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Posts Tagged ‘Korean adoptee’

who you are

I remember who I was.
I was Korean.
My mother tongue was Korean.
My name was MyungSook.
I was the daughter of  Koreans.

They raised me as their own, someone I was not.
I was raised to live as their own and I became who I wasn’t.

They told me to be someone else.
I’ve been someone they told me to be for so long  that I am who I wasn’t.

To forget who they told me to be means to forget who I am.
I’m Quebecker.
My mother tongue is French.
My name is Kim.
I’m the daughter of Quebeckers.

To remember who I am means to remember who I am not.
I’m Korean but I’m not really Korean.
I don’t speak Korean.
Her name MyungSook sounds like Chinese to my Quebec ears.
I am the daughter of nobody.

They raised her as their own, someone she was not.
They killed her, they created me.

The dead lives in the memory of the living.
She lives in my memory, I live in her body.
Her body I call mine is her coffin.

To remember who I am, I need to remember her, the missing me.
She is not because I am.

To remember who I am, I need to remember I am dead
I am not me, I am her, I am dead.

Korean girl

 

 

 

 

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In my next life, I want to be reborn as a 개나리 flower in Korea, so that I can make Koreans happy for a spring and die on my homeland. That’s how much I love Koreans and how much I miss Korea. But I never ever want to be reborn as a girl in Korea, because I was a Korean girl who was happy at the sight of bright yellow flowers.

In my next life, I want to be reborn as a 진달래 flower in Korea, so that I can bring tears of joy to the eyes of a little Korean girl and die on my homeland. That’s how much I love Koreans and how much I miss Korea. But I never ever want to be reborn as a girl in Korea, because I was that little girl who had tears of joy at the sight of the beautiful pink flowers in a forest.

In my next life, I want to be reborn as a 무궁화 flower, so that I can live and die on my homeland being admired and loved by my people. That’s how much I want to be loved by my people and how much I miss my country. But I never ever want to be reborn as a girl in Korea, because I was that little Korean girl who admired and loved her country’s national flower.

In my next life, I want to be reborn as a 나무 in the middle of a forest in Korea, so that I can never be moved from my homeland and so that I can filter the sunlights through my leafy branches to make a girl dance of joy. That’s how much I love and miss my country. But I never ever want to be reborn as a girl in Korea, because I was that little girl who wanted to dance of joy looking the sunlight through leaves in a forest.

I’m nostalgic while humming the air of the songs whose lyrics I lost except the words 개나리, 진달래, 무궁화 and 나무. I’m homesick with grief and sadness when I think of my people. I long and yearn for my lost language, homeland and people.

I want to die at this moment and be reborn in Korea.  But I never ever want to be reborn as a human being in Korea. That’s how much I hate you and despise you, that’s how much you hurt me.

In my next life, I want to be reborn as a flower or a tree in Korea. Because I was a Korean girl, a human being you sold.

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My family hojuk has seven pages.  The first page contains information about the chief of family (my dad).  My mom and my brother are on the fifth page, my sisters are on the sixth, and I’m on the seventh page. The picture below shows a part of the first page.

realhojuk

My orphan hojuk is only one page.  “Father: No record. Mother: No record” and a  birthdate (made up by adoption agency) are written on it.  It was created to make me adoptable. The  picture below shows a part of the translated version of my orphan hojuk (family registry created for adoption).

orphanhojuk001

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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We Were Children is a documentary about the experiences of First Nations children in the Canadian Indian residential schools system.

http://aptn.ca/pages/wewerechildren/

For over 130 years till 1996, 150 000 Aboriginal children were removed from their families and sent to faraway schools which were part of a wider program of assimilation designed to integrate the native population into “Canadian society” and were established with the express purpose ‘To kill the Indian in the child.’  These children endured physical, sexual and emotional abuse, and the complete erasure of their culture.

The last of the 30 residential schools closed in 1996. In 2008, the Canadian government offered a publicy apology and the Indian Residencial Schools Truth and Reconciliation Commission was established.

I was a child. I too was removed from family and my country, sent to a faraway country where I endured forced assimilation, abuse and complete erasure of language and culture.  They killed the Korean  in me. They say I should be grateful for being saved. They call it international adoption.

Korea has been selling its children to 15 countries for 60 years. Canada is one of the countries which buy them.

International adoption: import-export of priced-tagged children, forced removal from family and coutry, forced assimilation, abuse for many and complete erasure of language and culture.

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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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