Story by Jillian Suh-Kurovski
I reached out to my mother in July of 2019 at the age of 20 years old while I was on a research trip in the Mariana Islands. I remember sitting on the balcony of a small apartment in Rota, crying softly so my colleagues would not hear. I knew that there was a chance that she might not respond, so I wrote it as if it were going to be the first and only letter she would ever receive from me. I struggled to write as I thought, “How do I fit all 20 years of my life into a single letter?”
I wanted to seem like the perfect daughter – I talked about my national awards and accolades. I was not only intelligent but talented with my music and art. I have traveled the world and achieved more in my short 20 years than many people have in their entire lives. I mentioned my dreams of getting my PhD and wanting to become a professor of science. Though I told her she had no obligation to respond, I secretly hoped that my writing would have her yearn for me as I had her. At the end of my letter, I mentioned that I would be traveling to Korea in early August as a stop after my research travels. I told her I would be thinking of her while I was there, though I had no expectations of meeting her.
About a week before I was to leave the Marianas and make my stop over to Korea for three days, I received an email from Holt adoption agency. My heart raced as I read through every word. I was told Holt translated my letter immediately, as I stated I would be traveling to Korea soon. My mother called as soon as she had read my letter.
Attached to the email was a letter from my mother. She told me how my birth father had died in a car accident and the financial burden led her to give me up for adoption.
“I wanted to give up everything, but not you.”
She said she wanted to meet me during my trip to Korea and hoped my adoptive family was supportive of us meeting.
At the bottom of the letter, there were pictures of her. She looked just like me. We had the same wide face and small lips. Her hands even looked like mine. I could not help but stare in the mirror and compare my face to hers, even though she said I look a lot like my father.
Arrangements were made immediately between my mother, my adoption agency and I so that I could reunite with my mother. She even asked if I would like to stay with her while I was there to which I said yes.
I was nervous about meeting my mother. I do not look like the perfect Korean daughter. I am overweight by Korean standards and I had very little knowledge of cultural practices. I remember practicing bowing in the mirror as I shopped for a dress to wear for the meeting.
I met my mother at 4:30pm on August 2nd, 2019 at the Holt International Offices in Seoul. When I saw her come through the door of the meeting room, all the Korean I had practiced, all the bowing and gestures I had practiced escaped my mind. She came straight to me and touched my face and my hair in awe. We stared at each other in disbelief. All I could do was smile. Very few tears were shed by my mother and I if at all. We sat on the couch together and she held my hand as the translator started to speak. Next to us sat her husband.
Most of the initial conversation we had I do not remember, but I remember it was surreal and happy with an underlayer of uncertainty. After the meeting, they gave us a translator to go to dinner with. We walked to a nice BBQ restaurant, and my mother held my hand the entire way. I could not speak because of my limited Korean and I felt lost being in my “homeland” for the first time since I was born, but to have my mother hold my hand and pull me along made me feel safe. I felt like a child again.
“You are short. You need to eat.” I laughed with my hand over my face as I had seen many Korean girls in media do. She was mothering me after only an hour. When we got to the restaurant, she ordered everything she could for me. She cut my food for me and fed me. Nothing felt strange. I felt like I was home.
After dinner, we went to a café and sat down with coffee. The translator explained to me that my parents were happy to be with me, but they cannot talk about me immediately to everyone in our family. I understood and had expected this. It never disappointed me, as I only cared about being with my mother. Having her with me was more than enough.
When the translator left, the real test of communication began. My stepfather spoke a good amount of English, and my mother only knew Korean. As we traveled from Seoul to Sejong, we had to use a mix of methods to communicate.
I stared out the window of the car and watched the scenery. Every now and then my stepfather would suck through his teeth, as older men do, and say loudly so I would understand, “Jung Hwa!” He would tell me little bits and pieces of Korean history and point out landmarks. My mother kept asking me if I was tired and that I should rest since I had traveled such a long way.
