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When I was kid ( a non-adopted kid in Korea), after I entered first grade, we became so poor that we once searched in the garbage dump for foods and we gleaned  radish and cabbage left in the fields after the harvest.

My sister was friend with the daughter of a rich family in our neighborhood. They lived in a house of more than one room, they owned a TV, and a piano and they had a beautiful rose garden in front of their living room. Everything they owned was unusual at that time. Compared to a family in the Western country, they weren’t rich, but they were the richest in the world to my knowledge as a child. She always wore wore beautiful clothes (while other children had only one set of clothes to go to school and one set for home). My sister would draw her new clothes for my paper doll. I thought she was lucky until the day I heard she was adopted. I didn’t know what adopted meant, so my sister said her parents were not her real parents. I then had assumed that her real parents were dead, and although she didn’t look unhappy I thought it was terrible. The sad revelation made me appreciate my life and my family. I tried to imagine my life without dad but couldn’t imagine. It was too horrible. I didn’t want to live with another family for all the clothes in the world, nor even for all foods in the world.

That’s how much my family meant to me.

Ironically I got adopted three years later into a rich country where there were clothes and foods in profusion, while my father was still alive. When you take a child from the poor and give him/her to the rich in exchange of money, what’s left to the poor? Nothing.

My father had nothing else after losing me, but the “birth” parents don’t matter for people who promote adoption.

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Someone to the post Almost Aborted wrote, “Be a round Korean, learn Korean and serve in the Korean Army.”

Korea sent me to a white community  where there were no Asians.
A community where I was mocked, bullied and threatened for my slant eyes.
I was called “The Chinese” or “La Chinoise” if not “la sale Chinoise (the dirty Chinese)” by everyone around me, even by the few black people.
Korea sold me  to white people who taught me that to be an Asian was a shameful thing, that to be Asian = to be a geisha.

Koreans sent me to a foreign land where there were no Koreans around me.
As I mentioned in the post “Almost Aborted”,  Koreans crossed off the date of bearer’s return on my visa to ensure I wouldn’t go back to Korea for a long time.
I completely lost my language within two years of my arrival on this land for having nobody to talk to.
The loss of mother language was traumatic.

To be told to to be around Koreans, to learn Korean  and to serve in the Korean army sounds sardonic to me.




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I hate love because of you.

You, my (adoptive) parents, who told me,
“Your biological father must have loved you very much to abandon you.”

You who didn’t know nothing of my story and yet, in your vain attempt to make me speak, said,
“Your mother abandoned you because she loved you so much she wanted you to have a better life.”

You, strangers who told me,
“You parents are so generous (for adopting you), they must love you very much.”
(You must guessed I’m adopted by my slant eyes being different of my parents’ round eyes)

You, my classmate friend, who confided to me that you were adopted too and you scolded me because I didn’t want to repeat after you that,
“We are more loved than other kids are because we were chosen.”

I hate love because to be loved means to be abandoned.


I hate love because of you.

You, the relinquishing mothers.
Your love requires too many conditions that babies/children can not fulfill: to be born be with the right gender or to be born at the right time (after you get your diploma, after you achieve your career…)
Your “unconditional” love  reminds me I was abandoned and rejected.

I hate love because your unconditional love means rejection and abandonment.



I hate love because of you.

You, my parents, who were once strangers.
When we were strangers, there was no love between us, there was only your desire for parenthood.
Your desire for parenthood have destroyed my family. And then your love reduced my real parents to DNA and genetic strangers.

I hate love because your parenthood that requires love destroyed my family, the family that I used call my family without adding the words natural, real, first, birth, biological or genetic to it.



I hate love because of you.

You, all adopters, who pursue pregnant mothers to procure their baby.
You who build your family on the destruction of a (natural) family.
You who build your happiness by destroying a mother-baby bond.
You who take advantage of the misfortune of others to build your family.
You who use the love of a mother (“If you love your child, then,…”) to give up to you her unborn baby.
You who use love to imply that genes, DNA and biology don’t matter.

I hate love because love means separation  (mother-child separation, family-child separation) and destruction (of family).




Bring My Sons from Afar, by Bertha Holt

I hate love because of you.

You, Harry Holt, who took advantage of the love of the mothers to procure their babies in the aftermath of the war.
You who put a clean break and forever between a heartbroken mother and her not yet weaned baby.

You, David Kim, who recounted to us your work with Harry Holt to save the war babies.
You who told us  that we (who were born 15 to 20+) were abandoned at places like the City Hall  but our mothers loved us and they stayed hidden and cried at the City Hall to watch us until we were picked up. (But I wasn’t a baby when I was supposedly abandoned and you never told me why your agency fabricated my story.)

I hate love because love makes me sad. Love makes me sad when I think of  the love of all the mothers who were/are given no other option than seeing their babies starving or abandoning them for adoption.

I hate love because love can be used to separate mothers and their child, and love can be used to sell children to strangers.


I hate love because of you.

You, Bertha Holt, who said, “All children are beautiful when they are loved.”
I’m the girl  K-6714 that your agency sold to a couple that needed a child to build a family.
Before becoming the holt product #K-6714, I had a family that loved me.
But you (your agency) tore apart my family (and thousands of other families) so that strangers could love me.
By using the word love to sell children who already have families, you have put the love of my family and a non-existing love of  a stranger who had never met me on the scale and you decided the love of the better off people superior was superior  to the love of my family.

I hate love because love makes me sad.
Love makes me sad when I miss the love of my real parents, the parents that I used to call my parents without adding the words natural, real, first, birth, biological or genetic to it.
Love makes me sad when I miss my family, the family that you destroyed, the family you reduced to genetics and DNA.
Love makes me sad when I think of the love of every parent who lost their children to adoption trafficking.


I hate love because of you.

You, the adoption agencies.

I hate love because love makes me angry.
Love makes me angry when I think of the adoption agencies  using the love of the mothers/parents to take their babies while making huge amount of money to sell them.
Love makes me angry when I think of all the people using the love a mother to convince her to put her unborn baby up for adoption.

I hate love because you use the love of a mother to procure her baby, and then you use love to sell her baby.
I hate love because you dirtied the word love.



I hate love because of you.

You, the supposedly “forever” parents, who love their adopted children so much you give them up for re-adoption.
And you, adoption agencies, who use the word love again to sell them.

I hate love because loved means abandoned 2nd time.

I hate love because adoption is love.
I hate love because of you, Adoption.

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The attempts to degrade us to just a number completely failed in our group, as I see it. Had I become a number just because I had a number on my arm? Not for a minute. Our identity was not affected. I remained Bloeme Emden.
I can tell you something else. While we were in hiding, we used other names. You had to imprint yourself with those other names so that no matter what happened you wouldn’t say your own name. But the alias was nothing more than a pasted-on label. However terrible it was to be arrested and deported, one thing was nice, and that was being able to use your own name again. Your name is so interwoven with your identity, your being, your existence– you can taste it, as it were, on your lips. To say your own name aloud, “Bloeme Emden” That felt good.

By Bloeme Emden, survivor of the Holocaust, in the documentary The Last Seven Months of Anne Frank which was also pulished as a book.

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