After a 26 year separation, I wanted a string of balloons that spelled out “WELCOME HOME”. A group of agency social workers and government officials smiling, popping confetti as I walked into the room, my case files spread across a desk uncovering treasures of information I never had before. My foster mother, holding her arms out to greet me with a warm embrace— an English translator by her side as she told me stories about the three months we shared together after my birth.
Reality was instead walked through with a weight of guilt, shame, discomfort. I was reminded of loss every time I wasn’t able to respond back in Korean, when I finally learned about Japanese occupation and it’s byproduct of comfort women. When my foster mother held my adoptive mother’s hand the entire time we journeyed to her home, and I wished for her embrace too.
The deepest loss felt during this detached reunion was the hope of any more truths being discovered about my past, as the adoption agency’s new hire expressed “good news” when she unveiled the only update to my records over the span of my life as an adoptee— my birth father’s last name, “Kang”. Nothing more.
I didn’t know what I was allowed to ask. I was never prepared or guided in any step of adoption. I didn’t know how to ask for specific help when going to obtain my records from my adoption agency. I was worried it would be impolite to ask for a consultation with an English speaker. I did not know what to do after my birth mother presumably rejected my letters asking to get in touch with her. I do not know what my rights are as an adoptee.