The next day they woke me up to for breakfast and then we were to go to Costco and other stores for dinner. Like before, my mother held my hand as we walked around the stores. My father told jokes as my mother and I picked out which foods we thought looked tasty. I felt like an imposter walking amongst Korean natives and having trouble communicating, but having my mother tethered to my side made me feel a sense of peace.
My parents wanted to celebrate my birthday as it was coming up right before I was to leave. Unexpectedly, my stepfather told me they had to exchange vehicles with one of his sons and that I would get the chance to meet him. He said his son was very nice and funny, and that he loves his son very much.
When we arrived to meet my stepbrother, I was nervous he would hate me. I saw my father get out of the car and stand close to my brother to talk to him. I saw my brother’s expression change as soon as my father told him I was in the car. When they both returned, my brother immediately smiled and introduced himself in English. He we very friendly and he talked to me a lot as we traveled through the countryside to see the famous peach orchards of Sejong.
That night, we all had dinner together and celebrated my birthday. My mother made rice and we cooked eel on a griddle together. They sang happy birthday to me and my brother even brought out a cake from Baskin Robbins.
Through the night, we laughed and talked in my parents’ living room in their cozy two-bedroom apartment. My stepfather left to give the car to my brother, and my mother sat across from me in silence. She began typing into her translation app. I could see a change in her face.
She passed her phone to me. She had written an apology. She explained more about the passing of my father and that she felt sorry for having to give me up. Tears rolled down her face as we passed the phone back and forth. I told her it was okay and that I was happy, but I know that I cannot erase her guilt.
When my stepfather returned, I had a solitary conversation with him as well. Using my limited Korean, I called him “아빠” – the way you address your father in informal or close situations. He stared at me for a minute and then said to me in the best English he could, “It took your sister 7 years to call me dad.”
When it was time for me to leave Korea and my parents, it felt like I had been there for 3 years and not 3 days. On the way to the airport, my father kept insisting that I not cry. He said that everything was happy – there was no need to be sad. We would see each other again. As I lined up for the security check, my father told me one last time not to cry. We all hugged and said our goodbyes. There was a wall to separate passengers waiting for the security check. I hid behind it and began to cry. I did not want to leave my parents so soon. There was a crack between panels in the nearly opaque separation wall. I saw a shadow on the other side of the wall and a small hand reach through the crack. It was my mother. I touched her hand one last time as we said goodbye. I could hear my father behind her, “Do not cry!”
When I had stopped in Korea for a few hours on my way to the Marianas, I cried watching all the Korean families greet their sons and daughters. Never would I have imagined that on my way back, I would have a Korean family that hugged me and told me they loved me as I was to board a plane home.
To this day, I have a very good relationship with my Korean family. I have met several of my relatives since and my parents like to video call me often. I wish I had more space to write, as I believe reunion stories could fill a novel. There are so many thoughts and feelings that are experienced with such a unique life event. My adopted friends have called my reunion a “Hallmark Story” since it is nearly picture perfect, but there are many times where I feel upset or unhappy.
I continue to want to be the perfect Korean daughter. I want to be thin and beautiful – looking like I was born and raised as a beautiful Korean girl. I am often busy as a graduate student, so it has been hard to find time to learn history, culture, and language. My dream is to someday speak to my family without a translation app. I want to be high achieving for them as well – as the stereotypes like to designate. I have made my family part of my motivations for getting a PhD – and my students will call me Dr. Suh-Kurovski.
I understand that some of these desires, like the desire to look more Korean, are unhealthy. It even goes against everything I believe in and advocate for. I know someday I will get over them, but it still plagues my mind every now and again, especially after I call my parents.
I have plans to go back to Korea to see my parents. We have been planning trips to see each other, but with COVID it has been hard. For now, we just video call and text on Kakao. I could not be happier to have my birth mother and stepfather in my life. I have experienced immense support from everyone in my life through my adoption journey, including support from my adoptive family.
My hope is that my story helps other adoptees and that I can spread awareness about the adoptee experience. I do not think it is what most people think it is. I am a vocal advocate for spreading the adoptee narrative and centering the voices of adoptees in conversation around adoption. I continue to make it my duty to be an advocate for adoptees and plan to do so for the rest of my life.
