Monday, July 28, 2008

Agency Day!
We left for Holt. I was telling myself to expect nothing--in fact, I had brought a library book to read while the others were meeting with their social workers, but I should have steeled myself or another loss.

The social worker started out by saying, "You were found in April 1971." I mentioned that I was told it was June. He replied, "Does that look like a 4 or 6 to you. Probably a 6." Then when he mentioned that we had the same papers, that there was nothing new, he asked if I had any questions. I had one, "Do you know the name of my foster mother?"

He told me that the space for the name of a foster mom was blank in my database file. In reality, nobody is completely sure where I lived for about 1 month. However, the Holt social worker is positive I was living in an orphanage in Pusan. My papers indicate I was in a hospital in Seoul a month before being adopted. My parents were told I was living with a foster family for about 2-3 weeks before I came to live with them.

I suddenly got irrate and wondered why my parents were mislead. The social worker kept insisting that they misunderstood that the person who had brought me to them was not a foster mother, but someone who worked at the office and my parents just thought she was the foster mother. Why would my parents believe this if it wasn't told to them? They remember this person crying when she handed them the baby.

Why had the worker in Busan indicated that I had only lived there for 20 days? My Holt social worker was a man in his late 20s or early 30s--pictured below--so I was unnerved by his patronizing. He said, "I know you want to meet your foster mother." I told him it was not about meeting a foster mother, I was more concerned that the papers were sketchy. Since it was my life we were discussing, I was really more about the truth of what happened to me when I was a baby. I wondered if that made sense to him. He replied, "I can understand how you might feel that way." Aggravating.

It felt like Korea was doing its best to scratch holes in my adoption story--rip it to shreds with only a sick baby left in a park after dark under the rubble after it settled.

I got a little crafty with my social worker when I asked him to translate the police report. He didn't know I had already had the translation from someone else--thank you Sally and Mary!! The social worker labeled the man who found me as a "climber"--which Dr. Park later clarified as a "hiker"--but neglected to translate his name, age and address. When I pressed him on these details, he claimed that the grammar and handwriting on that section was difficult for him to read.

It was difficult for me to understand what was being covered up or hidden and why. I'm even more convinced that to be strong under the weight of difficult truth is a form of survival as well. Why look under rocks if you're not prepared to see what's there? I guess, I'm not fully convinced the journey is worth it--but now that I've arrived, I'm justifying it as a way to get out from under the manipulation and illusion. To not remain a child who believes in comforting lies. However, I'm not sure it's enough.

We held some babies in the nursery. I was bracing myself for that, but it felt oddly like being in a church nursery. It was difficult to conceive of them being abandoned or without a family. Yet we were in post-adoption services so they might have been "claimed." Very healthy. Many of them seemed connected to the caregivers. It didn't have an institutional feeling that I viscerally imagined.

My social worker and I arrived late for the lunch. While the rest of the group sat at one long table--including Katie and Jessica who were sharing lunch with their foster mothers, we were ushered to our own table which felt awkward after the file review. But things had taken a turn when he saw me dab my eyes after putting drops in before we had left for the restaurant. He seemed to go into a consolation mood and wanted to be kinder. But it felt calculated. I tried to keep the conversation pleasant--which is much easier than not. We had a lovely meal of bulgogi, kimchi, sweet rice soup and rice. My social worker said that we were their honored guests which also felt a tad disingenuous. He spoke of having lived abroad, specifically about living in Australia. He told me to let my sister know that he enjoyed visiting the Great Ocean Road with his ex-girlfriend. My sister is moving to Australia next week.

He also mentioned that he was a businessman for awhile before he had the courage to be a social worker--which was his degree. He explained he needed courage because social work does not pay as well. He used to work with runaway teens. He would visit Namdaemun and other popular teen hang-outs looking for youth to connect with and talk to.

During this difficult time, in stark contrast, Carol was meeting her birth father for the first time. It's so amazing to consider how different our stories can be.

Our translator and volunteer from InKAS, Jenny, was really funny!! So lively! She told us she wanted a husband for only 2 years so her parents would stop bugging her. She was would tell the man that it was for only 2 years and then he would be free! She also wants to marry a blue-eyed white guy too.

When we got back to the hotel, I felt raw and a bit angry. I journaled and happened to go down to the lobby as the group from Eastern was returning and people were assembling to go to a palace and shopping. The girls from Eastern returned with some frustrating stories as well. It's as if new information was given, and then when pressed, more information was withheld.

Chris Winston's perspective seems to be that the agencies like to manipulate adoptees and their parents for the pure sense of control. Allison also met her birth family this day and the other girls saw the family waiting in the lobby while Allison was waiting upstairs. They felt weird about that. It was difficult for me to imagine having such significant moments of people's lives as a part of your 9-to-5 job . . . as I considered the adoption workers who were servicing each agency.

At the palace, we took lots of pictures in the blinding heat and humidity. We then left for Insedun where Mark asked Jen Strong and I to help him find gifts for our fearless leaders: Chris, Dr. Park and Carolyn. I found some screens for my family and had their last names written on them in hangul.

Finally--we left for Namdaemun--anticipating crinkle dogs (hot dogs covered in fries and deep fried) and placemats as promised by others who had been to Namdaemun and back. We arrived at 8 p.m. to find the shops starting to close and no crinkle dogs!! Our Namdaemun experience was compromised by hunger and disappointment!! Mark remained optimistic until the very end when it became obvious that we would not find what we were looking for . . . it was Mark, Jen Strong, Jenny D, Linda and me trekking through nameless alley after alley in search of what we could not find. The rabbit warren failed to deliver.

We finally split up and miraculously regrouped at a restaurant. Jenny and I had some mandu. I noticed the waitress was getting her a wet cloth and I wanted one too. When I politely ventured a "Yobasayo" to get her attention, this mom-ish lady mimicked me in an endearingly mock by repeating, "Yobasayo" with an exaggerated plea. I guess, you're supposed to say this word with more command.

At 10 p.m., exhausted and somewhat disillusioned, we vowed to try to revisit Namdaemun the day our plane left. We made a pact to have a taste of the now mythical crinkle dogs before leaving Korean soil!