returning

I’m feeling burnt out by kept apathy.

Kept: The privileged identity of people born to and raised by their biological relatives; people who are not adopted.

Apathy: Without feeling.

—

I’ve been searching for my corean family for four years.

Technically, it’s more like eight years.

And actually, if I’m honest with myself, it began the moment I was first able to recognize human faces.

About a month ago, I put out a wide call to support the Petition for Justice for Overseas Adopted Koreans¹—a call for accountability and action from the korean and u.s. governments to correct the ways their legalized human trafficking systems have egregiously violated our human rights, including making it nearly impossible for many of us to reconnect with our families. I made two requests in this call to action—sign and share.

I received just a handful of responses from kept people, and they mostly all read the same: “Signed!” All but one of them chose to ignore the brief parts of my personal story that I had shared; the barriers I’ve faced in finding my family and the impacts it’s had. The one well-meaning though out of touch person who at least tried to engage replied, “Hope you find your family soon”—and then immediately asked me to educate them about a vocabulary choice I had made.

Each response landed like a checkmark: “Crossed it off the list. I’m a good ally.” I couldn’t help but notice that not a single person mentioned sharing the petition. And I suppose that tracks—privileged solidarity: performative, incomplete, and entirely on their terms. Being adopted teaches many of us to expect nothing, to graciously accept what we’re given, and to never ask for more. I expected silence in response to my outreach; it’s familiar. What I wasn’t prepared for was how gutting and invisibilizing their well-intended responses could be.

—

Last week, the Truth and Reconciliation Commission’s initial findings² on the corruption within the korean adoption industry were released; an (unfinished) accounting and confirmation of the human rights violations committed against thousands of adopted coreans. I posted some of the information on social media: the evidence, the petition for accountability, a plea for the world to listen to us.

The next day, I made the mistake (read: masochistic choice) of checking who viewed and engaged with the posts. While I felt comforted by the encouragement from adopted people, my attention was drawn to the long list of kept people who said nothing. People who, within hours of viewing the posts, sent me texts saying, “Just saying hi!” and “Gotta show you the super cute jewelry I just bought!” and “My [biological] niece is in town! [photo included]” People who claim to believe survivors. People who claim to love me.

The timing of these texts felt antagonistic. I put my phone down and walked to the kitchen to locate myself on the feelings wheel printout that lives on my refrigerator door. Confirmed: I’m feeling “how-fucking-dare-you.”

—

I’m left wondering: do they not believe there’s anything to mourn about my experience? Or is it that the reality—my reality—makes them too uncomfortable? How can they feel nothing?

I was taken from my mother. Sold. Sent thousands of miles away from my home. Purchased. Lost my entire family and was told to be grateful; that it was meant to be. All in five months’ time. I experienced this most violating severing of self, yet they’re the ones who are so deeply disconnected. How can they feel nothing?

—

What’s worse is that I grieve them, kept people. I grieve the loss of their humanity each time they choose to not believe us. What must it feel like, to move through the world fully committed to the idea that another person—and an entire population of people—is wrong about their own experience? Surely, it must be exhausting upholding such an unnatural rule; that only some losses deserve to be grieved. (And if you ever catch me responding so callously to another’s loss or trauma, please—please—call me out.)

When I’m feeling the least resourced, the least generous—burnt out—I resent myself for offering them any space in my head or heart; for spending my limited time on this planet mourning those who don’t even know they’re dead inside.

And that’s the thing: adoption survivors feel. We are forced, by grief, into a superhuman capaciousness. Our collective depth of feeling would drown the kept population. We choose to feel the weight of every loss, and we’re able to find joy and wonder and connection in the most mundane experiences.

We are the bravest people. We deserve everything. Our ability to feel is life-giving—an aliveness they will never know.

1. Petition for Justice for Overseas Adopted Koreans: http://tinyurl.com/justice4adoptees ↩︎
2. “South Korea’s Truth Commission Says Government Responsible for Fraud and Abuse in Foreign Adoptions”, PBS: https://www.pbs.org/wgbh/frontline/article/south-korea-foreign-adoptions-government-fraud-abuse/ ↩︎