent French terms “Le jour que je t’ai eue” (the day I got you) when talking to me or “Le jour que je l’aie eue” (the day I got her) when talking to others. From time to time, she has also used the term “le jour que tu es arrivée” (the day you arrived).

For my mother, my Gotcha Day was the happiest day of her life. Her desire (of having a child/becoming a mother) came true that day. For my father, his desire (of having a child/building a new family with his second wife) came true that day. It seemed that my Gotcha Day was more important for my mother than for my father.

For my parents, it was a day to celebrate a happy event, my arrival in their life. The first year, they threw a huge party for my birthday to celebrate both my birthday and my Gotcha Day (the day of my arrival being less than two weeks after my birthday). The second year, they held a party for my Gotcha Day with their friends; they gave me a birthday cake with a candle in the form of a 2, like a two year-old child. About two years and half after my arrival, a neighbor threw a huge party to which we were invited. When I asked my mother what we were celebrating, she explained to me that it was for the 35th anniversary of the immigration of her husband from Italy, and she told me she’d throw a huge party, much bigger that this, for the 35th anniversary of my arrival day. (It was the first time, she took the term “your arrival day” instead of “the day I got you”).
The following years, they didn’t celebrate my Gotcha Day, but my mother stressed that day by giving me a gift or talking about the day at the airport. When talking about it, she would never forget to talk about the pain of childbirth she felt, to show me she loved me as if I was her own.

What “Gotcha Day” means to my (birth) father

To my father, I was his youngest and favorite child. He would show openly his favoritism toward me by making my sisters jealous. Sometimes after my mother’s death, we lived together alone. When his other children turned backs on him for losing his money, I continued to admire him and to have faith in him.

When I found my family 27 years after separation, my sisters told me that our father didn’t abandon me. I don’t know if it is true or not as he is no longer in this world, but I know for sure that Holt Children’s Service didn’t get his consent to sell me for adoption.

He died three years after losing me in loneliness, not knowing where I was, not even knowing if I was alive or dead, not knowing anything of my “Gotcha Day”.

On his behalf, I want to say that Gotcah Day means losing a daughter.

What “Gotcha Day” means to me

For my adoptive parents, I was born the day they got me.

Indeed, I was born a second time at the age of 9 years old.

But to be born again, you must first die.

Going into the airport, I was Kim Myung-Sook (surname first), born in Korea, daughter of Koreans. My ancestors were Koreans and I spoke Korean.
I came out as Kim Goudreau (surname last), born in Korea, daughter of Quebecers. My ancestors are French-speaking Quebecers and I speak French and a little English.

For me, Gotcha Day is a day to mourn the death of Kim Myung-Sook, the daugther Kim Jeong-Jin and Yeo Byung-Rae, which means a day to mourn all the losses due to international adoption:

– the loss of my father, my two sisters, my brother, my brother-in-law, my nephew and my niece;
– the loss of my aunts, uncles and cousins;
– the loss of my two nephews born during our separation, that I didn’t/don’t see growing up;
– the loss of my grandnephew born after our reunion, as the reunion was followed by separation due to cultural and language barriers;
-the loss of a country that I used to call “our country” for I have no country that I can call “my country”;
-the loss of a place that I used to call “our home” for I don’t feel at home anywhere;
-the loss of my mother tongue;
-the loss of my culture;
-the loss of my identity.

For my parents, Gotchat Day was a day to celebrate my “birth”, because they couldn’t understand the losses for they didn’t lose anything.

How can an adoptive parent understand that gaining another family doesn’t replace the loss of an original family? How can an adoptive parent understand that learning two languages and a different culture will never fill the hole created by losing a mother tongue and culture when the adopters never lose anything while gaining someone else’s children in the “wonderful” process of adoption?

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Abandonment is a barbaric act.

Abandonment is a barbaric act.

Type “animal abandonment cruel” on Google search and see the results: animal abandonment is considered to be a barbaric and cruel act.

In the adoption industry, child abandonment is considered to be an act of love.

It was so obvious that I was not the real child of my parents, people often made comments that reminded me I was adopted. I never spoke of my adoption and I never told anyone (except my parents) that my first mother was killed in a bus accident when I was six, so most people assumed I was abandoned at birth. One of their comments was: “Your (birth) mother abandoned you because she loved you”, while others would tell me “Your (adoptive) mother must love you very much.”

My adoptive parents told me: “Your father abandoned you because he loved you.” – “We love you.”

I knew my first mother loved me until her death. I knew my first father loved me, I have lived more than 8 years with him, I knew it until he abandoned me. So when they told me he abandoned me because he loved me, I understood he loved me until I did something bad that deserved the greatest punishment in the world (so I’ll better behave well to be loved by my adoptive parents). Getting older, I couldn’t find any childhood act deserving such punishment, so I made the logical equation love equals abandonment. People who loves me could abandoned me anytime…

Christians told me: “God is your heavenly Father. Your Father will never forsake you because  because He loves you.” Some of them also told me my father abandoned me because he loved me. I believed my heavenly Father who loved me so much He already abandoned me.

I belived for long time the message “abandonment is an act of love – abandonment is a gift – abandonment is a selfless act” conveyed by the adoption industry, particularly PAPs and APs. And my life was a complete mess.

I don’t believe such lie anymore.
What I believe now is that parents abandon their children for one the the two reasons:
– because they don’t love them.
– because they love them AND they are given no other choice by the society.

If you believe abandonment is an act of love, I don’t want to be loved by you.

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